Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08 Read online

  ALSO BY TOM LOWE

  A False Dawn

  The 24th Letter

  The Black Bullet

  The Butterfly Forest

  Blood of Cain

  Black River

  Cemetery Road

  Destiny

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

  A Murder of Crows – Copyright © 2016 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 or otherwise without the written permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. A Murder of Crows is published in the United States of America, Kingsbridge Entertainment, P.O. Box 340 Windermere, FL 34786

  Library of Congress Cataloging in—Publication Data, Lowe, Tom, 1952

  A Murder of Crows by Tom Lowe – First Edition, 2016

  1. Crows—Fiction 2. Everglades—Fiction. 3. Spanish Conquistadors—Fiction. 4. Burial Mound—Fiction. 5. Florida ranch—Fiction – Title: A Murder of Crows

  A Murder of Crows is distributed in ebook, print and audiobook editions.

  Cover design by Damonza.

  Formatting and digital conversion services by CreateSpace.

  A Murder of Crows, First edition - November 2016. Published in the U.S.A by Kingsbridge Entertainment.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My favorite part of writing, after getting to ‘The End,’ is here in the beginning. It’s here where I have a chance to thank those who’ve helped me get the book to you. A special thank you to beta readers Helen Ristuccia-Christensen and Darcy Yarosh. You’re the best! To Jared Dobb (a genius). To the wizards at CreateSpace, including: Carina Gilbert, Ashley Wells, Danna Mathias, Marla Martin and Kandis Miller.

  My hat off to John M. Marzluff, Ph.D. I knew very little about the behavior of crows until I contacted John at the University of Washington where he and his team have done extensive research on crows.

  To my wife, Keri, for her excellent ideas, contributions to my books, editing skills and her sense of humor through it all. You’re the best of the best. Finally, to you—the reader. I’m deeply appreciative to those who continue the journey of Sean O’Brien. For readers just joining us, welcome aboard. Let’s set sails to some mysterious and unchartered waters.

  “All of us have two hungry wolves inside our hearts. One wolf is good. One is evil. The wolves will fight. The one that wins is the one you feed.”

  - Cherokee proverb

  For John Buonpane

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 SEVENTY

  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

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  CHAPTER NINETY

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWELVE

  Epilogue

  The Dragonfly

  PROLOGUE

  FLORIDA WILDERNESS – 1835

  Only a few people knew the name his mother had given him at birth, but millions would know the name he took to his grave. He was born by a river, and throughout his short life rivers would speak to him. He stood on the banks of the Withlacoochee River deep in the heart of Central Florida. Watching. Listening. Looking for signs. The water was the shade of tea, moving slowly through the wilds, flowing at the base of giant cypress trees, limbs heavy with hanging moss. A limpkin screeched across the river. Cypress knees grew beneath the ancient trees, the gnarled roots protruding upright from the dark water, reaching for the purple sky. The current made slight eddies swirling between the cypress knees, the river whispering to him—warning him. Something was coming.

  Osceola looked across the opposite shoreline, the sun dipping below the tree line, its light broken from dangling moss and thick limbs, the dark shadows skipping across the river’s inky surface. He would meet the elder tonight, under the stars. The old man would know what to do. There was no wind, leaves and branches motionless, the knotty ey
es of a large alligator just above the surface. Osceola listened for the sounds of gunfire in the distance, on the edge of the green swamp. He watched the wildlife, eavesdropping on nature, listening for sounds that weren’t native to his environment.

  Osceola stood at six feet, dark hair and hazel eyes, his skin lighter than most Seminoles. He wore a cloth shirt, buckskin vest and pants—a chest plate made from turtle shell, three eagle feathers protruding from a black turban on his head.

  He turned from the river, looked at his camp a hundred yards away. Tribe members—men, women and children mingling in and out of the chickee homes—primitive structures with roofs made from dried palmetto fronds. There was excitement in the camp. Some of the men had killed a large manatee. Two men dressed the fresh meat, the women preparing the meal. The animal would feed the entire tribe for at least a week.

  Osceola watched his people for a moment, the Panther, Bear and Otter clans descending from women in the tribe. In the previous months, some of his brothers and sisters had been captured and made to walk to a faraway land west of the great river called the Mississippi. The Indians were housed like cattle in camps of no return, the destiny found at the end of the Trail of Tears. Osceola would not surrender. Not submit to the relocation demands of men dressed as Army soldiers.

  He walked a quarter mile through the woods, heading in the direction of the mound and cave. The old man would be there. He was the oldest of the elders. His medicine bundle was so powerful he kept it away from the camp. He told Osceola to come at sunset. To receive medicine needed to prepare his spirit for what was coming.

  The sun was on the edge of the world when Osceola entered the partial clearing, a sacred place. A primal temple mound stood in the center of the clearing. It was more than twenty-five feet high by three hundred feet in diameter, centuries old and built by the ancient tribes. Their people had vanished due to war with the Spanish and disease imported from Europe. Osceola looked at the temple mound and felt a kinship, a powerful pull that often brought him here to be alone.

  On the perimeter of the clearing, to the far right of the mound, was a slight knoll, a natural uplifting of earth by limestone formations, some of the boulders protruded from the earth. It was the entrance to a system of caves. It was in there where the medicine man kept the most powerful medicine, far away from others.

  Osceola looked up to the peak of the temple mound, the old man a silhouette in the setting sun. He used one hand, motioning Osceola to climb the mound. Within a minute, Osceola joined the elder at the summit. They could see across the flat forest and jungles of southwest Florida. Nothing but wilderness in any direction, the western sky now a fiery red.

  The old man’s face had been carved by time. Skin dark, weather-beaten and creased from age and sun. He wore a vest with red, green, and white beads sewn onto it. Buckskin pants. No shoes. A black scarf around his neck. His silver hair hung from the sides of a dark green turban on his head, three flamingo feathers jutting from the turban.

  He’d made a very small fire in the center of the mound. He motioned for Osceola to sit. In the language of the Seminole, he told Osceola to extend his arms, palms up. And then the old man used teeth from the jawbone of a garfish to cut into Osceola’s forearms, the sharp bones leaving bloody trails. Osceola said nothing. He stared at the sunset, his jawline hard, a crimson cinder of the setting sun flickering in his dark eyes.

  The elder man chanted in song, dropping some dried leaves on the campfire and then fanning smoke into Osceola’s face. After a minute passed, the medicine man lifted a hollowed gourd and instructed Osceola to drink the black liquid inside. He did so, holding the drink in his stomach for as long as he could before turning his head to vomit.

  The old man chanted, his eyes unblinking, staring into the ember of the fading sun, white smoke swirling around his craggy face. He opened a buckskin sack. Osceola could see powder the color of silver inside the sack. The medicine man produced a long black feather. He dusted the feather in the silvery powder, lifting it from the sack, placing the tip into the fire. When the feather ignited, he held it in front of Osceola and blew smoke into his face. He told Osceola to inhale through his nostrils. “Breathe in the spirit of the crow,” he said in the language of the tribe.

  Tomorrow, at dawn, the spirit of the crow would guide Osceola when two hundred men came to kill him. He touched a custom-made knife on his belt, inhaling deeply, the sounds and shadows of twilight whispering to him.

  ONE

  FLORIDA WILDERNESS – PRESENT DAY

  Some old timers wouldn’t go there. They said there was something about the land—the place itself was not welcoming, as if Mother Nature cast a spell on hundreds of acres tucked away in a primal spot that time overlooked and man left alone. The family, descendants of cattle ranchers, had tried for years to sell most of the property. And now, as urban sprawl crept like a disease over Florida, the environmentalists and nature conservancy people were looking to buy and set aside tracts of pristine land, especially acreage that bordered rivers and lakes.

  Today, it was still a private ranch. Fenced along its massive perimeter. The property had been on the market for years. There were more than eleven thousand acres, many bordering the Withlacoochee River. At one time, years ago, the ranch family ran herds of cattle over some of the land. Other sections, acreage encompassing part of the Green Swamp, were left to nature. Due to the remoteness, swampy terrain, poisonous snakes, ticks and leeches, folklore of hauntings—especially near the temple mound, there had been very little trespassing.

  The remaining family members were anxious for an estate sale. Environmentalists had petitioned and encouraged the state of Florida to buy the most unspoiled areas and designate the property as a nature preserve or maybe even a state park. A large mound built centuries ago on an isolated piece of the property would make a perfect study in native cultures, some dating back thirteen thousand years.

  Dr. Beverly Sanchez, an anthropologist for the state’s Department of Cultural Affairs, and two of her colleagues, steered four-wheel ATVs, following the ranch owner through the scarcely marked trails of the primeval ground. They looped around wet cypress hammocks and the tannin water more than two-feet deep.

  They traversed under live oaks that had been there since the Civil War. The property was thick with bromeliads, cabbage palms and saw palmetto. The rancher, Lloyd Hawkins, stopped near an oak, shutting off the ATV motor. He wore an old Stetson hat, the lower third long-since discolored from sweat. He was in his mid-sixties, rawboned face dotted with gray whiskers. “We’re almost there. Anybody need some water? Got some bottles in my satchels.”

  “I could use some hydration,” said Dr. Sanchez, early thirties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Even with no make-up on her face, the rancher thought that she was a striking woman.

  “Here you go.” He stepped from his ATV and handed her a bottle of water. “How ‘bout y’all?” he asked the two graduate students, both men.

  “I’m okay,” said one.

  The second man, his pink skin glistening, shook his head and swatted at a mosquito in midair. “You have any bug spray in there? I’m fine until we stop, and then the mosquitoes get into a frenzy.”

  Hawkins nodded. He reached in one of the compartments on his ATV and lifted out a can of insect repellent. He tossed it to the man. “Help yourself. Pass it around. Skeeters don’t see people too much out here.”

  Dr. Sanchez nodded and smiled. “We really appreciate you taking the time to show us the property. It’s like Florida of days gone by. It’s so primal and beautiful. I can see why your family originally bought the land. I think it’ll make an excellent acquisition for the state.”

  Hawkins grinned, removed his hat, wiping his furrowed brow. “When my daddy bought it, they were almost giving land away. He needed enough to run herds of cattle. A thousand acres would have done it. But because a lot of it was underwater, the sellers were glad to get rid of it. The whole parcel is more than eleven thousand acres. And th
e stuff y’all are interested in is no doubt the closest to Eden you’ll find left on earth. Let’s hit the trail. We’re almost there.”

  He cranked his engine. The others did the same, following the rancher toward the northeast, to a place in Florida that hadn’t changed much in thousands of years.

  They rode through dense bush, the sable palms slapping faces and hands with fronds and limbs interlocked across the trail. Hawkins used his left hand to wipe a massive spider’s web from his face, while continuing to steer his ATV. After another five minutes, the sables and palmettos weren’t as thick, they seceded to oaks and pines. A half minute later, they entered an open space in a forest that was unique—nature’s own garden, a clearing in the midst of jungle, swamps, springs, rivers and dry woodlands.

  And there it was.

  A temple mound. A mountain in a land of no hills.

  Dr. Sanchez stopped. She shut off the ATV and began photographing the ancient mound. The others in her party followed.

  Hawkins circled back and said, “Wait ‘till you see the view from the top. Some people have told us the mound is older than the pyramids of Egypt. And on the backside are limestone caves. There’s a karst system of underground water, limestone … lots of springs bubbling up and flowing into the Withlacoochee. Like I said, this place has a direct descendant from the Garden of Eden. Some say it was Osceola’s hideout before he was captured under a white flag of truce. The state had better buy it before somebody wants to build a theme park here.”

  Dr. Sanchez looked up from her camera, her eyes following something in the sky. She watched three carrion birds ride the warm air currents, circling above them. She pointed. “Maybe there’s a dead animal nearby.”

  Hawkins nodded. “It’s life ... and it’s damn sure death. This land is eat or be eaten. It’s all about survival and where the next meal is coming from. Probably a deer carcass. Something left over from a panther or bear attack. I have an idea … Dr. Sanchez, why don’t you and Kyle head south? Zach can follow me northward. We’ll circle around the mound and meet on the other side.”

  Beverly Sanchez nodded. “Sounds good.” They started their ATVs. One graduate student following the rancher, heading toward the right of the temple mound, the other student and Dr. Sanchez traveling in the opposite direction. She drove the ATV slowly, taking in the majesty of the work that went into constructing a mound this size.