The Black Bullet

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The 11:00 p.m. newscasts had O’Brien, Nick and Jason’s face on every channel, the stories going viral and getting millions of views on the Internet. Five minutes later, O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Maggie Canfield. “Sean, Jason told me what happened, how his girlfriend managed to get and give those pictures of that submarine to the news media. I am so very sorry.”

“It’s okay, Maggie.”

“No, no it’s not okay. I know it’s late, and I feel bad for even asking, but can we talk? Not on the phone. Are you at the marina?”

“Yes, I was just about to take Max for her walk.”

“Maybe I could join you. I can be there in ten minutes.

“We’ll be in the parking lot in front of the Tiki Bar.”

As he opened the sliding glass door leading to Jupiter’s cockpit, he looked at his Glock lying near the boat’s helm. O’Brien picked up the gun, wedged it under his belt in the small of his back, and stepped out onto the dock with Max at his heels.

The pier was damp from heavy dew. A vapor rose off the surface of the marina water and drifted eerily above the flickering security lamps, the sound of an eighteen-wheeler fading in the distance, the breakers across the road like a whisper from a seashell. O’Brien followed Max down the long dock. The soft flash of light from the lighthouse made him smile as it oddly looked like a firefly lost in the rising mist.

Maggie Canfield was just getting out of her car when they approached. “Thank you for letting me join you and Max on your walk.”

“It’s not always a walk, lots of stopping and starting, but it’s always an adventure, especially when ol’ Joe, the boatyard cat, is around.”

Maggie walked beside O’Brien, both following Max as she sniffed beneath the coconut palm trees, the fronds rustling from a sudden breeze across the water. Maggie said, “Jason told me what happened, how you got your anchor caught on that submarine and found those things. He also let me know he promised you confidentiality. That trust was broken. Trust is something his father and I always tried hard to instill in our son. I’m sorry this got out of hand so quickly.”

“Don’t sweat it, Maggie. Jason’s a good kid.”

“What’s all this on the news about some kind of nuclear material? Is that what you found out there?

“Maybe.”

“Dear God … what are you going to do?”

“Where’s Jason now?”

“He’s home in his room, playing video games on his computer. Why?”

“Keep a close eye on him.”

“Is my son in some kind of danger … please … after Frank’s death-”

“Maggie, just tell Jason to be aware of his surroundings. If he even suspects he might be followed, call me immediately.”

“I’m scared now. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

“It’ll be fine. Hopefully, it will pass in a couple of days.”

They stood next to one of the docks and watched a forty-two foot Chaparral enter the marina, its green and white running lights diffused in the mist above the water. Maggie turned toward O’Brien. “Jason is so looking forward to working on your boat with you this summer. Thank you, again, for giving him a greater sense of purpose.”

“It’ll be a good summer. We need to catch fish, and leave sleeping subs alone.”

Maggie smiled and pulled a loose strand of dark hair behind one ear. She watched Max a moment and said, “I’d love to have you over for a home-cooked meal. I can broil a great fish, that’s assuming your crew can catch a few.” She laughed and touched O’Brien’s arm.

“I’d like that, Maggie.” He glanced toward the Tiki Bar. “Would you like a drink? I think we can make last call.”

Maggie smiled, the revolving light from the lighthouse illuminating the tops of sailboat masts and the highest coconut palms. “I’d love that, but I better head home. I have an early day tomorrow, and I told Jason I’d be back soon.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

Max followed them, stopping only once across the parking lot, the sound or laughter coming from the Tiki Bar. At the car, O’Brien said, “Maggie, tell me what you know about Eric Hunter?”

“Who?”

“He said his name’s Eric Hunter.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“He said he knew you and your husband, Frank, knew him before the bombing of the U.S.S. Cole.”

“Sean, I don’t know this man, and I never heard Frank mention his name. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

Maggie studied him for a second, and then said, “I need to get home.” She leaned in and hugged O’Brien. He could smell the shampoo in her hair, the perfume she always wore twenty years ago, the way she used to hold him close, her head on his chest.

She brushed her hand against the Glock. “What’s that on your back? Is it a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Do you always wear a gun when you walk Max?”

“Upon occasion.”

“Just tell me one thing … is my son safe with you?”

“Yes.”

She leaned up on her toes and kissed O’Brien on his cheek, and then she drove away. O’Brien watched her taillights swallowed in the fog. He heard the wail of a siren in the distance and saw the beam from the lighthouse rake across the rising mist, giving symmetry and animation to ghosts climbing the masts of sailboats.