On Fire(23)

"I suppose you heard about the fire at Sam's house last night. This is all..." She faltered.

"It feels as if everything's spinning out of control."

"Maybe it is."

She shot him a look.

"You're no comfort."

"I've been told that a lot. Your brother blames Emile for your father's death. Do you?"

"I try not to think about it." Her voice was quiet and sincere, all coolness gone.

"No one can fault Emile for his dedication to his work. Without him,  this center never would have come to fruition. My father had money and a  passion for oceanography, but not Emile's vision or expertise--or sheer  energy. He and my father had so many, many good days. That's what I  prefer to remember."

"You're dedicated to the center," Straker said.

She smiled, her eyes warming.

"Yes. Henry and I share the same vision.

My father and Emile were very old school. They didn't oppose our  ideas--they were simply indifferent. With so much competition for  people's time and money. Henry and I are convinced we need to increase  the center's visibility, give it more life, more spice. We must do more  to reach out to the public. My father was satisfied with a stodgy  quarterly newsletter. That's not enough these days. "

"Sounds as if you two have a lot of plans for the future."

"That's been the one bright note in this otherwise dreadful year."

"What about Sam Cassain?"

Her eyes narrowed; the coolness returned.

"Sam's death has nothing to do with the center or my family." She frowned, looking past Straker.

"Here comes Henry. He's not very happy with you."

Henry Armistead edged in between them, touching Abigail's arm.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, but I was delayed."

"Oh, it's no trouble. Henry." She smiled awkwardly.

"Do you know John Straker?"

Armistead's manner changed.

"I certainly know of him." He gave Straker a frosty, pursed-lip once-over.

"I asked security not to allow you onto the premises. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about our public spaces."

The fine drizzle had turned to a light rain that collected on his gray  hair. Like Abigail, he had an overcoat, a briefcase and an umbrella,  which he didn't unfurl.

Straker had on a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes. He didn't care about a little rain.

"So I'm persona non grata because I fed a few sharks under false pretenses?"

"There was last night in Louisburg Square as well," Henry said.

"I'll be straightforward with you. I was in favor of calling the police.  I'd already heard about your intrusion earlier in the day here at the  center." He tilted his head back slightly.

"I simply will not tolerate having someone on my staff stalked."

Straker frowned. Stalked?

"I understand you're with the bureau. You were shot earlier in the year while apprehending a federal fugitive."

The bureau. He liked that.

"I'm on leave."

"You're an expert on domestic terrorism, correct?"

"Nan. I just catch regular old bad guys."

"That's not what I hear. Well, I expect the stress of your work coupled  with your long recovery and self-imposed isolation have taken their  toll. It's on that basis that I'm giving you another chance."

"Another chance for what?"

The older man squared his shoulders and took in a breath. He was  supercilious and commanding, but Straker could see Henry Armistead  wasn't sure he wanted to be telling a nutty FBI agent to buzz off.

"Riley doesn't want you here."

"Riley?"

"If you're keeping watch on her, for any reason, it's without her  consent. That makes you a stalker, or, to put it more kindly, a  potential stalker."                       
       
           



       

"She told you I was stalking her," Straker said.

"That was the implication, yes."

He should have left Riley St. Joe out on her kayak in the middle of the North Atlantic all those years ago.

Spots of color formed high on Abigail's cheeks. She hadn't popped her  umbrella, and the drizzle, heavier now, was matting down her fair hair.

"Henry," she said.

"I'm almost finished." Armistead straightened, whipped open his umbrella and held it over her. He turned back to Straker.

"We've been enduring a media assault all morning thanks to the arson  fire at Captain Cassain's house last night. Kids, I suspect. They  probably heard he'd died and decided his house was fair game. In any  case, I have no desire to compound my problems by taking this matter  with you any further. I can count on your cooperation?"

Straker got the picture. If he showed his face at the center again, it  was off to the clink with him as a wounded FBI agent who'd lost his  grip.

"No problem," he said without expression. His fight wasn't with Armistead. It was with Riley.

Armistead politely, but coldly, excused himself, took Abigail by the arm  and escorted her across the plaza. She didn't say a word. Straker found  a pay phone in the garage, dialed the center's switchboard and had them  put him through to Riley's office. "That kiss last night must have  frustrated you more than I realized."

"What?"

"You're trying to buy time, St. Joe. It won't work, not with me.

You're not weaseling out of this one. You told Armistead I'm stalking you. Now he's barred me from the premises. "

"Stalking? I have no idea what you're talking about."

She wasn't going to come clean. Straker clenched the phone. He was  losing objectivity. Control. All he wanted to do was march up to her  office, grab her and finish what they'd started last night. That was  where this stalking nonsense had come from. She knew what the score was  between him and her, and she'd panicked.

He had to act, and he had to act now. Too much was at stake. He needed  his mind back. He needed to be able to sit and calmly, objectively, put  the pieces together.

"All right," he said.

"Have it your way. If you end up with your ass in a sling, it's your own damned fault. I'm out of here."

"Wait--where are you going?"

He hung up. Screw it. He didn't answer to Riley St. Joe.

He got his car out of the garage, paid full price for parking because he  didn't have her with him to get the discount, and negotiated the  narrow, busy streets to get on 1-93 North. He wasn't leaving much at  Riley's place. His toothbrush and razor, a couple of changes of clothes.  Nothing he couldn't replace.

Camden was about four hours north. He'd stop in for a word with Mara St. Joe and Sig St. Joe-Granger, and after that, he'd see.

Riley stuffed what work she could into her leather tote. She was just  grabbing files and reports, dumping them blindly into her bag as she  fought back her sense of frustration and humiliation. How could she have  been such a coward?

She had let Henry Armistead maneuver her into implying that Straker was  stalking her. Now Straker was furious with her. Henry still had his  doubts, and she was supposed to lie low for a few days, even at the risk  of letting her work pile up.

First thing that morning. Henry had popped into her office, paced in  front of her desk. There wasn't much room, but he'd been agitated,  troubled by the terrible position he--or more important, the center--was  in.

"It's not your fault you found Sam's body," he'd told her.

"But with the media attention and the police scrutiny, I think we'd all  be better off if you kept a low profile for a few days. Relax this  weekend. Take Monday off. Then let's see where we are."

"Henry, I'm already backed up" -- "We can't have John Straker skulking  around. I know you can't help it that he was on the island when you  found Captain Cassain.

Nevertheless. " He sighed.

"You know what I'm saying."

"You're saying I inflicted him on the center."

"He's unpredictable, a loose cannon if you will. If you take a few days  off and let the authorities figure out what's going on, perhaps he'll go  back to Maine. That would be best for all of us."

Riley could understand his frustration and anxiety. The job of executive  director of an oceanographic research institution, while never easy,  wasn't supposed to include things like suspicious deaths, fires and FBI  agents lurking on the premises.                       
       
           



       

"I don't have any control over what Straker does," she'd said.

"And I don't think what I do or don't do should be dependent on him."

Henry rubbed the back of his neck as if he were in pain.

"Riley... I can't risk another incident like last night. Give this some time."

"You mean you can't risk alienating the Grangers."

He lost patience.

"Of course I can't risk it!"

"I'm not responsible for what John Straker does," she said.