On Fire

by Carla Neggers

  His instantaneous reaction put her on alert. She couldn’t help it. Even on a good day, he wasn’t cooperative or accommodating—unless he had ulterior motives. That’s why he could do the work he did. “I thought Emile wanted you to keep an eye on me.”

  He shrugged. “So you want me to go back to Boston with you?”

  “That’s a slippery answer, Straker. I think you’re up to something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like something you want to do without my help.”

  His mouth twitched. “St. Joe, there are about a million things I’d like to do without your help. Where do you want to start?”

  “Let’s start with what you’re planning to do after you drop me off at my car.”

  “I think jumping out of a burning building has made you paranoid.”

  She held her ground. “It’s a fair question.”

  “I’m not asking you what you’re going to do when you get to Boston.”

  “That’s just a tactical decision on your part to avoid telling me what you’re up to.” On the horizon, the sun was a half circle of fiery orange. He was as maddening now, after years in the FBI, after six months recuperating from bullet wounds, after dealing with terrorists and fugitives, as he’d been at sixteen, frustrated with his life. “And I’m not paranoid.”

  He was silent for a beat. “Okay. You’re not paranoid. You didn’t get enough sleep. You’re cranky.”

  “Straker.”

  He smiled. “I’ll go put on coffee. Or would you rather I toss you into the ocean? That would wake you up, maybe bring you to your senses.”

  “Coffee will do. And I’m in full possession of my senses.” She thumped his chest with one finger. “You are up to something.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Watch your sunrise. Maybe sunlight and caffeine will fire up your synapses and get you thinking straight.”

  But she was thinking straight, and he damned well knew it. She watched him retreat, acknowledged the parts of her that were still warm from the last time they’d made love, only a few hours ago. She’d half expected him to kick her out yesterday after they’d first made love. Okay, months of celibacy finished, out you go. There’d been an urgency, a potency, to that first encounter that left her reeling even now. When it was over, he didn’t suddenly wince and say, “Oh, God, Riley St. Joe. I must be out of my mind.”

  Instead they’d walked around on the island. She didn’t remember what all they’d talked about. Some about the past week, but not much. It was comfortable talk, about his work, her work, families, friends, Maine, nothing overly intimate or soul searing. If anyone had told her a month ago she’d be chatting with John Straker about ways to reduce the fat in a good beef stew, she would have laughed herself silly.

  She wondered if she’d have laughed herself silly at the idea of her and Straker making love. Probably. That or gagged. Now, with the morning sun spilling out over the eastern sky, it had seemed inevitable. Destined.

  Late in the evening, after dinner, when the cottage was dark and the bay quiet, empty of boats, they’d made love again. Slowly, tenderly, but with no less urgency. Straker had always been a supremely physical man. The feel of his scars, long healed but still recent, reminded her he was physical on more levels than those she’d personally experienced.

  When he’d touched her in the pitch blackness before dawn, when it was so dark she couldn’t even make out his silhouette, she’d felt a connection to him that went beyond physical, went beyond two people who’d known each other forever and now had found themselves in bed.

  Falling in love with him, she warned herself, was not smart. It wasn’t good for her. It was, in fact, insane.

  Yet she could stay on the island and make love to him all day, have her fill of that thick, strong, amazing body. Pure sex with him was tough enough for her to digest. Liking him was tough enough. But this overwhelming emotional connection—it had to be smoke inhalation.

  She turned away from the sunrise, watched him trot up the steps into the cottage. He was holding back on her. No question about it. She charged down off her boulder and pounded up the porch steps. He was used to doing things his own way, flashing that FBI badge, not answering to anyone. His own mother had given up trying to tell him what to do when he was eleven and nearly flunked out of sixth grade.

  Riley let the door slam shut behind her. “You think Sam brought Emile the Encounter’s engine, don’t you? You think he’s stashed it somewhere.”

  Straker shoved a log into the woodstove without answering.

  “If Emile has the engine,” Riley continued, “it’s to protect it as evidence. It’s not to protect himself. If he did wrong, he’d own up to it.”

  “Not easy, stashing an engine as big as the Encounter’s.”

  “Maybe Sam only needed to bring up parts of the engine to prove what happened—maybe he didn’t bring up anything, just took incriminating pictures.”

  “You’re speculating.”

  “I’m brainstorming,” she said. “There’s a difference.”

  He straightened, looking strong, powerful. She’d need a weapon if she was going to stop him from following through with whatever sneaky plan he was implementing. “Don’t even think about it,” he told her.

  “Quit reading my mind.”

  “Then quit thinking about taking a poker to me. You want that ride to Emile’s or shall I leave you out here on an uninhabited island without a boat? I’ve laid in enough supplies for a week or so.”

  It was his way or no way. “Forget it. I’ll draw my own conclusions about what you’re up to.” The man was infuriating. She started back to the bedroom. “And never mind coffee. I’ll get some on the way home. I want to leave now.”

  Straker rocked back on his heels. He was about three yards away and irritatingly calm. Let him contemplate his options, she thought. He could come clean and accept her as a full partner…or not.

  Finally, he said, “I agree. I think Emile got hold of whatever it is Cassain found when he searched the wreckage of the Encounter. The engine, presumably. Other evidence.”

  “That’s why he went to Sam’s house the night of the fire.”

  “It explains why Matt Granger was there, too.”

  Riley nodded. “It also explains why Sam’s house was torched—someone didn’t want the police, or anyone else, finding any evidence of what happened aboard the Encounter last year.”

  Straker yawned, as if he’d figured all this out days ago and now it bored him. “Satisfied?”

  “Emile’s seventy-six. He’s not up to this.”

  “He was up to pulling a gun on me.”

  “That’s because you’re obnoxious. I’d pull a gun on you. You drive people over the brink, Straker.”

  He grinned, eyes half-closed as they raked her from head to toe. “Yep. No argument there.”

  She groaned. “I rest my case. You’re an outrage. I don’t know how I ever ended up in bed with you.”

  “I do. You going to drive back to Boston in my shirt?”

  Utterly outrageous. “You’re just trying to distract me. Do you know where Emile is?”

  “No.”

  “But you have a pretty good idea. Damn it, I know you do—” “I’ll be on the boat. If you’re there in three minutes, I’ll take you to your car. If not, enjoy your little island vacation.”

  “You know, Straker, you’re awfully cold-blooded when you want your way. Did you consider the list of places I said Emile could be? Did one of them resonate with you? Or are you thinking about your father and the other lobstermen and what they know?”

  “I don’t want my way.” He tore open the front door and glanced back at her. “I want you out of it.”

  “It’s the lobstermen,” she said.

  “The clock is ticking.”

  “Just remember, you drive me every bit as crazy as I drive you. Probably crazier. It’s my grandfather we’re talking about. It was my sister who was almost killed.”

  He
gripped the door. She could see the muscles in his forearms tense. He banged the door shut, marched over to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. It was a hard, possessive, spine-melting, Rhett Butler kiss. Straker lifted her off her feet with it. When he released her, she had to call on all her various forms of physical conditioning to keep from collapsing.

  She cleared her throat, caught her breath. “What was that about?”

  “I’ll reset the clock at two minutes.”

  He stormed outside without another word. Riley knew he’d seize any excuse to leave her there. She’d find a way off the island. She’d flag down a passing boat, see if he had a kayak, build a raft if she had to….

  She managed to throw her things together and leap into his boat as he was untying it.

  It was chilly out on the bay. His shirt was big on her and made her think of the three times they’d made love, the incredible feel of him inside her. But when he pulled up to Emile’s dock, he didn’t even turn off the engine, just unceremoniously motioned her out.

  “Go straight to your apartment,” he said. “Stay there. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I hate dictatorial men.”

  “St. Joe, how many burning buildings do you need to jump out of before you realize this is serious?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go straight to my apartment. I’ll stay there. I’ll wait for you.” She hesitated. “Do you have a gun?”

  “No, I don’t have a gun. Who the hell would I shoot?” He narrowed his eyes on her. “You don’t have a gun, do you?”

  “I’m just thinking—”

  “Don’t think. Just go before I change my mind and take you with me.”

  “Take me with you where?”

  “St. Joe. Get off my boat.”

  Definitely a man with a mission, and one he wanted to take on alone. He didn’t want her as a distraction, a target, a hindrance. She jumped onto the dock and watched him speed off toward the mouth of the bay. Something must have jiggled loose and he had at least a pretty good idea where Emile was holed up. And he didn’t care if she knew it.

  One of her sleeves unrolled, dangling several inches past the tips of her fingers. Emile was her grandfather. She didn’t believe he’d gone off the deep end. She believed he was trying to put things right and make sure no one else ended up dead on the rocks. He wanted justice for the five people who’d died aboard the Encounter.

  She thought of Bennett Granger, his dignity, his kindness and generosity. He wasn’t a marine scientist, but he’d loved the ocean every bit as much as Emile did, had wanted a marine life that was healthy and vital for future generations. For his grandchildren. Sig’s babies.

  If someone had sabotaged the Encounter, Emile would go to the ends of the earth to find out who. Let them set him up. Let them frame him for fires and murders—let the world think whatever it wanted to think. He wouldn’t care.

  Riley kicked a loose stone into the bay. She had responsibilities, a lot at stake. Straker had nothing at stake, which was probably why he’d gone off on his own.

  Such was her state of mind when she drove into the village and parked in front of his parents’ house. Mrs. Straker was in the garage with an unlit cigarette in her mouth and an upholstery hammer in one hand. “Riley St. Joe,” she said, beaming. Her alert gaze took in her oversize shirt, and she shook her head. “I guess that rumor’s true.”

  “What rumor?”

  “You and my son on Labreque Island.” She removed her cigarette, sighed almost as if she were exhaling smoke. “I wondered if you two’d ever get together after you bloodied him that time.”

  “Mrs. Straker, we’re not—I mean—” Knowing she was doomed, Riley rolled up her errant sleeve. “How did that particular rumor get started?”

  “Honey, nothing happens on this coast the lobstermen don’t know about.”

  Riley nodded. “I understand. In fact, that’s what I’m counting on. Can we talk?”

  Straker didn’t know how long he had before Riley tracked him down. It was a foregone conclusion she’d try. He’d kicked her out of his boat to buy himself a little time. In her place, he had to admit, he wouldn’t sit quietly on the sidelines, either. And he’d never been much on anyone telling him what to do.

  He docked in the village harbor. It was a small, picturesque harbor, relatively quiet at this time of morning with its moored boats, its glistening water and surrounding landscape of modest houses, Victorian bed and breakfasts, shops. The only eyesore was the old sardine cannery.

  This was his home turf. Riley could pretend it was hers, too, but she’d never spent a long, cold, damp winter here. She’d never warred with herself over staying and leaving, over wanting something more yet wanting this to be enough, knowing it could be if only he’d let it.

  He didn’t see his father’s boat. A few other lobster boats were in. Straker was aware of eyes on him as he walked out onto the ancient wooden pier. He stopped, waited to see what would happen. Nothing did. These were men he’d known all his life, and they were treating him like a rich yachtsman.

  Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they didn’t know anything. Last night over dinner he and Riley had rattled off a long list of places Emile could be, had winnowed it down to a dozen realistic possibilities. She and Sig had already checked out a few of them Saturday before the fire. That left several summer houses owned by Emile’s friends, boats he might have appropriated or been loaned, lobster pounds, uninhabited islands—places he could slip in and out of with ease.

  They didn’t have the kind of time required to search them all one by one. He didn’t have the time. He’d just spent the better part of a day and a night making love to Riley St. Joe. That alone dictated a certain measure of urgency on his part. He was out of control. After they’d made love their third time, he’d stared into the darkness, exhausted but unable to sleep, knowing he needed answers. They needed answers. They needed to know why Sam Cassain’s body had turned up on Labreque Island. Then they could figure out what was going on between them.

  “Hey, no dead bodies and women keeping you busy today?”

  Straker smiled at A. J. Dorrman, one of the sheriff’s lobsterman nephews. “The day’s still young. How are you, A.J.?”

  “Upright and taking nourishment. You?”

  “I need to find out where you all have Emile stashed,” Straker said bluntly.

  A.J. twisted his mouth from one side to the other. He was in his early thirties, beefy, used to a life of hard physical work and answering to himself. He rubbed his chin. “Shit, Straker.”

  “Lou will have your head if he finds out you’ve been hiding a man wanted for questioning in a suspicious death.”

  “Emile didn’t kill anybody. You know that. He’s just a crazy old fart.”

  “His house was just torched. He’s being set up to take the fall.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Straker waited. Silence was often his most effective tool. Also, he’d known A.J. all his life. Pelting him with questions, pressuring him, would only convince the man to dig in his heels and keep his mouth shut.

  A.J. scratched one side of his jaw. “You think he’s in any danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what happens if the wrong person comes down here hunting for him? I get shot and go recuperate on an island by myself?”

  Straker shrugged. “If you’re lucky.”

  “Yeah, Lou’d finish me off before I got my sorry ass to any island.” He started past Straker, said, “But if I snitched to you, I’d get stuffed into a sardine can and left to rot.”

  He kept walking toward the parking lot, and in case Straker didn’t take the hint, A.J. wiggled a finger in the direction of the old sardine cannery. It was a dilapidated, rambling wooden structure, long abandoned. With the touted health benefits of Omega-3 oils and the depletion of the populations of so many commercially popular species of fish, sardines were making a comeback. This building, however, had seen its day. Emile’s own grandfather had worked there years ago.
The village had wrangled over its removal for years.

  With the lay of the land, the inflow and outflow of pleasure boats and working boats, it was the perfect, if surprising, choice for a base. It had access and cover. No one would notice a network of lobster boats helping a discredited, brilliant, world-famous old man who was, when all was done and said, one of their own. Just as Straker was, no matter how many cases he solved for the FBI, how long he stayed away.

  He walked around back. The building came right up to the edge of the water. Windows were broken and missing, boarded up. He spotted a ground-level door hanging half off its hinges in a corner formed by a six-foot concrete retaining wall and hill that sloped down to the water.

  He picked his way over shards of glass and through overgrown brush, but when he got to the door, it opened before he had a chance to kick it in. Emile poked his head out and snorted in disgust. “I should have shot you yesterday when I had the chance.”

  “I see where Riley gets her charm.”

  “Where is she? I thought I asked you—”

  “I know what you asked, and the best way for me to watch out for her—and you—is to get to the bottom of this thing. She’s supposed to be on her way back to Boston.”

  Emile scoffed. “She’s probably right behind you.”

  Straker ignored the obvious point. “You have the Encounter engine in there?”

  “Pictures. I still don’t know what Sam did with the engine.”

  “Christ, Emile. I should haul your butt over to the sheriff’s myself.”

  The old man gave a curt, dismissive wave and ducked back inside. Straker cursed silently and went in after him. If Emile shot him, so be it—but he didn’t seriously believe that would happen.

  The door opened into a small entry, with dusty, sagging stairs leading up into the main part of the old building. Emile had set up housekeeping in a dark corner. He was using a turned-over wooden crate as a table. He had crackers, peanut butter, a six-pack of tomato juice, another six-pack of orange juice, a box of raisins.