Even if there had been vehicular traffic on the Coast Road on this Sunday, it could not have gotten through; nothing could have moved the throng that stood staring in horrified fascination at the smoldering equipment, but the crowd parted to let her through and then closed itself behind her. She spied the police chief, in full uniform, deep in conversation with Roland Charles and David Messinger. Carole Ann took a deep breath and, resigned to the destruction of her shoes, waded through the muddy ash underfoot toward them. But when she reached them, she found herself speechless. Helpless.
“We don’t know for sure if it’s Francois,” Messinger said when he realized that she would not speak first.
“Has anybody been ruled out?” she asked, “Remy...”
Yvette Casson shook her head back and forth. “Definitely not Remy. He was here all night. I had somebody take him home and stay with him. He burned his hands trying to salvage the...the...I’ve been thinking of it as a dinosaur...”
“Backhoe,” Carole Ann said dully. “It’s a backhoe. It was a backhoe. Toussaint Remy brought it back to life.”
David Messinger cleared his throat and Carole Ann looked up at him— he was a tall, thin man with a head full of still mostly brown hair. He clinched an empty pipe between his teeth and managed to talk around it, as pipe smokers somehow did. “All the officers are out canvassing. Maybe somebody saw somebody on the road, heard something...”
“And what if they did?” Carole Ann asked, her tone of voice as dull as her spirit. “What good would it do at this point?” She wanted to scream. For the first time in her adult life she didn’t care about right or wrong or any component of justice. It didn’t matter if somebody could be charged with the crime of destroying the backhoe and the dump truck or with the death— the murder— of whoever it was who was burned beyond recognition. The only thing that mattered was that the road would not be finished on time. And the fact that whoever was dead was somebody she knew and liked.
David Messinger interrupted her thoughts. “I asked who knew that you would be away for the weekend and that the crew would be working?”
She considered the question: Quite a few people had known of her plans to leave the island for the weekend. It had not been a secret. ”What do you mean the crew worked this weekend? Who worked? Doing what?” Something cold slithered down her spine and she shivered in the heat. The three of them stared at her. Their looks were briefly accusing, then disbelieving, before finally settling on confusing; and all three wore the same expression, as if programmed by some diabolical computer meister. David Messenger and Yvette Casson began speaking simultaneously but Roland Charles, in an uncharacteristically raised voice, overrode them both.
“Do you mean say that you didn’t order the men to work on the road Saturday and Sunday? They were not working under your orders?”
“Certainly not,” Carole Ann snapped. “There was no need for that.” Nor was there a need for her anger or even for remorse or regret. No emotional reaction could alter the reality of the scene before her. Every sense was bombarded with the awfulness of the truth. “I assume that Philippe knows?”
Once again, they all responded as if directed. All three nodded assent and their shoulders sagged, as if suddenly weighted down with the burdens of the president, but it was Messinger who spoke. “You only just missed him. He was out here fighting the fire along with every other able-bodied person who cared enough to get out of bed to come see what the trouble was. He was sweating and cursing and crying just like every other islander who was watching the flames kill their dreams.”
Roland Charles squared his shoulders and sucked in his pot belly and Carole Ann noticed that he was wearing jeans and a tee shirt and sneakers. She wouldn’t have thought that he owned such casual attire but, as usual, there was nothing casual or informal about his demeanor. “The flames have killed nothing, Monsieur,” he retorted stiffly. “This is a tragic accident that will result in nothing more than a temporary set-back. These men do not yet know how to use such sophisticated equipment, so we must teach them, in order to prevent further mishaps. And, of course, we must impose a punishment for the unauthorized use of government equipment...”
“Accident?” Carole Ann’s eyes bored into Yvette Casson. “I thought you told me—”
David Messinger put a hand on her arm. “Philippe is waiting for us back at Government House. I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind, so Yvette doesn’t have to take me.” Then he turned to Roland Charles and touched his arm, too. “I know how upsetting this must be to you. My people will give you every assistance, beginning with keeping the on-lookers out of your way.” And as he spoke, he dipped his head toward the milling crowd that now was within touching distance of the backhoe. Yvette scurried away. Roland Charles thanked Messinger and shook his hand and the security minister loped off down the road toward Carole Ann’s Jeep. She followed, her shoes squishing with every step, wondering why the cops wanted the interior minister to think that the destruction of his equipment had been an accident. And she wondered about a few other things as well, like what the hell Paul Francois was doing digging on the road on a Saturday!
“Your place or mine?” David Messinger said once the Jeep was turned around and Carole Ann had managed to inch her way through the still milling crowd on the Coast Road.
Carole Ann was driving slowly enough that she could turn her attention away from the road and toward her passenger and she gave him “the look,” the one that successfully unnerved most average human beings, Jake Graham being the notable exception. David Messinger had been a cop for a long time in one of America’s toughest cities, but he blanched, even if only slightly. “Philippe’s not expecting us.” It was not a question.
He shook his head. “I wanted to get you away from Charles before you spilled the beans. And why don’t we make it your place, since you obviously need to change you shoes.”
She clenched her teeth and swallowed the angry retort that had started out of her mouth. Jake had specifically asked her to be nice to the new minister and police chief. New! She had to remind herself that Messinger and Casson had been on the island less than a week, and already were confronted with at least two major crimes that strongly were resembling class one felonies. “Why don’t you want Roland to know this wasn’t an accident?” she asked, and hoped that she sounded considerably more conciliatory than she felt.
“I don’t want anyone to know,” he replied quickly. “Not even Philippe. Not yet. This island is too small to have people walking around talking about arson and murder.”
She downshifted and turned toward her head toward him. “Are you sure that’s what it is?”
“I’m sure,” he answered and, after offering the caveat that he was no expert fire investigator, he proceeded to offer a very expert-sounding assessment of burn patterns on trees and grass, and of the properties of different kinds of accelerants, and melt-down. “Can you park behind your house?” he asked as they reached the Coast Road split. “I’d just as soon you not advertise your presence.”
“Dammit, David, the whole island knows I’m back,” she snarled.
“And they all think you’ve gone to a meeting with Philippe. If they don’t see the Jeep at Government House, they’ll think you’re at his home, and if they don’t see the Jeep at his home, they’ll think you’re at Government House.”
Without further response she turned the Jeep into the narrow lane that led to the rear of the house she called home. She only been back here once, just to see where it was and how it was accessed, as part of her security check with Harold Collins. The density of the foliage would prevent the vehicle from being readily noticed— reason enough for her to park here instead of on the street, Harold had argued. She had ignored him and his advice and, as she hoisted her carry-all out of the back seat and followed David Messinger up the path, past the lap pool, and into the courtyard, she knew that she’d park here from now on.
She stepped out of the muddy sandals on the porch and unlocked th
e door, entering first and disarming the security pad. She told Messinger to make himself at home and she left him in the kitchen and padded barefoot down the hall, first to her bedroom, where she dumped her carry-all in the closet and slipped her feet into a pair of loafers, and then into the office, where she placed a call to Jake. He wasn’t at the office and she sighed in relief at the sound of Grace Graham’s voice on the home answering machine asking callers to leave a message. She did, saying she’d call later. She knew he’d cuss at her later for not calling him on his cellular phone, but she didn’t have enough energy to talk to Jake at the moment. She also didn’t have enough information.
“I took you at your word,” David Messinger said when she returned to the kitchen. He had found bacon and eggs and bread and butter and cheese in the refrigerator. The bacon was sizzling in a frying pan and he was measuring coffee into a filter. “I’ve been up and running since three and I’m starving.”
“Of course,” Carole Ann said, sounding as genuinely apologetic as she felt. “If you’d like to shower while I finish in here—”
The tired grin on his face was his answer. he directed him to one of the guest bedrooms and told him where to find soap and towels and the stash of clothes that she assumed once belonged to Henri LeRoi. Then she busied herself preparing a breakfast that she realized her stomach would welcome, too.
She was on her second cup of coffee when Messinger re-appeared, clad in a khaki shirt and slacks that seemed to fit him perfectly. They ate in silence, devouring everything. Messinger helped himself to fruit and, while he was peeling a mango, filled her in on the events of early that morning, beginning with the call to the police station that was logged in at seven minutes past three.
“But here’s the thing that’s really bothering me in all this,” he said, peeling a second mango.
“You mean arson and murder don’t really bother you,” you said drily.
“Jake said you were funny, but that I shouldn’t encourage you by laughing,” he said, not laughing and cutting a piece of the mango and popping it into his mouth. “Here’s the thing,” he said when he finished chewing. “Old man Remy said that Francois made them bring all the equipment back to the main road when they got finished on Saturday. Normally, he said, they leave the ‘hoe and ‘dozer inside and drive the truck out, just so they don’t have to walk out, and then back in the next day. But on Saturday, Francois insisted that they bring everything out.”
Carole Ann watched him, waiting.
He watched her, waiting.
“Well?” he asked, after a long moment.
“Well what?” she demanded.
“Was Francois the kind of man who did illogical things?”
“Don’t speak of him in the past tense. Maybe is wasn’t him.”
“It was him,” Messinger replied, showing a flash of irritation. “Im sorry, but it was him. Now, was he?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“So, if he insisted on moving that equipment back to the road, it means that either he set it up to be sabotaged—”
“I don’t believe that,” Carole Ann replied coldly “and I trust you have a good reason for making such an accusation?”
“...OR,” Messinger continued with exaggerated emphasis on the word, implicitly excusing her interruption of him, “there was something down that road that made him nervous. There was a reason that he didn’t trust leaving the equipment in the forest.”
They sat looking at each other for a moment; then they sat not looking at each other for a longer moment while each pondered the possibilities inherent in that bit of speculation. Carole Ann also was wondering not only how to tell Jake what had happened, but what to tell him, and when. She could not, she knew, just tell him that “somebody destroyed the construction equipment and killed the construction foreman in the process.” Yet, in truth, that was all she knew, all she could tell him. And it wasn’t nearly enough. Of course she could report that the law enforcement system that he had developed was working quite efficiently, given such an extraordinary early test.
“Where are your cops?”
He looked at her through narrowed eyes, then looked at his watch, then told her where each of the ten cops was at that moment. She stood up, walked around the counter to where he was straddling the stool, and looked down at his feet. He was wearing slippers. “Were those the only shoes you could find?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see what’s down the new cut road and if whatever it is requires that we haul ass outta there, you won’t get very far in those cute little slippers.”
He stood up abruptly, causing the stool to slide and teeter before righting itself, and muttered something under his breath. “Do you have a weapon?” he demanded.
“Do I...what?” she sputtered.
“A gun!” he snapped. “Do you have one? Do you know how to use one?”
“Why?” she shot back at him.
“Because,” he replied with a wintry grin that resembled something borrowed from a Halloween skeleton. Or from Jake Graham. “Nothing makes me haul ass outta nowhere except an asshole with a gun, and if there’s an asshole with a gun down the new cut road, there oughta be two mean sons of bitches with guns ready to give him something to run from. If you get my drift.”
Carole Ann looked at him evilly from beneath hooded eyelids. “I hate cops,” she muttered, striding from the kitchen down the hallway to the office, where her gun was locked in the desk drawer. The sound of his laughter pursued her. No wonder Jake liked him. They were just alike. Messinger was taller and older but they were the same. Cops! She cursed them while she changed clothes, necessitated by the fact that the damn gun— which she hated anyway— wouldn’t fit in the pocket or in the waist band of the slacks she wore. It did fit nicely, however, in the deep pocket of the navy cargo pants that she tucked into the tops of the leather work boots which she carefully and tightly laced. If hauling ass indeed were to be part of her afternoon, she’d just as soon be comfortable. She pulled an Atlanta Braves baseball cap snugly down on her head, grabbed her sunglasses and keys, and hurried down the hall to the kitchen.
She stopped short at the sight that greeted her there: David Messinger in full combat attire and her mouth fell open.
“You really didn’t know this stuff was here, did you?” he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice. “How could you live in a house and not explore its contents?”
“Snooping is not exploring,” she said coldly. “I’m a guest here, David, this isn’t my house. I looked around when I arrived, and I knew there were clothes and other personal items scattered about in closets and drawers, but I didn’t look in every drawer or check in every closet.” She felt defensive and didn’t like the feeling. She also didn’t like knowing that, apparently, there was a full store of military apparel somewhere in the house. “Besides,” she said, regaining her composure, “you look a trifle over-dressed. After all, we’re just going for a stroll down a new cut road, not to overthrow a government.”
The charred hulks stood sadly alone when they arrived back at the construction site, the bright sun high overhead in the cloudless blue sky seeming to mock the burnt-out patch of ugliness in the forest paradise. The birds and forest creatures had resumed their singing and chattering, and the sea breeze had blown away the acrid scent of smoke and molten rubber. Carole Ann pulled the Jeep off the road and into the brush just north of the site, so that it was not visible from the road. The foliage was dense enough that she didn’t have to drive in very far, and she was grateful for that; she’d been struggling since they left with the very idea of driving or hiking into an unknown forest. The last time she’d done such a thing, it was dark and frigid and her mission had been to rescue the kidnapped wife of Jake Graham. She’d been terrified then. She was somewhat less than terrified now, feeling more anger and sadness at the potential long-term implications of the current mission. She locked the truck and pocketed the keys and they walked back down the road, sticking closer to
the forest than to the road in an unspoken agreement that it would be better if they were not observed.
The mud at the site entrance was three or four inches deep and beginning to harden in the sun, and the area was a gash, an open, ugly wound, and no longer the clean beginning of something new and potentially wonderful. Carole Ann inhaled deeply and followed David Messinger through the mire and into the forest. Several yards in, the road became a smooth swath; the fire had been halted at this point and there was no mud, no ash, no scorched foliage. It was dark and cool within the forest, and silent, because they were traversing the hard pack of a new cut, Carole Ann and David made no sound as they moved forward. He moved quickly but cautiously, looking around, stopping and listening, moving forward rapidly again, before stopping again and listening and peering into the woods on either side. Carole Ann followed his lead, emulated his caution, and marveled at both the amount and the quality of work the dedicated crew had accomplished in so short a time. We would have finished before the bad weather, she thought, and the anger and sadness welled up and threatened to spill over.
She slowed her pace, keeping Messinger in sight but falling behind. She was wondering how this project could be salvaged, wondering whether the Isle de Paix government could afford the extravagance of importing excavation equipment, when Messinger stiffened and stopped, unholstered his weapon, and dropped into a crouch. Carole Ann instinctively followed suit. The gun was familiar in her hand. So was the sensation that was a fear-fueled adrenaline rush combined with excitement. She eased off the road and into the edge of the forest and, in a duck-walking crouch, inched forward. Messinger had relaxed his stance and was standing upright by the time she reached him. His face was incredulous and surprised and he was shaking his head back and forth, either in disbelief or dismay—she wasn’t sure which. And he whispered, “holy shit” over and over.
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