O’Brien walked back down the corridor, picked up his shoes, pushed open the door, stepped around the blood from the body, and limped in his socks to the Jeep. An oak tree was full of movement, black starlings, their chortles like canned sitcom noise, mixed with the sirens in the distance and the whirr of an FBI helicopter nearby. Beyond the glut of flashing blue lights and the blur of yellow crime tape, O’Brien could see the media circling like a pack of wolves.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
O’Brien ignored the mob of reporters, the click of cameras and the microphones shoved in his face as he approached his Jeep. Susan Schulman stepped in front of him with her cameraman behind her left shoulder. She extended her Channel Nine microphone. “We understand there has been another murder, the first being the death of one of our interns, Nicole Bradley, and the kidnapping of Jason Canfield, whose body might have just been found. This is connected to you finding the U-boat, correct Mr. O’Brien?”
O’Brien disregarded Schulman, walking around her and the cameraman. She shouted, “Are these deaths tied to the uranium?”
O’Brien stopped, his eyes narrowed. “Have you made sure family has been notified before you identify a body, or is this how far you’ll go for a fucking soundbite?”
“We’re reporting live, Mr. O’Brien.”
“You may be live, but any semblance of civility with you is dead. Now move the hell out of my way.”
As O’Brien got in his Jeep, his cell rang. He recognized the number again, Eric Hunter. “So now the news media know Jason was kidnapped,” Hunter said.
“You watching Channel Nine in some bar?”
“Matter fact, I am.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk. Where are you going to be in fifteen minutes?”
“Chapman’s Fish House. I want to find that homeless man you told me about.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
As O’Brien pulled into Chapman’s parking lot, he looked across the street to Saint Paul’s Church. There was a bus stop bench in front of the church but no one was sitting on it. He parked and got out. The smell of fresh-caught fish came from a truck as the driver unloaded the order. O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Maggie Canfield. “Sean! Is Jason okay?” Her voice was ragged, desperate.
“Maggie … we’re doing all we can to find him-”
“Is he alive … is my son alive?”
“I believe so. We’re going to find him and-”
“Please, Sean, find him. Every minute he's gone could mean ….” Her voice cracked. “I'm coming to wherever you and the police are-”
“No, Maggie. Stay home. Stay off your phone in case he calls.”
“I can’t take another loss … not after his father ….” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please keep him alive ….” She disconnected.
O’Brien looked at his phone for a second, started to place it in his pocket as it rang again. Dave Collins was on the line. He said, “We met with Daytona PD and Volusia SO detectives. The body we thought might be Jason’s, turned out not to be. They found the guy in an alley behind an abandoned pool hall. Place is littered with syringes, smells like a sewer. It’s a communal commode. Detectives know the dead guy, gang-banger and user. It’s not Jason. Where are you?”
“Looking for a homeless man in the vicinity of Chapman’s.”
“Better luck there. I think the homeless people gave this place up.”
“The feds still with you?”
“Yes. Paul, Ron and Lauren. All present and counted.”
O’Brien said nothing.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes, Sean.” Dave disconnected as Eric Hunter got out of a pick-up truck and walked toward O’Brien.
Hunter said, “Jason’s mother is almost catatonic over this. Woman’s lost her husband-”
“So let’s make sure she doesn’t lose her son.”
Hunter pursed his lips and blew out like he was cold, looked across at the church, then at O’Brien. “If we’d started on it earlier together maybe Jason would be going on that next charter trip with you.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you, I’m a friend of Jason’s family. Knew his dad for a long time.”
O’Brien made sure his face reflected nothing. He nodded. “So what does a friend of the family do for a living?”
“Day job is working with Homeland Security. I can build a motorcycle or take one apart. Pretty good with my hands.”
O’Brien was quiet a long beat. Then he looked closely in Hunter’s eyes as he spoke. “The day Nick, Jason, and I found that U-boat, the day we dove down and found the U-235 canisters, Jason had called you. Probably coming back from sea. I saw your number on his phone that day. It was one of two calls. The other one was to his girlfriend. She’s dead. Who do you work for?”
“Right now I’m working for Jason. Trying to save his life-”
“That’s not good enough!”
“It has to be, okay?”
“It’s not okay! Too much is at stake. You tell me you got an eyewitness description of the hostiles from some homeless guy. An anonymous witness.”
“What are you getting at?”
“You were one of two people who knew about the sub and the cargo. Nicole, the girlfriend, didn’t know until she got Jason drunk and seduced it from him. But you, his surrogate father figure, he probably told you. And then who did you tell? Somebody in the mob? American? Russian? Some Islamic radicals who’ll stop at nothing to acquire enriched uranium? Who’s paying you?”
“You have quite an overactive imagination, O’Brien.”
“How did that reporter, Susan Schulman, know our boat was going to be stopped by the Coast Guard? Did you call her? Did you want this out in the public for some asinine bureaucratic or covert reason?”
“He’s returned,” Hunter said, looking over O’Brien’s shoulder.
O’Brien was hesitant to turn around for a moment. He stepped back from Hunter and looked at the bus stop. A man sat there staring straight at him.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Eric Hunter shook his head, glanced down at the parking lot and then looked at O’Brien. “You’re wrong about me, but let’s see what he has to say.”
The homeless man watched them approaching. He grinned, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and asked, “Anybody got a quarter or two?”
“Sure,” said Hunter, peeling off a couple of one-dollar bills.
“Much obliged,” said the man. He was in his mid-fifties, matted dark hair, swimming pool blue eyes through slits of black dirt, new dirt on top of old dirt. He had a sour smell of old sweat and cheap wine.
“Now,” said Hunter, “you know, Robert, the church folk won’t let you have dinner in there if you’ve been drinking.”
The man sighed like the last ounce of breath just left his body. “Only had a swallow or two around noon.”
“And you haven’t eaten, right?”
“That’s why I’m here. You can get supper in there two nights a week.” He nodded toward the church, his eyes suddenly filled with buried thoughts.
“Robert Ingham this is Sean O’Brien. Tell Sean exactly what you saw when they kidnapped the young man.”
“I saw the young fella put some boxes in his truck, ‘bout the time he opened his door, this blue van, a Ford, pulled up and these two men jumped out. One of them stuck a gun in the dude’s ribs while the other pushed him into the van. I stood up to yell about the time two semi-trucks blew by. When the trucks were gone, so was the van.”
“Can you describe the men who took Jason?” O’Brien asked.
“Jason … that’s his name?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a fine name.” His eyes faded a moment and then returned. “One was tall, shoulders like a football player, bald. Other one was blondish. I’d say medium size.”
“Was there anyone else in the van?” O’Brien asked. “A driver, maybe?”
“Not that I could see. One of ‘em dudes who jerked him into the van was the driver.”
“Thank you,” O’Brien said. “If there’s something else, how do I find you?”
“I’m usually here Monday and Friday’s ‘bout this time. I had me a bicycle ‘till somebody stole it from my camp.”