Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller

by Christine Kling

  “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

  “Dad, it’s late. Go back to sleep. I was just checking on you.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  Here we go, she thought. “Dad, we’ll talk in the morning.”

  “It’s about Michael. I was ashamed.”

  “Dad, you’re not making sense.”

  “He was such an odd child.”

  Riley felt her throat tightening. She was too tired for this. Her defenses were down, and she was determined not to let him see her cry. “Dad, I know. Let’s stop talking about this now. It’s the middle of the night. Time for you to go back to sleep.”

  “I wanted to make a man of him.” She heard the covers rustling and saw the vague outline of him trying to sit up in bed. “Thought Yale would do that.”

  She heard a click and the bedside lamp lit the room. She saw his disheveled white hair, a bony wrist protruding from the sleeve of his maroon satin pajamas, but it was his face that appeared most changed. Where he once had plump pink pouches under his eyes, his skin now sagged in black craters. His cheekbones carved sharp angles above more sunken shadows. He motioned for her to sit in the chair.

  “They made me do it.”

  He always came back to this story about something he had done, but like the offer of a position at the Taiwan Embassy, it seemed to have been created in the twisted depths of his dementia.

  “It’s all history now, Dad. Let the past lie.”

  “Please, Elizabeth. Say you forgive me.”

  That was it. Her mother was remarried and living in Paris. Now, he forgot even that and he didn’t know his own daughter. Riley went to the bedside and eased her father back down onto the pillow. His shoulders felt so thin, and she wondered if he was eating anything at all. The bubble of emotion welled up her throat again. She swallowed. “Dad, we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  She smoothed his hair down and trailed her fingers across the paper-like skin of his cheek. His eyes were open wide and as usual, whenever he got upset like this, his lazy eye rolled around the eye socket, looking everywhere but at her.

  “Shhh,” she said. “Go to sleep.” She clicked off the light and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  McLean, Virginia

  March 28, 2008

  4:05 a.m.

  There were two of them. Diggory stood behind the desk and listened to the footfalls outside the door. The one at the end of the hall by the restrooms hollered, “Clear!” Dig heard the other man jiggle the office doorknob.

  “Door’s locked,” he told his partner. “Do we know where the keys are?”

  “Pick it or kick it.”

  “They’re not going to like it if we break the place up.”

  “So, pick it. It’s a friggin’ office door, Johnson.”

  Dig looked around the office. There was no closet, nothing to hide behind. Just a tall file cabinet in the corner behind the desk.

  He wished he had a weapon. Too late now.

  Then he saw the recessed panel in the ceiling above the desk. An attic access panel.

  One of the men outside shouted to the others a floor below. “We’re coming. Just a minute.” Then lowering his voice, he said, “Hurry up. They want us downstairs.”

  Dig slipped off his shoes, climbed onto the desk, and stood on the papers scattered across the desktop. With the low ceiling, he had to bend his head to one side. The panel was stuck with paint.

  “I’ve got ears, you know. This pick’s stuck in my wallet. It’s like it’s embedded in the leather.”

  “News flash. Time to go on a diet.”

  “I wish we had another man, tonight. I don’t like coming out here like this.”

  Dig hoped that between the heating system and the men’s voices, any noise would be covered as he gave the panel a sharp push. One small flake of paint fluttered onto the desk when the plywood panel broke free. No time to clean it up. He placed the panel aside, shoved his shoes inside, then pulled himself up through the opening. There was barely room for him to sit up on the rafters. He pulled his legs up just as he heard the men’s voices below.

  “You go on down. I got this.”

  Dig lowered the panel back into place.

  The lock clicked and he felt the atmosphere in the room below change when the door opened. Warm air blew up through the cracks around the attic panel. Footsteps circled the room and stopped beneath him. He thought of the paint chip and wondered if he had left footprints on the paper with his sweaty socks. Then, just as quickly, he heard footsteps again and the door slammed.

  “All clear up here,” he heard the man yell.

  Dig exhaled and the floor in the hallway creaked as the agent walked toward the stairs. That man should be fired, he thought. Certainly not up to his standards. He would have noticed the tiny fleck of paint. But he knew there weren’t many operatives of his caliber, no matter what branch of service.

  He set the panel aside, dropped down onto the desk — didn’t bother closing it up. He might need it again.

  From down below, he heard their voices and the scraping sounds as the men pulled out chairs. They were greeting one another, and the odor of cigar smoke wafted up the stairs. While they were still making lots of noise, Dig climbed down off the desk. Leaving his shoes off, he took slow and cautious steps across to the door.

  Dig gripped the doorknob, rotated it one half inch, then another, and another. He felt the latch give way, but it made no noise. Squatting down, he eased the door open and put his right eye to the crack.

  His vantage point provided him with an excellent view down the staircase. Someone had covered the round table with a black cloth and at the center, a candle burned in a crystal skull. Of the twelve chairs, all but one were occupied. He identified Beelzebub to the right of the empty chair, and there was Magog and Hellbender. Several of the others, he recognized as well, although he did not know their Bonesman names. A cloud of smoke hung near the ceiling, and each man had a cut-crystal highball glass on the table filled with ice and amber-colored liquid.

  “Let’s get started,” Beelzebub shouted over the din of voices. “Agents, you may leave us now.” Dig heard the back door open and then close. The room quieted.

  Beelzebub produced a short staff and pounded the heel of it on the table. “Hear ye, hear ye, by the power conferred upon me in the absence of our leader Yorick, I do hereby call to order this convocation of the Patriarchs of the Order of Skull and Crossed Bones. If there be any man present who objects to my assumption of command, let him speak now.” Dig noted that Beelzebub waited three seconds before continuing.

  A man Dig did not recognize said, “I think the first order of business should be filling that chair.” He pointed to the empty seat.

  “You know we can’t do that,” Beelzebub said.

  Magog asked, “Well, what’s the story with Yorick’s health now? Is there any chance of improvement?”

  Beelzebub shook his head. “It’s not good. He’s in a wheelchair now. Some days when I visit, he doesn’t even know who I am. But his doctors say he could live another ten years.”

  A man Dig recognized from a network television news desk said, “Lord, if that happens to me, I hope someone will take me out and shoot me.” He drained his glass.

  “Surely we can’t leave the head chair empty for another ten years?” Magog said. “Can’t we change the charter?”

  Side conversations broke out all around the table.

  Beelzebub raised the staff to quiet them. “Listen, I know Yorick’s health is a problem, but remember, the man sacrificed a great deal for this organization.” At that the others stopped speaking. “And our forbearers knew what they were doing when they decided that those who sit around this table will do so for life.” He looked around at the other men. “The only way to quit our august body, gentlemen, is through death. You know that. And that will come to Yorick in
due time. At that time, we will choose his successor. Until then, we continue as we are, holding his place as chair should he recover sufficiently to resume. Agreed?”

  The group responded with a low rumble of inarticulate voices. Most of the men round the table looked at their drinks or their watches, or the ceiling.

  They want him dead, Dig thought, and I’ll be happy to oblige them.

  “So on to the real reason I called this meeting. I received word within the last couple of hours, that Caliban’s body has washed up on a beach in the northeastern corner of Guadaloupe.” The murmuring rose in volume. “It’s not clear what he was doing out there, outside Pointe-à-Pitre, nor have they established a cause or time of death. However, Caliban’s associate Thor could not rule out that that this might be Thatcher’s work.”

  Magog chimed in. “This has gone on far too long, been far too costly. I say we eliminate Thatcher and forget about the submarine.”

  “I wish it were that easy,” Beelzebub said. “Thatcher has been in contact with too many others. We can’t kill them all, can we?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Hellbender said.

  Diggory watched the faces around the table. Hellbender was a cartoonist with a distinct pro-life view, but no one else seemed to see the humor in his comment.

  “Be serious,” their leader said. “What if we miss one? To make it worse, there are all these damn rumors of gold. I swear the Brits started those rumors after the war to goad the public into searching for the boat. They want to know what happened to their men.”

  “Maybe that’s all Thatcher knows. Those rumors.”

  “Doubtful. We know the father knew more. But, have any of you contemplated the consequences if this sub were to be found? What if proof of Operation Magic were to go public?” The man’s voice had been rising and he took a long swallow of his drink, then looked from one end of the table to the other.

  “It’s not like we could fall much farther in the polls,” Hellbender said. “But we’ll manage. After two miracles, we’ll pull out a third.” A few of the men at the tabled chuckled.

  Beelzebub stood up. “Think of all the Americans who died that day. My god, men, think about it. Think about the fucking reporters who couldn’t wait to start digging for other similar cases related to Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf. And let’s not even discuss more recent events. Do any of you want to be publicly connected to an organization responsible for that?”

  The room went silent.

  Finally, Magog spoke. “So, Bee, what do you suggest?”

  “Thatcher knows something. That much is clear. Nobody else has searched that part of the Caribbean. Everyone else believed the story — that the sub went down off Panama. He’s too close. I say we give Thor the green light. Let Thatcher locate the sub first, and then we’ll destroy it and him. If there’s anyone else around who Thatcher talked to, no one will believe them once the evidence is gone.”

  “And what about Thor?”

  Diggory gripped the edge of door and leaned forward.

  “You all know that only the men who sit at this table can know about what we do here. Yorick once had to sacrifice a child because of it. We never even told Caliban the truth about Magic, and he was our most trusted agent. No, we can’t trust a man like Thor with that kind of information.”

  “But he’s a Bonesman,” Magog said.

  Beelzebub closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes, and he has served us well. But it’s my job to act in Yorick’s place, and I know what he would say. A Bonesman, yes, but — ” His voice rose on the last word and hung there.

  Several of the others laughed and nodded. Hellbender said, “Sounds like Yorick.”

  “I don’t like killing one of our own,” Magog said.

  The TV anchorman said, “Thor might be Bones, but he’s not really one of us.”

  Beelzebub said, “Shall we vote then?”

  Dig eased the door shut and rose to a standing position. He’d seen every hand go up. His skin felt hot and he pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He raised his right hand and began flexing the fingers, forming a white-knuckled fist and then releasing the grip and spreading his fingers wide, over and over again. He filled his lungs and then exhaled.

  That empty chair? Thor intended to be Yorick’s successor before the day was out.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Foggy Bottom

  March 28, 2008

  10:45 a.m.

  Riley stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, then stopped and stared at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. On her boat, the only mirror was a small framed 9”x12” rectangle that hung on the bulkhead inside the head. It had been many months since she had seen herself naked. From the front, she reckoned she didn’t look half bad, in spite of the farmer tan. Her small, firm breasts and flat belly gave her a shape that was more streamlined than voluptuous, but she was proud of her lean body. She worked at it. It served her purposes on the boat and since sex had not been one of her purposes since that day in Lima — and considering her scars she supposed it never would be again — sexy was not something she needed to be. She turned sideways to check out her profile and winced.

  Twisting, she leaned in over the vanity to take a closer look in the well-lit mirror over the sink. The scar tissue that stretched from the top of her shoulder to a point halfway down her back looked like an angry alien creature that had attached itself to her. The skin was mottled: red, brown and bumpy. The scars weren’t getting any better although her surgeons had claimed they would. She should put any thoughts of Cole Thatcher’s sweet dimpled smile right out of her mind. Flipping the towel over her head and sliding it down the skin on her back, she thought, if things ever were to go that far, the man would take one look at this body and flee.

  Ten minutes later, when she opened the bathroom door onto the upstairs hall, she was dressed in some old winter clothes she had stored in the closet when she’d moved aboard her boat. The jeans were loose on her, and she had smiled when she’d pulled on the Margaritaville scoop-necked, long sleeved T-shirt. She’d had to squeeze her feet into her sneakers after so many months of not wearing shoes. She wasn’t sure she could ever live in this climate again. She collected her dirty clothes and transferred her passport to the back pocket of her jeans. Until she got some kind of a bag, she would just have to carry it in her pocket. She had a lot to do today.

  Across the hall, she saw that her father’s bedroom door was ajar, but his bed was empty, the covers already drawn smooth. She had slept in until after 10:00, which was very unusual for her. The smell of fresh coffee wafting up the stairs tempted her, but after a brief debate with herself, she walked straight down the hall to the upstairs living room where her father sat with his wheelchair drawn up to the window.

  The townhouse was an odd design with the kitchen, dining room, and small bedroom downstairs. Upstairs, the bedrooms were at the back of the house while the living room stretched all across the front. She entered the room and felt a frisson of déjà vu. His back was to her, his chair angled as usual, so he could look down on the gray street through the big bay window. The weather had not improved overnight, and she saw snowflakes drifting past the glass. Her father was dressed in a plaid sports shirt, dark slacks, and a cable-knit cardigan sweater. As his dementia had progressed, so had his incontinence. He needed to be cared for and diapered like a baby. She winced at the smell as she rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “Good morning, Dad.”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “No, Dad. It’s me, Maggie. How’re you feeling this morning?”

  “I’m fine.” Her father twisted around in his chair to look at her. “It’s Michael I’m worried about.”

  Riley turned away from him.

  The sitting room hadn’t changed since the day she came by to say good-bye last September. After Lima, when she had come back for good, she had tried moving in with him, thought she could take care of him. But she learned soon enough that she
made a lousy nursemaid. When she came home from work, after cooking her father’s supper, she would go up to her room, lock herself inside. He went into the sitting room and watched CNN non-stop. It was as though she had reverted to being a sixteen-year-old again. She didn’t want to spend her evenings with him — not after what he’d done to her brother. She simply could not let go of that. If he hadn’t forced Michael to go to Yale instead of MIT, her brother would still be alive.

  She looked at the back of her father’s head, wondering when his hair had gone so pure white, and feeling an ache in her chest. It had taken the threat of his death to dissolve some of that anger. He was still her dad, and she would lose him one day. She hadn’t realized before yesterday how much that would hurt.

  When he spoke, he startled her. “I’m frightened for Michael.”

  “Dad. Shhh. Mikey’s long gone, you know.”

  “He shouldn’t have come to Washington.” Her father’s hands waved in the air as though shooing away flies. “If only he hadn’t come, Elizabeth. It’s all my fault.”

  She pulled the wheelchair a few inches back from the window so she could sit on the window seat. She put her hands on his knees. “Shhh, Dad.”

  “Numbers. Michael and numbers.”

  “Yeah, Dad. Mikey was the brilliant one.”

  “Just a glance but he figured it out. Shouldn’t have done that.”

  She felt so helpless when he went off like this. He sometimes rambled for hours making no sense whatsoever, but getting more and more agitated. Downstairs, she heard the door open and then voices. She wished Mrs. Wright would get rid of whoever it was and come up here to help her.

  “Ugly little runt. Not like other people. But a good boy, I told them. He would listen.” His voice had been steadily rising in pitch.

  She pushed away the lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead and tried to get him to look at her. Both his good eye and his lazy eye seemed to be rolling around in their sockets. She patted his cheek. “Dad, please. Don’t get yourself worked up.”