The Black Bullet (Sean O'Brien mystery/thriller) Read online

  The man stood next to the phone booth and fired a third shot into Billy’s stomach and then ran. He jumped in the truck and drove away while Billy slid down the back wall of the booth. He sat in the broken glass and blood, nausea and bile rising in his throat.

  Billy lifted a bloodied hand toward the phone hanging by the cord just out of reach. “Billy! Billy!” His wife’s cries sounded far away. He wanted to speak, to tell Glenda how much he loved her. To tell her goodbye … to have her put the phone on her stomach, right where he’d felt the little kick, to whisper his love to his unborn child. “Glenda … .” He coughed, the taste of blood like pennies in his mouth, his wife’s cries so distant now. Darkness covering him.

  Billy heard the explosion of a mortar above Company C. The blast was the brightest white he’d ever seen, and he saw his wife’s smile somewhere in the absence of color. Felt the gentle kick of his baby on the tips of his fingers. The ringing in his left ear was now silent, the sound of the pounding surf across AIA the only noise in the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Florida, Present Day

  Something about the way she walked caught Sean O’Brien’s eye. It was a typical Saturday afternoon at Ponce Marina, yet she stood out from the people milling around the docks. Boat owners, charter boat captains, deck hands, and tourists moved with the rhythm of the marina. Sunburned charter customers snapped pictures as first mates unloaded red snapper and dolphin at the fish cleaning stations. Pot-bellied pelicans waited patiently for fish heads and other handouts. The people and wildlife all seemed to move in sync.

  She did not.

  O’Brien stood in the fly bridge of his 38-foot boat and watched her walk down the long dock. The scent of fried grouper sandwiches from the Tiki Bar mixed with marine varnish, mangroves, and the smell of the sea. O’Brien, six-two, mid forties, dark hair, stopped sewing a small tear in the canvas top over the fly bridge as he observed the woman. She paused and started walking back toward the marina office, then turned around and came down the dock. Slowly. Almost cautiously.

  Max barked.

  O’Brien looked toward the cockpit where his miniature dachshund stood on a deck chair, eyes following an orange and black cat stalking a lizard on a dock post. “Stay away from ol’ Joe,” O’Brien said smiling. Max’s fur rose down her spine, and she looked up at O’Brien, her pink tongue visible, a sense of the hunt reflective in her brown eyes. “That cat is bigger than you, Max.”

  O’Brien glanced toward the marina office and restaurant. The woman was closer. Less than seventy-five feet. O’Brien thought he recognized her, a distant memory like a hologram on the horizon in the shape of a woman he once knew. He climbed down from the bridge, petted Max on her back and said, “We have company coming—a lady. I want you on your best behavior.” Max seemed to nod as O’Brien went inside the salon. When he came out with a second canvas deck chair, the woman approached his boat.

  “Hello, Sean. It’s been a long time.”

  Max barked once, her tail a blur. “Maggie, it’s good to see you,” O’Brien said.

  Maggie Canfield crossed her arms, the sea breeze teasing her auburn hair. In her early forties, she still had the striking good looks that O’Brien remembered twenty years earlier. She bit her bottom lip and offered a nervous smile. “I’m surprised you still recognize me.”

  “The good things in life you try not to forget.”

  She smiled. “But it’s often the bad things you remember because you try so hard to forget them.”

  O’Brien said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

  She blew out a breath, her eyes falling on Max. “You always liked animals. Somehow I pictured you with a German Shepherd or something.”

  O’Brien set Max on the cockpit floor. “Max is the ‘something.’ There’s a long story behind her. Come aboard, Maggie, please.”

  She took a seat in one of the deck chairs. O’Brien sat opposite her. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? As I recall, you liked chardonnay.”

  “You have a good memory. And you always saw things others seemed to miss.”

  “Just observant.”

  She smiled, her eyes now bright. “I think it was more than that. I won’t be long.”

  “Take all the time you need … it’s only been twenty plus years.”

  “How are you, Sean?”

  “Can’t complain. I’m trying my hand at this charter boat thing. It’s a good way to make some money, especially during season. One of the guys, two boats down, a Greek with saltwater in his blood, is showing me the ropes.”

  “I read a story in the News Journal that a former Miami homicide detective was starting a charter fishing business at Ponce Marina. When I saw your name, I knew it had to be you. I read about your wife … her death, when I went online. I want to… .” Maggie paused, seemed to look at something over O’Brien’s shoulder for a moment, her caramel brown eyes falling back to his. “I was so sorry and sad for you when I heard about your wife’s death. After they killed my husband, Frank, I believe I could relate to your loss on a deeper level.” Her eyes watered.

  O’Brien nodded. Silent. He waited for her to speak.

  “God, look at me, Sean. I haven’t seen you in twenty two years, and I’m crying.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s death.”

  She looked away, her eyes filling with guarded thoughts. She smiled, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked up at the fly bridge. “You always loved boats … sailboats I thought. But I guess you can’t charge people to fish from a sailboat. I live about two miles from the marina.”

  “I’m sort of a recovering former homicide detective. Left it all behind in Miami. This boat’s twenty years old—owned by a former drug runner. I bought it in a DEA auction and brought it up here, hoping the Daytona area might open some new doors. Where I spend most of my time, though, is at an old house I’m fixing up on the banks of the St. Johns River about a half hour’s drive from here.” O’Brien touched the top of her hand. “Who killed your husband?”

  “The same people who run in the pack of murderers responsible for the nine-eleven tragedies. Frank was one of seventeen killed during the attack on the USS Cole. Our son, Jason, was only ten when it happened—a horrible age for a boy to lose his father. Jason’s now a sophomore at Florida State University. I had a rough time; the single parent thing isn’t easy, especially with a boy. When he was fifteen, he got involved with the wrong crowd. Drugs. His attitude was so defensive. Somehow we pulled through. Now that he’s away in school, I think he’s developed a drinking problem. I’ve tried to talk with him, but he’s in denial. When he was home for spring break, I got really scared. I found him passed out in his car. Sean, he reeked of alcohol. An empty vodka bottle was on the floorboard, and he had his father’s picture against his chest.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I feel odd about coming here, crying on your shoulder after all this time.”

  “It’s okay. I can see you’re in pain.” O’Brien looked at her hands, his eyes tender, taking in her face. “You’re not sleeping. And I remember a woman who had manicured fingernails. Now they’re bitten down.”

  Maggie folded her hands. O’Brien picked up Max and set her in his lap. “Max was Sherri's, my wife’s, idea. One she didn’t share with me until I came home from a week-long stakeout. Sherri said Max could keep her warm when I was away. Sounded like a fair trade. Now Max is my first mate here on the boat. Back at the house, she’s the boss, especially in the kitchen.”

  “She’s so sweet.”

  “She has her moods.”

  “Sean, I feel weird, guilty coming here. It’s presumptuous for me to contact you after all these years, but I remember you as somebody a boy might look up to.”

  O’Brien said nothing.

  “Jason’s not a boy anymore, but God knows he’s not a man either. I was thinking that if you needed someone to work on your boat, help you with the charter fishing business, maybe you�
��d consider my son. He’s home for the summer. He’s always been a hard worker at his part-time jobs. He will—”

  “It’s okay.” O’Brien smiled. “You’re all the referral I need. He’s hired.”

  “Oh, Sean, thank you!” Her eyes watered. O’Brien lifted a hand, using his thumb to wipe a single tear from her right cheek.

  He said, “You always had good cheekbones.”

  “And you always had a good heart. I’d better be going now.” She stood to leave. O’Brien set Max down and walked with Maggie to give her a hands-up to the dock. “Jason will be so excited.” She hugged O’Brien. “When does he start?”

  “He can come in for training tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to see you, Sean. Seems like a lifetime ago.” She leaned in and embraced O’Brien, her hands holding onto his back and shoulders for a long moment. “Seven sharp,” she said, through damp eyes.

  O’Brien watched her walk down the dock. “Max, ever wonder how the past often intersects the present and changes the future?” Max cocked her head. O’Brien said, “Gone fishing might take on a whole new meaning. Let’s go find Nick.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The following afternoon, O’Brien’s boat, Jupiter, was sixty miles out into the Atlantic when Max started pacing the cockpit.

  “Bathroom break,” O’Brien said, setting Max on the boat’s dive platform. A sea gull flew over and squawked as Max squatted on the edge of the platform. She spread all four legs to balance herself above the gentle roll of the sea, looked up at O’Brien, who stood in the open cockpit, and released a stream that flowed through the slots in the platform into the Atlantic Ocean.

  Jason Canfield said, “It’s pretty cool she knows where to pee.” He scratched the back of his sunburned neck. “What do you do when Max has to take a dump?” Jason grinned. O’Brien could see Maggie in her son’s bright face—high cheekbones, wide smile, gentle eyes. O’Brien also could smell the taint of cheap gin coming from the boy’s skin.

  “We’ve never been out that long for Max to feel the urge,” said O’Brien, hosing off the platform as Max trotted back into the cockpit. “If she does, sounds like a job for our newest deckhand, though.” O’Brien turned to his friend, Nick Cronus and winked.

  Nick, a Greek with a mop of curly black hair, wide moustache, playful dark eyes, crossed his Popeye forearms. “That’s the way it’s done in Greece. Mates get the shit duties ‘til they can buy their own boat.”

  “Wait a sec,” protested Jason, “you guys never said anything about that.” He licked his dry lips. “I mean … I like Max, but—”

  “Look at that,” O’Brien said, pointing to a bird.

  A small black and white tern circled the boat twice and landed on top of the fly bridge. Nick looked at the bird, rubbed his thick mustache and said, “Birds bring good luck. They get tired flyin’ at sea. One time I was out about a week and had a little bird land on top of my head. Outta nowhere. Let the little fella stay in my hair for a while. Gave him some water and bread, you know.”

  “What happed to the bird?” asked Jason.

  “He stayed on the boat for a half day. When we got close to land, maybe ten miles out, he took off. But before he could fly home, a sea hawk—the osprey, come down and caught the little fella. Man, I felt awful.”

  “That’s sad,” Jason said, petting Max.

  O’Brien looked at the tern perched on his bridge. “Maybe our newest passenger will have better luck.”

  “Yeah,” Jason said, grinning. “We’ll call him Lucky.”

  “Lucky it is, Jason,” O’Brien said. “Let’s hope he brings us fishing luck.”

  Nick grinned and added, “No luck in fishing, it’s an art. C’mon, we got to get our hook up and move to a better spot. Where’s the fish?” He ran a hand through his thick hair and climbed up the ladder to the fly bridge. Nick looked at the sonar fish finder, his eyes reading the bottom. He leaned out the bridge door. “We got some grouper comin’ in on port side. Jason, fish about seventy-five feet down.”

  Jason nodded, put a fresh piece of bait on the hook and cast a few feet off the port side of the 38-foot Bayliner.

  Nick cracked a beer, wiped the foam and ice from the top of the can, took a long swallow, and studied the readings he was getting from the ocean floor. His black eyes squinted as he watched the topography one hundred feet beneath Jupiter. Something was wrong. “Sean, come up and take a look.”

  O’Brien climbed the steps to the bridge. “Have you spotted a big school of reds?”

  “Naw, man. Something strange. We’re sixty miles in the Atlantic, in the Gulf Stream, water’s warmer here, but should be more fish. Bottom looks like a canyon. Lots of places for fish to make a home, you know? But look here … see … those dark shapes?”

  O’Brien watched the screen. “Nature doesn’t design things in straight lines. Shipwreck maybe?”

  Nick touched his thick index finger to the screen. “See those dark contours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re deeper valleys—drops from seventy-five feet to more than two-hundred in the span of thirty yards. Man, I know I’ve fished this area before. Least I think I have. Don’t remember those shapes.”

  “It’s a big ocean.”

  “I don’t care if its thirty-million square miles. With GPS, I can find just about anything out here.”

  “Find the fish.”

  “I’m tryin’. Sean, first thing you gotta learn, if you want to be successful as a fishing guide, is patience. You get a couple of guys payin’ for your boat … you can’t show impatience. Your customers will pick up on it.”

  “Where are the fish you spotted before Jason dropped his line?”

  Nick pointed to the left of the screen. “They were right there. Now they‘re gone. Look, that’s a shark.”

  O’Brien followed the tip of Nick’s finger on the monitor, the shadow in the deep slowly swimming off the screen. “Probably a bull,” Nick said. “Not huge, but big enough to chase off fish. That’s a pisser. Tell Jason to pull up the anchor. We’ll move on about a half mile west. We’re still gonna be in the Gulf Stream. The few reds we caught aren’t enough.”

  O’Brien leaned out the bridge and told Jason to reel in the rod and hit the winch to bring up the anchor. To Nick he said, “You know, I had better luck catching killers than I’m having catching fish.”

  “Sean, you are my friend. Stick with ol’ Nicky and I teach you how to catch killer fish. In no time, word will spread that Sean O’Brien knows the secrets of the fishing gods. Then ever’body wants to hire you and your boat. I help make a great friend a great fisherman!” Nick lifted his beer in a toast toward the sea and took a long pull off the can. Jupiter’s bow made a hard pitch causing Nick to spill beer on his tank top. “Shit!”

  O’Brien stepped out of the bridge. Jason strained with the anchor rope near the bowsprit. He pressed his foot on the large button that controlled the winch. The motor slowed, making a sound like a chainsaw pinched in tough wood. “Anchor’s caught on something!” Jason shouted.

  “Give it slack!” O’Brien said.

  Nick stared at the screen. He yelled, “Give it more rope! I’ll move the boat to starboard ten meters and see if I can ease the anchor outta whatever’s got it.”

  O’Brien turned to Nick. “Can you see where it’s stuck?”

  “Naw, man. The anchor is still about two-hundred feet north of us and in ninety feet of water.” Nick eased the boat to the east as Jason released more rope.

  Jason opened the anchor storage area. He took off his sunglasses to peer inside the dark cavity. “Looks like we only have a few more feet of rope.”

  “I’m not gonna lose it,” Nick said, watching the bow and cutting his eyes to the depth finder. He reversed the engines and backed Jupiter slowly in the direction of the anchor. The rope went slack. Nick leaned his head out the bridge window. “Jason, hit the windlass. See if you can bring it up now.”

  Jason n
odded, starting the winch, the rope coiling nicely in the storage well. Then it was taught as a trapeze. “It’s caught!” He stopped the motor.

  Nick put Jupiter in reverse. “Shit! Man, I can’t believe it’s snagged on something. What the hell’s down there?”

  “Don’t know,” O’Brien said. “Let’s cut the rope.”

  Nick shook his head, face filled with concern. “You do that and you lose a nice, expensive anchor.”

  “Better than losing the bow trying to plow the ocean floor.”

  Nick drained his beer. “I’m supposed to be teachin’ you, and we get the damn anchor caught. Can’t remember the last time I got one snagged.”

  “Forget it. I’ll have Jason cut the rope.”

  “No! I’ll go down and see if I can wedge it out.”

  O’Brien looked at the depth chart. “It’s ninety feet down.”

  “That’s nothing, man. You forget that I made a livin’ for ten years as a sponge diver. That depth is no big deal. When I was a kid in Greece I could free-dive it.” Nick climbed down the ladder and began strapping on a weight belt. He lifted a crowbar from the engine hole. “Jason, help me with this tank.” Nick pointed to one of the two SCUBA tanks in the corner of the cockpit and turned his back to Jason.

  “What do you think has the anchor?” asked Jason, lifting the tank so Nick could get his arms through the straps.

  Nick adjusted the tank on his back and grinned. “Maybe it’s a sea monster.” Nick carried a pair of fins to the bow, Max following at his heels. “Max, what do you think swallowed our anchor?” Max cocked her head and barked. Nick glanced up at O’Brien in the bridge. “I’m gonna follow the rope down to the hook. You make sure the rope stays slack, otherwise, even Hercules, my second favorite Greek god, wouldn’t have the strength to get it outta there.”

  Nick jumped off the side of the boat as Max barked. He swam to the anchor rope, inhaled once through the regulator, and vanished into the cobalt blue sea.

  Jason watched the bubbles and said to O’Brien, “Looks like a long way down.”