“Watch for my text. I have a feeling it’ll come soon, probably about the time most of his guests have downed their third crystal glass of Dom Perignon. Dave, I’ve tried to reach Kim. She’s not calling or texting.”

“I detect more worry in your voice than I’ve heard in a while.”

“I’m worrying because I spotted a truck at the far end of the marina parking lot. I may have been mistaken, but I thought I noticed that the left brake light wasn’t working.”

“And what would be the significance of that?”

“Silas Jackson drove a pickup truck, and the left brake light was burned out.”

“Oh…I’ll see if I can find her. Nick and I will go to her home if need be.”

“Thank you.” O’Brien disconnected, walked behind a group of studio suits and their wives in designer gowns as they made the way down the red carpet. He glanced up at the full moon rising over the river, wondering if Joe Billie got his note and hoping he would not need Billie’s help.

Kim Davis looked at the moon over the tree line deep in the Ocala National Forest, where Silas Jackson’s hunter camp bathed in the moonlight. As he stopped the truck she said, “You don’t have to do this…to risk your life. You can let me go, I’ll walk back.”

He shut off the truck’s ignition switch, the motor ticking in the dark. He turned to her and said, “Walk back? You’d never make it out of here alive. There’s panthers. Lots of mean damn bears. More poisonous snakes per square foot than any national forest in the country. And then there’s the crazies. The forest folk who live out here. Most ought to be locked up. They drift in with the seasons. Word gets around, they know not to come to my camp. All it took was putting a shrunken head on a bamboo pole next to my flagpole for a couple of weeks. That got their attention.”

Kim pressed against the truck door. “You’re insane.”

He stared at her, the moonlight pouring through the truck’s front windshield. He rolled down his window, a singsong chorus of cicadas reverberated through the woods. “I might be insane, but honey I’m not dumb. Your boyfriend O’Brien is dumb. He came onto my turf and challenged me. He, Miss Kim, drew first blood. It’s in your honor that I protect you. I’d duel to the death if I thought O’Brien would do it honorable and pace twenty-five steps before turning and firing.”

She said nothing, slapping at a mosquito on her arm. “Can you put your window up? Mosquitoes are biting me.”

“That’s because you have a fine bloodline. You’re a reflection of the Old South, you just don’t know it.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I know a lot about you, woman. I know the foods you like to eat. The wine you like to drink. Mostly Cabernet. The kind of coffee you like, Folgers. You still make it the right way, one pot at a time. Not using those little pods. I even know the time of your last menstrual cycle.”

Kim’s eyes opened wider. Her pulse pounded. “It was you! Your freak! Going through my garbage. You’re sick.”

“I’m a trash archeologist. Much of a person’s life, their past, present, and some of their future, can be told in a bag of their trash. Their diets. The meds they’re taking. The money they owe. The cycles of life are in the trash. Week after week. I know what kind of condom your boyfriend O’Brien uses, and I know your cycle is right about now. Your eggs are dropping and you’re ripe for conception.” He reached for her. She raked her fingernails down his arm, opening the truck door and running hard into the forest.

Frank Sheldon spared no expense. The entire open deck of America II was a floating party, a display of luxurious carousing flavored by the best decadence money could buy. White-jacketed waiters carried silver trays overflowing with finger-food cuts of beef wellington, chilled king crab claws, Beluga caviar and dozens of other gourmet foods. They strolled around the invited guests, stopping to serve the food and answer questions.

The rich and famous sipped Dom Perignon champagne, premium vodkas, gins and whiskeys. Wine, from the finest vineyards in the world, flowed from crystal glasses. Some of the guests danced to a Caribbean band performing near the stern. Others ambled along the deck, the long schooner quietly slipping out of Jacksonville for a short excursion down river.

Sean O’Brien lifted a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and wandered the length of the vast sailboat, his eyes shifting from face to face, hearing snippets of conversation, and listening for prompts of things to come. He watched two bearded Civil War re-enactors posing for pictures with the actors and spouses of actors, studio executives and movie investors. The night breeze smelled of expensive perfumes, grilled beef, exotic truffles, sushi and spilled champagne.

Near the bow, O’Brien overheard a shapely blonde actress giggle and smile at her date in a tux, his brown hair neatly parted on the left, gelled and sculpted from a page of the Great Gatsby playbook. She said, “I want to take my heels off and go stand on that long board on the front of the boat like Kate Winslett did in Titanic.”

He grinned. “In the olden days of sailing that’s the place where the statue of the naked chick was placed. Mariners believed it kept the sea serpents away.”

“Maybe I’ll stand out there naked before the night is over.” She downed a glass of champagne, pointing to a half dozen people shaking hands with a silver-haired executive producer, the nightlights of the city growing distant in the background. “That’s Lou Kaufman. His movies never lose money. I have to be introduced to him. You must introduce me, Darrin.” She trotted off, her date trailing behind her.

Then O’Brien heard another voice. Frank Sheldon. He worked the crowd, making toasts, telling jokes, patting backs, kissing beautiful starlets on their powdered cheeks, his eyes lingering on one statuesque brunette, breasts spilling out of a low-cut, short black dress. Sheldon whispered something into her ear. She smiled, raised a flawless eyebrow above one blue eye and nodded. Sheldon moved on, continuing to be the perfect host.

O’Brien trailed him. Staying out of the direct current of people surrounding Sheldon, but close enough to watch for someone he knew was watching Sheldon. Somewhere on the one-hundred-foot schooner was James Fairmont. O’Brien stopped at a serving table, white linen, black caviar and oysters on the half-shell on a bed of ice. He thought about Nick for a second as he picked up a small cocktail fork and slipped it inside his sports coat pocket.

O’Brien glanced at the moon through the ship’s masts. He saw a bat circling above the tallest mast. Then he heard a British accent, like a murmur in the crowd. A man’s voice. He said, “I’d really enjoy seeing the rest of the vessel.”

O’Brien looked around, watched through the throngs of people, the flashes of jewelry under the moonlight, the power brokering, the actors still acting — forever testing for the next part. The agents, managers, studios heads, the assistants — all moving to the synthetic rhythm of a bad life script. On the stern, the band played on as America II sailed deeper south on a real black river.

O’Brien caught a glimpse of James Fairmont straggling behind Sheldon as he headed toward the aft section of the schooner. Fairmont made no eye contact with any of the guests, keeping one hand on the leather satchel he carried over his left shoulder. Sheldon approached one of the men that O’Brien knew was hired protection, a man with a military haircut, wide chest stretching the black tux. The sentry nodded and whispered something into a small microphone taped to the inside of his thick left wrist.

Sheldon vanished inside a wooden portal door leading from the wheelhouse to somewhere inside America II. Less than thirty seconds later, Fairmont did the same. The mercenary spoke again into his sleeve. O’Brien stepped to the railing, the river more than twenty-five below. He typed a text to Dave: Cue Hornsby — the show’s about to start –