O’Brien hit the number left behind on his phone’s received calls register. It rang four times and went into message mode, Father Callahan’s voice asking the caller to leave a message. “Father Callahan, this is Sean O’Brien. Looks like you were trying to reach me. I’m around, give me a call.”
Max sat, her eyes following a mosquito that made it in before the door shut. O’Brien picked up a dry towel that he had hanging from a sixty-year-old nail driven half way into a white oak support beam. When O’Brien bought the house, an old horseshoe hung from the lone nail. He had painted the porch, painted around the nail, cleaned and polished the horseshoe, and hung it back in the same spot. He kept a clean towel there for rainy days and a little wet dog.
O’Brien picked Max up, set her on the towel in the center of the porch, and dried her. “We have to head to the marina. Are you ready to visit Nick and Dave?”
Max cocked her head.
“Maybe Nick has some fresh fish. I have to replace the zincs on the props this weekend or Jupiter might be sitting on the bottom of the bay soon.”
O’Brien was almost to the Ponce Marina when his cell rang. He pressed the receiver button. “Hello, Father.”
“Sean, you’re either a psychic detective or you have caller ID.”
“It’s all about technology.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve always been exceptional at reading things in people that no machine can detect.”
O’Brien drove through the heavy shower, the rain now falling in larger drops like schools of silver minnows pouring from the sky. “Storm’s moving on, Father. Good to hear your voice. It’s been awhile. How are you?”
“You visited me more after Sherri’s death than in recent times. Are you okay?”
“Yes, thanks. I don’t get out as much as I’d like to. Fixing up my old house and boat keeps me busy.”
“Earlier today I was at Baptist Hospital where I heard a confession. It came from a prisoner who was shot as he was being transferred to testify in court this morning. After he was stabilized, he suffered a series of heart attacks. He underwent surgery.”
“I’m listening.”
“This poor chap believes he died on the emergency room table, and in the near clutch of the devil, he says he was resuscitated. Says he saw evil…absolute evil.”
“Maybe it was just a bad dream.”
“The man believes he’s been given a divine chance to make amends. He saw something, Sean, something that led him to confess.”
“It may have more to do with the brain in an oxygen-deprived state than it does with good or evil.”
“No,” Father Callahan lowered his voice, “he saw something eleven years ago.”
“What?”
“A murderer. Saw him leave the scene right after the devil’s work was done. And the man who did it was never caught.”
“Why doesn’t he go to the police?”
“He’s a convict. It’s complicated. Time’s running out, and he’s under the knife.”
“Father, start from the beginning?”
“The real killer is free, and the man accused of the murder is sitting on death row. The state is going to put him to death at 6:00 A.M. Friday. That about four days.”
O’Brien could feel tightness in his chest. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You might be the best man to free the condemned man and catch the real killer.”
“Why me, Father?”
“If it’s true, Sean, it was you who caught the wrong man, and he’s about to be executed.”