She swatted his hand away. “Town?” she said. “Submarine? Remember?”
He whirled on his heels and took off down the road, his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts, whistling the tune, “We’re Off To See The Wizard.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Scott’s Head Bay, Dominica
March 30, 2008
12:05 p.m.
When the colorful clapboard houses gave way to a few sundry shops, Riley knew they were in the “downtown” of Scott’s Head village. Another ten minutes of walking and they’d be through it. Ahead, she saw a couple of wood tables on the front porch of a house. When they got closer, she saw the sign Ma Bert’s Restaurant. She climbed the steps and knocked on the door frame.
“Hello?” she called out.
Cole stood in the street, his back to her, one hand on his hip. He was staring out at his boat.
From inside a voice sang out. “I be right with you.”
Seconds later a large woman emerged from the back of the house. As she passed down the hall, she filled the space with her bulk. Riley stood aside as she stepped through the doorway. She was wearing an orange plaid jumper over a bright yellow blouse and in the mid-morning sunlight, Riley squinted against the glare.
“Good afternoon,” the woman said. There was something off about her island accent. It didn’t sound quite real. “Would you like to eat?” She waved a hand with a flourish in the direction of the two empty wood tables.
“I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions for me.”
“All right.” The sing-song quality of the woman’s voice sounded too extreme.
“Have you lived here long?”
Little lines appeared between the woman’s eyebrows when she noticed the marks on Riley’s neck, but then she pasted the smile back on her face. “Yes,” she said drawing the word out. “Why do you ask?”
“We’re looking to talk to someone about something that happened here during the Second World War. In 1942.”
The woman reached for one of the laminated menus that rested on the table and she began to fan herself. “Do you mind if I sit down?” The sing-song quality to her voice was gone. It had lowered almost an octave and her accent now sounded more like the deep south than the islands. She eased herself into the chair.
Riley pulled out the other chair and sat across from her. She heard Cole cough several times out in the street.
“That’s better,” the woman said. “Whew! Nineteen forty-two. That’s a long time ago.” She stuck out her hand. “Eugenia Bert.”
Riley introduced herself and they shook. “It’s for this research project we’re doing,” she said.
The woman leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Did he do that to your face?”
Riley smiled. “No, it wasn’t him.”
“Well, that’s good then. As you can tell,” Eugenia continued, “I didn’t grow up here. My daddy was from Dominica, but I grew up in St. Mary’s, Georgia. Inherited this place. Tourists want the real thing, so I try, but this island life is getting to me.” She fanned herself harder. “What I wouldn’t give for a Big Mac.”
Riley heard a sigh from out in the street, and the woman sitting across from her glanced out at Cole’s back.
“Hmm. Not on island time, is he?”
Riley smiled and shrugged as if to say, you know men. “We are in a hurry, though. If you don’t know anyone —”
“Now, hold on. I didn’t say that. Everybody knows everybody round here.”
“So you can help me?”
“Sure. Hmm. Old timers. Start with the Charles family. They live up King Street here in the blue house with a plumeria tree out front. Name of the house is Parrot Perch. You’ll see the sign. Old Mr. Charles is in his eighties. Then, let’s see, there’s Mr. Jules, he’s the oldest, I believe. Lives right across the street from Mr. Charles. The two of them been friends a long time. No wait, I think I heard Mr. Jules married into that family after the war. His wife died just last year.”
Riley stood. “I’ll start with Mr. Charles. Thanks.” She backed her way off the porch while Eugenia kept throwing names her way.
“Then there’s the Shillingford family that lives up in the valley. Now don’t rush off. I don’t get many folks coming to visit.”
Riley said, “Sorry, we’ve got to go,” as she went down the steps.
“Come on,” Cole said when her feet hit the street. He took her hand and started off at a trot.
Over her shoulder Riley called out, “Thanks Ms. Bert. You’ve been a big help.”
After they had gone about fifty yards, she grabbed Cole’s arm and pointed to a sign. It read King Street. “Look. Turn up there.” On the side street, the incline increased. They slowed to a fast walk up the steep hill.
The houses were all painted bright colors and next to the door frames, some of the houses had signs with names. She read them out loud as they passed.
The electric blue house would have been difficult to miss. Again, the door stood open and Riley bounded up the stairs and knocked on the door frame. This time the man who came to the door had very dark black skin that contrasted with his close-cut gray hair. There was no doubt about the origin of his lilting voice. He nodded.
“How d’you do,” he said.
“Mr. Charles?”
“Yes, how may I help you?”
She felt Cole’s eyes on her back, so she jumped right in this time. “My partner and I are here on the island doing some research on a submarine that may have sunk in this area in the second world war. Did you live here at that time?”
“Ah. You must be looking for my father. I’m sorry. He’s in hospital in Rouseau at the moment.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. I was born here during the war, but I don’t remember it. Still, I haven’t heard about any submarines, and I’ve lived here for sixty-five years. I wish I could be of more help to you.”
“Thanks for your time.”
When she reached the street, Cole crossed his arms across his chest and said, “Is that it?”
She looked across the street at the yellow house, then up the street with houses that stretched for another quarter mile before giving way to the jungle on the side of the mountain. Hidden in the clouds above them was Dominica’s Soufriere volcano. She didn’t answer him. She understood his urgency, but she couldn’t explain it to him. James Thatcher had been so precise about everything else, he would not have sent them to search a five square mile area for a submarine. He wanted them in Scott’s Head, not Soufriere Bay. And Mikey did, too.
“Riley,” he said. “Priest has got access to satellites, for Pete’s sake. He can phone up to Washington and ask them to point the cameras at the islands to look for my boat. They’re probably en route from the Saintes while we’re wandering around town having tea with the locals. Come on.” He turned and started walking back down the hill.
Riley was about to follow him when she could have sworn she heard her brother’s voice. “Look,” he said.
At what? Across the street, a cat stood up and stretched on the porch of the tidy yellow house with a red tin roof. The house looked more like those in the Saintes with the neat whitewashed railing around the porch and the lacy gingerbread cornices where the roof supports met the eaves. Next to the open door was a hand painted sign. It said Le p’tit coco in bright green letters.
“Cole!” she called out. “Come here.”
He must have heard something in her voice. He stopped and retraced his steps. She had crossed the street and she now pointed up the porch steps at the sign. “Look. What do you think?”
“What?”
“The song in your dad’s journal. Le p’tit coco.”
“I don’t know, Riley.” He pointed down the hill to the dark blue waters of the bay. “My gut’s telling me the answer’s out there.”
And my brother is telling me to keep looking here, she thought. Riley climbed the steps. No one responded to he
r knock, but she heard voices around back. She descended the steps and waved at Cole to follow her on the dirt driveway that led alongside the house. As she neared the back, she heard a woman’s voice speaking in Dominica’s unique Creole patois.
“Hello?” she said.
The voices stopped.
When she came around the corner, she saw an old man sitting in a plastic chair just outside the back door of the cottage. He had a towel wrapped around his shoulders and a full head of straight, white hair. The old man’s features were Caucasian, but his skin was so dark and wrinkled from decades in the sun, his eyes were mere slits in the folds of skin. On his right cheek, a mottled red shape looked as though it might be melanoma. Next to him stood a lovely coffee-colored woman, a pair of scissors poised above the old man’s head.
“Excuse me,” Riley said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I’m looking for Mr. Jules?”
The young woman lowered her scissors and stared. When the old man tried to stand, she placed one hand on his shoulder, restraining him. She spoke to him so softly Riley couldn’t hear the words, then she said, “How may I help you?”
Riley heard Cole come up behind her. The old man’s eyes grew wider. They were a very pale shade of blue, perhaps made even lighter by cataracts. “This is my friend Cole and I’m Riley. We wondered,” she said, “if we could ask you a few questions about the history of Scott’s Head.”
The woman rested one hand on the old man’s shoulder. “My great-grandfather’s health is not good. It distresses him to speak with strangers.”
The old man pulled the towel off his shoulders and leaned forward to stand. This time when she tried to restrain him, he shook her off. Once on his feet, he stood hunched forward, teetering a bit. The woman grabbed a cane that rested against the back of the house and put it in his hand. She leaned down, and he whispered in her ear. She nodded, collected the towel and scissors and went into the house without another word. The old man indicated some chairs in the center of the yard.
“Please sit,” he said, then he stepped across the grass to the wooden chairs. Riley was surprised to hear his French accent.
When Cole approached, the man reached out and motioned for him to come closer. The old man pointed to the coin on the chain round Cole’s neck and said, “May I see it?”
Cole surprised Riley when he lifted the chain over his head and passed the French Angel coin to the old man. He turned the gold piece over, held it close to his eyes and carefully examined both sides. When he looked up, he was smiling. He handed the coin back to Cole.
“Welcome,” the old man said. “I’ve been waiting for you. Your father said you would come.” He stretched out his thin, boney hand. “My real name is Henri Michaut.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Îles des Saintes
March 30, 2008
12:15 p.m.
It was another bitch of a hot day and Spyder’s fucking head was killing him. He’d managed to swipe a wallet out of a tourist’s beach bag yesterday, and he’d used the hundred euros he’d found inside to score some weed from the French wannabe Rastas with their blond dreads who hung out on the town beach. They’d passed around their jug of rum, too. It was some kind of island-made shit. Even the last doobie he smoked when he got up this morning hadn’t made the steel spikes in his brain go away. The Polaroid glasses he’d found on the boat were too big, and they did a lousy job of keeping out the sun’s glare. Spyder was getting sick and tired of hauling his ass up this hill and over to Marigot Bay to check on the fucking boats. They had the GPS tracker inside the bitch’s oars, but that asshole Thor wanted a phoned-in visual report on all three boats twice a day. He lit a cigarette, drew in a lungful of smoke, and blew it out through his nostrils. He woke up late this morning and dashed ashore to try to make his midday report. Didn’t matter. Nothing never changed.
Spyder reached the small dock and walked out to the end where he could see beyond the fishermen’s boats that were moored close in to shore. He saw the big white yacht that had entered the bay the day before — but the two boats he was supposed to be watching were gone.
“Shit,” he said, throwing the smoldering butt of his cigarette into the water. He ran off the dock and hurried farther down the beach for a better look into all the coves around the bay, but the change in vantage point did not change the facts. The doc and the bitch had got back to the island somehow and now they were gone.
Spyder turned around and started to run.
The inflatable dinghy was where Spyder had left it tied up at the town dock. He stepped into the boat, untied the painter, and yanked the cord to start the engine. He revved the engine and turned to round the big ferry boat at the end of the dock. That was when he saw the sleek, black Donzi tied alongside Fish n’ Chicks.
“Fuck,” he said aloud as he throttled back on the outboard. An ocean racing boat like that could only mean one thing. That asshole Thor or one of his goons was here. If it was Thor, he’d like to see what his face looked like after docking that sucker. Boat’s name was Fast Eddie and he could believe that baby was fast with her twin Merc sterndrives. Whoever came on that boat was already aboard Fish n’ Chicks and Pinky was in there, too. Much as Spyder wanted to turn around and wait ’til somebody left, he figured he couldn’t do that to his brother.
Spyder cut the engine and glided alongside the swim step. After tying up the dinghy, he climbed up to the aft deck. When he slid open the door to the main salon, he was already thinking that whoever it was should have money, and maybe he could get a cold beer.
Thor was sitting on the couch with his arms spread on either side atop the cushions. His hair was messed up and his face looked a little white, so Spyder figured he’d driven the boat over from the big island on his own. He was lucky he made it. The dude was dressed like one of those guys in the ads for fancy watches that cost as much as a good boat. When Spyder came through the door, Thor lifted his left wrist and glanced at his own fancy watch.
Pinky stood in the galley holding a towel to the side of his face. Towel looked like it was full of ice cubes, and the skin under the towel was bright pink. His brother wouldn’t meet his eyes.
On the low glass coffee table in front of Thor he saw the black GPS box. The screen glowed blue, but Thor’s eyes were on him, not the screen.
“Nice boat you got out there,” Spyder said. “That your boat or a charter? You drive that here all by yourself?”
Thor crossed his legs and there wasn’t but one wrinkle on his pants – the crease straight down the front. For a minute Spyder wondered what Thor had looked like driving that black Donzi across the channel. Bet he almost crapped his fancy fuckin’ pants.
“Were you born a complete moron or did your mother drop you on your head?”
“What the –”
“Shut up. That was a rhetorical question. One only need look at your brother to know the answer. So, both boats are gone?” Thor asked.
Spyder nodded. He wanted more than anything to smash his fist into the asshole’s face, but this asshole owed him money, and Spyder knew from experience that men had a tendency not to pay after you hit them.
“I assumed as much. Half the day is gone, and you are just now returning with this news. You have no idea when they left, I assume.”
“Hey, you didn’t say we had to sit up all fucking night watching ‘em. We checked yesterday before dark and they was both there.”
Thor leaned forward and adjusted the screen on his GPS tracker. “We know she’s down at the south end of Dominica. Odds are he is, too.” He snapped the lid of the box closed and stood. “Let’s get moving.”
Spyder stood his ground in the middle of the salon. “We ain’t going nowhere 'til we see some money,” he said.
Thor stepped out from behind the table and faced Spyder. “You are going to do what I tell you to do.”
“Hey man, it’s been four days since we bought that last food. It’s gone. We got no food, no beer, and none of your fancy wine neither. Boat’s g
onna need both fuel and water. Me and my brother been working for you and your friends for more than a week now, and we ain’t been paid nothing. ‘Fore you go telling us what to do, you got to pony up, man.”
“Working?” Thor looked around the salon. A pair of jeans lay across the glass coffee table next to the GPS tracker, the ashtrays overflowed, and the galley countertops were invisible beneath the double layer of dirty dishes. “This boat looks like a garbage dump and judging from the smell in here, you’ve spent all your money on illegal drugs. I don’t pay for that kind of stupidity.”
“Fuck you,” Spyder yelled. “I ain’t stupid and I ain’t your boat nigger.” Asshole could do his own work. Spyder headed for the sliding glass door.
He had no warning before something slammed into the back of his head. His knees buckled. He sprawled face first onto the carpet. Before he really understood what was happening, Thor’s fancy loafer slammed into his kidney. Spyder tried to yell fuck you again, but all that came out was another “ugh” as air was forced from his mouth by another kick. Spittle slid down his chin dripping onto the carpet. He started to push himself up onto his knees, when he felt hands come from behind and close around his neck. The hands yanked him up, straightening his back, though he was still on his knees.
Spyder had a perfect view out the glass door, blue water and white yachts, dark birds circling the sky. He had no air in him and those hands had cut off any hope of getting more. He struggled at first, flailing his arms, trying to strike at the body behind him, the body attached to the hands that now held his life in their iron grip. As he grew weaker he focused on those birds, vultures probably, circling over some dead thing. Flying away like he wished –
Then, he heard a thunderous bang and the hands released his throat as Thor was flung sideways. He heard the crash when Thor hit the glass coffee table, knocking it off the stand and shattering the glass. Then it was quiet except for the sound Spyder made as he gasped for air, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. Over and above the noise of his own breathing, he heard a click. Followed by another click.
Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller Page 37
