Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller

by Christine Kling

Aboard the Bonefish

  March 26, 2008

  8:00 p.m.

  She decided to sail Bonefish out, to avoid using the boat’s engine so as not to attract any undue attention. The forecast had been for winds outside the bay blowing twelve to fifteen knots out of the due east, but inside the bay they had less than ten. While she readied the interior for sailing, stowing things that might fly when they heeled over, Cole climbed into her dinghy, rowed aft and tied it to the stern. As soon as the anchor was off the bottom, she unfurled her headsail. Gradually, the boat gained steerage as it fell off the wind. The only noise was the sound of the water under Bonefish’s transom or the occasional music that flowed from another sailboat’s open hatches. The waning moon was due to rise soon and would aid them as they picked their way into the next bay. For now, she was thankful for the cover of darkness, wondering if she was succumbing to Cole’s conspiracy fears.

  Once Riley completed the turn, the boat ran almost dead downwind out of the anchorage picking up a little speed as she ghosted past the last of the anchored sailboats in the bay. There were not as many boats as she had thought — maybe a dozen sailboats with flags from nearly as many different countries, and one big sportfisherman. They were gliding along at three knots when Cole came aft and slid onto the cockpit seat ahead of her.

  “I can see why sailors love this,” he said. “No engine noise. Just the sound of the wind and the gurgle of the water in our wake.”

  “Yeah, it’s addictive. I’ve been hooked ever since my dad taught me.”

  “Does your old man still sail?”

  She almost made a defensive wise crack, but closed her mouth and took a breath. She started again. “No, my father’s got dementia. So bad now he can’t take care of himself, much less sail.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Riley shrugged. “He was always older than my friends’ fathers, so it wasn’t like we were close. But sailing was the one thing we had together.”

  “You were lucky to have that.”

  Luck. She leaned back to check the set of the jib, and the sigh that escaped from her lips was louder than she’d intended. It was time to change the subject. “I don’t think we’ll bother to raise the main. We’re only going around the headland and into the other bay.” She switched on the autopilot and pulled her legs onto the seat, crossing them Indian style. “So, tell me about this guy. Why is he looking for you?”

  He spread his arms out atop the coaming behind him. “It’s complicated. I’m not sure I know where to begin. My boat, the Shadow Chaser, is a former shrimper that I converted for wreck diving and salvage up in North Carolina. We ran into Spyder in Hatteras.” He sighed. “See, my mate and I, we’re searching for a wreck.”

  He paused, then crossed over to the opposite seat and scanned the anchorage with her binoculars.

  So he was one of those guys chasing treasure. Figured. She wanted to ask him more about this “mate” of his, like whether it was a he or a she, but she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

  “This wreck — would it be the Surcouf?” she asked.

  He dropped the glasses to his lap and stared at her, naked suspicion in his eyes. “How did you know?”

  “That was the name you gave me. Robert Surcouf. When I mentioned it to the Immigration guy, he told me some story about pirates and submarines.”

  Cole laughed. “I forgot about that — the fake name. Sorry. But this submarine is more than just some story. It’s an amazing tale of treachery and treasure.”

  “When I tumbled with that Spyder guy, I found this picture —”

  Before Riley could finish, the headsail fluttered in a wind shift, and she reached for the winch handle to trim the sheet. They had to tack their way east before they could turn into Marigot Bay, and for the next half hour or so, working the boat required most of her attention. The short tacks gave them brief moments of quiet broken by the noise of the slapping sails and ratcheting winches as they brought the forty-footer around through the eye of the wind.

  When they cleared the point under the fort, the three quarter moon was rising ahead of them, looking like a piece of yellow sea glass worn down on one side. When Cole asked if he could steer, Riley turned off the autopilot and stepped out from behind the helm. The boat began leaping over the swells, and she saw his teeth white in the moonlight. He stood behind the wheel flexing his bare legs to stay upright in the growing swells, his shaggy hair blowing back around his ears, a big grin on his face. With the dark tattoo of the words Carpe Diem across his collar bones, he looked every bit the raffish salvage diver.

  Riley looked away. Damn Speedo. She wished she had something to give him to cover himself with, but she had exhausted her supply of man-sized clothes on his last visit. A towel at least — because she was a normal woman after all, and given all these months of sailing solo, how could she not look?

  She jumped up and hurried below to search for the biggest beach towel she had aboard. When she climbed back into the cockpit, she tossed it onto the seat next to him. “In case you get cold,” she said.

  Though he glanced at the towel, he didn’t touch it.

  “The wind, you know,” she said. The temperature was still in the low eighties even at night, but she was starting to shiver a bit from the breeze. “It gets chilly on the water.”

  “Thanks,” he said. Then he lowered himself to the cockpit seat and peered up at the sky beyond the bimini cover. “Great night, eh?” He spoke with a note of something close to reverence in his voice.

  “Yeah,” she said, and leaning far back to look out from under the bimini, she felt something in her gut loosen up a little. She sighed. “That moon is amazing.” Riley thought about all the times she had seen this southern sea and sky and had no one to share it with. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like – that vibration of connecting with someone.

  Okay, so he was a powerboat kind of guy who could appreciate the subtle beauties of a night sail, but that didn’t change the fact that he had lied to her.

  “Are you going to tell me the truth about what you were doing swimming off the island yesterday?” she asked.

  “Well,” he paused and looked back into the bay they had just left. “It’s complicated.”

  She said nothing. She let her silence work on him.

  “That guy back there, Spyder Brewster, he has a brother named Pinky.”

  “Pinky Brewster? You’re kidding.”

  He smiled again. “Yeah, I know. Not exactly the golden age of television. But, I guess they grew up with the TV as their baby sitter. That’s the only thing I have in common with these two. Pinky’s a nickname he got because of his skin disease. Vitiligo. He’s got patches of skin with no pigment and they look kind of pink.”

  “Kids can be cruel.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s a pretty creepy guy. Voice sounds like Peter Lorre, and he has these pale blue eyes that look dead. Like nobody’s home. Anyway, back to yesterday. I’d been diving, and I’d stripped to rinse off in a stream when these guys showed up. Not friendlies. I took off running and then swimming. I’d known I was being followed. I could feel it. Didn’t know it was them until yesterday. They’re definite bad guys – poachers – and they intend to get to the Surcouf before I do. Right now, I’ve got something they want.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, but she already knew. She thought about the photo she had ripped out of Ponytail’s – or rather Spyder’s pocket. She wanted to see if he would tell her the truth. Before he could speak, she heard an explosive exhalation of air and a splash not more than five feet from the boat.

  Cole straightened up and pointed. “Dolphins!” he said.

  Two of them darted away and then came zooming back in alongside the boat trailing streaks of blueish white phosphorescence.

  “Make a wish,” Cole said. “They’re a sign of good luck.”

  “Yeah, right. Luck.”

  “It’s true, I swear. Didn’t you ever watch Flipper? Dolphins grant wishes. But,
whatever you do, you can’t tell anyone your wish. It’s just between you and the dolphins.”

  Riley stared at him, his face aglow from the moonlight, the dolphins’ ephemeral trails, and the compass light.

  “Make a wish,” he insisted.

  Damn. He was serious. Luck and wishes. “Fine,” she said. Just this once, she’d humor him. She thought about the coin and how good he was at dodging her questions. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished — but she sure as hell didn’t need to be told to keep it a secret.

  When they made their turn easing out the big headsail, Cole steered them close by the trawler anchored out near the mouth of the bay. Riley was surprised at the relief she felt when the first mate stepped out of the wheelhouse, and she saw he was a tall, young, black man with scholarly-looking gold spectacles. He raised a slender arm and waved at them as most boaters do. It wasn’t until they sailed abeam that the mate recognized his captain, and he began shaking his head.

  This time it was Riley who readied the anchor after showing Cole how to operate the furling gear for the headsail. When she’d let out sufficient scope for the anchor and rigged her snubber, she stood on the bow for a few minutes enjoying the night sounds of birds, insects and the lapping of the waters around her bow. The moonlight looked like a trail of glittery gems across the water. She picked out the Big Dipper, the only constellation she could find without a star chart, and she shivered in spite of the tropical night.

  Last night, she’d been in tears, and now with the moonlit sail and the dolphins and this crazy man who believed in the gospel according to Flipper, here she was stargazing with a big grin on her face. She shook her head back and forth, not sure if she was losing her mind. One thing she was certain of, though, she wasn’t going to say a word about him to Hazel. Riley knew if she let slip one kind word about any guy to her best friend, Hazel would be making wedding plans.

  She turned aft to see if Cole was going to join her, but there was no one in the cockpit. She tiptoed along the cabin and peered down into the hatch over the main salon. The light over the chart table was on, and Cole Thatcher’s bare back was bent in a curve, the hinged chart table top resting on his head as he dug around inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Atlantic south of Bermuda

  February 12, 1942

  Michaut’s smile wilted as he began to take in the tableau before him: McKay’s tear-streaked face and bloody shirt, and the still body on the deck.

  “Capitaine. Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

  Lamoreaux sighed, his eyes fixed on Woolsey. “Un accident,” he said. Woolsey thought the captain was trying to convince himself.

  “Fuck,” McKay said again and he walked as far as he could get from the other men. He slammed his palm flat against the bulkhead, then buried his face in his sleeve.

  Henri Michaut stood frozen to the spot. The birthmark glowed red against his pale skin as he stared at Mullins’ still form. “Mon Dieu,” he said.

  “Bloody hell,” Woolsey said when he again noticed the blood dripping down his hand from inside his sleeve. He reached over his right shoulder and hissed through his teeth when his fingers found the glass shard imbedded in his upper tricep. He pulled it free and threw it into a stack of crates.

  The captain took the tray of food from the young signalman and, after crossing the hold to put distance between himself and the body, he set it on one of the cases of wine. He slid a couple more wine crates close to the tray, then said, “Come, let’s sit. Henri, join us, please?”

  Without a word, Michaut crossed the hold. He lowered his body and perched on the edge of the crate. Woolsey, who had taken off his coat and was tearing his shirt to bandage his arm, thought the young man looked as though he was going to vomit.

  “What are the men up to out there, Henri?” the captain asked in English.

  The young man turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the corpse.

  The captain grasped the signalman’s forearms. “Michaut!” he shouted.

  Michaut turned back and looked at Lamoreaux. His eyes shone.

  The captain spoke in a softer voice. “Ah, you worked with him in the radio room. You knew him well, non?”

  Michaut nodded and lowered his eyes. A tear slid onto his cheek.

  Woolsey took the fabric in his teeth and pulled the bandage on his arm tight. As he eased his coat onto his wounded arm, he said, “What do you expect, man? This is a war, Kewpie. Men die. Now, let’s get on with it. We haven’t much time, you know.”

  The captain glanced at McKay, the concern apparent in his wrinkled brow. The big man still had his face buried in his sleeve. Turning back, Lamoreaux said, “Lieutenant, you are not making this any easier. If not for you, we would not be in this trouble.”

  “I’m the one who’s wounded, and now you’re saying your men’s mutiny was my fault?”

  Michaut raised his head and began whispering to the captain in French.

  “What’s he saying?” Woolsey pointed at the young Frenchman.

  Lamoreaux waved his hand in the air, shushing Woolsey until Michaut had finished. Then he raised his eyebrows and lowered his jaw with a look of incredulity. The captain turned to Woolsey. “It seems the men who took my ship have made enemies already. Henri thinks there are more who would like to see me regain my command. They fear Gohin cannot get control of the men to run the boat.”

  “You see?” Woolsey said as he reached for one of the lengths of baguette on the tray. “There is more than one man on your side. We’ve got to get out of here and get to that bomb.”

  The captain ignored him. “Michaut, how are things with Gohin’s men?” He spoke in English this time.

  The young man spoke in slow, accented English. “Not good. Many are drunk. Many fight. They try to destroy the radio equipment. Is very dangerous.”

  “What about weapons?”

  “Gohin open the gun cabinet with your keys. Only he has pistol.”

  Woolsey fingered the knot on the side of his head. “Had the gun when he escorted me here. Made me intimately aware of it.”

  The captain ignored him. “C’est bien. He does not trust any of the others with side arms.”

  Michaut continued. “The doctor say something to him and Gohin beat him unconscious. The men are now afraid.”

  Lamoreaux rubbed his hand across his chin. “They should be. Gohin’s a fool. Without the radio, we have only signal lamps for communication.”

  “You can’t just sit there,” Woolsey said. “You know how desperate the situation is. We haven’t much time – and no idea at all how reliable that timer is.”

  Michaut’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men. “Captain? What –”

  “No time, Henri. They will come for you soon. Listen, can you come back alone? C’est tres importante. No one can see you. With so much wine, the men will be sleeping soon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The wheel controlling the waterproof door creaked as it began to turn. Henri Michaut jumped to his feet.

  “Return within the hour,” the Captain said when the signalman passed him on his way to the door. “Alone.”

  The door closed and the lights went out again.

  After the sound of scraping on the deck, the captain’s torch clicked on. Woolsey and the captain resumed talking in low voices. McKay wandered over, leaned down and tried to push a wine crate toward the other two. He couldn’t budge it. He stood up saying, “What the bloody hell?”

  The captain jumped up and offered McKay his seat. “Here. Sit down. Join us.”

  “We’re trying to work out a plan here,” Woolsey said.

  “I heard ya’.”

  “The captain and I –” Woolsey began.

  “I said I heard ya. I’ll take care o’ yer bomb.” McKay stuffed some bread and cheese into his mouth and began to chew.

  “Stupid fucking war,” he said, spewing bread crumbs.

  “We could use –” Woolsey said.

  “We din’t learn
nothing from the first one,” McKay said ignoring Woolsey. “Mullins brought me a message yesterday. Jerries dropped a bomb on the house. All dead. My mum, sister, her boy Fred. He was six. His dad died at Dunkirke.”

  Woolsey sighed. “Sean, I’m sorry.”

  McKay grimaced, his eyes fixed on the still form on the other side of the hold. “Mullins told me when this war is over, I could go live with him and his mum.”

  “Sean —”

  “Shut up. It’s McKay to you.”

  “Look man, we could use your help here and now,” Woolsey said.

  “Naw,” the big man said, then tore off another piece of bread with his teeth. “Don’ trust you.” He swallowed and ran his tongue over his teeth before continuing. “You get control, mate and yer likely to leave the rest of the crew to go up in smoke. I’m goin’ fer the bomb. Fer Wally.”

  McKay picked up a mug of cold coffee and drained it. Then he walked around the hold until he found a tarp covering a stack of crates. He pulled it free, then crossing to the body, he knelt down and pulled the shard of glass out of Mullins’ chest. He wiped the glass on the young man’s trousers, then draped the dark oilskin over the body and sat on the floor to wait.

  Woolsey turned back to face Lamoreaux.

  The captain was still watching McKay. “Do you think he will do as he says?”

  Woolsey tried to push his doubts aside. “Of course, he will.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Aboard the Fish n’ Chicks

  March 26, 2008

  8:15 p.m.

  Diggory settled onto the front seat of the Boston Whaler as Spyder started the outboard engine. His thoughts were still roiling, as they had throughout his meal. What was Cole Thatcher doing on Riley’s boat? Assuming it was Thatcher — but he had to assume worst case scenario here. If she had just picked up the guy swimming at sea as the immigration officer had stated, why would Thatcher return to break into her boat here in the Saintes? What did she have that he wanted?

  As the dinghy approached the sport fishing boat, lights came on illuminating the aft deck. There, leaning over the transom, was one of the ugliest men Diggory had ever seen. He had a protruding lower jaw and a broad nose, but his Afro-style hair was pure white. The hand that held the door to the swim platform had brown skin down to the knuckles, then pinkish-white fingers out to the nails. It looked as though he were wearing brown gloves with the fingers cut off. The skin of his face and neck above the collar of his shirt was mottled and splotched with patches of brown and pink.