“I’m not sure. A painting was made from this picture. An elderly man hired me to find the painting.” O’Brien told Billie some of the story and added, “I have no idea what the secret of the river may be, but if I find that spot on the river I might have a better clue. Any idea where I might find it.”

“I recognize the area. It’s changed a lot since that picture was taken.”

“Can you give me directions?”

“Yes. At that point, the river is wide and deep. After the third Seminole War with the U.S. government, things kinda came to a draw as the Civil War broke out in North Florida. The army forgot about the Seminoles, having driven most into the ‘glades. A few still managed to live in and around the river. Some of the elders spoke of their grandfathers seeing a bizarre incident one night on the river. I don’t know if it’s the secret of the river. I do know where it happened.”

“Where?”

Billie looked at the picture. “Here…where the woman is standing. It’s a bluff overlooking the river. That’s the place where something very bad, very dark, happened.” He handed the photo to O’Brien.

“What happened, and how do I find this place?”

“You don’t. At least not quickly.” Billie glanced toward his canoe. “I’ll take you there, and the best way is to journey by water. Then I’ll tell you what happened on the river, and I’ll point out how I recognized the place…most people wouldn’t.”

After sunrise, Kim Davis slipped on a sweatshirt, pulled up her jeans, then opened her front door to step out onto the porch. She was barefoot, the concrete cool on her soles. She walked toward her mailbox and stopped in her tracks. The mailbox, mounted vertically on a wooden beam, was wide open. Sticking out of the opening was a blood red rose.

Kim lifted the rose out of the box. A note, attached by a white string, was written in what appeared to be font from a manual typewriter. Kim could hear a dog barking from the next street. Her temples were pounding, adrenaline flowing. She glanced around her yard. It was there in the grass. She held her breath for a second.

Footprints.

They were scarcely visible in the wet dew. But the prints were there. Leading from the porch to the far end of her driveway. Kim walked back inside her home, shutting the door with force, locking the bolt lock. She read the note: Dear, Miss Kim, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But this rose has more than a similar scent. Its changing color represents Confederate blood. It is a beautiful flower, as you are a beautiful woman.

Kim stepped rearward a few feet, her back touching the wall in her living room. She stood there, breathing fast through her nostrils. Light from the sunrise poured through the glass pane window at the top of the door, striking the rose she held in her hand. Kim lowered her eyes, the rose suddenly looked inflamed, as if it was smoldering in her grip. She felt a chill, goose bumps popping up on her arms. For an eerie moment, Kim Davis thought she could see inside the petals, see the molecules moving, the lifeblood of dead soldiers flowing through the deep red petals.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, slowly releasing the air in her lungs. She whispered. “Focus. I’ve dealt with my share of freaks before…he’s just one more in the lineup. Now it’s time to get the hell out of my life.”

Kim walked into her kitchen, tossed the rose and note on the table, picked up her phone and dialed Sean O’Brien. It went immediately to his voice-mail. At the beep, she said, “Sean, hey, it’s Kim. During the night, I received a special delivery. One single rose with a creepy note delivered to my mailbox. I don’t know for sure who did it. But I have an idea, and it could be related to the Civil War, just like that painting you’re trying to find for the old man. Honest to God, I hate to say this…but deep inside me, my gut is telling me that, somehow, they could be related. Please call me as soon as you get this.”

The first thing O’Brien noticed was the inconspicuous, the silence. Joe Billie sat in the rear of the canoe, paddling so quietly that O’Brien looked back twice to see how he did it. Even in the aluminum canoe, Billie made no noise. No sound of the paddle against the canoe. No sound of the oar pushing against the river current. O’Brien wasn’t concerned about a stealth approach, dipping his paddle in the dark water, pulling straight back — the twirling whirlpools of water burping up a slight whoosh sound.

They paddled for more than an hour up the St. Johns, the river becoming wider each mile. Max sat in the center of the canoe, her eyes following the flight of ospreys diving for fish. She watched as an alligator, half the length of the canoe, swam unhurried across the river. The big alligator’s eyes, nostrils, and part of its thick back breaking the dark surface. Max uttered a low growl when an emerald-green dragonfly alighted on one edge of the canoe.

Joe Billie stopped paddling for a moment. He lifted his wide-brim hat off his head and ran one hand through his long, dark hair. The air was still, humidly rising like an invisible steam from the river and black water creeks that merged and joined the river’s passage to the sea. Billie smiled at Max and said, “That dragonfly is the best hunter out here. Much better than the gator.”

“How so?” O’Brien asked.

“The dragonfly has four wings. Each can move independently. It can fly in any direction, including upside down. The dragonfly attacks its prey from behind, in midflight. The insect it catches never is aware it was stalked until the dragonfly begins tearing the insect’s face off.”

O’Brien squinted in the sun. “Let’s be glad they aren’t four feet long.”

Billie grinned, putting his hat back on his head. “Ever notice how many women wear dragonfly jewelry?”

“I’ve seen a few wear them as lapel pins.”

“Those aren’t so bad, but when a woman wears dragonfly earrings, that’s when I try not to think how tasty an earlobe might be to a real dragonfly.”

O’Brien laughed.

At that moment, the dragonfly rotated its large saucer eyes and flew across the river, less than three feet directly above the alligator. One predator leaving a slight wake. The other leaving no trail. O’Brien said, “You have to wonder who’s been here the longest, the gator or the dragonfly. Both, no doubt, have a lineage to the dinosaurs.”

Billie used his paddle to point. “See that jetty, the bluff with the big cypress tree?”

“I see it.”

“I believe that’s where the woman in the picture stood.”

O’Brien slipped the photograph from the folder. He held it up and studied the shoreline. “Let’s take a look. We can walk around the area and look back over the river. That’ll give us — or at least me, a better perspective.”

Billie dipped his paddle back into the water. O’Brien did the same. Both men were quiet the ten minutes it took them to cross the river. When the bow of the canoe slid under cypress limbs and nudged onto the riverbank, O’Brien jumped to the shore and pulled the canoe farther out of the current. Two white herons, stalking fish in the shallow water, took flight, beating their wings, sailing across the river. Max hopped from the canoe onto soft sand, Billie following. They walked up a slope, past a huge cypress tree, into a small clearing covered in lush ferns and wild red roses. Near the edge of the clearing hundreds of gnats hovered in flight above the ferns. The air smelled of wet moss, black mud, and fish.

O’Brien held up the picture. He walked about thirty feet inland and then turned around, again holding the picture. “More than 160 years later…the woman in this photo stood right about here. The trees and foliage have changed, that cypress tree was small, but the river is basically the same. I can almost see her standing in front of us, her back to the river. Photography was new, so she might have been a little hesitant.” He glanced down at the woman in the photo, and then studied the landscape. “She may have been hesitant, but she didn’t look nervous. This spot is beautiful…and so was she. I wonder where she’s buried.”