Black River

THIRTY-SEVEN

An hour later, O’Brien paid the check for the lunch and walked with Laura and Paula out the restaurant door into the white wash of sun in the parking lot. A half dozen reporters were there to greet them. With TV cameras rolling, microphones extended, the herd closed around them. One tabloid TV reporter, a round, perspiring man, with pink skin and jowls that flapped when he spoke, said, “The British prime minister is saying the supposed contract, and the diamond, are both some kind of hoax. He’s suggesting that your allegations are an attempt to star in a reality TV show. How do you respond to that?”

O’Brien looked over at Laura, Paula huddled next to her mother. Laura said, “I have no response to a question so ludicrous. Please move. You’re blocking our way.”

The reporters and camera operators jockeyed for better positions. A tall, blond female reporter from Fox News asked, “When your husband first found the diamond, why didn’t he report it to police?”

Laura said, “Because it wasn’t stolen. It was discovered — like you’d find a lost treasure. And, according to the Civil War contract, it was on loan from England, not stolen from England.”

The flabby reporter wiped his brow with the back of his hand, grinned, winked at his cameraman and asked, “Is there any truth to the rumor that the BBC is flying you to London to do an exclusive interview with you if you bring the so-called Civil War contract? Is a movie and book deal in the works?” He stuck the hand-held microphone in Laura’s face.

O’Brien saw Paula wince, and then tears begin rolling down her face as she was being jostled against her mother. Holding tighter to her mother’s hand, almost wrapping her small legs around Laura’s legs, she struggled to find her footing without being knocked over or separated. O’Brien looked to his right. A garbage truck, seventy-five feet away, was stopping in an alley. The back end of the truck yawned and opened wide as a sanitation worker dumped the contents of a large plastic can into the truck.

O’Brien grabbed the microphone from the man and said, “This assault is over. I hear these things have great range.” He threw the microphone hard. It turned end-over-end, sailing across the parking lot, landing in the back of the garbage truck just before the worker pulled the lever. Hydraulic motors rumbled, the back closure moving down, plastic trash bags popping, the microphone buried in a crushed mountain of garbage.

The tall, bearded sound operator yanked the earphones from his ears. “Shit! That sounded like a bomb. Dude, that’s gonna cost you five hundred dollars.”

O’Brien gripped Laura by the elbow, pushing through the wall of reporters and production crew. He led Laura and Paula to their car when he heard one reporter say, “Hey, I recognized that man. He’s the same guy who took out some terrorists hell-bent on dropping a dirty bomb over Atlanta. What’s his name?”

“I recognize him too,” said a female producer gripping an iPad. “His name is O’Brien…Sean O’Brien.”

“Son-of-a-bitch owes me a new microphone,” said the audio tech, watching the garbage truck move down the alley.

O’Brien walked across the lot, heading for his Jeep. He spotted the black Ford Excursion parked, the motor idling, dark windows up, condensation dripping from the air conditioner, a small stream pooling next to the front tire on the driver’s side. He could only see a trace outline behind the wheel. O’Brien kept walking. He didn’t know how many people were in the SUV. But when he glanced down at the license plate, he knew that whoever was in the big Ford, they were working for the federal government.