The Black Bullet

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.”