“The picture seems very anticlimactic after watching the video feed Volusia Sheriff’s office sent. Santana’s movements were so cat-and-mouse like with Josh and Richard Brennen.”
“Josh Brennen is Santana’s father.”
“Oh my God!”
“The night I was with you and received the call from Santana, you had a trace put on the call. Did you get a number? And was it different than the one I had? ”
“Yes and yes. But in light of all hell breaking loose right after that, especially since Santana left us that note in the condo, chasing a cell phone number seemed moot.”
“Can you find the number?”
“You know Santana’s either tossed the phone or certainly won’t answer your call, assuming he’s still in the country.”
“Do you have the number?”
“I’ve got it here on my desk.”
She gave me the number. I wrote it on the back of a boating magazine. “Thanks, I’ll call you later.”
“Sean, what are you going to do?”
“Extend an invitation to Santana.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
I didn’t expect Santana to answer. Maybe he was watching his caller ID in some international airport. Maybe I’d have a chance to bait him before he stepped on a plane. I had to get it right. Had to play to something he couldn’t get or find for himself.
After one ring, the call cut immediately to a short beep and then into voicemail. I said, “Santana, this is Sean O’Brien. You said the next time we talked the words would be my last on earth. You wanted me to think about what I would say. I know what that is. My last words will be what your father told me about you. You want to hear what Josh Brennen really said about you, about your mother? To hear those words, you have to hear them from me. And, to do that, you have to come find me. If you don’t, I’ll go on television and tell the world why Josh Brennen turned his bastard son away.”
I hung up. Now what? You’ve sent out the invitation, O’Brien, and you’re all alone for the party.
I slipped the Glock in my belt and stepped out on the porch, Max following at my heels. The frogs and cicadas were chanting their nightly sonatas. I placed the Glock on the table next to the large spearhead I’d found. Joe Billie would appreciate it. Maybe it was one of those rare paleo spearheads he mentioned. I sat in the wicker rocker and Max jumped up on my lap. I scratched her head and watched a yellow harvest moon rise above the river in the east. I could hear a coonhound chasing something at least a half mile upriver. The bellowing carried across the water. There is the slight smell of wood smoke from somewhere in the Ocala Forest. Then the wind died, and the night grew darker as a cloud slipped in front of the moon.
I knew it was a night I wouldn’t sleep.
It was after midnight when I took Max outside to let her do her business. We walked around the house. I had the floodlights turned off. The guttural bellow of a bull alligator came up from the river. Although there was no wind, the mosquitoes weren’t biting.
Approaching the porch, I could hear my cell phone ring from the table where I’d left it. I ran to it, lifting it off the table next to the spearhead I’d found. It was Lauren.
“Don’t tell me you’re still at the office,” I said.
“Sean, are you alone?” Lauren sounded out of breath.
“I’m here with my favorite lady, Max.”
“Get out of the house!” she ordered.
“Why?”
“CNN ran a shot of Santana’s photo. A man watching in Daytona Beach recognized the photo and called us. The man works for Hertz. They use GPS to help track cars — lost or stolen. They have a tracker on the car that Santana rented. Hold on Sean. I’m on the other line with Hertz…”
Her breathing was quick. To the person on the other line she said, “What are the coordinates?” There was a pause and Lauren asked me, “Where exactly do you live?”
“St. Johns River Road, off Highway 44.”
“Sean, Santana’s car, a Ford Fusion, is less than five miles from your house.”
SEVENTY-NINE
“It’s okay, Max,” I said. “I’ll be right back. No barking.” I locked her in the house, shoved the Glock under my belt, and stepped out the screen door into the dark.
I tried to put myself exactly where Santana sat. I’d drive by the home, not too fast or too slow, see if lights were on, maybe a car in the drive. Then I’d return with the headlights off, park a good distance away, move stealthily under the cover of darkness, and enter the home. It was all about surprise.
But I wasn’t Santana. And I couldn’t be sure how he would plan the assault. If surprise was part of it, I’d already removed that element. I jumped up to a low-hanging limb of a live oak tree and pulled myself to a thick branch. I climbed another ten feet until I had an open view of the road from both east and west directions.
The moon was higher, the soft light almost beaming through the tree limbs. Shadows from the oaks connected like gnarly fingers interlacing across my yard.
A horned owl called out, its series of hoots traveling up from the river. The call seemed to come from somewhere near my dock. Horned owls always sound like they are chanting, who’s awake…me too. I wondered if it was the same owl that had captured the cardinal, the owl that had pointed me in the direction of Angela. If it was, maybe the bird would point me toward Santana.
The owl called out again, stopping after only two hoots. I’ve heard these owls often, and they always finish their statements. This one stopped in mid-sentence.
I saw the headlights in the distance, three-quarters of a mile away, coming toward my house slower than the speed limit. I touched the Glock and watched the car. The interior was too dark for me to make out whether Santana was behind the wheel.
It was a Ford. The driver kept the same speed while the car passed my house. But before the road began to curve, I could see the brake lights tapped.
The driver slowed and turned around. The headlights went off. The car moved stealth like, inching its way back toward my house. Within about fifty yards of my driveway, the driver pulled the car into a wooded area, state property.
There was no movement. I saw a tiny orange glow. The diver must have used the car lighter to light a cigarette. Why would Santana be smoking if he were about to kill me? Calm a nicotine itch? Something didn’t feel right. I dropped from the tree and stayed in the shadows to move toward the car. I stepped every few feet to simply listen. Nothing. Not a sound from a horned owl. Not even a sound from a mosquito. In less than a minute, I’d slipped up on the car and approached the driver from the rear.
The window was open. He was a silhouette in the moonlight. He tossed out the cigarette, the red ash sparking in the night. Dumb move.
I came up from a crouch and touched the barrel to Santana’s left ear.
“Put both hands on the wheel! Now!” I ordered.
Santana immediately lifted both hands to the steering wheel. I jerked open the door. “Get out! It’s over, Santana.”
“Don’t shoot, man! Who the hell’s Santana?”
A young black man was visibly shaking.
EIGHTY
I thought of Max alone in the house. I held the gun in the man’s face. “Don’t even think about lying to me. If you do, I’ll shoot you between the eyes. How’d you get this car?”
“Dude gave it to me!”
“What dude?”
“Don’t know his name. I work at Riverside Marina. Dude rented a boat today. He said he’d give me two hundred dollars to drive his car down this road at midnight and park right past that house back there. Said for me to keep the lights off, and about one o’clock he’d come meet me. I’d get another hundred, and he’d drop me back at the marina.”