Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (52 page)

“You do?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I do.”

“And I have a feeling you would do okay on your own, too.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Maybe it’s part of who we are … family … we’re survivors, you and me.”

***

We sat on the screened-in back porch and finished a dinner of buttered corn on the cob, garden salad, and grilled bass—cooked with olive oil, fresh tomatoes, garlic and basil. Courtney had a ravenous appetite. It made me smile to watch her eat and hear about her plans and dreams. We fed Max and the three of us walked down to the dock, Max leading the way, bowls of ice cream in hand, and we sat on the wooden bench seat facing west and the setting sun.

Courtney was in awe watching white pelicans and herons fly into a purple and gold sunset, the colors rolling off the surface of the water like molten rainbows, the smell of trumpet flowers and jasmine in the cool evening air. She savored a spoonful of chocolate ice cream and said, “This so beautiful here. And you’ve been so kind to me. I want you to know, Uncle Sean, how much I appreciate what you’ve done. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Courtney, I want you to know I’ve spoken with your grandmother’s attorney. Paperwork has been drawn up giving you her home and property in South Carolina.”

“Me? She was your mother. It’s yours, not mine.”

“No … no it’s not. I wasn’t there.”

“It wasn’t because you didn’t choose to be. You didn’t know.”

“Listen to me. I’m your older and wiser uncle.” I smiled. “Take the property. It’s free and clear. The title will be transferred to your name.”

“I can’t live there. I just can’t.”

“I understand. You can sell it and go anywhere you want.”

“Where would I go?”

“How about Ireland?”

“Ireland?”

“Yes. Your grandmother has some land there, on the west coast.”

“Really? I wonder why she didn’t talk about it.”

“Maybe because she was afraid she’d lose it. I learned she had to sell off bits and pieces through the years to pay the taxes. But there are about fifty acres still there. It has a small cottage on it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I was there.”

“There? You went there … wow.”

“Yes. If you want, you could live in the cottage. Maybe study art in school. You told me that was one of your passions. It was your grandmother’s, too. She fought to keep the land, to keep it from being developed by people who’d like to have built a time-share resort on it. Maybe you could carry on the fight if they ever come back. It would make a great park or natural preserve one day.”

“I would like to spend some time there, but I don’t have the money to go.”

“I’ll help you get a realtor for your grandmother’s South Carolina property. We’ll get it listed and sold. The money from that will give you a good start, and should pay for college too. In the meantime, I’ll buy your airfare, help you get settled. I believe, especially after everything you’ve been through, that place on the coast of Ireland will help you find what might still be missing. It’ll give you the time, the space, and the place you need. I have the number of an older couple, a farm family, that’s looking forward to meeting you. They’ll be there if you need them.”

She looked at me, her eyes tearing, and said “I love you, Uncle Sean.”

“I love you, too.”

A few days later I drove Courtney to Orlando International Airport to catch a plane to Dublin, Ireland. Just before getting on the plane, she stood in the airport with me, reached in her purse and lifted out the torc. “I want you to have this, Uncle Sean. Please, take it.”

“It’s yours, keep it.”

“No, it never was mine. I just tried to return it to my grandmother. Since Dillon wore it, I could never put it on my arm. Please, take it. Maybe it’s worth something to someone else.” She grabbed my hand and placed the torc in the center of my palm. “Thank you for everything you did for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You promise to come see me in Ireland, okay?”

“I promise.”

She kissed me on the cheek, turned and walked toward the boarding area. I watched her with pride. I was going to miss her. Hell, I already did miss her, and she hadn’t even left yet.”

***

I watched her plane take off and thought about what she’d endured, how she somehow survived. And now the U.S. presidential election was three days away. Although DNA testing had definitely verified that Andrea Logan was not Courtney’s birth mother, and evidence proved Courtney didn’t commit the murders, the American voting pool was stained by the flow of political rhetoric.

It was best for Courtney to go to a place where her image and reputation weren’t so much in the public eye. The rural west coast of Ireland was such a place. A few months, a year maybe, and most people wouldn’t be able to recall her name, especially if Lloyd Logan lost the election. But the most important thing for Courtney right now wasn’t what the American people thought about her, it was what she thought about herself. And that would be better and easier formed for her in a new environment.

I thought about that as I drove toward Ponce Inlet and looked over to the passenger side of the Jeep where Max dozed in the seat. I thought about all of the change, the revelations that had come in my life the last few weeks. To stumble upon the remnant of a family, one that was removed from me when I was an infant. Would I have been better or worse having not been placed in adoption? Or maybe the question I would never answer is would I have made a better difference in the lives of others, my family, had I been raised by a single parent? Could I have helped my mother? Could I have helped my brother or sister? I would never know.

I turned off the I-95 and drove to Port Orange where I found a place I hadn’t been to in many years. I used to come, for the first couple years on the anniversary of their deaths. But college, the military, much of my life was in remote countries, and I stopped coming to their graves. But I never stopped remembering their influence on my life.

I parked the Jeep under a moss-draped live oak near the center of Bellevue Memorial Gardens. Max and I walked around the graves, speckled light pouring through the oak branches, a mockingbird chortling in the pines. Max spotted a squirrel and went into hunter mode, ears up, eyes like heat-seeking missiles, low growl in the back of her throat. “Not here, Max. Let’s leave the squirrels alone.” She cut her brown eyes up at me, seemed to nod, and trotted toward a large pinecone on the ground.

I walked another fifty feet and stood before the graves of the two people who raised me—my parents.

Michael O’Brien     Celeste O’Brien

1939 - 1988            1940 - 1988

I was raised by a loving mother and father, two people tragically killed within eight months of each other as I was about to graduate from high school. As I thought about them, and thought about the close friends in my life, the more I realized the there is no line of delineation between good friends and good family, and that circle of people around you is the wheel supporting your wheelbarrow and the baggage you carry in it. Family isn’t defined by blood any more than a person is defined by the color of his or her skin. Unconditional support parallels unconditional love and grace.

Fortunate is the man or woman who has a large circle of family and close friends. Too often, the family home isn’t a shelter from the cold and predators, it is a castle with a drawbridge to keep others from knowing about the violence and abuse beyond the moat. Family, at least to me, especially now, is defined by love, grace, a true kinship of spirits more than a common blood type.

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out. UNKNOWN. I knew the call wasn’t coming from Courtney, and anything that read UNKNOWN was not, at the moment, in my wheel house of family and friends. That’s why they invented voice-mail.

A half minute later I played back the message: “Sean, it’s Andrea … I just wanted to let you know that I’m glad the young woman … your niece … was cleared of those charges. Things, as you can imagine, have been pretty hectic this last week going into the election. I called to just say hello and wish you the best. We still had … we still have a daughter together. I have to believe what I did twenty years ago was for the best. I hope you understand that, and find it in your heart to forgive me.” She paused, seemed to clear her throat, and her voice changed into a campaign patter. “I know you don’t care for Lloyd, but the country needs a man like him now in these troubled times. Take care, Sean … I …” She disconnected.

I glanced down at Max and said, “The delete button is a wonderful thing. What do you say we go for a boat ride? We have a special passenger to pick up. Ready?”

She cocked her head and barked once. We left the cemetery and headed to Ponce Marina. From there our destination would be somewhere beyond the horizon of the sea.

For a woman who hadn’t spent much time on boats, Kim Davis was a natural on the water. We’d taken
Jupiter
south to the Florida Keys, Kim, Max and me—final destination unknown. But the stopping off point was a layover on the Caribbean side of Key Largo. It was a harbor I used to sail in an out of when I lived in Miami.

We spent four days there, anchored off Sexton Cove, a place of mesmerizing blue-green turquoise water. We snorkeled and spearfished in the gin-clear water, grilled fresh yellowtail, snapper, and lobster in the cockpit. The cove was bordered by sugar-white sand beaches dotted with leaning coconut palm trees. We took the dinghy to the beach and played like teenagers on spring break, Kim laughing, Max doing her happy bark. We took long walks, soft sand between our toes, and the sweet smell of blooming hibiscus on the gentle trade winds.

On the third day, I taught Kim how to SCUBA dive. After practicing in the shallow cove, I took
Jupiter
into Pennekamp National Park and dove the coral reefs. I held her hand underwater and guided her around the shallow water reefs. Her eyes grew wide behind the glass of her mask when she spotted a large leatherback turtle swimming by less than twenty feet from us. We swam through clouds of multi-colored fish, hovering above French Reef, the coral and sea ferns in a kaleidoscope of purple, lavender, salmon reds and pinks.

When we finally got to the surface and swam to
Jupiter
, Kim was awe-struck. We climbed on
Jupiter’s
dive platform, opened the transom door and were greeted by Max. The three of us sat there, Max standing to keep her balance.

Kim pushed her mask on top of her head and looked out over water the color of a fresh-cut lime. She said, “I can’t ever go back. Not after all this. When we were below, I could have caught a ride on the back of that sea turtle. I love Ponce Inlet, love our friends at the marina, but down here in the Keys … this is like another world, something I’ve seen in magazines and travel shows. I’ve never felt more alive, healthier. The sun, the fresh seafood and this special world. Are you sure we’re in America?”

“When we get down to Key West it’s debatable.”

She looked up and smiled. “And, Sean O’Brien, I never knew sex at sea was even better than on land.” She laughed. “I think it's the sea, the boat … and the man.”

I smiled. “I’m not so sure about that last ingredient.”

“I am.”

“I’m glad you are enjoying all of this. We both needed to get away, to put some stuff in the rearview mirror and focus on the horizon.”

“And what a big horizon it is. What’s in that direction?” She pointed to the west.

“Mexico.”

“And back the other way?”

“The Bahamas. Bimini is only about eighty miles from us.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Not since Sherri died a few years ago. Max and I sailed to Bimini out of Fort Lauderdale.”

“I’d love to go one day.”

I heard the buzz of my phone on the cockpit table. I got up. “Don’t answer it, Sean. It might destroy the magic of this world. Civilization be gone!”

“It could be Courtney.” I stepped to the table. Dave was calling. “Sean, how are things?”

“Good, what’s up?”

“I won’t ask you where you and Kim wound up.”

“Good, then I won’t have to lie to you.”

He laughed. “Have you been following the election?”

“No. Made a point not to bother.”

“Well, Logan is about to make his concession speech. It wasn’t even close. He lost by more than a twenty percent margin.”

I said nothing, the call of a gull over my head, the sea lapping against
Jupiter’s
hull.

“Are you still there, Sean?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Me either. You, my old friend, are one of a few people on the planet who managed to influence the results of a presidential election.”

“Only by default. The only political strategy was about staying alive.” I looked over at Kim as she set Max on her lap. “And it was about keeping two women I care for alive, too.”

“How’s Kim?”

“Doing well.”

“That torc you asked me to investigate, well I did a lot of research.”

“What’d you find?”

“It’s very rare and very valuable. Most of the torc is solid gold, inlaid with some silver and iron. But the history of it makes it even more valuable. More than two-thousand years old, dating back to the days the Romans invaded Ireland. Hell, Caesar could have worn it after taking it from a Celtic holy man. It has, as you may surmise, pagan religious significance as well. Collectors of this kind of ancient art will pay a lot to get it. Museums, especially those with extensive historical collections, will jump at the chance to own it. Based on my research, I’m estimating that this will command a price of near a million dollars.”

“See if you can sell it.”

“Sell it? Are you sure?”

“Positive. If you get a million, take five percent for yourself. Put half a mill in a trust for Courtney. I’ll pay off the remaining taxes on the property in Ireland. You can wire whatever’s left to my bank account.”

“And which account would that be?”