“Can I have a look?”

“Sure, but this man doesn’t work on the film anymore.”

O’Brien stepped next to the casting director’s chair and looked at the computer screen. A man dressed in a Confederate uniform stared into the camera, eyes empty, handlebar moustache disheveled. O’Brien nodded. “He certainly resembles soldiers I’ve seen in real Civil War photos.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance of a friend. Do you have a phone number for him?”

“All of that information is confidential.”

“I understand.” O’Brien smiled. “Maybe I could audition for a part on the TV show you mentioned. How are actors paid…every week?”

“Depends on the actor and the deal. The bigger the name, the more complicated it can be.”

“How about for extras…people like Silas?”

“They’re usually paid directly unless they make arrangements through an agent. Otherwise they can receive a check by mail or pick it up on every other Friday at the payroll trailer. I’d doubt very much if any of the re-enactors have an agent. This stuff is what they do on their days off.”

O’Brien nodded, turned to leave and said, “I look forward to seeing the movie.”

“It’ll be great.”

“No doubt. Oh, one more thing. Where do they look at the film takes? I know it used to be called dailies, but the digital world renamed it.”

“They do rough-cut editing in a post-production edit suite they’re using at the Hilton in DeLand. After the director is satisfied, the scenes are uploaded to the cloud for the studio executives to view back in LA.”

“Editing…now that’s where the story comes together. That’s what I’d like to try. But I guess it’s too late for me. I’d have to go to film school.”

“Not really. A good editor is a person who sees the big picture but uses smaller pictures to segue from an opening, middle, and finally the end. If the editor is really talented, it’s flawless and the audience is swept up in the story.”

“I’ve usually been okay at seeing the big picture. I could use a new career, maybe intern for a while, I might have an eye for it. I was pretty quick with jigsaw puzzles. Thanks.” O’Brien opened the door to exit.

“Hey, what’d you say your name is?”

He smiled. “I didn’t say, but it’s O’Brien…Sean O’Brien.”

“In a slight way, you look like the actor on the old TV series, Wyatt Earp. I like the old shows on the TV Land channel. His name was Hugh O’Brian. He wouldn’t be your grandfather, would he?”

“Different spelling of the last name.” O’Brien smiled.

“One of the off-line editors over at the post-production suite in the Hilton is free-lance. He’s very good, and he’s an old friend of mine. He cuts features, TV spots — a lot of episodic TV. His name’s Oscar Roth.” She used a pen to write on a slip of paper. “Here’s his number. Tell him I told you to call. My name’s Shelia Winters. If he isn’t with the director and has some time, maybe he’ll let you sit in and watch for a little while…to see if you might like it. Good editors stay busy. Although Oscar always schedules at least three weeks a year to fish.”

O’Brien took the paper, folded it, and put it in his jean’s pocket. “Thank you. Maybe you’ve opened the door for me to a new career.”

“If the editing doesn’t work out, you should really think about acting. I think you have the chops.” She smiled wide. “Here’s my number. Let’s stay in touch.”

O’Brien smiled, took her card and walked out the door. He called Kim Davis as he approached his car. She answered and he said, “Kim, describe the Civil War re-enactor that kept staring at you when you were on the film set.”

“Why, Sean? What’s going on?”

“Just curious.”

“He’s tall and thin. A narrow face with a handlebar moustache. Dark Elvis-style sideburns. When he tipped his hat to me, I saw he had a full head of brown hair. Have you seen this guy? Why the call?”

“No, I haven’t seen him. I called because I’m concerned, and I’d like to know what he looks like should I happen to bump into him.”

“You don’t just happen to bump into someone, not you. You intentionally bump into them. I’m fine, I guess. I don’t know if he left the rose in my mailbox. He was polite, but beneath his ‘yes ma’am’ manners, under all that Civil War chivalry, I felt there was some kind of sociopath staring at me. Don’t go slaying dragons. I’m not some damsel in distress. Let sleeping monsters lie. Talk to you later, Sean.”

O’Brien walked down the long gravel driveway toward his Jeep, a mockingbird chortling in the live oaks, the sounds of children laughing and playing near the shore of a small lake. He heard the crunch of tires rolling over pecan shells. He stopped walking and turned around to see a woman riding a turn-of-the century bicycle, coming down the middle of the driveway Her hair was as black as a raven’s feather, a blue bonnet tilted on her head, face like porcelain, red pursed lips, white dress billowing as she raced the summer wind.

O’Brien lifted one hand to wave, stepping out of her way. She kept riding, knees pumping, eyes trained on the distant bend in the old drive, beyond a pecan grove. She rode beneath the canopies of live oaks, limbs arching across the drive, the speckled sunlight breaking through the branches in pockets of light flaring off her white dress.

When she passed, O’Brien could smell lavender in the air. He thought she was probably an actress deep in character, someone taking a bike ride between scenes. Watching her ride the old bicycle down the road, he felt there was something unusual about the woman that was odd in a

place of movie set facades, make-believe — where strange was normal.

Then he heard the whinny of a horse. O’Brien looked to his far left, one hundred feet beyond his Jeep, across the gravel road, a man dressed in a Confederate uniform sat tall on a horse. It was the same chestnut-brown horse and the same actor he’d seen earlier. He assumed the actor was keeping from boredom between the slow shooting of elaborate scenes.

As O’Brien walked toward his Jeep, the man led his horse around the perimeter of the pecan grove, the long shadows of trees cast by a setting sun rolled across the man’s whiskered face. He dismounted, took the horse by the reins and directed the animal into a cleared area almost hidden in the deep shade from the century-old oak trees.

O’Brien looked up to see something swirling in the hard-blue sky. Black carrion birds circled. From the pines through a barren meadow scattered with broken and dry corn stalks, came the cries of a mourning dove, the haunting call of the wild across an abandoned field of time.

O’Brien stepped around his Jeep in the direction he’d seen the actor and his horse disappear into the shadows. He walked through blackberry bushes and over rocks the size of pumpkins, the breeze tossing the pastel green leaves of kudzu vines clinging to tree trunks. He stepped over jagged hoof prints and feces left in the dirt by wild boars. The earth looked like a drunken man had plowed it where the hogs had rooted, the soil torn and left in corkscrew trenches.

When O’Brien got to the clearing enclosed in dense shadow, he could see it was a small cemetery. The re-enactor in the Confederate uniform had tied the horse to the limb of a sycamore tree. The man stood in the center of the cemetery. Head bowed. Moss-covered gravestones worn, stooping by neglect and age, drenched in shades of sepia-tone brown. The breeze stopped and tree leaves became motionless. A young crow flew to the top of a cottonwood tree, tilted its head, cut one blue eye at the horse and called out.

O’Brien watched the man in uniform place a flower on a grave. He stood there a moment, whispering something, perhaps praying, and then he turned and walked back to his horse. He was an older man, white whiskers and a narrow face. He held a Confederate officer’s slouch hat loosely in one hand, uniform clean, black boots polished. He placed his left boot in one stirrup and mounted the horse. He rode at a slow pace to the opposite side of the cemetery. As O’Brien approached, the man tipped his hat, turned and trotted away.