“Cops are here,” she said.
Riley stood next to her looking back at the house. “You’re pretty cool under fire, my friend,” she said.
“Not the first time for me, either. I’m glad I sent Kayla home early. The bastard cut the power and the alarm system. I called 911 from my cell while I waited for you to get to the kitchen.” She tapped Riley’s arm with the back of her hand. “You took your time.”
“We didn’t know the house like you. In the dark, you were invisible in that black get-up. I couldn’t follow you.” Riley realized she and Cole were still holding hands, and she made a show of needing to blow on her hands to keep them warm. “Come on, we need to keep moving.” She didn’t like standing there talking when Dig might be about to come out of that cellar at any minute.
“I think he’s more worried about the cops than us, right now. But come on,” Hazel said. She turned and led them down a walkway with old oak trees on one side and a brick wall on the other.
“Where are we going?” Riley asked.
“These are the old slave quarters that I’ve made into rental apartments. Ironic, eh? I have a car in the garage of a vacant one. This way.”
At the end of the walkway between the apartments and the adjoining property, they had to pass through a gate to the street. Hazel opened the wood gate a crack, then pulled it closed again.
“A black car. I know, there are thousands of the damn things here in DC, but let’s wait a minute.” After they heard the car pass, Hazel hurried them around the side of the brick building and pushed an electronic fob on her key chain that opened the garage door.
Riley knew Hazel collected antique cars like she collected rich boyfriends, but she wasn’t prepared for the bright red little two-seater convertible.
“We’re going to fit three of us in that?” she said.
“It’s all we’ve got, honey.”
“Hazel,” Riley said, “it’s not what I would call inconspicuous.”
“Exactly. Nobody would suspect that the three of us would be driving around in a 1949 MGTC. You either sit on this fella’s lap all the way to Leesburg or —” She raised the lid on the back of the car and threw her bag inside. “We can lock you up in here. Your choice.”
Cole tossed his duffel inside. He looked up and down the car. “Wire-spoke wheels, tufted red leather seats.” He nodded. “We’ll fit,” he said, then he tipped his head toward the car. “Let’s get moving.”
Riley looked at Cole, then swiveled around to face her friend. She raised one eyebrow. “
A two-seater with right hand drive?”
Hazel nodded. “Let’s go,” she said. As she passed Riley going round to the driver’s seat, under her breath she added, “The shocks on these old cars suck, so it might get a little bouncy.” She winked. “Enjoy the trip.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Georgetown
March 28, 2008
6:45 p.m.
The door must be made of two inches of solid oak, he thought. Dig had tried everything from knives to bullets to a big meat cleaver he had found in a wood block on the kitchen counter. The hole he had made was not yet big enough to reach his hand through, though, when he first heard the sirens. He tried enlarging the hole with a few more shots, but the sirens stopped in front of the house. It was time to leave.
He backtracked the way he had come, passing down the hall, through the day room and to the grand staircase. As he climbed the stairs, he heard the voices of the police officers assembled on the front porch, their radios crackling. He had disabled the alarm system, but Riley and the others must have called from a cell phone. He heard the front door open and the jangling of the gear the officers wore as they entered the house.
Earlier in the afternoon, it had taken him more than an hour to find the manhole covers where he could access the power transformer and phone lines. He had his driver cruise the street past the front of the house several times. Twice he caught a glimpse of the Kittridge woman with Thatcher. Even at such a distance, he could see her animal sexuality. It was common in her kind.
He found his way back to the master bedroom window, and he climbed back out through the broken shards of glass onto the branch of the big old elm tree just as the police were starting up the stairs. The DC Police were a hopeless lot of barbarians. They’d lost all standards through affirmative action. Dig wasn’t worried about them, he thought, as he dropped to the ground. He hurried across the neighbor’s yard, removing his cell from his pocket, and then slipped out the gate onto a side street. His car met him at the corner and picked him up.
“Circle the block a few times,” he told the driver.
In front of the Kittridge house, half a dozen police cars with flashing lights lined the street. The few passing cars slowed, the drivers gawking. A Pepco truck had already arrived and was at work on the power lines. As they drove past the front of the house, he slid down in the back seat and watched out the window. He looked for them in the crowds in front of the house, or through the windows. Once, he saw a small woman about Riley’s size, and he told his driver to slow, but it wasn’t her. He imagined them down in that cellar, cornered, waiting for the police to arrive and save them. If only he’d had a few more minutes.
Priorities, he told himself. Operation Magic. He had no idea what it was, but he knew it would be his ticket, his entree, his reservation for a seat at the table. That was what he must concentrate on now. He’d shot at Thatcher’s duffel to motivate him. Let the man think he was out to kill him. In fact, Dig wanted Thatcher back down in the islands as soon as possible to find that submarine.
He had seen the way Thatcher looked at Riley down on Dominica. It turned his stomach, but the fact was that he could put that to good use. Thatcher would do whatever Diggory wanted – hand over whatever he’d found, as long as he had Riley to motivate the man. Then later, when he had Operation Magic in his possession and Thatcher had been dealt with, Dig could take his sweet time with Riley.
Dig told his driver to return to his apartment, then settled back into the seat and removed his gloves. He would fly to Guadeloupe and charter a boat. He spread wide the fingers of his right hand stretching the aching muscles. Then he would check on the barbarians, he thought, clenching his fingers into a tight fist. He would find Thatcher and his submarine. After closing his eyes, he pictured Riley’s naked body, her pale skin and long neck, and he squeezed until his knuckles turned white.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Leesburg, Virginia
March 28, 2008
9:05 p.m.
By the time they passed through the electric gate onto the unplowed road, Riley was beyond worrying what part of her body landed on what part of Cole’s. Even though Hazel tried to speed whenever possible, attempting to leave the Washington area during the evening rush hour was a horror, and it had taken them more than two hours to travel about forty-five miles. But thinking about the man’s body beneath her had at least prevented her from reliving the events that had taken place earlier in the day.
During those first miles, she braced herself with one arm on the seat back and the other on the dash, her head bent to one side. But she was so tired from whatever medication Hazel had given her earlier, eventually, she leaned back against Cole’s chest and rested her head on his shoulder. She was beyond caring what he or anyone else thought, and she had to admit, though the old MG was a drafty wind tunnel, the heat they were generating between them was more than enough to keep her warm. She said, “Wake me when we get there.” It was the drugs, she told herself.
Of course, try as she might, she wasn’t able to go to sleep. Drowsy or not. She couldn’t shut off her mind. What was wrong with her? After what she had been through this day, men should be the last thing on her mind. But, there was something comforting about being cradled in his arms. He made her feel safe, and sometimes she opened her eyes in thin slits and watched the curve of his jaw line as it hardened when Hazel bumped over the reflectors in the road. Her weight must be crus
hing his legs, she thought.
The front left tire dropped into a pothole with a jarring lurch, and Riley’s butt dropped hard onto Cole’s lap. With no more feeling in her legs, she wasn’t even trying to make the bumps easier on him. She was pretty sure this had stopped being fun for him quite a while ago.
He slid his hands under her and cupped her buttocks. “Sorry, Magee,” he said. “I’m just going to adjust your position a little.”
She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes open wide. She saw his white teeth shining in the glow from the headlights. “Hey,” she said. Maybe she was wrong about the amount of fun he was having.
“Well, I reckoned we were almost there, and if I was gonna cop a feel, it was now or never.”
Hazel laughed. “Riley, Sweetcheeks here’s a hoot. Stick with him and I won’t have to worry about you getting a cat.”
Cole said, “A cat? You mean like a boat cat?”
“Ignore her,” Riley said.
“Well,” Hazel said, “your fella is right about us almost being there. The house is right up here.”
“He’s not my fella.” As she spoke the car went over a little rise and Riley saw the white columns of an enormous old antebellum mansion. “Jesus, Hazel, are you dating Rhett Butler?” she asked.
“No, darling, he’s an adorable Greek by the name of Niko Boulis and we’re not an item anymore, just good platonic friends.”
“He must be gay,” Cole said.
“You know those Greeks, darling. They always play for both teams — or at least they’re more honest about it than the rest of us.” Hazel chuckled. “His father’s in shipping and they have the nicest couple of yachts.” She pulled the car up in front of white steps and swung around to face them. “The Savannah Jane happens to be in Antigua at the moment, only a few miles from Guadeloupe.”
“Savannah Jane doesn’t sound Greek to me,” Riley said.
“Well, he’s got this sort of obsession with the Old South. Like this place. Looks historic, right? Nope. It’s a reproduction — right down to the last detail.”
The front door swung open and a tall, dark haired man in a white linen suit came running down the steps. He opened Hazel’s door and offered her his hand to help her out of the low car. “Hazel, honey! How wonderful to see you!”
Riley could hear the smacks of the air kisses coming from that side of the car. She felt Cole’s hand moving along the outside of her hip, then the door swung open. He shifted his knees, and she slid right off his lap onto the hard packed snow.
“Wake up,” he said. “We’re here.” After he climbed out, he reached out a hand to help her to her feet.
She rolled onto her knees and made a wobbly ascent to her feet on her own. The pins and needles in her legs were killing her, but she wasn’t about to let it show.
In the porch light, she admired the shine on the big, black curls that clung to Niko’s head. Platonic, my ass, she thought.
He led them inside the house, and it looked to her like all the furniture pieces were museum-quality antiques. It was as though the plantation owner had just left and handed over the keys.
Their host led them upstairs and showed Riley and Cole to their rooms. “The bathroom is down the hall,” Niko said, “as it would have been in the 19th century.” Riley’s room had a four-poster bed with what looked like handmade lace fringing the canopy. Niko explained she should help herself to any clothes in the wardrobe and that his cook had prepared some food for them. They could eat downstairs once they had freshened up from the trip.
Hazel, who was holding Niko’s hand, whispered, “I know we’re safe here, but are you going to be okay?”
“I’m good. I just need sleep. You go have fun. But spare me the details.”
Hazel smiled at her. “See you in the morning.” She fluttered her fingers at Riley.
Riley leaned against the closed door. So much for Hazel and Niko’s “just friends” status. She flopped down backwards onto the bed and stared up at the canopy. As usual, her friend would be having hot sex with some deliciously sensuous man and here she was back in her Semper Fi Immaculate Heart Convent for Wayward Marines.
Riley closed her eyes and the image of Diggory Priest standing over her father flashed in her mind.
Her eyes snapped open.
Through the wall, she heard them usher Cole into the room next to hers. With everything that had happened over the last few hours, she hadn’t asked him what he was doing in DC. How did he come to be in her father’s house today? What made him leave his beloved submarine hunt and come up here?
Time to change the subject again, she told herself. She didn’t want to think about him so close on the other side of that wall. But thinking about him kept her from reliving the events of that afternoon.
She got up and explored the room. On a dressing table, she found a pitcher of cold water, soap and towels. Just what she needed. She pulled her shirt off over her head and splashed her face and hands, then scrubbed her skin with the soap and washcloth. The cold water felt good on her hot skin.
As she dried herself, she looked at her reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. Her eyes darted between staring at her scars and looking into her own eyes.
“Stop dreaming, sailor,” she said aloud. “Men aren’t interested in women who look like you.” She bent her shoulder forward to examine the red skin there again. “He might be attracted to you when you’re dressed, but once you take your clothes off?” She held her index finger up straight, then slowly let it droop down. She looked at the grim smile reflected in the mirror. “Better to laugh than to cry, right?” She had cried enough today, she thought as she pulled her T-shirt back over her head.
From the armoire, she selected a white, long-sleeved men’s shirt and draped it over a chair to put on before going to bed. She needed a good night’s sleep, she told herself.
When she found her way to the kitchen a few minutes later, Riley discovered Cole already standing next to an enormous stone fireplace. He was staring at the spread on a long rough-hewn wooden table. The surface was covered with bottles and dishes including Greek salad, quiche, various cheeses and meats, a bowl of large prawns nestled in crushed ice, warm French bread, and a selection of wines.
Cole looked up when she came in. “Can you believe this spread? Or this house? Not to mention Hazel’s house. I feel like I’ve been dropped into the reality TV show, ‘Who Wants to Visit the Millionaires?’”
Riley looked at the food and felt her stomach churn. “I’m not really hungry.”
“How about a glass of wine then?”
She nodded. As she wandered around the room exploring, Cole opened a bottle of pinot noir and poured them both glasses. He motioned her over to a pair of chairs set up before the big stone fireplace.
When they’d settled themselves, she said, “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”
He puffed out his cheeks and blew out air in a long sigh. “Well,” he said, “it’s kinda’ hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“Okay.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the green marble and brass calendar device. “After you left, Theo and I took Shadow Chaser back to the Saintes that same afternoon. En route, I kept going over the journals and thinking. Why this device? What is he trying to tell us? The only passage I could find that seems to refer to any sort of date is that weird nursery rhyme song where the old man refers to the End of Days. Then Theo reminded me about the Mayan calendar, so I decided to come to DC to do some research.”
Riley sighed. “It’s difficult to care about those games anymore.”
“It matters more than ever now.”
She shook her head. “Not to me. Not after today.” She set her glass down on the hearth and rubbed her eyes. “I’m not at all sure what matters anymore.”
“Riley, I don’t believe that.”
She felt the tears returning and she steeled herself against them by taking another big gulp of the wine.
�
��What about truth?” he said. “Does that matter? Or honor, duty, reason, freedom?”
She sighed. “Cole, I don’t want to talk about it.”
He stood up and crossed to the table and leaned on it with both his arms stretched out straight. Without turning, he said, “That’s the problem these days. Nobody wants to talk about the things that are most important.”
“Sometimes, it just hurts too much.”
He spun around and walked back toward her. “It always has. But we’ve grown soft — too into comfort. We Americans have our fancy imported foods,” he said pointing to the display on the table before them. “We have our big cars and cheap fuels, all the shiny trinkets they’ve convinced us we can’t live without, and our ‘reality’ has become what appears on the screens we stare at 24/7.” As he spoke, he paced the room, his arms carving his points in the air. “Guys like Priest and the men he represents can get away with their crap because people don’t question things that are too good to be true – whether it’s a sub prime loan or the idea that we can keep services without paying taxes.”
“Jesus, Cole. Enough already.” She rubbed her forehead. The man was passionate, all right, but politics weren’t what she wanted to think about at the moment.
“I mean, give me a break,” he continued. “You mean to tell me we can find Saddam hiding in a hole, but after all these years our government still can’t find Bin Laden? Why should we? That would end all their profits! And the saddest part of all is that we can’t claim to be victims. We helped them to it,” he said as he pantomimed the motions of throwing something at her. “Too many Americans decided truth and honesty don’t matter. The end justifies the means, and it isn’t wrong unless you get caught.” He stopped and slapped his hand down on the table making the dishes jump. “Well, I’m gonna head back down there and make sure that sonofabitch gets caught — by finding whatever this Operation Magic is.”
Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller Page 33