Free Black River by Tom Lowe Page A

Billie smiled.
    “You’re not an easy man to find, good or challenging times.”
    “I’ve been building a few chickee huts for outdoor bars and restaurants. That work takes me into the ‘glades where I harvest palm fronds for the thatched roofs. The fronds are getting harder to find.”
    “I have something that’s hard for me to find.” O’Brien stepped closer to Billie and opened the file folder. He lifted out the photo of the woman standing next to the river. “This picture was taken around the time of the Civil War. Do you recognize that place on the river?”
    Billie shifted Max to his left hand and held the photo with the right hand. He stared at the image, his dark eyes alternating between the woman in the photo and the river in the background. “The lady is beautiful. Who is she?”
    “I’m not sure. A painting was made from this picture. An elderly man hired me to find the painting.” O’Brien told Billie some of the story and added, “I have no idea what the secret of the river may be, but if I find that spot on the river I might have a better clue. Any idea where I might find it.”
    “I recognize the area. It’s changed a lot since that picture was taken.”
    “Can you give me directions?”
    “Yes. At that point, the river is wide and deep. After the third Seminole War with the U.S. government, things kinda came to a draw as the Civil War broke out in North Florida. The army forgot about the Seminoles, having driven most into the ‘glades. A few still managed to live in and around the river. Some of the elders spoke of their grandfathers seeing a bizarre incident one night on the river. I don’t know if it’s the secret of the river. I do know where it happened.”
    “Where?”
    Billie looked at the picture. “Here…where the woman is standing. It’s a bluff overlooking the river. That’s the place where something very bad, very dark, happened.” He handed the photo to O’Brien.
    “What happened, and how do I find this place?”
    “You don’t. At least not quickly.” Billie glanced toward his canoe. “I’ll take you there, and the best way is to journey by water. Then I’ll tell you what happened on the river, and I’ll point out how I recognized the place…most people wouldn’t.”

A fter sunrise, Kim Davis slipped on a sweatshirt, pulled up her jeans, then opened her front door to step out onto the porch. She was barefoot, the concrete cool on her soles. She walked toward her mailbox and stopped in her tracks. The mailbox, mounted vertically on a wooden beam, was wide open. Sticking out of the opening was a blood red rose.
    Kim lifted the rose out of the box. A note, attached by a white string, was written in what appeared to be font from a manual typewriter. Kim could hear a dog barking from the next street. Her temples were pounding, adrenaline flowing. She glanced around her yard. It was there in the grass. She held her breath for a second.
    Footprints.
    They were scarcely visible in the wet dew. But the prints were there. Leading from the porch to the far end of her driveway. Kim walked back inside her home, shutting the door with force, locking the bolt lock. She read the note: Dear, Miss Kim, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But this rose has more than a similar scent. Its changing color represents Confederate blood. It is a beautiful flower, as you are a beautiful woman .
    Kim stepped rearward a few feet, her back touching the wall in her living room. She stood there, breathing fast through her nostrils. Light from the sunrise poured through the glass pane window at the top of the door, striking the rose she held in her hand. Kim lowered her eyes, the rose suddenlylooked inflamed, as if it was smoldering in her grip. She felt a chill, goose bumps popping up on her arms. For an eerie moment, Kim Davis thought she could see inside the petals, see the molecules moving, the lifeblood of dead soldiers flowing through the deep red petals.
    She closed her