On Fire(43)

"He had no reason to apologize. It wasn't my idea to bring up the Encounter's engine," Emile said with a trace of disgust.

"She was lost. I did nothing to find out what the truth was."

"You believed it was your fault."

"If I'd had a watchman on duty" -- "Then you'd have six crew dead  instead of five." But Straker wasn't here to make Emile feel better  about what he'd done, or failed to do.

"Was Cassain interested in the truth?"

The old man slipped back outside into the sunlight. Straker followed.

Emile was staring out at the glistening harbor.

"He'd suffered this past year. He wanted his pound of flesh. If it was  in the form of cash, the more the better. He showed me the pictures for  my reaction."

"And?"

"We both had the same idea about what happened--that whoever sabotaged  the Encounter didn't count on the day tank overfilling." The old man  continued to stare out at the lobster boats, sailboats, the odd yacht.

His expression was unreadable.

"I don't know who sabotaged my ship or why. It could have been a crew  member with a bone to pick with another crew member. Sam could have  faked the evidence, the pictures. I have to find the engine."

"That doesn't explain his murder, the fire at his house, the fire at the  cottage. Go ahead, Emile. Speculate. Based on what you know, what's  your best guess about what happened to the Encounter, what's going on  now?"

He inhaled, shifted his gaze to Straker.

"Look at what's happened in the past year. Look at what the loss of the  Encounter accomplished" -- "It killed the center's chief benefactor and  drove out its founder."

"No one could have predicted Ben's death," Emile said, "or that I would  tuck my tail between my legs and flee home." "From what Riley tells me,  this past year has been a public relations disaster for the center."

"Initially. Henry Armistead, Abigail Granger, my son-in-law, Riley--the  entire center staff has worked tirelessly to turn it around.

I asked myself, and Sam asked himself, what would have happened if the  Encounter hadn't gone down in flames, if there hadn't been any loss of  life." "If it was a near thing instead of a catastrophe, you lose the  Encounter because of a crankcase explosion, but no one gets hurt."

Emile eased back against the retaining wall. "People loved that ship--it  was part of the romance and adventure of our work. A new ship was in  the works, but it was under funded We weren't sure when, or if, we'd be  able to finish it. And our supporters, even some of our own staff,  didn't want to give up the Encounter. "

"As long as it could put out to sea, people wouldn't get excited about its successor."

"You can't underestimate their sentimental attachment to it."

"A narrow escape for the great Emile Labreque and his crew would elicit  sympathy and galvanize support for a badly needed new research ship.

The old ship dies in battle, so to speak. Let's honor her memory by building a new one."

"The Encounter II is back on schedule. Support's up. The catastrophe of  the Encounter was a setback at first" -- "But now things are working  out." Straker frowned, shaking his head.

"I don't know, Emile. It's a hell of a stretch. Wouldn't our saboteur  want the Encounter and any evidence of his handiwork at the bottom of  the ocean?"                       
       
           



       

"Immaterial. People would have been outraged at the idea of sabotage.

Support would have poured in. "

"And the police would have investigated."

"You're an FBI agent," Emile said.

"You tell me how many criminals you've apprehended thought they'd get caught."

Straker didn't argue. Emile's theory was sound enough, if far-fetched.

And he'd asked the old man to make his best guess. If this was it, this  was it. "What about Cassain? Did you encourage him to go to the  authorities with his evidence?"

"Of course. He refused to listen."

"Blackmail?"

"That's my guess. He was getting his ducks in a row before bringing his  proof to the saboteur and exacting his pound of flesh. He came to me to  help solidify his theory."

"But he didn't give you a name, any hint of who he thought was responsible?"

Emile's dark eyes shone with intensity. "/ was responsible for the Encounter. It was my ship, my crew."

Straker let that one go. This was no time to try to out-argue a Labreque.

"You know what I mean." "Sam played his cards close to the chest. He  knew I'd go straight to the authorities. I'm convinced he was still  flailing around, figuring out his next moves."

"And he flailed in the wrong direction and got himself killed."

Straker could see it. He gave the old man a hard look.

"We're taking your pictures to the police."

Emile shook his head.

"I need to finish what I started."

"No, you don't. You need to let the police do their job. Sam was murdered, Emile."

Emile drew himself off the retaining wall, pointed down the slope.

"You have bigger problems than stopping me."

Straker turned, and there she was, marching up from the water with her  jaw set hard and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She'd  spotted them, but she had the sense not to yell out.

"Nowhere to run," Emile said lightly, "nowhere to hide."

"You should have shot holes in her kayak," Straker muttered.

Riley stopped between them.

"Emile, Straker-what are you doing?" She was out of breath and talking through clenched teeth.

"Emile, for God's sake, you can't keep sneaking around. You're going to  get yourself killed or tossed into prison for a million years."

"I'm leaving," he said calmly.

"You can't leave. Your cottage--you must know what happened. They found  all this firebug stuff in your woodshed. Someone's setting you up."

He ignored her. Straker stayed out of it. Emile was as maddening as she  was, and they'd been doing this dance over a variety of subjects ever  since Riley started to talk. Her grandfather pointed a finger at her.

"You never mind me and listen to Straker. Follow his advice. You know about cetaceans. He knows about arson and murder."

She inhaled.

"I am not letting you go."

"You have no choice."

That didn't sit well. She was prepared to argue her case, but Straker said, "We have a lot to talk about."

She glared at him.

"You're not letting him go!"

"Someone sabotaged his ship and caused the deaths of his best friend and  four of his crew. You nearly died. He nearly died." Straker sighed,  knowing he must have been infected by the Labreque sense of drama, their  way of looking at things.

"What would you have me do?"

"Sabotage?"

She was pale, could barely get the word out. Emile seized the moment to slip off. Straker didn't stop him.

Riley spun around, made a move to go after her grandfather. Straker touched her arm.

"Don't. You'll just draw attention to him. He has a lot of friends up  here. They'll look after him. He left Cassain's pictures of the engine  and the evidence it was sabotaged. We need to get them to the police.  Then they need to find the engine to make sure it really is the  Encounter and not something Cassain faked."

"Do you think he faked it?"

"No."

"I hate this," she said.

"I know." Straker rocked back on his heels, eyed her and considered the  various possibilities of how she'd found him. One stood out.

"My mother ratted out my father?"

Riley gave an absent nod, a small smile.

"She doesn't miss anything."                       
       
           



       

"There'll be a battle royal over that one. Well, let's go."

"You go on." She fixed her dark eyes on Straker, and he could see her  fighting to be reasonable, smart, not simply to inflict her will on  everyone else.

"I'll head to Boston. You can pretend I never saw any of this."

Straker grinned. Her motives, he thought, were obvious.

"Quit acting like you know what I'm thinking," she said.

"I do know what you're thinking."

"I'm just trying to be sensible and reasonable."

"No, you're not. You're looking after your own skin. You're afraid if  you go to see Lou Don-man with me, he's going to put you in protective  custody or otherwise restrict your movements. I think he would. He's  pretty much had it with you Labreques."

"I'm going."

Straker fought the urge to stop her, to bring her to Lou Don-man for safekeeping.

"Don't make me regret not tying you up in my boat."

She smiled faintly.

"You'll be in touch?"

"Count on it."

Fifteen minutes later, Straker was telling Emile's story to Lou Dorrman,  who if he didn't understand oceanography, did understand boats.