Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller

by Christine Kling

  And it was because of that, because of what he felt for her, that he had to leave her behind now.

  “She’s going to be worried about her boat,” he said. “But I can take care of it. This guy, this Diggory Priest, what he wants most is this Magic thing, and he knows I’m the only one with a hope of finding it. Once he realizes I’m back down in the islands, he’ll follow me. And I trust you’ll take care of her, help her deal with the arrangements for her dad, get her whatever help she needs?”

  Hazel nodded. “That’s what I do best. She’s gonna need a lot of rest, but I don’t think any of us should stay here tonight. I have a friend. We’ll be safe at his place. And I’ll call my pilot and tell him to ready a plane for you. We don’t have our own jet, but the Foundation buys several hundred hours of fly time every year. The pilot needs twelve hours notice. In the morning, after you’re gone, I’ll keep our girl here on the move so that bastard can’t find her.”

  After a light knock, Kayla’s head appeared around the door.

  “Miss Kittridge, I’ve just seen a black Town Car pass the house for the second time,” she said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  At sea off Guadeloupe

  February 17, 1942

  Captain Lamoreaux turned the rings on the barrel combination lock until the four digits lined up as 0322. He pulled on the lock and it fell open with a soft snick. He rose and stepped back from his desk leaving the pouch lying there. He glanced first at Michaut who still stood by the door, then back at Woolsey.

  “Lieutenant, you go ahead and remove the documents.”

  Woolsey looked at the pouch. Lamoreaux’s worried that there’s some sort of booby trap, he thought. Actually, it was quite possible. Woolsey knew that this diplomatic pouch was not, in fact, intended to arrive in Washington, but rather it was his job to deliver it to the Tomb in New Haven. They played by different rules.

  Woolsey removed the metal bar and unfolded the heavy fabric. He eased open the mouth of the pouch, his heart pounding. Inside, he saw a thick tagboard folder marked “Operation Magic — Highly Confidential.” He pulled it out of the pouch, untied the string wrapped round it, and removed a thick sheaf of papers. To his great relief, there seemed to be no traps within. The real trap was in going against his orders and reading these papers. The Patriarchs would kill him for that if the French didn’t beat them to it.

  Woolsey recognized the sheaves of paper. Though the forms differed for different branches of service, he had been working with communications, codes and ciphers since he was commissioned. The top sheets were copied messages from GC&CS, the Government Code and Cypher School at Station X. He had spent a little time there at the estate in Bletchley during his training. There were other decrypts from FECB, the Far East Command Bureau in Singapore, and the most recent came from the Americans at OP-20-G, and that meant the American Naval Codebreakers. The British documents were all carbon copies and dated from July and August, 1941. The American sheets, however, were original raw decrypts in the hand of the men who had taken the messages — definitely not copies. Across the top of the page was written Top Secret Ultra. Below that the date and below that, the code designator: JN-25. Woolsey had no idea what that meant – he had never heard of that code designator, but that was not surprising as he had never worked in intelligence.

  He examined the first of the American decrypts. It was dated 19 November and it read: “This dispatch is Top Secret. To be decoded only by an officer. Text: At 0000 on 21 November, carry out second phase of preparations for opening hostilities.” Another, dated 21 November was also marked Top Secret and gave instructions that it should be decoded only by an officer. This one gave specific orders for the “Combined Fleet” to move out of Tankan Bay on the morning of 26 November and advance to a refueling position on 4 December. Woolsey could tell from looking at the latitude and longitude that the position was somewhere in the Pacific. My god, he thought. The message discussed various possible targets, including Pearl Harbor. The officer’s initials on the American decrypts were always the same.

  “Lieutenant,” the captain said. “What is it?”

  Woolsey glanced up at the Frenchman. He tried to compose his face so as not to give away anything. “Sir, I don’t know yet,” he said. “Give me a moment.”

  These had to be decrypts of a Jap code, he thought. My God. He wondered how they’d worked it. The Patriarchs had wanted into this war. They must have had their man inside at Bletchley Park and somehow he had figured out a way to secret these out. Woolsey guessed that not even the American president had seen them.

  Woolsey pulled the last message from the bottom of the stack. It was dated 6 December. Oh shit, he thought as he read. They knew. They bloody knew long enough in advance, but they let them all die.

  “Lieutenant, I can see from your face these papers are important. Explain to me what they mean,” Captain Lamoreaux said.

  Woolsey lifted his head and stared at the captain. He had been so amazed at what he was reading, he had forgotten where he was. In an instant, he realized the explosive nature of what he held in his hands.

  “Sir, I’m not sure what this is,” he began, “but I can tell you they will undoubtedly try to sink us before they’d let this get into Hitler’s hands.”

  “What is –” the captain started to say, but he was interrupted by a sailor who burst into the cabin babbling in French.

  When Woolsey turned to look at the man in the doorway, he saw Michaut’s eyes focused on the documents.

  Woolsey shuffled the papers, moving that last sheet back to the bottom of the pile.

  Lamoreaux responded curtly to the sailor, then rose and stepped around his desk grabbing his coat which hung from a hook on the wall.

  Woolsey stuffed the papers back into the envelope and shoved them all into the diplomatic pouch. He’d understood one word. Avions. Planes.

  Captain Lamoreaux turned from the sailor as he shrugged into his coat. “They have not seen us yet, but there is little time. With the radio gone, I order them to prepare the signal lamp in the conning tower. Come.”

  Woolsey folded the top of the pouch back to seal it, and added the bar and lock. “This is highly classified, sir. You must secure it.”

  “Michaut,” the captain said. He leaned down and pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk. Inside was a strong box. “Take care of it. In there.”

  The captain stepped out from behind his desk. He placed his hand on Woolsey’s shoulder and steered him out of the cabin to the companionway that led to the conning tower. “Allons-y, Lieutenant. If these planes are American or British, it will be up to you to save us.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Georgetown

  March 28, 2008

  6:05 p.m.

  Riley just wanted to sleep. She wanted oblivion. No thinking. Just a deep, dark, dreamless sleep. But instead, Mikey was there trying to shake her awake.

  “I tried to warn you,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you straight out because you’d never have believed it coming from me.”

  She groaned and rolled over.

  He shook her shoulder hard. “He was always a dangerous man. We never knew he could be a danger to us.”

  “Leave me alone. Let me sleep.” She pushed him away.

  “I tried to stop them.” He touched her hair.

  “No,” she said, trying to pull the blanket up over her head.

  “You’ve got to wake up.” The hand caressed her shoulder.

  “Go away,” she said and she pushed at the hand.

  “No way. Not without you, Magee.”

  “What?” She opened one eye. The person with one hand on her shoulder was Cole Thatcher. She squeezed the eye closed again and shook her head, trying to throw off the nether sleep world and come fully awake. When she opened both eyes this time, she saw that, without a doubt, those were Cole’s arched eyebrows.

  “Hey, sleepy.”

  She groaned as it all played back to her. Her father. I would have stoppe
d it if I could, but they said he had to die. Yorick, his Bones name. Dig’s hands on her father’s head. That sound. That unforgettable crunching sound as her father’s head turned too far. Oh God, Dad.

  “Time to wake up.”

  Cole. He had been there for her. But why? What was he doing here?

  “We’ve got to go,” he said. “Now. Kayla saw a black Lincoln with tinted windows cruise down the street twice.”

  Riley sat up, all vestiges of sleep ebbing with the surge of adrenaline. “Shit. Where are my shoes?”

  “Right here,” he said, handing her the sneakers.

  As she laced them up, she asked, “How long have I been asleep?”

  “A couple of hours. It’s a little after six.”

  “Where’s Hazel?”

  “Packing. She’s coming with us. She’s going to arrange for me to fly back down to the islands, and she’s taking you somewhere safe. We’re supposed to meet her in the hall by that big staircase.”

  Riley swung her legs off the bed, but when she stood, the room seemed to tilt. So they had already decided her future for her? She grabbed the bed’s footboard and steadied herself. Now was not the time to get into that. “Okay,” she said. She had learned long ago that a soldier had to pick her battles. If Dig was coming, she had to get them all away from him. “Let’s go.”

  Hazel had changed into black jeans and she wore a knee-length black suede coat with a fur-lined hood. She was waiting in the hallway with a small leather backpack swung over one shoulder when Riley and Cole arrived pulling on the jackets they’d retrieved from the entry. Cole was still carrying the small, gym-bag-sized duffel she’d noticed when he appeared at her house.

  “You okay?” Hazel asked.

  “Yeah. I’m solid. We need to go.”

  “I know. The kitchen. Follow me.” Hazel turned and took off at a fast pace through the front living room. When she rounded the corner into another hallway, all the lights in the house went out.

  Riley reached her hand out in front of her, probing the blackness, trying to find the wall. So he’s here already, she thought, and she knew that she couldn’t lose anyone else to this madness of his. Her fingers touched the wallpapered surface. She found the door frame. Poking her head part way out into the hall, she peered into the darkness. Hazel, dressed in black as she was, had disappeared.

  “Hazel?” Riley whispered.

  “Down here.” Hazel’s stage whisper came from far down the hall.

  Riley blinked and squinted trying to make her out. A hand touched her sleeve and she jumped, whirled around, and slammed him against the wall, her forearm at his throat. Then she smelled the half briny, half musty smell of Cole’s foul weather jacket. She felt his breath on her face and the flip flops in her belly weren’t just from fear. She exhaled and put her finger to his lips to warn him to keep silent before she backed away. Damn she was jittery.

  They had to catch up with Hazel. Riley knew the house better than Cole. She took his hand in hers and pointed with her index finger on his palm in the direction of the kitchen out back. She could barely make out the outline of his body. It seemed to be taking forever for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  Cole rested a hand on her good shoulder, and she felt the room tilt again, and she knew it wasn’t the drugs this time. She wondered how she ever could have mistaken his touch for her brother’s.

  They started down the hall, their backs to the wall. Her eyes were growing more accustomed to the dark. Riley hoped Hazel was ahead of them, but she still saw no sign of her friend. Damn black clothes.

  She was about to risk a call out to Hazel again when the hand on her shoulder tensed. A cold draft. Riley felt it, too. Somewhere in the house a door or a window had opened and let in the sub-freezing air from outside. Riley was certain it wasn’t Hazel leaving without them. Besides, it had seemed to come from behind them. He was inside now.

  At the end of the hall, she could see a dim red glow from what she thought was the digital clock on the microwave oven.

  That it was Dig, she had no doubt. The man she had seen dancing over her father’s body wasn’t rational anymore — if he had ever been. She also knew that the government had trained him to be an effective killing machine. Now he was coming for her, and he wouldn’t care about collateral damage. She picked up the pace.

  Before they could reach the kitchen, they had to pass the open doors on either side of the hall that led to the dining room on one side, a drawing room on the other. Riley paused, her back to the wall. The drawing room had windows facing the street and from them a pool of pale light shone across the floor at the intersection. They would have to walk through it. Or run.

  She turned to Cole and signaled that they should run on the count of three. She grasped his hand. Holding up the fingers of her other hand, she counted down.

  Go! Riley heard the shot and the soft phhfft as it penetrated cloth. Cole! Was he hit? Oh God. She did not dare slow the pace. She gripped his hand tighter and she felt some small relief when he squeezed hers back. She knew that if he faltered, she would pull him, carry him if necessary.

  They made it through the kitchen door, then turned right and rounded the big butcher block center island. Riley strained to hear sound of footfalls behind them. Nothing. Her breathing was already rasping in her throat, and she could not hear a thing beyond the slap of their own shoes. Cole was keeping up with her. Maybe he hadn’t been hit? She was headed for the servants’ door to the kitchen that was out back, through the mud room.

  The scarf round her neck tightened so abruptly, her throat closed and her feet nearly flew out from under her. Her neck, already sore and bruised, burned as the scarf dug into the skin. She could not breathe. Cole continued past her, then almost dislocated her shoulder when he pulled up short. She nearly blacked out from the pain, but even so, she wanted to scream at him No, go on, let go of me. Get out of here!

  In less than a second, Riley regained her balance and whirled around, her hands coming up ready to strike. She would not let Dig get his hands on her again.

  “In here,” a voice whispered. She paused, her arm cocked back, ready to punch. In the darkness, Riley could make out Hazel standing in a recessed doorway holding the other end of her long scarf.

  Behind Hazel, a flight of stairs led downward. Jesus, she thought. She stopped herself from imagining what would have happened if she’d struck Hazel.

  Her friend motioned again for them to go down the stairs. Riley hesitated. She didn’t like the idea of being caught in a cellar. Then another shot whizzed past them, and she heard it hit the wall next to her head. Night-vision goggles, she thought. Of course. She sprinted down the stairs with Cole right behind her. Hazel slammed the heavy wood door, and Riley heard the bolt slam home. At the foot of the stairs, Hazel turned on a small penlight.

  Riley squeezed Cole’s hand. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He held up his duffel and Hazel shone the light on the small hole.

  “Thank God,” Riley said, throwing her arms around him. “I thought you’d been shot.”

  “Hey,” he said, his lips right next to her ear. “You keep this up and I might go back out there and let him have another try.”

  Riley released him and stepped back. She brushed her hands off on her jeans. “Don’t get your hopes up, Thatcher,” she said. “Just glad none of us is injured.”

  “Don’t even joke about going back out there. Not smart,” Hazel said to Cole. “I’ve seen enough of these obsessive nut cases. You, he’ll do quick.” She pointed at Riley with her thumb. “He wants to take his time with her.”

  “Enough chit chat, people,” Riley said, loosening the scarf round her neck. “He’s got us all cornered down here.”

  From the top of the stairs came a resounding crash. Then another.

  “And now he’s planning to beat a hole in the door,” Riley said. “Dammit, is there anything down here we can use for a weapon?”

  “No need. Over here.” Hazel led them down
a corridor between racks filled with wine bottles. The cellar was large, the air damp and cool, though not freezing. “This whole house used to be heated by coal. The old coal chute is back here.”

  The pounding continued from the top of the stairs, though it sounded more muffled when they reached the back wall.

  In the corner, Hazel shone the thin light on double doors that angled down from overhead. A big rusty barrel bolt held them closed on the inside.

  “Boost me up,” Riley said.

  Cole threaded his fingers together and bounced his eyebrows up and down. “Glad to be of service.”

  She put her sneaker in his hands. “You’d better not be enjoying any of this, Thatcher.”

  He grunted as he heaved her up. “Not a bit, ma’am. I promise.”

  She hit the bolt’s raised handle with the heel of her hand. It didn’t budge. She hit it again, hard enough to make Cole stagger. “Shit!” she said. “That hurt.”

  “Let me try,” Cole said.

  From the far side of the cellar, they heard a muffled gunshot. He was shooting at the door now to splinter the wood.

  “I’ll get it,” Riley said. She hit it again with the heel of her hand, biting her lower lip against the pain.

  Hazel appeared out of the dark with a magnum of champagne. “Try this,” she said.

  Riley grabbed the heavy bottle and tapped the bottom of it against the raised iron knob. After several tries, the bolt slid clear with a shriek.

  “Move me closer to the wall,” she told Cole. She pushed up and the wooden door rose and then fell open. When she scrambled out into the freezing night, sirens howled, not too far distant. She spun around and grabbed Hazel’s hand, then heard the sound of splintering wood. The pounding stopped.

  “Hurry,” Riley said as she boosted Hazel up. Cole followed her out and grabbed Riley’s hand. Hazel led them at a run across the stone terrace to some smaller brick buildings around the perimeter of the property. When they reached the shadows between two of the brick buildings, Hazel stopped and turned around to look back at her house. The sirens had reached the street in front of the house, and then shut off.