On Fire(30)

"Look, we were just speculating about Sam and any proof. We were talking  through our hats. There's no way to find out what really happened  unless we raise the Encounter's engine and have it analyzed.

We all might have to learn to live with uncertainty. We'll probably never know the truth. "

Sig didn't respond.

The wind gusted against the closed window. Riley imagined Straker alone  on his island, felt a stab of pain as she interpreted her sister's  silence, what she was thinking but not saying.

Suddenly hot and restless, she threw off a quilt. It was so damned dark,  so quiet. Her sister's silence almost took on a life of its own.

"My God." Riley's voice croaked. She cleared her throat, licked dry  lips. Suddenly Sig's behavior in recent months. Mart's behavior, her  sister's decision to come up here to Emile's made sense. The pieces came  together.

"Sig, do you think Matt and Sam were working together to bring up the  Encounter's engine?" "I don't know. It's at least a possibility."

"Sig."

"I can't..." Her words were slurred, exhausted.

"I can't think about this anymore tonight."

Riley was wide-awake now. She wanted to drag her sister downstairs, put  on a pot of coffee and work out the dozen different scenarios running  loose in her brain. Sort through them one by one. Come up with a plan of  action.

But she forced herself to say, "It's okay. Get some sleep. We'll figure this out in the morning."

"I can feel the babies moving," Sig murmured.

Riley smiled, but she had to struggle to hold back her own tears. If Sam  and Matt had been working together, then Mart's involvement was even  deeper and more serious than she'd anticipated. He wasn't just latching  on to Emile's disappearance, Straker, herself--he'd been involved before  Sam Cassain's body turned up on Labreque Island.

She wondered if Special Agent Straker suspected anything. No reading  that particular mind. Instead she concentrated on the wind, the ocean  and the sound of her sister's breathing as she finally slept.

In the morning, it was as if their conversation had never taken place.

Sig refused to discuss the possibility of Matt financing or otherwise working with Sam Cassain.

"I was hormonal," she said.

"I have no idea what Matt's up to."

She likewise refused to return to Camden, and Riley gave up, agreeing to  Sig's suggestion they begin their search for their grandfather, or his  trail, on the nature preserve. It was a stunning day. The acres of  blueberry fields, bog, forest, sand, rock and coastline helped restore  their spirits and energy. They set off along the shoreline, following  trails, guiltily enjoying the peace and beauty of this beautiful stretch  of New England coast.

But they didn't find Emile or any sign of him, so they drove into the  pretty village of Winter Harbor for chowder. After lunch, they stopped  in to see Lou Dorrman, who told them to go home.

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Sig said.

Riley sighed.

"It feels like busywork, doesn't it?"

"That's why your sweetie Straker left us to it."

"He's a snake in the grass."

"No, he's just better at this sort of thing than you are, which I know  you hate to admit. You rescue dolphins and whales. He catches bad guys."

"We have nothing in common," Riley said.

Sig gave a wicked grin.

"That's part of the fun."

They dragged out Emile's old two-seater kayak and, Riley in front, Sig  in back, paddled around the quiet, sparkling bay, visiting all their old  haunts-except Labreque Island. That Riley deliberately avoided.

But the nostalgia was too much for Sig, the peninsula packed with too  many memories, too many triggers, and she started crying again.

Riley bit her tongue and said nothing, simply kept paddling. She  couldn't swoop in to Sig's rescue. This was her hell, and it was  ultimately why, Riley realized, her sister had come up here. Sig had to  confront her demons and crawl, fight, scream, do whatever she had to do  to free herself of their grip. Riley understood. It was one of the  reasons she'd extended her weekend to come here herself. It was why  she'd kayaked alone to Labreque Island.                       
       
           



       

"This is ridiculous," Sig moaned, sympathetic. "

She swore, a long, colorful string of curse words that had her sounding  more like her old self. Devil- may-care, say-anything, do-anything Sig  St. Joe, who'd never cared about Matt Granger's money or Harvard  education or family traditions, who'd just married him because she loved  him. Never mind that she was almost five months pregnant with twins,  that however much she'd loved Matt and still did, it might not be  enough, she would endure, survive, thrive.

When she finished, Riley smiled.

"Gee, Sig, that's two dollars for your mason jar."

"Two and a quarter," she said.

"Feel better?"

"Much. I am going to quit swearing, though. I won't be a fbulmouthed mother."

"You're going to be a wonderful mother. May I make a suggestion? I say  we have fishermen's platters for supper and a powwow tonight by the  fire." Riley dipped her paddle into the shallow water, close to shore.

Out ahead, the pink granite of Cadillac Mountain, the jewel of Mount  Desert Island and Acadia National Park, stood out against a clear blue  sky.

"We need a Plan 5."

"I agree," Sig said.

"Just don't think you're sharing my platter. You can order your own."

Ten -^ ^

Otraker tied his boat up at Emile's dock. It was early evening, the sun  low in the sky, the air cool and breezy. He had made up his mind to have  a sensible conversation with the St. Joe sisters, but when he walked up  to Emile's cottage, their car was gone.

He was not relieved. He knew they hadn't gone back to Camden. They were determined to find their grandfather.

He'd spotted them kayaking on the bay earlier in the afternoon, probably  seeing if they could pick up Emile's trail. He doubted they'd  accomplished any more than he had, which had its own set of dangers.

Sitting idle, he imagined, was not something either sister did well.

Nor did he. Yet his own idleness had served its purpose. He'd spent the  morning on the rocks where Riley had found Sam Cassain's body.

He'd sat on a boulder and listened to the wind and the tide, and he'd  relaxed his mind, stopped fighting the questions and frustrations and  temptations.

Had he missed something?

That was the question that washed over him again and again. Somehow,  some way, Sam Cassain's body had ended up on Labreque Island while he,  an experienced FBI agent, was there. Had he missed a noise, a light, a  movement he didn't remember-something from the moment the body was  delivered onto the island?

Emile was right. The currents, happenstance, hadn't washed Cassain  ashore. Someone had brought him there. His murderer; someone who'd found  him dead and panicked; someone who'd made a cold, calculated decision  to take his body to the island to embarrass Emile or throw suspicion on  him.

Cassain drowned.

Yes. He'd drowned. After taking a hit on the head. The hit wasn't an  accident. He could have fallen in the water; someone could have pushed  him; someone could have found him there, already dead, and chosen not to  be the one to explain his death to the authorities.

No specific scenario had come to Straker as he'd sat out on the rocks.

He had no answers, no solutions, no deep insights to offer, simply a  clear sense of resolve. Sam Cassain's death, the placement of his body  on Labreque Island, had been a violation of Straker's six months there,  maybe of the island itself. It was time to put things right.

That afternoon, he'd found his father and a few other lobster men at one  of the lobster pounds. They had no illusions he'd come out just to  chat. They teased him about giving up the FBI to catch lobster, asked  unsuccessfully to see the scars from his bullet wounds, reminded him of  various close encounters he'd had with the law before becoming a  "lawman" himself. Like he was Wyatt Earp. Without much subtlety he'd  steered their talk to the days prior to Sam Cassain's body turning up on  the island. Cassain was another seaman, and they took his death  personally, knew all about the burning and sinking of the En counter,  the deaths of the crew and philanthropist Bennett Granger.

Several of them, including Straker's father, had known Bennett from his  decades of summers on Mount Desert Island to the south and his long  collaboration with Emile.

And what emerged from their talk had Straker here now, standing in  Emile's dirt driveway. One of the lobster men an old man, older even  than Emile, had seen the Granger yacht on the bay early in the week.                       
       
           



       

"It was the small one," he'd said, "not the big one. I think it's the son's boat."