On Fire(42)

"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.