O’Brien stopped in front of Joe Billie’s trailer. It was dark, the moonlight bouncing off the silver shell. He didn’t think Billie was home. O’Brien reached in his glove box, ripped a small sheet of paper from a notebook and wrote:

Joe, I may need you and your canoe tomorrow evening. Event involving maiden sail of a large sailing schooner. You have my number, please call for details. Thanks, Sean.

He got out of his Jeep, stepping on dry pine straw leading up to the front door, the deep-throated boom of bullfrogs coming from the river. O’Brien tapped on the door. No sound of movement. No lights. Nothing. He folded the note and wedged it under the door handle. Did Joe even own a phone? He could use the fish camp phone. He didn’t know if Billie would see it, but O’Brien had a gut feeling in his gut that he would need him.

O’Brien drove the back roads returning to Ponce Marina. He wanted to think, to plan. He had to trap one of Britain’s best agents and had to do it quickly. Johnathon Fairmont was still in the area. Why? What’s keeping him here? O’Brien called Dave Collins. “Paul Wilson’s dead.”

“I suspected as much. Where?”

“The body’s stashed in an old barn a couple of miles north of State Road 19. I let Hornsby know that he can send in the cleaners. I’m heading back to the marina.”

“I’m sure Fairmont left nothing behind.”

“Only a string of bodies.”

“Dave, the only reason that Fairmont is still in the area has to be tied to Sheldon. Why doesn’t Fairmont take the Civil War contract, the diamond, and leave? I’m betting two reasons: one is he doesn’t want to be carrying them…even in the cargo hull of a plane. And the second is Frank Sheldon. Sheldon was one of the few billionaires who could match resources and assets with the Queen of England in maybe the most expensive auction in the history of the world.”

“So, after a fresh kill, where is the hunter tonight?”

“The bigger question is where will he be tomorrow night when Sheldon throws a bon voyage party before setting sail for England?”

Kim Davis tallied the final receipts from the dinner shift at the Tiki Bar, bagged the money, filled out bank deposit slips, locking everything in the office safe before grabbing her purse on the way out the door. She still wasn’t used to the extra weight the .22 caliber pistol added to her purse. She smiled at Hugh Paulsen, the second-shift manager, ruddy face, Australian accent, wearing a white Panama hat. She said, “I hope you have a good crowd. Is Sammy playing later on?”

“No. It’ll be a new crooner. Lad’s name is Colin Lafferty. He’s a cross between folk and country rock. Talented fella he is.”

“I hope he packs the house.”

“You off tomorrow, Kim?”

“Oh yes. Tomorrow and the next day. Almost a mini-vacation.”

“Got plans, do you?”

“Sleep.” She smiled and walked out into the warm afternoon air. She crossed the parking lot to the left, boats bobbing across the marina, the red brick lighthouse standing in the distance high above the tree line. Kim breathed deeply, the smell of the ocean and jasmine in the soft breeze.

O’Brien moved fast down L Dock, glancing at his watch. Frank Sheldon would be doing a ceremonial sail with America II and invited guests in three hours. As he walked through the Tiki Bar, two black leather clad bikers took their seats at the bar, a family of tourists, chattering and sunburnt after a half-day on a commercial fishing boat, found seats at two of the wooden tables that were previously used as massive spools for electrical wire. A Buffett song played from the speakers.

O’Brien spotted the manager and asked, “Is Kim still here?”

“No, she left a few minutes ago. Said she’s going home to sleep. She’s got the next couple of days off. You might try her phone.”

Her car sat alone. Parked near the dumpsters at the farthest end of the lot. She heard a dog barking in the distance, the sound of a siren far away toward Daytona Beach. She reached into her purse, finding her keys, touching the pistol, pressing the unlock button. Her parking lights flashed once as the doors unlocked. Her shoulders and feet were sore and she longed for a half hour under a hot shower.

She thought about Sean O’Brien. Thought about calling him just to hear his voice. She’d watched the news bulletins flashing across the TV screens in the Tiki Bar. Why was it all happening…and now? So many years after the Civil War. Where are you right now, Sean? Why can’t we just see a movie and have dinner? Isn’t that what normal people do? He’s not normal. Never will be. That’s all it is and how it always will be. Accept it, accept the man Sean is…or don’t accept it. Maybe he’d found the painting. Maybe police had found the killer. It all started when the old man came to the Tiki Bar with that picture. She thought about the beautiful woman in the long dress, a rose in her left hand.

Kim reached for her door handle and froze.

It was on front windshield. Against the glass. Propped up and held down by one windshield wiper.

A blood red rose.

“No! Hell no!” she blurted. She set her purse on the hood, reaching for the rose. She ripped up the rose in dozens of pieces, red petals catching the breeze, falling all around her car.

O’Brien stepped out of the screened-in entrance door to the Tiki Bar, turned right and walked quickly toward his Jeep. He could hear some of the customers clinking beer mugs and singing the lyrics to Margaretville.

He didn’t see Kim’s car in the immediate vicinity. He wished she’d been in the Tiki Bar so he could have spoken to her, to touch base, even for a minute, before he began the hunt for the rogue British agent, James Fairmont. O’Brien unlocked the door to his Jeep and hit the button to Kim’s phone. It began ringing.

Kim could smell the residue from the rose petals on her fingers. Her phone rang inside her purse on the hood of her car. As she reached for the purse, she thought she heard something. She never saw the man. Never saw him come from behind the dumpsters. He approached her back. The barrel of a pistol shoved into her ribs. His other hand gripping her left shoulder. He said, “Show some respect! You’re tearing up a gift I gave you. Ripping the Confederate rose to shreds. Where’s your manners, woman? Get in the truck!”

Silas Jackson’s breath reeked of cigar, marijuana and whiskey. She looked at her purse on the hood of her car. Less than three feet away. If felt like three miles. The ringing of her phone stopped.

He pulled her. “Remember me? I sure remember you. Been thinking about you. Get in my truck.”

“Let me go! Just end it now. We both walk away. I won’t tell anyone.”

He laughed. “Who you gonna tell? Your boyfriend, Sean O’Brien? That boy got a hard lesson coming. He ain’t taking care of a fine filly like you, is he?”

“He just called. We have a date. I’m just running home to freshen up.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re low priority to O’Brien, and you know it. I’m gonna compensate. A good lookin’ woman like you needs attention. No, you require it or you’ll rust inside.” Jackson slammed her car door. “We’ll bring your pocketbook, darlin’. To leave it here would let your boyfriend know you’ve been taken. No woman ever leaves her purse. It’s genetically impossible.” He grabbed her purse, still holding the gun to her ribcage. “Let’s walk to my truck.”

He opened the driver’s side door on the truck, pushing her onto the seat. “Slide over, unless you want to sit next to me.” He grinned. Kim slid to the far side of the seat. He set the purse in the center between them and started the truck, backing out, the date palms and Australian Pines casting long shadows across the parking lot.