"Yes." "So what happens if the wrong person comes down here hunting for him? I get shot and go recuperate on an island by myself?"
Straker shrugged.
"If you're lucky."
"Yeah, Lou'd finish me off before I got my sorry ass to any island."
He started past Straker, said, "But if I snitched to you, I'd get stuffed into a sardine can and left to rot."
He kept walking toward the parking lot, and in case Straker didn't take the hint, A.
J. wiggled a finger in the direction of the old sardine cannery. It was a dilapidated, rambling wooden structure, long abandoned. With the touted health benefits of Omega-3 oils and the depletion of the populations of so many commercially popular species of fish, sardines were making a comeback. This building, however, had seen its day.
Emile's own grandfather had worked there years ago. The village had wrangled over its removal for years.
With the lay of the land, the inflow and outflow of pleasure boats and working boats, it was the perfect, if surprising, choice for a base.
It had access and cover. No one would notice a network of lobster boats helping a discredited, brilliant, world-famous old man who was, when all was done and said, one of their own. Just as Straker was, no matter how many cases he solved for the FBI, how long he stayed away.
He walked around back. The building came right up to the edge of the water. Windows were broken and missing, boarded up. He spotted a ground-level door hanging half off its hinges in a corner formed by a six-foot concrete retaining wall and hill that sloped down to the water.
He picked his way over shards of glass and through overgrown brush, but when he got to the door, it opened before he had a chance to kick it in. Emile poked his head out and snorted in disgust.
"I should have shot you yesterday when I had the chance."
"I see where Riley gets her charm."
"Where is she? I thought I asked you" "--I know what you asked, and the best way for me to watch out for her--and you--is to get to the bottom of this thing. She's supposed to be on her way back to Boston."
Emile scoffed.
"She's probably right behind you."
Straker ignored the obvious point.
"You have the Encounter engine in there?"
"Pictures. I still don't know what Sam did with the engine." "Christ, Emile. I should haul your butt over to the sheriffs myself."
The old man gave a curt, dismissive wave and ducked back inside.
Straker cursed silently and went in after him. If Emile shot him, so be it--but he didn't seriously believe that would happen.
The door opened into a small entry, with dusty, sagging stairs leading up into the main part of the old building. Emile had set up housekeeping in a dark corner. He was using a turned-over wooden crate as a table. He had crackers, peanut butter, a six-pack of tomato juice, another six-pack of orange juice, a box of raisins.
He was perched on a stool, close to the door. "You listen, Straker.
Then you leave me alone and let me do what I have to do. "
Straker glanced at the old man. He had on his khakis and black henley, no obvious place for his . 38. "You're turning the lobster men around here into accessories."
"Sam brought up the Encounter's engine two weeks ago," Emile said, ignoring his last comment.
"Matthew Granger funded him. In secret."
"Your granddaughters figured as much. Have you talked to Granger?"
"No. I don't know if Sam even told him he had the engine. Sam had his own agenda. If it tied in with Granger's, fine. If not" -Emile shrugged his stringy shoulders.
"Tough."
Straker thought a moment. The air was damp, smelled of bad food and dirty socks. Blankets and a pillow were tangled up on a small air mattress in the opposite corner.
"All right," he said, "what happened to the Encounter?"
"Sabotage."
Straker was silent.
"It was a quick, easy job, if you know diesel engines. When Sam pulled up the engine, it was obvious what happened--it's there in the pictures." He nodded to a nine-by-twelve manila envelope amid his provisions.
"Someone opened up the lube oil drain.
The valve's padlocked. The padlock's cut, proving it wasn't an accident. "
"Cassain found it?"
"So he says. I don't know if the pictures are fakes or what. That's why I want to find the engine itself. You cut the padlock, then just turn the valve. Easy as pie. Engine can't run without oil. You get a main bearing failure on the crankshaft, which destroys the engine. On an old ship like the Encounter, that'd be the end of her."
"But the engine's safety features should kick in," Straker pointed out.
"Normally, yes. There's an automatic shutdown panel. Alarm goes off when there's a problem, the engine shuts down. It's like the engine's brain." Emile spoke clinically, as he did in his documentaries. This unusual mix of intensity and unemotional stating of the facts, keeping his natural drama in check, had served him well over the decades. He was credible, believable, principled.
"Disable the safety features, and the engine doesn't know it has a problem. It doesn't automatically shut down. It just keeps running."
"Did Cassain find evidence the shutdown panel was defeated?" "Jumper wire. A piece of wire with two alligator clips. It'd do the job."
"It wasn't destroyed in the fire?"
Emile shook his head.
"I think our saboteur got more than he counted on. The crankcase explosion by itself probably wouldn't sink the ship.
When you open the lube oil drain and defeat the alarm panel, you also defeat the controls to the number-two fuel tank. It overflows into the bilge, and now you've set off a fatal chain reaction. "
"Number-two fuel's more flammable than lube oil."
"Yep. Lube oil draining into the bilge is a mess. Number-two fuel's a catastrophe. Meanwhile, the engine runs dry without lubrication, it explodes and ruptures a disk on the side" -- "How do you know that?"
"Sam brought up the ruptured disk. It's in the pictures. With the disk ruptured, flames can pour out of the engine and light the mix of fuel and oil in the bilge."
"Jesus," Straker whispered.
Emile was very still, his expression grim.
"It was a huge, tremendously hot fire. Not much burns hotter than number-two fuel. It warped the bulkheads, fed on the fuel in the main tanks. The Encounter took on water." He sighed, looking tired and old, except for his eyes, which were alert, gleaming with determination.
"With that kind of fire and flooding, she didn't stand a chance."
"It couldn't have been an accident," Straker said quietly.
"No."
"Once the shutdown panel was disabled and the lube oil drain valve opened, an explosion was virtually guaranteed. It's just a question of whether the saboteur realized how catastrophic the explosion would be--the chain reaction he'd cause." Straker imagined Riley amid this chaos, the Encounter burning, flooding, her friends dying. "What about timing? If the engine had exploded closer to land, you might have had a better chance of getting the fire out, getting the crew out. On the open sea" -- "On the open sea, we were doomed. Timing with this kind of sabotage would be hard to predict. An explosion was certain, but when..." He shrugged.
"I don't think that mattered."
"What did matter? What did the saboteur want to accomplish?" Straker narrowed his gaze on his old friend. "You have ideas, Emile. If the explosion was unpredictable, it's unlikely a particular individual was the target--murder wasn't the point. Our saboteur didn't use this as a way, for example, to kill Bennett Granger."
"No," Emile allowed.
"You don't believe the saboteur intended for the Encounter to bum and sink, killing five people."
"No, I don't."
"Cassain?"
"I need to find the engine." Emile sprang up from the stool.
"That's why Sam's place was burned down. Someone wanted to make sure the police didn't find any evidence of what he'd been up to these past few months. Then they came up here and set my place on fire to throw suspicion on me."
Straker moved toward the old man.
"If I found you, someone else can.
Trust me, Emile. Let me get you the protection you need. You're not safe here. "
Emile nodded.
"I know."
"Tell me about Sam. When did he bring you the pictures?"
"Saturday afternoon, right in broad daylight. Riley got here Monday morning, found his body on Tuesday."
"I take it he didn't come up here to apologize," Straker said.