Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) Read online

  ALSO BY TOM LOWE

  A False Dawn

  The 24th Letter

  The Butterfly Forest

  The Black Bullet

  Blood of Cain

  Black River

  Destiny

  Cemetery Road

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  CEMETERY ROAD© – Copyright 2015 by Tom Lowe. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying, Internet, recording, visual/audio or otherwise without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. First published in the United States of America, December 2015. Publisher – Kingsbridge Entertainment, P.O. Box 340, Windermere, FL. 34786

  Registered with the Library of Congress, and U.S. Copyright Office. First cataloged December, 2015, Author - Lowe, Tom, 1952 –

  1. CEMETERY ROAD—fiction. 2. The Preacher—fiction. 3. Florida Panhandle—fiction. 4. Ghosts of the river—fiction. 5. Shorty’s—fiction. Title—Cemetery Road

  CEMETERY ROAD – is distributed in ebook, print and audiobook editions. Audiobook published by Audible. Printed books are available from Amazon Inc, bookstores and libraries.

  Cover design by Damonza. Formatting print and digital conversion by CreateSpace.

  ISBN-13 978-1518718281

  ISBN-10 1518718280

  First edition: December 2015. Published in the USA by Kingsbridge Entertainme

  Although CEMETERY ROAD is a work of fiction, it is inspired from the history of the former Florida School for Boys near Marianna, Florida. The reform school was opened in 1900. It operated for 111 years before closing. At one time it was the largest reform school in America. Some children were sent there for “truancy” and “incorrigibility.” Others were wards of the state and sent to the school because they had nowhere else to go. In 2011, the state of Florida reported that the school was closing for budgetary reasons. In the few years before closing, some of the men who were confined within the school as children, reported that they and others incarcerated there were victims of severe physical and sexual abuse. And they allege that there were children who never left the reform school alive, buried in hidden graves. Prosecutors have said that there wasn’t sufficient evidence to prove or disprove the allegations.

  After the school closed, a forensics anthropology team from the University of South Florida secured permission to use grand-penetrating radar and other forensics tools to locate fifty-five graves, and fifty-one bodies. Some of the children, investigators believe, died from a fire and disease. For others, the causes of death were apparently not recorded at the time and difficult to establish decades later. The forensics team used mitochondrial DNA and was successful in identifying a few of the dead children by matching DNA with living family members. At the time of the publication of this novel, the investigation was continuing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Often I’m asked which one of my books is my favorite. I don’t have a favorite, but I do have my favorite part of each book. It’s right here where I have the opportunity to thank and recognize those who’ve helped me launch another novel.

  For CEMETERY ROAD, a special thanks goes to Helen Christensen and Darcy Yarosh for their attention to detail and proofreading my books. To the hard working production team at Amazon CreateSpace: Maria Martin, Jamie Lee, Carina Gilbert, Kandis Miller and Brianne Twilley. You’re the best. And finally to my wife, Keri, for her skills as an editor, her patience, perseverance, and her laugh. She makes the often-cloistered life of a writer a little easier.

  I tip my hat to you, the reader. If this is your first time reading a Sean O’Brien novel, welcome. If you’re returning, thank you for your loyalty and continuing the journey. I hope you enjoy CEMETERY ROAD.

  For Melissa Lowe,

  and for…

  All the children who entered the doors of the Florida School for boys, and especially to those who never left.

  ”Some people regard it as their right to return evil for evil and, if they cannot, feel they have lost their liberty.”

  - Aristotle

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE: Jackson County, Florida - 1964

  CHAPTER ONE: Florida - Ponce Inlet - Present Day

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  A Murder of Crows: (Prologue - Florida wilderness – 1835)

  CHAPTER ONE: (Florida Wilderness – Present Day)

  CHAPTER TWO

  PROLOGUE

  Jackson County, Florida - 1964

  His sister was the only one he’d miss. He didn’t want to leave her, but at age thirteen there wasn’t much he could do. He would return one day to get her—to rescue her. Andy Cope sat in a hard, wooden chair across the counter from the principal’s secretary, a heavy woman with listless eyes and turquoise-framed glasses worn halfwa
y down her nose. Her bottle-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun that looked to Andy like a hornet’s nest. She picked up the phone, stuck her thick finger into the rotary dial and made a call that would forever change Andy’s life.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the woman. 11:15. Andy knew the freight train would rumble by the school at 11:30 sharp, always slowing to a crawl at the crossing, sometimes coming to a brief stop in Marianna. Andy hoped today the train would be making that stop. He could run all the way to Marianna if need be. He was athletic. Strong for his age. Handsome angular face, his brown hair cut short. Green eyes, often guarded, suspicious. A small, white crisscross scar above one of his dark eyebrows. He watched the sweep second-hand on the clock as the secretary spoke into the phone.

  “We have one boy today. His mother and Mr. Gillespie signed the papers. Warden Beck is expecting him by three. Are you coming in a bus or is the truancy officer picking him up?” She paused, listening—looking over her glasses at the boy, her eyes superior. Andy held her stare, unblinking. She said, “That’ll be fine. Thank you. Darlene, how’s Harold? Betty told me he’s fixin’ to get out of the turpentine business.”

  The principal, a tall balding man in a cotton seersucker suit, came out of his office, his wingtip shoes hard against the pinewood floor, the smell of cigarette smoke on his clothes. He looked down at Andy. “Maybe schoolin’ isn’t for you, son. You lack motivation and discipline. They’ll teach it to you at the Florida Home for Boys. You’ll grow up quick down there. It’s for your own good. When you come back here, you’ll be changed.”

  “I’m never comin’ back here.”

  The principal rocked slightly on his brown, polished shoes. “I suspect you’re right about that. Boys like you are born bad. Wicked seeds are planted amongst the moral seeds in the garden of good and evil.” The principal’s mouth turned down. He adjusted papers atop a clipboard, two fingers on his right hand yellowed from cigarettes. He tucked the clipboard under his arm and walked out into the hallway, the school bell ringing as the door closed.

  Andy looked at the clock, felt his stomach churning. 11:25.

  He heard the train whistle in the distance. Soon the train would roll by the old high school, shaking the bedrock of the building. Andy knew he had to be by the tracks when the train slowed. Had to hop a freight to escape. He wouldn’t be sent to reform school. Hell no. He’d heard rumors of the place. Horrible rumors. Some boys went in and never came out. Those that did were forever spooked. Distrustful. Fidgety. Actin’ like they’d been in some kind of war. Maybe they had been.

  The door to the office flew open. A large-breasted teenage girl with shoulder-length red hair stepped into the room, her face shiny and flushed. “Miss Belle…I need to go home.”

  The secretary looked up from her paperwork, her head rising just above the reception counter. “You sick again, Linda Sue?”

  The girl glanced over to Andy Cope. She swallowed dryly, licked her lips and approached the counter. She lowered her voice, clearing her throat. The secretary stood, waddling to the desk. The girl looked back over her shoulder for a second at Andy and then whispered something to the woman.

  Andy saw blood trickle down the inside of the girl’s left leg, the back of her dress red and stained. He looked away.

  11:28. The train whistle blowing. Coming closer.

  The secretary exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.” She opened a hinged, wooden half-door in the center of the counter desk, the girl stepping through, two spots of blood the size of pennies where she had stood. The secretary looked over to Andy, pointed her short index finger at him. “Andy Cope, you sit still. I’ll be back in a minute. Mr. Gillespie is out in hall. Stay put, you hear?” She turned, the girl following her to a faculty bathroom.

  Andy stood, peering through the glass window, the principal in the corridor talking with a teacher. Andy knew the hall beyond the principal’s door led to a series of backrooms and an exit on the west side of the building, the side facing the railroad tracks. As he started to turn—to run, his sister Caroline appeared in the foyer. She looked at the principal speaking with a teacher and then she looked over to Andy. He raised his hand, slowly, watching his only sister for a moment. She bit her lower lip, holding library books against her chest, lifting her head, a slight nod.

  He smiled and then turned, running. He ran hard down the hall, three offices vacant during the lunch hour, the rumble of the train engine muffled through the building. At the end of the hall was the exit door. The door to freedom. Andy jostled the handle. Locked. His heart sank. There was a noise. Metal and wood. Something scraping on the floor. A black man in his sixties, salt and pepper hair, came out of the janitor’s closet, a mop in one hand, bucket in the other, perspiration beaded on his forehead. He looked at Andy, the man’s prudent eyes assessing a scared kid. He knew the boy. Always a polite kid—a boy with a soul older than his time on God’s earth.

  Andy stood straight. His jawline hard. “Can you let me out?”

  “Andy Cope, what’s your hurry, son? This school’s got a big ol’ front door, too.”

  “James, they’re trying to send me to reform school. I done nothin’ wrong. Just been late to school a few times. It’s on account…” Andy held back his words, his eyes watering.

  The old man shook his head. “I ‘spect I know why.” He reached for the key ring on his belt, opening the door, the sunlight pouring inside.

  Andy nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t get caught. If you do, they cain’t know it was me who hepped you. Understand?”

  “Yes. Much obliged.” Andy ran down the sloping schoolyard, jumping a drainage ditch filled with dark water, running toward the tracks. The freight train was slowing, the engine closer to the crossing, the caboose trailing around the bend. Andy looked for a boxcar with side doors open. He ran adjacent to the rolling train, his mouth dry, heart pounding—sunlight flickering through the open spaces between boxcars.

  The janitor stood in the shadows of the school door. He whispered. “Come on, Andy. Run! Faster!”

  The train whistle blew a long blast, the boxcars picking up a notch of speed. Andy ran hard as he could, his leather shoes hitting gravel and wooden crossties, the smell of diesel in the air. He jumped, reaching for the iron ladder. He caught it, his body swinging like a flag in the wind for a few seconds.

  A man in a pickup truck idling at the crossing watched the boy clinging to the ladder, watched him fighting to get a footing on the moving train. The man spit a stream of tobacco out the truck’s open window. He thought he recognized the boy. He’d know for sure when the train came closer, if the kid didn’t fall to his death.

  Andy pulled hard, lifting his body higher from the ground. He tried to sling his legs up to the boxcar platform. His right leg slipped, the train picking up speed. He tried again, reaching deep inside for more strength. He pulled his body further up, grabbing the side of the door and crawling into the cavernous mouth of the open car.

  The janitor nodded, watching the train gain speed. “Good luck, Andy Cope. You’re gonna be needin’ it.” He stood there for a few more seconds, the sound of steel on iron fading, the caboose growing small in the western horizon. He blew out a long breath and closed the door.

  The man in the pickup truck stopped at the crossing, watching the train roll down the tracks. He saw the boy crawl into the shadows of the boxcar. The man stared into the open boxcar when it passed in front of his truck. A shaft of sunlight broke through the side door, the flash illuminating the scared face of Andy Cope.

  The man spit the finished wad of tobacco out of his mouth. When the caboose rolled by and the crossing lights stopped flashing, the man put his truck in gear and mumbled, “Andy Cope. Bet your daddy would like to know where you’re at, boy. You just jumped a freight train bound for nowhere.”

  Andy sat in the shadows, watching the countryside roll by, the warm summer wind drying the sweat on his face, the song of the rail p
laying through his free soul.

  ONE

  Florida - Ponce Inlet - Present Day

  The letter came to a place where letters were never delivered, at least not to me. I was paying my boat-slip rent at Ponce Marina when the dock master, a wiry man sporting a salt and pepper stubble and wearing a sweat-stained Hatteras ball cap said, “Oh, Sean, I almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “The letter.”

  “Letter?”

  “Yeah. Arrived last week. I walked down to your boat. Jupiter was buttoned up tight. Nick Cronus said he hadn’t seen you in a few days. Said you were probably at your river cabin. I don’t have a forwarding address. So, I figured you’d stop by sooner or later. I’ll get it.” He shuffled across the small office, a large corkboard on one wall filled with fliers advertising boats for sale. Half a pot of burnt black coffee smoldered on a burner.

  The dock master hummed the song, 99 Bottles of Beer, while leafing through a wire-mesh basket filled with mail. “Found it. Some damn neat handwriting. Maybe it’s an old girlfriend. Maybe not. I hear that’s what Facebook’s for. That’s why you sure as hell won’t find my face on Facebook.”

  He handed the letter to me. “Thanks, Al. Come on Max.” I left the office, Max my ten-pound dachshund romping a few feet ahead of me as we opened the gate to L dock. She paused, watching a brown pelican perched on a creosote-stained piling, the bird shifting its weight from one webbed foot to the other, its head tilted, a big yellow eye watching Max. “Come on, Kiddo, leave the neighbors alone.” Max snorted and we continued our hike down to my old boat docked at the very end of L dock.

  A gentle wind from the east, toward the Atlantic Ocean, blew across the marina, the scent of blackened grouper and garlic crab coming from the Tiki Bar, a rustic wharf bar that could imitate restaurant status. A day-charter fishing boat chugged from Ponce Inlet and the Halifax River into the marina and around the long piers moored with dozens of yachts and sailboats. The fishing boat, Lucky Strike, was filled with tourists and the day’s catch. Screeching sea gulls followed the boat’s wake across the water.