Page 3 of Callahan

Clay’s Diner, on a corner in the center of town, seemed to hold the most promise for what I was looking for.

The bell above the door jingled when I walked in, and everyone inside turned to stare.

Being from a small town, I’d expected the reaction. I was a stranger and everyone in the place knew it.

The sign at the front indicated I should seat myself, and I headed toward an empty red stool at the stainless-steel counter. I didn’t notice the badge and stripes on the uniform shirt of the man I sat next to until I’d stowed my backpack on the short ledge in front of my feet and flipped over the coffee cup in front of me.

He seemed to be about my age as he paused with his coffee mug at his lips and perused me.

I gave him a head nod and picked up a laminated menu lying nearby.

“You here visitin’ someone or just passing through?”

“I guess visiting. Sort of. Came to say goodbye to a friend.”

His lips parted as a look of understanding crossed his features.

“You’re here to visit Shawn O’Brien’s grave.”

I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes.

“How do you know?”

He chuckled as he set his cup down. “The haircut gave you away.”

Yeah, the second I could feel any hair touching the nape of my neck or my ears, I was at the barber’s. Old habits die hard.

The man seemed lost in thought as he stared at the light brown color of the coffee in his mug. “As you can imagine, Shawn’s death has been a big deal around here. Local boy dying a hero stays on a lot of people’s minds.”

“Did you know him?”

He turned to me with a sad smile. “He was my best friend.”

I understood his grief and murmured, “Yeah, mine too.” Offering my hand, I said, “Adam Callahan, former active-duty United States Marine Corps, Second Lieutenant.”

He firmly gripped my hand.

“Brian O’Shaughnessy.” Then, as if teasing me about how I’d introduced myself, continued, “Current Haven Springs Police Department, Sergeant.”

“Nice to meet you, Brian.”

“You said former active duty. What are you doing now that you’re a civilian?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I’m headed home after I leave here to go work for my brother until I get it figured out. We’ll see what opportunities are available.”

He glanced at my left hand resting on top of the counter.

“That’s a pretty gnarly scar.”

“Gnarly scar” was a nice way to describe the twisted flesh on my fingers and hand. A few of my digits were now shorter than the others after they’d been reattached once they were found in my glove.

I fought the urge to put my hand in my lap, but tried to act unaffected and joked, “Fortunately, it’s not my shooting hand.”

“Did that happen when Shawn was…”

It was like he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. I understood his reluctance, but therapy had helped me come to grips.

“I was injured during the same firefight that killed Shawn. I missed his funeral because I was in the hospital recovering.”

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