On Fire(41)

Straker yawned, as if he'd figured all this out days ago and now it bored him.

"Satisfied?"

"Emile's seventy-six. He's not up to this."

"He was up to pulling a gun on me."

"That's because you're obnoxious. I'd pull a gun on you. You drive people over the brink, Straker."

He grinned, eyes half-closed as they raked her from head to toe.

"Yep.

No argument there. "

She groaned.

"I rest my case. You're an outrage. I don't know how I ever ended up in bed with you."

"I do. You going to drive back to Boston in my shirt?"

Utterly outrageous.

"You're just trying to distract me. Do you know where Emile is?"

"No." "But you have a pretty good idea. Damn it, I know you do" "I'll be  on the boat. If you're there in three minutes, I'll take you to your  car. If not, enjoy your little island vacation."

"You know, Straker, you're awfully cold-blooded when you want your way.

Did you consider the list of places I said Emile could be? Did one of  them resonate with you? Or are you thinking about your father and the  other lobster men and what they know?"

"I don't want my way." He tore open the front door and glanced back at her.

"I want you out of it."

"It's the lobster men she said.

"The clock is ticking."

"Just remember, you drive me every bit as crazy as I drive you.

Probably crazier. It's my grandfather we're talking about. It was my sister who was almost killed. "

He gripped the door. She could see the muscles in his forearms tense.

He banged the door shut, marched over to her, grabbed her by the  shoulders and kissed her. It was a hard, possessive, spine-melting,  Rhett Butler kiss. Straker lifted her off her feet with it.

When he released her, she had to call on all her various forms of physical conditioning to keep from collapsing.

She cleared her throat, caught her breath.

"What was that about?"

"I'll reset the clock at two minutes."

He stormed outside without another word. Riley knew he'd seize any  excuse to leave her there. She'd find a way off the island. She'd flag  down a passing boat, see if he had a kayak, build a raft if she had to.  She managed to throw her things together and leap into his boat as he  was untying it.

It was chilly out on the bay. His shirt was big on her and made her  think of the three times they'd made love, the incredible feel of him  inside her. But when he pulled up to Emile's dock, he didn't even turn  off the engine, just unceremoniously motioned her out.

"Go straight to your apartment," he said.

"Stay there. I'll be in touch."

"I hate dictatorial men."

"St. Joe, how many burning buildings do you need to jump out of before you realize this is serious?"

"Okay, okay. I'll go straight to my apartment. I'll stay there. I'll wait for you." She hesitated.

"Do you have a gun?"

"No, I don't have a gun. Who the hell would I shoot?" He narrowed his eyes on her.

"You don't have a gun, do you?"

"I'm just thinking"

"Don't think. Just go before I change my mind and take you with me."

"Take me with you where?"

"St. Joe. Get off my boat."

Definitely a man with a mission, and one he wanted to take on alone.

He didn't want her as a distraction, a target, a hindrance. She jumped  onto the dock and watched him speed off toward the mouth of the bay.                       
       
           



       

Something must have jiggled loose and he had at least a pretty good idea  where Emile was holed up. And he didn't care if she knew it.

One of her sleeves unrolled, dangling several inches past the tips of  her fingers. Emile was her grandfather. She didn't believe he'd gone off  the deep end. She believed he was trying to put things right and make  sure no one else ended up dead on the rocks. He wanted justice for the  five people who'd died aboard the Encounter.

She thought of Bennett Granger, his dignity, his kindness and  generosity. He wasn't a marine scientist, but he'd loved the ocean every  bit as much as Emile did, had wanted a marine life that was healthy and  vital for future generations. For his grandchildren.

Sig's babies.

If someone had sabotaged the Encounter, Emile would go to the ends of  the earth to find out who. Let them set him up. Let them frame him for  fires and murders--let the world think whatever it wanted to think.

He wouldn't care.

Riley kicked a loose stone into the bay. She had responsibilities, a lot  at stake. Straker had nothing at stake, which was probably why he'd  gone off on his own.

Such was her state of mind when she drove into the village and parked in  front of his parents' house. Mrs. Straker was in the garage with an  unlit cigarette in her mouth and an upholstery hammer in one hand.

"Riley St. Joe," she said, beaming. Her alert gaze took in her oversize  shirt, and she shook her head. "I guess that rumor's true."

"What rumor?"

"You and my son on Labreque Island." She removed her cigarette, sighed almost as if she were exhaling smoke.

"I wondered if you two'd ever get together after you bloodied him that time."

"Mrs. Straker, we're not--I mean" -Knowing she was doomed, Riley rolled  up her errant sleeve. "How did that particular rumor get started?"  "Honey, nothing happens on this coast the lobster men don't know about."

Riley nodded.

"I understand. In fact, that's what I'm counting on. Can we talk?"

Straker didn't know how long he had before Riley tracked him down. It  was a foregone conclusion she'd try. He'd kicked her out of his boat to  buy himself a little time. In her place, he had to admit, he wouldn't  sit quietly on the sidelines, either. And he'd never been much on anyone  telling him what to do.

He docked in the village harbor. It was a small, picturesque harbor,  relatively quiet at this time of morning with its moored boats, its  glistening water and surrounding landscape of modest houses, Victorian  bed and breakfasts, shops. The only eyesore was the old sardine cannery.

This was his home turf. Riley could pretend it was hers, too, but she'd  never spent a long, cold, damp winter here. She'd never warred with  herself over staying and leaving, over wanting something more yet  wanting this to be enough, knowing it could be if only he'd let it.

He didn't see his father's boat. A few other lobster boats were in.

Straker was aware of eyes on him as he walked out onto the ancient  wooden pier. He stopped, waited to see what would happen. Nothing did.

These were men he'd known all his life, and they were treating him like a rich yachtsman.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they didn't know anything. Last night over  dinner he and Riley had rattled off a long list of places Emile could  be, had winnowed it down to a dozen realistic possibilities. She and Sig  had already checked out a few of them Saturday before the fire.

That left several summer houses owned by Emile's friends, boats he might  have appropriated or been loaned, lobster pounds, uninhabited  islands--places he could slip in and out of with ease.

They didn't have the kind of time required to search them all one by  one. He didn't have the time. He'd just spent the better part of a day  and a night making love to Riley St. Joe. That alone dictated a certain  measure of urgency on his part. He was out of control. After they'd made  love their third time, he'd stared into the darkness, exhausted but  unable to sleep, knowing he needed answers. They needed answers. They  needed to know why Sam Cassain's body had turned up on Labreque Island.  Then they could figure out what was going on between them.

"Hey, no dead bodies and women keeping you busy today?"

Straker smiled at A.

J.

Dorrman, one of the sheriff's lobster man nephews.

"The day's still young. How are you, A. J.?"                       
       
           



       

"Upright and taking nourishment. You?"

"I need to find out where you all have Emile stashed," Straker said bluntly.

A.

J. twisted his mouth from one side to the other. He was in his early  thirties, beefy, used to a life of hard physical work and answering to  himself. He rubbed his chin.

"Shit, Straker."

"Lou will have your head if he finds out you've been hiding a man wanted for questioning in a suspicious death."

"Emile didn't kill anybody. You know that. He's just a crazy old fart."

"His house was just torched. He's being set up to take the fall."

"I know, I know."

Straker waited. Silence was often his most effective tool. Also, he'd known A.

J. all his life. Pelting him with questions, pressuring him, would only  convince the man to dig in his heels and keep his mouth shut.

A.

J. scratched one side of his jaw.

"You think he's in any danger?"