“Gone.”
She nodded, almost as if she understood.
“You don’t look so good, St. Joe. Come on. You can zonk out in the car. When we get to Schoodic, it’ll be time for breakfast.”
“When we get to Schoodic, it’ll be four in the morning.”
He grinned. “Like I said, time for breakfast.”
He drove back up the coast and pulled up to a one-room shack of a restaurant on the water. Riley stirred. She’d fought sleep for a few minutes, but the warm car, fatigue and adrenaline had overcome her resistance. She glanced at him now and tried to smile. Her face was still smudged with soot, her eyes heavy from sleep and the aftereffects of her ordeal. “I smell like an old fireplace.”
“This crowd won’t even notice.”
The half-dozen tables and small counter of the tiny, rustic restaurant were occupied by lobstermen chatting over plates of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, with steaming mugs of coffee. It was Sunday morning, not as crowded as a weekday. Straker’s father kicked two other guys from his table and motioned for his son and Riley to sit down. Straker started to apologize to the guys—he’d gone to high school with one of them—but they assured him they were just leaving.
“Pop—”
His father held up a hand. John Straker, Sr., was a burly, gray-haired, iron-willed man with simple aspirations, all met. He called to the waitress, “Two coffees and two plates of eggs with the works over here, when you get to it.” He looked at Riley. “I get that right?”
She smiled. “Perfect.”
He turned to his son. “You both look like you could use some good food. How close did you cut it last night?”
“It wasn’t close for me,” Straker said. “But Riley and her sister…”
“I heard if they’d waited another ten minutes before jumping out the window, they’d have been charcoal briquettes.”
Straker turned to Riley. “I’m afraid bluntness runs in my family.”
“What?” His father was mystified. “Jesus, John, if anyone knows how close she came, it’s Riley. How’re you doing, kid? Eggs’ll be here in a minute. A good breakfast’ll fix you right up.”
Their coffees arrived, followed quickly by their breakfasts. Riley picked at her food at first, but after a few sips of coffee, she showed more interest. She was awake and alert, a bit less pale. She was listening, Straker knew, to his father, who had his own opinions on Emile, Sam Cassain and the fire. Despite Emile’s fame and his work in waters far beyond theirs, the local lobstermen still considered him one of them. In their minds, Emile Labreque had never forgotten his roots. They thought he’d got a raw deal last year, not because he couldn’t have screwed up—they weren’t there; they didn’t know—but because Sam Cassain should have kept his mouth shut without substantial and convincing proof of Emile’s negligence.
“It’s just not how things’re done,” John Straker, Sr., said.
How Cassain had turned up dead on Labreque Island had been a subject of much speculation all week. Emile’s whereabouts, however, didn’t seem to stir up as much interest. Straker thought this was curious. “We need to find Emile,” he told his father. “I’m guessing he’s on the coast somewhere.”
“You want me to keep an eye out, pass the word?”
“Just don’t do anything crazy.”
“That’s your department,” his father said without rancor. He shifted his gaze to Riley. “It’s rough, getting the call your son’s been shot and might not live. I don’t want to see you and your sister doing that to your mother and father.”
Riley set her mug down on the small wooden table. Outside, the tide was coming in, the water almost black against the slowly brightening sky. Straker could feel his father itching to get to his traps.
“You and Sig—you two need to leave this thing to the police,” the lobsterman added. “Let them do their jobs.” He sat back in his chair, said grudgingly, “At least when John got shot, he was doing his job.”
“Emile’s my grandfather,” Riley said.
“So?”
“So I am minding my own business.”
His father leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “You were almost killed a few hours ago. Go back to Boston. Take your sister with you. Your grandfather never asked for your help, did he?”
She breathed in, paling just a little. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Straker.”
He snorted. “You won’t take it. You’re half Labreque.”
He insisted on paying for his son’s and Riley’s breakfasts. When they were back in her car, Riley looked grimly at Straker. “He knows where Emile is, doesn’t he?”
“I’d say he has a fair idea.”
“Then let’s follow him.”
Straker started the car. “You and I think we know these waters, but we don’t. My father and his friends have been working this coast for decades. Day in and day out, year after year.” He backed up the vehicle, choked down his own frustration with his father before it could take hold. “We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Twelve
Riley felt her stomach roll over when Straker pulled into Emile’s driveway and she saw the smoking remains of the cottage. She ached with fatigue, sorrow, fear. Memories swam over her, of the countless times she’d watched the sun come up from the front porch, of the cookouts and the foggy days reading by the fire. It was here Emile could be simply a grandfather, not the famous, driven oceanographer, the researcher, the seaman. The cottage had provided continuity in the rootless childhood of his granddaughters, and now it was gone.
Straker pulled on the emergency brake, his expression serious, focused. “You’ve got your FBI face on,” Riley told him, but her attempt at humor fell flat.
“Emile still has the land,” he said, as if reading her mind. “He can rebuild.”
“It won’t be the same.”
He looked at her. “Nothing’s ever the same.”
Her father had driven up from Ellsworth and was speaking to investigators in front of the cottage. He spotted Riley, gave her a quick wave as she and Straker got out of her car. The air smelled charred. Her throat was tight, and she pushed down a wave of nausea, tensed in an effort to keep from shaking.
“I refuse to believe Emile did this.” She wasn’t sure she was addressing Straker or talking to herself, reinforcing what she knew, in her gut, to be true. “It just doesn’t make sense. A fire this time of year, when it’s so dry—he wouldn’t risk having it spread to the nature preserve. Straker, if you hadn’t come along, this whole point could have gone up in flames.”
He nodded. “What did happen is bad enough. The might-have-beens can drive you over the edge. Stay focused on the facts and let the investigators do their job.”
“What if their job is to arrest Emile and he’s an innocent man?”
“They’ll figure that out.”
“And meanwhile the real bad guy gets away. Someone’s setting him up, Straker. You know it as well as I do.”
“A successful frame isn’t as easy to accomplish as it sounds.”
She swallowed past her constricted throat. “It is if the person you’ve framed ends up dead.”
Straker gave her a sideways glance, but said nothing as her father extricated himself from the investigators. He looked exhausted, the eccentric scientist out of his element. “They want to talk to you,” he told Riley. “They already have a theory about how the fire started. Basically, you soak a rag in linseed oil, put it over a lightbulb and drape something—a curtain, a sheet, whatever—over the lamp. Linseed oil is very flammable, spontaneously combusts easily.”
“Wouldn’t Sig or I have seen the light?”
“The fire started in Emile’s bedroom. They’re positive about that much. If the door was closed, the light draped with the rag and a sheet…” He shook his head. “It’s not surprising you wouldn’t have noticed. The investigators tell me it’s a crude but effective method of setting a time-delayed fire.”
“Gives you a chance to le
ave the scene,” Straker said.
Richard glanced back at the destroyed cottage, then said to Riley, “I find it almost impossible to believe whoever set the fire didn’t realize you and Sig were staying there. I’m not saying whoever it was deliberately tried to kill you.” If possible, his face paled even more; his beard seemed grayer, lifeless. “I just don’t think it mattered to him.”
Riley’s eyes burned; she thought of Sig in the hospital, of how close they’d come to not making it out of the loft. “I wish I’d thought to check for bombs and booby traps.”
“Emile needs to come in.” Her father directed his unswerving gaze at her as he summoned what were clearly his last shreds of strength and energy. “If you have any idea where he is, tell the authorities.”
“Dad, I don’t—”
He ignored her. “You won’t be violating your loyalty to him. You’ll be doing him a favor, especially if you’re right and he’s innocent. Think about it, Riley. If Emile didn’t set this fire, someone else did. Do you want a seventy-six-year-old man to take that on alone?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“You two work this out,” Straker said. “I’ll be down on the dock. Riley, let me know what you decide to do.”
As he walked away, her father shook his head in amazement. “John Straker as an FBI agent. That’s a tough one to get my head around. Did finding a body on the island where he was staying stir up his professional instincts?” He glanced at Riley with a ghost of a smile. “Or is it personal?”
“Don’t ask me to explain why Straker does anything. I know he considers Emile a friend.”
“He seems to be looking after you, too.”
She watched Straker’s retreating figure, the thick, strong body, the ease with which he moved. It would be a mistake on her part, she thought, to let him or anyone else look after her. That was her responsibility. She needed to be clear about her own interests, her own motivations, what was at stake for herself and those she cared about. She was tired, drained and scared, and letting Straker take charge, with his experience and natural irascibility, could be so easy, almost irresistible. It would get her off the hook and make her feel less exposed, less vulnerable to her own fears about where this would end.
“Don’t let Straker fool you,” she said. “He’s as unpredictable and hard to get along with as ever.”
Despite his exhaustion, her father managed a grin. “Sounds like you’re two peas in a pod.”
“Ha! I’m nothing like Straker.”
“Honey, you’re kind and you’re passionate about everything you do—but you’re not what anyone would call easy. You need a strong personality to rub up against, keep you interested. Someone who won’t back off the first time he realizes you’re not the type to wilt.”
“Maybe, but it’s not Straker. I admit he’s been a rock. He was great with Sig last night. But he’s an FBI agent. He likes all this danger and intrigue.” She shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest to help her keep from shaking. “Not me. I can’t wait to get back to recovery and rehab.”
“Your mother and I had everything in common, and it almost didn’t work. You can’t predict what keeps two people together. It’s not a science.” He smiled gently. “But you’re being too intense, which proves my point. Just enjoy the man’s company and be glad he’s on your side.”
But she wasn’t sure Straker was on her side in the way her father meant. He was on his own side, operating by his own code. Being on Emile’s side, she remembered, didn’t mean Straker considered him innocent—it meant he’d visit him in jail if he was proved guilty.
“Sig’s getting out of the hospital this afternoon,” her father said. “Thank God she’s all right. She needs to rest and recuperate.”
“I never should have brought her up here—”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your sister has a mind of her own, too. You’re not responsible for her choices. Your mother’s taking her back to Camden with her. Caroline’s let me use a car—I’ll stay up here a bit.” He paused, eyed Riley in that way he did when he had something to say she didn’t want to hear. “I think you should go with them. You’re running out of your nine lives, kid.”
She sighed. “I understand your concerns—”
“I don’t want you running around up here alone.”
“That’s not likely,” she said with a small smile.
“You and Straker.” He shook his head. “Sam’s death, Emile’s inexplicable behavior, some maniac setting fires. That’s enough, Riley. No more.”
Two investigators were making their way toward her. “I’ll be careful,” she promised her father. She gave him a quick hug. “Please don’t worry about me.”
“Aren’t you even a little bit afraid?”
“Not of Emile.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “Matthew?” he asked quietly, almost against his will.
The investigators joined them, giving her an excuse not to respond. Her father left, reluctantly, urging her a final time to head for Camden when she finished here. She answered the investigators’ questions, many of which Sheriff Dorrman had already asked her, and tried to stay clinical, matter-of-fact as she related how she and Sig had come to Emile’s cottage, what they’d done, how they’d realized it was on fire. But as she spoke and they took notes, her heart raced and she couldn’t seem to draw a decent breath.
When they finished, she walked down to the dock. She relished the crunch of the gravel under her feet, the smell of the clean morning air, the coolness of the breeze off the water. The terror and the choking smoke of last night seemed a little less close.
Straker stood on the end of the dock, his boat bobbing in the surf. She walked out to him. “Still here?”
“Yep. I was waiting to see if you’d head to Camden or go back to Boston with your father.” His gaze fixed on hers, impossible to read. “I prefer to know where you are. I’ve decided it’s in my best interests.”
“I can take care of myself.” She said it more to reassure herself than to argue with him.
He tilted his head back slightly, and if possible looked even more the kind of man who’d go after a gunman with hostages. “Emile can take care of himself, too. It doesn’t mean either of you won’t come to no good.”
She smiled. “Is that a vote of confidence?”
“St. Joe, you haven’t changed all that much since you were six.” He motioned to his boat. “Get in.”
“Don’t think you’ve changed one whit, either, Straker. Where are we going?”
He took her by the elbow. “To my deserted island.”
Straker sat out on his porch, feet up on the rail, mind on nothing more productive than Riley St. Joe skinny-dipping in the chilly ocean water off a stretch of rocks down by the dock. She was determined, she said, to rid herself of her sooty smell. She’d borrowed a towel. And a shirt. “The longest one you have. And one that buttons.”
For what purpose he could only imagine, which he did in vivid detail. If she got hypothermia in Maine’s chilly waters, he’d have to warm her up. He might even have to pluck her out of the water.
He jumped to his feet, cursed. He’d gone from the isolation of six months on Labreque Island to a dead body, a missing old man, arson, the goings-on among a bunch of oceanographers, a pregnant woman estranged from her rich husband and the insanity of wanting Riley St. Joe.
He did want her. There was no denying, pretending or imagining otherwise. Wishing, yes. But wishing had never got him very far.
“Hell.” He grabbed the porch rail and stared out at the water, every muscle in his body rigid. Too many months of celibacy. He’d thought they’d do him good. Instead they’d led him to wanting to make love to a woman he’d never particularly liked. A snot-nosed egghead. A stubborn know-it-all.
But he’d seen the fear in her eyes after the fire, the love and concern and fight in her as she’d stood over her sister’s hospital bed. He admired her loyalty to her grandfather, her w
illingness—to a fault—to stand up for those she loved. She’d always had a lot of heart.
Wanting her…that was another matter. If he hadn’t spent the last six months holed up on an island, would he have noticed the shape of her mouth and breasts, the dark depths of her eyes, the curve of her hips?
A lobster boat rounded the point, heading for the island’s old dock. Straker instantly recognized his father’s colors; every lobsterman had his own colors, to easily distinguish the buoys that marked his traps. “Thank God,” he muttered, grateful for the distraction. Riley was on her own. Presumably she’d have the sense to scoot her naked little self out of view.
He headed down to meet the boat. He was hoping his father had checked with his buddies and decided to come clean about what he had on Emile’s whereabouts, however much, however little. While he’d waited for Riley to finish with her father and the investigators, Straker had briefly considered sharing his suspicions with Lou Dorrman. Lou would understand how to handle closemouthed lobstermen. But this was his father, his father’s friends—and Straker knew he was only going on instincts that hadn’t been well-tested in recent months. If he was wrong, his father would chop him up for lobster bait.
Hell, if he was right, he was lobster bait.
He hadn’t gone to Dorrman. Instead he’d brought Riley back to his island and given her a shirt so she could take a cold dip in the island waters.
The boat puttered close to shore. It was an old boat, immaculate, in perfect running order. Straker could remember countless dark, frigid mornings when his father had rousted him out of a warm bed to pull traps. The smells, the gulls, the unrelenting work of checking one trap after another for lobsters that weren’t too small, too big, or carrying eggs, then baiting and dropping the pots again, moving on to the next buoy.
There was comfort in the monotony, camaraderie among fellow lobstermen, satisfaction in a day’s hard work. But at an early age, Straker had known it wasn’t for him. He was too restless, given to wondering about life beyond the peninsula. He’d never regretted his choice, but he’d realized in ways he couldn’t articulate that giving up this life was his loss.
On Fire Page 18