Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller

by Christine Kling

  For several seconds, it was as though they were in a film and the reel had stopped. The group of a half dozen men stood frozen in an open-mouthed tableau. Then, in a single instant, the film started up again, and they were all thrust into motion at once. Officers and sailors alike, they ran to the crates and began pulling them apart with their bare hands. Gohin stuffed the pistol into his back waistband and fell to his knees with the others. Bottles crashed and broke, as the men scrambled across the floor shouting and laughing and stuffing their pockets with the bright, shiny coins. Broken glass soon covered the deck, but the oblivious sailors ignored the red stains at the knees of their white duck trousers as they rushed to open more crates.

  Though the men holding his arms had forgotten about him and released him, Woolsey stood there and watched the pandemonium, trying to make sense of it. Did they know about this back in New Haven? Did they know about this gold and still want to send the Surcouf and her treasure to the bottom? Or was it possible their intelligence was not so accurate after all? With the bomb gone, Woolsey had failed in his mission to destroy the sub. Might he rise in their estimation if he could deliver to them a fortune in gold?

  The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the relatively small chamber. Woolsey swiveled around, unsure, at first, who had fired. Then he saw Captain Lamoreaux standing over Mullins’ body, the gun in his hand pointed at the dead man’s torso.

  Gohin slapped at his empty waistband then scowled at the captain. Woolsey figured that the captain had shot into the body to avoid killing anyone else with a ricochet. It worked, and he now had their attention. He turned the gun on them and spoke in French. One by one, they began to empty their pockets and place the coins on the bloody, glass-strewn deck.

  Lamoreaux pointed the gun and barked an order. His men started toward the door. When the last of them had exited, the captain turned to Woolsey and said, “The men will get their way. We go to Martinique.”

  “And what about your orders?”

  The captain spit on the deck. “After the Allies tried to sink Surcouf, you think they deserve my loyalty?”

  “And what about me?”

  “When we arrive in Martinique?” He shrugged his shoulders and blew air out through his rounded lips. Then he rested one hand on the edge of the door. “You will hang,” he said giving the door a strong push.

  The door slammed closed and the lights shut off, plunging the hold back into darkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Îles des Saintes

  March 27, 2008

  8:40 p.m.

  Cole sat on the bench seat of the galley dinette with his left leg stretched out straight, his foot braced against the doorway, so he wouldn’t slide off the seat as Shadow Chaser rolled in the southeasterly swell. He bit his lower lip and turned the brass plate on the green marble calendar for the hundredth time. On the table before him lay various charts of the area, the lockbox, and his father’s well-thumbed journals.

  He had told the Brewster brothers that the object was a cipher disk that would give him the exact coordinates of the location of the submarine. Talk about wishful thinking. He had no idea how the thing might work. As far as he could tell, the purpose of the calendar was to learn the day of the week for any given date. First, you had to know the date — month, day and year — and then the calendar would tell you what day of the week that date fell on. As for how that could be translated into a cipher disk, he was stumped.

  He thought about setting it to his own birthday, November 19, 1971 and then realized that the calendar only started in 1998, so that wouldn’t work. Most of the possible dates were in the future. Assuming his father wanted him to set it to a certain date, what date did he have in mind?

  Cole turned his attention back to the books and picked up the last of the journals. He opened it to the last page and read the words there for the umpteenth time.

  Dear son,

  Wits end is where I am. Spent a bit of time there. Expect to be there til the end of days. Got to stop. Them. American president is part and parcel. What goes up must come down. Not a nickel to my name. It’s all yours now. Got to stop. Them. The Creoles sing a song in the islands. It’s called Fais pas do do. Like this.

  Fais pas do do, Cole mon p’tit coco

  Fais pas do do, tu l’auras du lolo

  Yayd d’dir

  Y’did yd

  Jamais fais do do.

  Cole had been certain since the first day he’d read this page that there was something different about it. His old man was trying to tell him something secret here, but doing it in such a way that it wouldn’t be clear to anyone who might look through the journals. Cole had tried everything to decode those words during these past months, and when he was trying to use the French Angel coin as key, nothing had worked. Not until Riley came along, that is.

  Cole shook his head to try to clear it. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on the problem at hand all night. His mind kept returning to her. What was happening to her? Where was she at this moment? Had she arrived in Washington? He thought about the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, how she smelled like the orange blossoms he remembered from his childhood, and the way the light danced in her eyes when they dug up the calendar.

  The calendar. Concentrate, he told himself. This blasted calendar paper weight that his father thought he would understand and yet, he had been at it most of the night, and he still had no idea what it meant or how to use it. What was the connection to the journals or Surcouf? The calendar had the names of the months written in the center, the years on the background plate, and the day names and numbers on the two plates. How did that relate to his father’s cryptic note and this odd French Creole song? Or did it relate at all? In the end, the message of the French Angel had nothing to do with this journal, other than maybe the reference to the word nickel.

  He started to read the page through one more time, and he paused at the end of the second sentence. His father had used the word “time.” Wits end. Where on a calendar is wit’s end? How much time did he spend there? He wrote expect to be there until the end of days. Cole sighed and rubbed his tired eyes with both hands. The old man could never make anything easy for him. Wits end. Cole felt like he was already there. He wished he could understand what his father was trying to tell him.

  “Cole,” Theo called from the bridge. “We’re approaching the bay. Do you want to take her in?”

  He closed the journal, slid off the bench seat and made his way to the wheelhouse. Through the forward window, he saw Riley’s boat at anchor deep inside the moonlit bay. Cole checked his watch: eight-thirty.

  “We made good time,” he said.

  “Helps to have the current and the wind on our tail.”

  Cole stared at the sleek white sailboat. “Glad to see her boat looks fine.”

  Theo glanced at Cole over the tops of his glasses. “It’s not her boat you’re worried about.”

  “I told Riley I’d look after it. We’ll drop the hook close by. Might even raft up. There’s not much wind in here for now and it would be more secure. I’ll take her in. You go ready the anchor.”

  Thirty minutes later, the Shadow Chaser was anchored with the little sailboat tied to her port side, fat fenders preventing the two hulls from bumping together. Cole stood, his forearms resting atop the bulwark, and stared down at the deck of the Bonefish. Theo appeared at his side and the mate handed him one of the frosty beer bottles he was carrying.

  “How’s it going with the calendar thingy?” Theo asked.

  “I don’t have a clue what to do with it. It’s got to refer to some future date.”

  “Hmm,” Theo said and then he took another long pull from the beer. “Do you think that Spyder is still searching in the weeds back on Dominica?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Think he’ll come after us?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You worried?”

  “Not about him.”

  “Ahhh,” Theo said, dragging
the sound up and then down the scale.

  The two men stood there for a long time watching the moonlight trail travel across the bay. Finally, Cole broke the silence.

  “Theo, what do you think of when you hear the phrase, ‘end of days’?”

  “Why?”

  “I hate when you do that. You answer a question with another question. Just answer it. End of days. What does that mean to you?”

  “Cole, my mama took me to church every Sunday of my childhood and I heard many preachers refer to the end time or end of days. They meant the return of Christ, you know, the second coming.”

  Cole squeezed his eyes closed. “My mom never once took me to church, so excuse me if I ask some stupid questions.” He peered at Theo through slitted eyes. “But, like, is there a specific date associated with that?”

  Theo laughed. “There’s more than one preacher who’s claimed to know, but no, I don’t think any of them really do.”

  Cole nodded. He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin. “I remember there was an old Schwarzenegger movie called End of Days — a horror movie, I think — but there wasn’t a specific date given in that one either.” He stopped his hand on his throat and looking up at the morning sky, he asked, “You don’t suppose it’s the release date of that film? No, I can’t see Pops as an Arnold fan.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “We have to figure out what date to set the calendar to so we can try to understand what my crazy old man is trying to tell us. I thought the answer might be in the journals — you know, on that last page with the nursery rhyme we were trying to decode. He wrote, “expect to be there until the end of days.” I don’t think it was a mistake — that he forgot to write end of my days. He meant end of days — like it was some special date. But what date is that?”

  “Well, I know of one possibility.”

  Cole straightened up and turned to face Theo. “What?”

  Theo didn’t look at him; he continued to stare across the water at the sailboat, a small smile on his face.

  “You want to share it with me or are you just going to stand there grinning?”

  “I thought I’d relax here for a bit and enjoy the moment. I know something that the brilliant Dr. Thatcher doesn’t.” Theo tipped his bottle to his lips. Before he could take a drink, his teeth clinked against the glass when Cole slapped the back of his head. Beer sloshed down onto the deck. “Hey,” Theo said. “You’re wasting perfectly good beer.”

  “You don’t speak up, and I’ll be throwing you over the side next.”

  “Oh captain, my captain. I was getting to it.”

  “Sometime before those two morons get here?”

  “All right, all right. According to the Mayas, the end of days is going to be December 21st, 2012.”

  “The Mayas?”

  “Yes, you know, indigenous people in South and Central America?”

  “I know who the Mayas are, numb nuts, but what’s this about them and the end of days.”

  “I’m surprised that a know-it-all archeologist and conspiracy buff like you doesn’t know about the Mayan Calendar.”

  “Hey, I’m a discerning conspiracy buff. But this is ringing some bells. Not my specialty — I stayed away from all that Pre-Columbian stuff. But I do remember that the Mayas had some super accurate astronomical calendar. I need to get to a library — a big, decent library, not one of these dinky island places. You’re saying this thing specified a date when the world is supposed to end?”

  “Yeah, it’s all the New Age rage — all over the ‘net. It seems the calendar comes to an end on the winter solstice in the year 2012. There are people who are so into this they believe your government is building underground shelters in preparation for a great celestial event on that date.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. People believe that hooey?”

  Theo sniffed. “Well, if it isn’t the crackpot calling the kettle black,” he said — and then he ducked.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Washington, DC

  March 28, 2008

  12:18 a.m.

  Riley followed Dig through the empty corridors of Reagan National as though she were in a dream. She supposed she must look like some refugee with her bare legs and the thin airline blanket draped over her shoulders, but she was too exhausted to care. She doubted whether the late night floor polishers and bathroom cleaning ladies were paying any attention to the crazy woman whose only baggage was the passport in the back pocket of her shorts.

  The car waiting outside in a cloud of steaming exhaust was identical to the thousands of black Lincoln Town Cars one saw all over the city. When she stepped into the frigid winter night, Riley gasped and stopped short. Dig took her by the elbow and steered her to the car door, placing his hand on her head like a cop settling a prisoner. She sank into the soft leather, thankful the car had seat warmers. Dig covered her with another blanket, tucking the edges around her legs, and she leaned her head back to watch the city lights and the barren, leafless landscape as they drove toward the river.

  She wanted to think things through, but her brain felt fuzzy. She and Cole had slept little the night before as they’d sat in the galley on his boat and poured over that chart of Dominica. Now, here it was after midnight by the digital clock on the car’s dash, and still she had not even dozed. Lack of sleep could be as debilitating as drugs or alcohol. Her brain wasn’t working right any more. Thus far, Dig had brought her to Washington. Nothing more. No secret agenda in evidence. If it turned out that he was telling the truth about her father, she would need to make plans for her father’s care, for the townhouse, for her boat back in the islands. If it turned out that he had something different in mind for her, she needed rest to be able to take Dig on both mentally and physically.

  Her mind kept flashing images of the sparks in Cole Thatcher’s eyes as he held up that damned calendar device. The man was obsessed, but she was beginning to understand it. She felt it, too. She wanted to be there with him — to solve the puzzle, that’s all. No other reason. Had he solved it without her? Or had he gone back to the Saintes to look after her boat as he’d promised?

  Don’t be a fool, she thought. Did she really believe he could leave Dominica if he had discovered where the Surcouf was located?

  For the second time since they’d landed, Dig’s satellite phone buzzed. The first time, she’d been struggling to keep up with his long strides and hadn’t heard a word of the conversation. This time when he answered, he said, “Yes. Mm-hm. All right.” She was not able to hear any of the caller’s side of the conversation. Dig pushed a button to end the call, and as he leaned forward to slide the phone back inside his coat pocket, he said, “Your father is home now.”

  “What? They’ve already discharged him?”

  “Seems so.”

  “But I thought he was at death’s door.”

  “Riley, you never know how it is with these things. Given his age, they may have sent him home so he’d be more comfortable if there was nothing more they could do for him.”

  “I want to talk to his doctors.”

  “In good time. Tomorrow.” He stretched his arm out to bare the watch on his wrist. “Or rather, later today. You get cleaned up, get some rest. I’ll come back in a few hours to take you to the hospital.”

  The car turned into the familiar street and Riley felt her stomach churn. “I can walk in the morning. It’s not that far.”

  “As you wish. I’d be happy to drive you if you want, but I don’t mean to intrude on your life.”

  If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have laughed at that.

  There were no inside lights visible when they pulled up in front of her father’s brick two-story townhouse, but the dim porch light was lit in the alcove at the top of the steps. As usual, the street was lined with parked cars — they hadn’t built garages in the late 1890’s when these row houses were built. Riley patted her shorts and realized she didn’t have her key with her.

&
nbsp; As though he could read her thoughts, Dig said, “Mrs. Wright will let you in. Just tap on the door. She’s awake.”

  She wondered how he could be so certain.

  Dig reached across her and opened the door. “Hurry,” he said. “Or you’ll freeze.”

  Riley climbed out of the car and her sneakers crunched on the thin layer of snow that covered the pavement. The frigid night air stung her bare skin like a thousand icy needles. She trotted across the sidewalk, opened the black iron gate, then rushed up the steps. As she was lifting her hand to knock on the door, she heard the sound of the lock turning, and the door swung open. Riley tilted her head back to look up at Eleanor Wright who filled the doorway in her flower-print robe, a white scarf tied round her head. Behind her the house loomed dark and silent. Weird, Riley thought. All Wright needed was a kerosene lamp in her hand, and she’d look like a king-sized version of the original residents of the house from the turn of the last century.

  “Thanks for waiting up for me, Mrs. Wright,” Riley said as she stepped into the dark foyer and closed the door behind her. She stomped her feet on the front door mat and tried to remember where the light switch was.