Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller

by Christine Kling

  The older woman looked her up and down in the dim light that shone through the windows from the street, frowning at the way Riley was dressed. She grunted, then turned away, and passed into the kitchen where she turned on a light. “There’s hot tea left in the pot there,” she said, “and you can warm the soup on the stove if you’re hungry.”

  In the harsh kitchen fluorescent lights, the ancient appliances and the deeply etched butcher block counter tops were familiar in their shabbiness. Between her father’s postings, they had sometimes returned to Washington for a few months, and her father would allow the children into his personal domain. Her parents divorced after she joined the Corps, and since her mother had moved back to France, whenever Riley returned stateside, her father’s spare bedroom was hers. After her discharge, she had moved in for good.

  The housekeeper lifted the heavy lid off a mammoth pot on the stove and swirled the contents with a ladle. Wright always seemed to cook enough to feed an army. She stood nearly half a foot taller than Riley and probably weighed twice what Riley did. She wore no make-up and her cheeks hung down in over-lapping jowls on either side of her thin pursed lips.

  The woman had seemed like a godsend when she arrived. Riley had been advertising for a day nurse and the old battle axe had arrived at the door one day, saying she had a recommendation from one of her father’s old school friends. When Wright moved in, Riley was able to move out.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wright, but I’m not hungry. I just want to know about my father. What can you tell me about his condition?” Riley hugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders in spite of the oppressive heat in the house.

  The older woman sighed and pressed the knuckles of her right fist into her hip. “You never call him and now you drop in and want to chat at nearly one in the morning? I don’t think so.” She started to turn toward the door.

  Riley reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm through her robe. “I know you don’t think I’m much of a daughter, but he is my father. Do you have any idea what it’s like to get the news that your father has had a stroke? How is he? I can’t believe they’ve just sent him home from the hospital to die.”

  Wright stared down at Riley’s hand on her arm, then looked up and locked gazes with her.

  “Turns out he didn’t have a stroke after all.”

  “What?”

  “Doctor said it was a problem with his sodium or some damn thing. He drinks too much water. Other than that, there’s been no change in your father’s condition.”

  “But he,” Riley pointed toward the front door, “told me you’d been trying to reach me to tell me about the stroke.”

  Wright turned and stared at the door for a moment, then shook her head. Turning back to face Riley, she said, “I was wrong, that’s all. Your father is still the same ornery son of a bitch who can’t remember who I am most days or how to find his own goddamn way to the bathroom. Hasn’t left this house in months. Don’t know what they been telling you, but if that’s the only reason you came home, you can call that limo and head back down to the islands.” Eleanor Wright turned and lumbered out of the kitchen leaving Riley stunned, the blanket still draped over her shoulders.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  McLean, Virginia

  March 28, 2008

  1:50 a.m.

  Diggory leaned forward and gave the driver an address on Old Dominion in McLean, Virginia. It wasn’t far outside DC, but he would have enough time to sort through the information he had received and make plans. Back in the airport, he had been surprised when his sat phone rang shortly after landing. He realized then he would need to delay his plans.

  He could tell from the echo on the line, they had him on speakerphone, but he didn’t know where they were calling from, nor who all was in the room. They asked about Caliban — said their man in Guadeloupe had gone missing. Beelzebub, the old politico, wanted to know if Dig knew anything about it. Dig, glancing past his shoulder at the blanket-clad girl shuffling beside him, kept to one word answers.

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Friday.”

  “And everything was normal then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the target. Has he found anything yet?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been watching him?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to have to consult the others. Our methods may have to change. We didn’t think the target had the potential to do damage, but if he is responsible for Caliban’s disappearance, you might have to take him out. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Dig knew what that meant. They had already called a meeting, and he knew where. Once, Dig had driven Yorick to this meeting place. That was ten years ago, but he doubted the location had changed. It was a small British pub not far from Langley, owned by a Bonesman. Because some, like Beelzebub, often had Secret Service escorts, they met early, well before daylight, when only the night shift workers and insomniacs might take note of the collection of limousines parked in the lot of a small pub.

  There were twelve of them and they called themselves the Patriarchs. In fact, in Bonesman terms, they all became patriarchs upon graduation, including Diggory. This group, however, did not include every Bonesman. They were a highly selective inner circle of the most prominent and powerful men in the country, and at the pub where they met, there was a circular table with twelve chairs. Dig was determined to get a seat at that table. In ordinary circumstances, if anything could ever be considered ordinary for men like these, they would never include a son of a waitress among their ranks. Every man at the table could trace a bloodline to one of the most wealthy and powerful families in the country: Whitney, Harriman, Vanderbilt, Bush, Kellogg, Goodyear. But Dig did not intend to give them any choice.

  He signaled the driver to pull over when they were a quarter mile short of the pub. He gave the man specific instructions and dismissed him, then climbed out of the car and shivered. The freezing night air penetrated the light jacket and khakis he had put on that morning aboard the barbarians’ boat. After dropping off Riley, there had been no time to swing by his apartment to change into warmer clothes — not if he expected to get there before them. And if he wanted to hear what they were planning, that was what he had to do.

  The last time he’d traveled this way was in summer and the trees had been in full leaf. The country houses set back from the road had not been visible. Now the ground shone white in the moonlight and the houses looked cheapened by their nudity. He took long strides along the shoulder of the two-lane road, his breath puffing white, his shoulders hunched up against the cold. When he reached the small intersection and came upon the now empty strip mall, he recognized the old brick building. The night of his last visit came back to him.

  He’d been sent to pick up the old man at the Capital Yacht Club down on the Potomac in the wee hours of the morning. Yorick and a pair of congressmen had been out sailing on the river all afternoon on a racing sloop that belonged to the president of a company that manufactured body armor. They had been enjoying the owner’s hospitality at the dock half the night.

  Dig remembered the smell of alcohol on Yorick’s breath, the rosy glow of the man’s cheeks, the cell phone call that led him to say that they weren’t going home after all. Dig would never forget a word of it, including the conversation Yorick started from the backseat where he always sat.

  “I knew your father, you know.”

  Dig glanced up at the rear view mirror and saw the white-haired patrician watching him with his one good eye. “Yes sir,” he said. “You’ve mentioned that before.”

  “I met him in school at Choate. We weren’t the same year, mind you. He was older, but I knew him by reputation. Everyone did. Good-looking fellow. He claimed to have set the record for the senior with the most notches on his bedpost. Produced the most bastards, too. He liked to go slumming. I suppose you’ve got quite a number of brothers and sisters swilling beer in Connecticut’s trailer parks.”


  Diggory had said nothing, but he opened his right hand and one by one closed the fingers and squeezed.

  The restaurant was on the ground floor of an older brick building that stood alone at the corner of a large asphalt parking lot. Dig remembered how they had driven around behind the building to a delivery access door. He cut through the parking lot alongside a hardware store, a chiropractor’s office, and a Chinese take-out, then kept to the shadows as he approached the back of the brick building. He checked the few parked cars, watched the roof line, and checked his watch: 2:10. The last time they hadn’t met until four, however, that didn’t mean there was no security at this hour.

  After watching the building for twenty minutes, he decided it was safe to take the next step. He followed the power and communications lines that hung low where they crossed the street. An outside staircase offered him access to the second floor offices as well as the junction box. Twenty minutes after he had cut the phone lines, he left the hiding place in the trees where he had been waiting across the street. Cutting the wires had not triggered any silent alarms; no security had arrived.

  The upstairs office windows opened onto the bleached wood gallery that surrounded the second floor. He extracted a pair of thin plastic gloves from his wallet, then, without making a sound, he began to move from window to window, checking them to see if any were unlatched. Wasn’t it always the way, he thought, when the last window he tried slid upward an eighth of an inch — enough to slide a credit card under it and turn the old fashioned latch. He pulled the window up and the warm air spilled out from inside.

  The last door he had passed outside bore the name of an accounting firm, so he was surprised when he found himself inside what appeared to be a linen room. Shelves lined the walls covered with folded white napkins, tablecloths, chefs’ aprons, and kitchen towels. An antiquated time clock was affixed to one wall along with a large metal rack filled with cards and a cork bulletin board. The cigarette-burned table with several chairs round it took up most of the center of the room.

  Dig had been hoping merely to get into one of the building’s offices. He hadn’t realized that the restaurant had any facilities on the second floor, but here he was in the staff break room. After closing and latching the window behind him, he crossed the room and peered out the door. The hallway was lit by a red glow that flowed up the stairs from the restaurant below. To his left, two doors led to what looked like bathrooms, though it was too dark to see if the doors were marked. On his right and across the hall, the third door opposite the top of the stairs, sported a plaque he could read in the dim red light: Office.

  Dig stood listening. He heard the muffled whoosh as the fan started up in the building’s heating system, but nothing more. He stepped into the hall. The wood floor creaked as he crossed to the office and he winced. He was, he figured, directly over the kitchen. Better not be anyone down there preparing food for the upcoming day. He tried the office door. The doorknob barely budged and he cursed under his breath. He hadn’t brought any tools.

  Then, through the door, he heard the noise of a car pulling up outside the back of the restaurant. The office must have windows overlooking the rear of the building, he thought. He glanced down the staircase into the pub. From that vantage point, he could see most of the interior of the restaurant – the gleaming mahogany bar with leather capped stools and the round table with twelve chairs.

  He had to get inside the office. It would make a perfect vantage point for watching and listening. He jiggled the knob again. Then the heating system fan shut down, and the restaurant interior grew so quiet, Dig could hear his own breathing.

  From outside, he heard men’s voices and the thunks of car doors slamming. The noise of a second and third car’s engines carried through the door.

  Dig dashed across the hall back into the staff break room. He glanced at the window, and for a brief moment, he considered leaving the way he had come. The Patriarchs would not be pleased if they found him there.

  No. Luck was on his side. He was sure of it. He started round the room, searching the shelves, patting down the linens, feeling under the table, examining the time clock. There had to be something there he could use. He moved to the bulletin board and grabbed one of the push pins. No, too short; it would never work. He let the pin fall to the floor when he heard the sound of a door opening below him, and he felt the air pressure in the building change. They were coming inside.

  Then he saw it. One of the time cards had a folded sheet of paper affixed to it with a paper clip. He yanked the card out of its slot. The torn card and note fluttered to the ground, as he stepped into the hall.

  The floorboard creaked and the voices downstairs ceased. Dig froze. They would send someone upstairs to check it out. Soon. He straightened the paperclip and felt the chill air roll up his sleeve as he straightened his arm to reach for the doorknob. He slipped the shaft of the paper clip into the lock on the old round door knob. The cold air reached the sweat-soaked fabric beneath his underarm and he shivered. He’d handled locks like this a hundred times during his years with the Company. He stilled his breathing, closed his eyes and jiggled the pick. With a soft click, he felt the lock give. He turned the knob, then lifted his foot and froze. They would be able to break in as easily as he did if he confirmed his presence to them. One creak meant it was an old building. Two and you knew you were not alone. Standing there balanced on one foot like a bloody flamingo, he realized he had no idea if the floor would creak again if he stepped into the office.

  With a loud whoosh, the heating system started up again, and Dig slipped into the office without a sound, closing and locking the door behind him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Foggy Bottom

  March 28, 2008

  3:55 a.m.

  Riley sat on the flowered couch in their old family apartment in Paris. A tattered Scrabble board rested on the cushion between her and Mikey. The odd thing was that she was having one of those dreams where she knew she was dreaming, and she kept looking around the apartment thinking, I want to be sure to remember all this when I wake up. It was Mikey’s turn at the game. He arranged his tiles to spell the word beware. She started laughing because she thought it was so melodramatic of him — like something right out of a horror movie. If they were in a movie, she thought, the music would be slow with lots of bass about now. Bum, bum, bum, bum . . . Then Mikey looked up from the board and instead of smiling, his eyes grew wide and his mouth opened in a silent scream. His gaze traveled past her, over her shoulder, at something or someone who stood tall behind her. She started to turn—

  Riley lurched up into a sitting position as though someone were pulling at the center front of her nightgown. She gulped air and brushed the sweat-slicked hair off her forehead. Her head swiveled around for several seconds before she remembered where she was. Moonlight streamed through the lace curtains at the window. That’s right. Her father’s townhouse.

  She pressed her fingers to her temples as the dream came back to her. She did not ever remember seeing such a look of terror on her brother’s face.

  “Oh god, Mikey? What was that all about?” When she spoke, her throat felt raspy and sore from sleeping in the dry, overheated house. Inhaling slowly, she tried to calm herself. “It was only a dream,” she said aloud.

  The bedside clock read 4:03. It had been nearly two in the morning by the time she settled into bed. That meant she’d slept only two hours, but now she felt wide awake. She swept aside the covers and swung her feet to the floor. Getting up and moving was the key to throwing off these night terrors. At least this dream hadn’t been about the fire.

  She looked at the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet and thought of Mrs. Wright sleeping downstairs. The woman was nowhere near as adept a liar as Diggory. Riley didn’t believe her father had ever left the house. Assuming this was all some ruse by Diggory Priest to get her to Washington, the question was why?

  She remembered the argument on the quay in Pointe-à-Pit
re and her exact words about how she wanted the truth. Then she’d said, There’s more you and your kind aren’t telling me. And if you won’t tell me ― Was this all a reaction to that half threat? If so, perhaps she would now get the answers she sought.

  She eased the door to her father’s room open and found it much darker inside than in the hall. The room’s stuffy air had that sickroom smell of disinfectant and urine. She crossed to the window and drew back the heavy black drapes allowing the moonlight to fall across the floor at the foot of his bed. The covers clung to the outline of his body, and he looked smaller, thinner than she remembered.

  On the nightstand, she saw a photograph in a frame, and when she carried it to the window, she was surprised to see that it was a shot of the four of them taken in Paris when she was about sixteen years old. She remembered the day it was taken. Her mother had hired a professional photographer to get a family portrait. Her father traveled a great deal in those days, and her mother had started trying to make them all the über family whenever he was home. She planned picnics and little family celebrations. That day, her mom was furious that Riley refused to wear the designated photo shoot dress, and instead wore a polo shirt and jeans. Printed on the front of her brother’s T-shirt were the words, “Gravity, what a downer.” Both Riley and Mikey wore goofy grins in the photo. They were that age when anything that irritated their parents was vastly amusing.

  Now, with the benefit of years, she saw the sadness in her mother’s eyes. Riley knew that their marriage had gone wrong even before Mikey’s death. Within three years after this photo was taken, Michael was gone and her father returned to Washington without his wife.

  She heard the bed creak behind her as he rolled over.

  “Maggie? Is that you?”

  She turned toward the bed. Because she had been examining the photograph in the bright moonlight, she’d lost her night vision. She had difficulty making him out in the shadows. “Yeah. Hi, Dad. Sorry to wake you.” So this was going to be one of his good times. At least he knew who she was.