O’Brien said nothing, looking up in the sky as a bat flew through the moonlight.

Louden said, “I had heard rumors that Silas was running some clandestine dissident paramilitary outfit. I know my son and what he’s capable of doing — of destroying. Unless he’s contained with medication or locked away, I’m afraid he will do something that could hurt a lot of people — a modern day Picket’s charge against the government. If the painting is found, that alone might be enough to curb his drive, his personal need for proving he isn’t a coward. Will you continue searching for the painting? I’m deeply sorry if you believe I deceived you. It wasn’t my intention.” O’Brien could see Louden’s eyes watering.

“I made a commitment to find it for you. But you need to know this: the unearthing of the painting could lead to the burial of your son. Is that something you want to risk?”

“Sometimes we have to make unbearable choices in life. This is one of those times.”

“I have an idea where the painting might be?”

“Where?”

“At this point, the less you know, the better. If I’m right, you will know.” O’Brien turned and left the lighthouse parking lot, left the tearful old man with a lost son fighting a lost cause and inner demons. O’Brien walked north on the beach, the breakers crashing on the hard sand, an angry surf frothing in the milky glow of the moon, the moving beam from the lighthouse devoured by a vast black sea.

O’Brien wanted to stop by Dave’s boat, Gibraltar, pick up Max and give Dave an update. But not now. He needed someplace quiet to make a call, and he needed to do it before anything else happened. He walked past Nick’s boat, St. Michael, the laughter of a woman and Greek music coming from the salon. Nicks virility and life restored post Malina. O’Brien boarded Jupiter, the bow and stern lines creaking against the gentle pull of the rising tide. He climbed the steps up to the bridge, unzipped the isinglass windows and sat in the captain’s chair.

A calm breeze across the marina carried the scent of the sea — briny, mixed with garlic shrimp and smoldering charcoal. He called Laura Jordan and asked, “Was Jack’s van a production van that he used for his documentary work or more on a minivan for the family?”

“It was his production van for hauling gear and his film crew. Why?”

“If Cory was his partner, would he have had a key to the van?”

“Now that you mention it, I think he did have the extra key.”

“And he probably knew where Jack could or would hide the diamond in the van.”

“Possibly. Jack hid it in a concealed slot under the center console. And, the only reason he had it with him that day was because he had an appointment with a gemologist after the shoot to see if the diamond was real.”

“That’s a tough place to find for any thief to find. But easy if you know where to look. Maybe Nelson knew where to look because Jack shared the information with him. Even if he didn’t, Nelson probably was aware that Jack had a meeting with the gemologist and wouldn’t be able to retrieve the diamond from the safety deposit box in time to make the scheduled appointment. Therefore, if Jack had returned to the van and found the diamond gone, Cory Nelson would be the logical suspect. That fact is one more reason for Nelson to kill him.”

“One more? What other reason did he have?”

“You, Laura.”

“Me?”

“Nelson wanted you. He played the game well. Feigned the concerned ‘best friend’ and partner of your husband, the ‘Uncle Jack’ role with Paula, when all along he had you in his toxic sights, too.”

“Do you know if the police have arrested him?”

“No, but I’ll find out and let you know.”

“I feel so bad that Ike Kirby’s life was taken over this…and the other man who I didn’t know. And the horrific irony is that I thought I really knew Cory. We trusted him with everything, even with a spare key to our home and Jack’s van.”

O’Brien said nothing, waiting for the drone of a shrimp boat’s diesel engines, as the boat made its way up the channel in the Halifax River from Ponce Inlet, to subside. He thought about what Silas Jackson had said when he confronted him. “You got the wrong man, peckerwood. I didn’t kill that college teacher or the clerk.”

“Sean, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I thought a Civil War re-enactor named Silas Jackson may have been the person who killed Jack. Now I know it was Cory Nelson. Because Nelson had the key to your home and the alarm code, he could have searched your house for the document any time you weren’t there. If he couldn’t find it…that could have been the only reason he’d enter your place in the dead of night.”

“But I’d given the document to Professor Kirby to evaluate.”

“Exactly. And not long after that, the killer was in Ike’s room. When the perp left, the contract went with him. I don’t think Nelson was the man standing in the dark in your bedroom holding Paula and threatening your lives. I don’t believe it was the re-enactor, Silas Jackson either. It was somebody else…someone who covers his tracks well.”

“Who?”

“Someone who’s in a position to blackmail the British Prime Minister and possibly the Royal Family. Whoever he is…he’s got the old document. He may have the diamond, too. If not, he’s probably tracking down the person who does have it. If that person is Cory Nelson, the only thing that may save his life is police finding him before the killer does. If Nelson and this guy schemed to work some sort of deal as partners, maybe police will get lucky and catch them both. But if the executioner, the one who broke into your home in twenty-nine seconds, killed Ike and the clerk just to get the contract, imagine what he might do.”

“This…this evil, it really began when Jack and I bought the painting and old magazines in that antique store. Everything, over a period of a few months, spiraled down from there. I can’t fully grasp what’s happened…and what even frightens me more is what might occur before it ends. You must be very careful, Sean. I had an awful dream, a nightmare and you were in it.”

“Do you have Jack’s mobile phone?”

“Yes.”

“Go back through it. Go to the date Jack found the diamond. From that day and the next two days look closely at the calls made and received.”

“The police have pulled Jack’s phone records and mine. I don’t think they found anything that jumps out.”

“Sometimes it’s the thing that doesn’t jump out. Police often only look for patterns and repetitive calls. Sometimes it’s the single one or two that get through the net.”

“Am I looking for anything specific?”

“Go through the numbers from the date Jack found the diamond through the next forty-eight hours after that. Look for phone numbers with the same area code but the send and receive digits in the full phone numbers may be different. Call me when you have it. Okay?”

“Yes, of course. Sean, what are you looking for?”

“A needle in a haystack…but the haystack is getting smaller.”

Dave Collins was channel surfing when O’Brien stepped onto Jupiter. Max jumped off Dave’s couch, greeting O’Brien with a yodeling bark and a flapping tail. He picked her up and sat in a director’s canvas chair in the salon opposite from where Dave sat forward on his couch, the remote control pointed at the screen. O’Brien filled Dave in on his encounter with Silas Jackson and his meeting with Jackson’s father, Gus Louden.

Dave pushed back on the couch. “Although Louden said he hired you to find the painting, his deep-seated, hidden agenda was hoping you’d find his son, Silas Jackson, a man who broke all contact with his family years ago.”

“That’s what Louden is saying.”

“You believe him?”

“I believe the essence of what he says. I think that he hoped I’d find the painting. After that, the publicity generated from it could be what he needed to prove that Henry Hopkins died in combat. That, in his mind, might have been the catalyst to reduce some of the deep-seated anger his son carries, partially because of the family bloodline. The irony is that I found his sociopathic son, but the painting is still MIA.” O’Brien glanced over to the television screen. He watched video of a large sailing schooner being launched. “Dave, turn it up.”