The Black Bullet

silent witness to another round of military history. The men sloshed through ankle-deep water in the inlet, stopped near a live oak gnarled from time and weather, and started digging.

Billy hid behind sea oats, watching the men finish the hole. Gotta phone Glenda.

There was movement.

Someone hiding behind dunes and palmettos approached the men. They stopped digging and spoke. Under the moonlight, he could tell that the man who walked up to the Germans was dressed like an American. It looked like they were exchanging something.

As they began shoveling sand back into the pit, one of the men dressed in civilian clothes stopped and said something to the German officer. The officer shook his head and dismissed whatever it was the shorter man had said. Billy could hear the shorter man raise his voice. And the words were not German.

He spoke heated Japanese.

Billy mumbled to himself, “Japs and Germans here on American soil … why?”

One of the other German soldiers stepped in and raised the shovel like he was going to hit the Japanese man standing next to him. The tall German officer pulled a pistol out of his holster and shot the German sailor in the head, his body crumpling next to the hole. The two Japanese men made a cursory bow to the officer and the man dressed in American clothes, before walking quickly toward Highway AIA.

Billy felt his heart hammer in his throat. He had to work to control his breathing. Calm. Stay calm.

He ran toward his truck. Could make it to get the keys. He turned and darted down the beach, dropping to his knees to search for his keys. The tide soaked his pants. Where are the keys? His hands fanned sand and rushing water. The keys seemed to tumble into his hand. Headlights from an approaching car punched through the tree line, and Billy became a moving shadow in the sand. He heard the Germans yell as he tried to run up the beach to the truck.

Run! His rebuilt knee snapped causing Billy to fall face down. He spat sand out of his mouth, lifted himself up, ignoring the pain, running as fast as he could. He saw the remaining sailors moving back in the direction of the life raft. They’d spotted Billy, no doubt. A German was missing. Maybe he left with the Japs. Deserted.

Billy jumped in his truck. The engine strained, sucking the life out of the old battery. “Start! Just fucking start!” The engine turned over and roared. Billy burned rubber going from sand to pavement.

He drove a mile to the A1A Bait ‘n Tackle, which he knew was closed. He pulled up to a phone booth and searched his pockets. One dime! Who to call? Glenda or the Navy? Phone Glenda and tell her what’s happening and tell her to call the Navy and the sheriff. What was his damn phone number? His index finger shook so hard he could barely get it in the rotary dial.

“Glenda!”

“Billy, what’s wrong?”

“Just listen. I just saw a murder!”

“What?”

“A German soldier shot another German soldier on the beach. There were six of them-four Germans and two Japanese. Another guy I think was American. He walked outta the bushes after the Germans and Japs came ashore in a life raft from a German U-boat sitting off the beach-”

“A what-”

“Listen, baby! They buried something on Rattlesnake Island! South of the fort. It’s in line with the light from the lighthouse passing through the tower window. Six o’clock position-maybe two hundred feet from the old fort. Call the Navy! Tell them there’s a German submarine lying about a quarter mile off Matanzas Pass. Tell them there’s been a killing on the beach. Tell them two Japs ran away! And tell them it looks like an American-maybe a spy-met them. The Japs headed north on A1A on foot. I don’t know what this is about. War in Europe is over, but the Japanese haven’t surrendered.”

“Oh God, Billy. Sweetie, this isn’t one of those flashbacks from the war-”

“Glenda! It’s real! Call them! I’m outta change. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

Billy saw the reflection in the phone glass, a dark figure leaping from the truck-bed. Billy dug for his pistol as two bullets shattered the glass and slammed into his body.

“Billy!” The tiny voice came through the receiver. “Billy! Dear God, no!”

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.”