On Fire(38)

He headed down to meet the boat. He was hoping his father had checked  with his buddies and decided to come clean about what he had on Emile's  whereabouts, however much, however little. While he'd waited for Riley  to finish with her father and the investigators, Straker had briefly  considered sharing his suspicions with Lou Dorrman. Lou would understand  how to handle closemouthed lobster men But this was his father, his  father's friends--and Straker knew he was only going on instincts that  hadn't been well- tested in recent months. If he was wrong, his father  would chop him up for lobster bait.

Hell, if he was right, he was lobster bait.

He hadn't gone to Dorrman. Instead he'd brought Riley back to his island  and given her a shirt so she could take a cold dip in the island  waters.

The boat puttered close to shore. It was an old boat, immaculate, in  perfect running order. Straker could remember countless dark, frigid  mornings when his father had rousted him out of a warm bed to pull  traps. The smells, the gulls, the unrelenting work of checking one trap  after another for lobsters that weren't too small, too big, or carrying  eggs, then baiting and dropping the pots again, moving on to the next  buoy.

There was comfort in the monotony, camaraderie among fellow lobster men  satisfaction in a day's hard work. But at an early age, Straker had  known it wasn't for him. He was too restless, given to wondering about  life beyond the peninsula. He'd never regretted his choice, but he'd  realized in ways he couldn't articulate that giving up this life was his  loss.

It was that, more than anything else, that Emile had always seemed to  understand--the push-pull of the coast where Labreque and Straker roots  ran deep. Emile was hardheaded and driven, but he'd shown an impatient  boy how he could move away without giving up who he was.

Straker stopped, swore under his breath.

It wasn't his father who tied up at the rickety dock and jumped out.

"Emile," Straker muttered, picking up his pace as he ran out to the end of the dock.

The old man was spry, at ease anywhere on or near salt water.

"I'll only be a second." He made it sound like a warning, as if Straker shouldn't even consider trying to impede him.

"I saw my place. The investigators are still there."

"They want to talk to you."

He gave a curt nod.

"Of course."

"Does that mean you'll go in?"

"It means I understand the position they're in." He glanced out at the  water; he wore a windbreaker over his black henley, against the cold  wind.

"I can't stay long in case they have the island staked out. Your father's boat will give me only so much cover."

"He lent it to you or you stole it?" Straker didn't bother to wait for a straight answer; he knew he wouldn't get one.

"Emile, you need to get things squared away with the police. Right now  they're inclined to think you torched your own cottage. Then there's  Cassain's place down in Boston. At this point you're their best bet for  killing Cassain."

Straker paused.

"That's how I'd be thinking in their place."

"I don't give a good goddamn what they think."

"Riley's here," Straker said without preamble.

"She's your most tenacious defender. I wouldn't be surprised if the police are wondering if she's conspiring with you."

"She's why I'm here." Emile's dark eyes gleamed with the kind of  intensity that had sustained him over the years. The warm sun hit the  deep lines in his face, made him look old but robust, capable of chasing  demons, real or imagined, up and down the coast.                       
       
           



       

"I know she and Sig were in the cottage last night. Sig's with her mother. But Riley--she won't stop."

Straker nodded.

"I know."

"I saw her in the water. Once she's revived, she'll be back up and running again, trying to mind my own business for me."

"How is Sam Cassain's death your business?"

"He was my ship's master for seven years," Emile said simply.

Straker noticed Emile wasn't getting too far from the lobster boat.

For the past six months, Straker had watched the old man settle into  life on the peninsula. In some ways, it was as if he'd never left. In  other ways, it was as if he wasn't really there--he was still aboard the  Encounter, trying to save his friend and his crew, waiting, perhaps,  for the truth about what had happened to his ship to finally come out.

"Let the police solve his death," Straker said.

"Tell them what you know."

The dark eyes fastened on him.

"I want you to watch out for Riley. As a favor to me. I nearly got her  killed last year. It was only by a stroke of luck we made it into the  submersible." His jaw was set, his natural stubbornness asserting  itself.

"I can't count on that kind of luck saving her again."

"I've been watching out for Riley. She wouldn't agree, but that's the  way it's worked out." Straker stepped over a missing plank, wondered if  Riley was up on some rock buttoning buttons as fast as she could so she  could streak out to confront her grandfather.

"What about Matthew Granger? Did he fund Cassain's bid to bring up the  Encounter'?" engine? Is he a danger to himself or anyone else? "

Emile frowned thoughtfully. He had a keen intelligence, the  weather-beaten look of a man who'd spent many years at sea. But Straker  knew he would be wrong to think Emile Labreque was like his own father  and the other lobster men he'd seen at breakfast. Emile was a  world-famous oceanographer. He'd founded a prestigious research center,  and he'd spent a lifetime on the world's oceans, not just the coast of  down east Maine. He wasn't going after Sam's killer for himself and his  own reputation--he was going after it for the five people lost aboard  the Encounter a year ago.

Straker squinted at the old man.

"Emile, I can't let you go. You have to know that. I respect what you're  trying to do, but you're going about it the wrong way." He smiled.

"That's what you told me when I was eighteen, remember? I listened."

"You'd stop me from doing what I have to do, what only I can do?"

More drama.

"I would."

"Then I have no choice." Without hesitation, Emile reached into his  jacket and withdrew a Smith & Wesson . 38 that looked suspiciously  like the one Straker's father kept in his toolbox.

"Don't make me shoot you."

"If you shoot me, it's your choice. Not mine."

The dark, intense eyes stayed on him. Straker swore. The bastard would  shoot him. Wing him in the leg or arm--enough to make good his exit.

"Hands up," the old man said. "For chrissake" -- "Do it."

Straker put his hands up.

"This feels like an episode of Bonanza."

"Emile!"

Riley. She was thrashing her way up from the rocks, barefoot, shirttails flapping, moving fast.

"Go on," Straker told him. "Get out of here before you end up shooting her, too."

"You'll watch out for her?"

"She won't like it."

"Emile, wait!" Riley was jumping from one rock to another, getting closer.

"I need to talk to you!"

"But you'll do it," Emile said.

Straker nodded, and the old man lowered his gun. It would be a simple  enough matter for Straker to overtake him and his damned gun, but not,  he thought, the wisest course of action. Then he'd have two irate  Labreques on his hands.

Emile hopped back into his borrowed lobster boat with the agility of a man a third his age.

Riley burst onto the dock, pushed past Straker and probably would have  tried making the leap into the boat if he hadn't scooped an arm around  her middle and stopped her.

"You're nice and dry," he said, "and I don't have that many shirts."

Emile gunned the engine and sped out into the bay.

Riley strained against Straker's arm.

"Emile-damn it, talk to me!"                       
       
           



       

"Keep yelling. If any investigators are around, they'll hear you and  snatch him. It might be the best thing. Maybe I'll start yelling" She  angled her chin up at him.

"You're obnoxious."

"I just had a seventy-six-year-old man pull a gun on me. I'm entitled."

"He wouldn't have shot you."

The shirt he'd given her was flannel. A blue plaid. It reached to the  middle of her thighs. Her hair was wet, her lips blue. She was shivering  again, this time from the cold.

"You'd have made better time if you'd put your shoes on," he said.

"You could have disarmed him. I mean, you know how to do that sort of thing."

"Yeah, and last time I ended up with two bullets in me."

"Is that why you didn't stop him? Maybe you need to spend a few more months out here " Straker shrugged.