On Fire(54)

"But he found evidence of sabotage," Richard St. Joe said, "and it got  him killed. Knowing Sam, he tried to blackmail whoever was responsible  for the Encounter."

Straker nodded.

"That's my guess." He provided a quick rundown of the day's festivities.  He tried to be clinical, professional, objective, tried to ignore the  twist of pain in his gut that told him he was long past playing this one  as an outsider.

"Will Matt be all right if he doesn't get back to the hospital?"

Richard asked, white-faced.

"He won't be comfortable, but he won't die."

"Emile couldn't have done that to him."

"No."

"I want my daughters safe. Just tell me what to do."

Richard looked as if he'd be sick. Straker had seen both his daughters  get sick, and they'd had that same aura about them. But Richard held on,  and they reached Abigail's office. It was her father's old office,  tucked in a corner down from the main administrative offices. She had no  regular hours, no full-time secretary She wasn't in, and the door was  locked. Straker held on to the doorknob, glanced at Richard St. Joe.  "You up to a little breaking and entering? If not, look the other way.  Is there an alarm?"

"No. Security's not that tight once you're inside the building. If you  need an extra shoulder " But the door came with one good, hard shove.

Richard St. Joe followed him inside. "What do you expect to find in here?"

"I don't know. Matt was attacked at Abigail's, and she and Henry have worked hard this past year after the Encounter tragedy."

"She's devoted to the center, as much as her father ever was. She fought  long and hard to get him and Emile both to pay more attention to  membership. She wants more programs, more community outreach."                       
       
           



       

"You?"

"That's not my area of expertise."

Straker sat at her desk. The furnishings were surprisingly utilitarian,  the view spectacular. He tried to get into her computer, but it was  password protected. He spun around in her chair, St. Joe pacing  nervously.

Definitely rusty, Straker thought. He could sense the connections  spinning around him, but he couldn't put them together, make any sense  out of them.

He stood up, examined Abigail's wall of framed pictures.

"Are these her pictures?"

"No, they're still from Bennett. She's hardly changed a thing in here  since his death." Richard smiled wistfully as he fingered a vase of  flowers. "A new computer and flowers."

"Who's this?"

Straker pointed to a small framed picture of a man in fire fighting  attire. Richard peered over his shoulder. He was fidgety, a little less  green.

"That's Henry Armistead and that's Bennett next to him."

He pointed to a tall, white-haired man; Straker realized he wouldn't  have recognized Bennett Granger. St. Joe went on, "Bennett had flown out  to California during wildfires that threatened delicate stretches of  the coast. He wanted to see for himself if there was any thing the  center could do."

"When was this?"

"About four years ago. Henry was the executive director of a small,  private California marine research institute. He trained as a volunteer  firefighter for those wildfires that get out of control there. Bennett  liked him, and when the job opened up here, he brought Henry in."

Straker continued to stare at the picture. An  administrator-oceanographer who would know ships. A firefighter who  would know fires. And a man in love with a wealthy woman whose father  wasn't killed in an accidental explosion, after all.

The puzzle pieces stopped spinning. They settled, connected together.

"Here's what you can do." Straker started for the door, feeling a sense  of certainty he hadn't in days. And a sense of urgency. He glanced back  at Richard St. Joe.

"Call the police. Tell them to pick up Henry Armistead. Tell them I said  so. Throw in that I'm a damned FBI agent if you need to get their  attention."

St. Joe paled.

"John? What the hell" -- "Just do it. I don't have time to explain. I  have to find your damned father-in-law." And his daughter. Riley.

She'd be right with Emile, barreling in because she was an optimist, because she believed in her grandfather.

"Go," Richard croaked.

"I'll call the police."

When Straker reached his car. Matt Granger was struggling not to let his  pain get away from him. Straker understood. He'd fought pain on every  level for months. For a while he'd let it get away.

But he couldn't let empathy affect his need to act.

"You've been hanging on to the last shreds of hope that this thing could  still be laid at Emile's feet. Better your wife's crazy grandfather  than your sister. But you know better, don't you?"

Granger sank against the seat, nodded. His skin had a gray cast; his one good eye was bloodshot, almost vibrating with pain.

Straker shoved the car into gear, released the emergency brake.

"You should have told me you suspected your sister. That's why you snuck into her house, isn't it?"

"I hope I'm wrong." "You are wrong. She wanted a dramatic gesture to  galvanize support for the center and the Encounter II." Straker pulled  out in front of a car, ignored the angry blare of its horn.

"But it's Henry Armistead who gave it to her."

Seventeen -AS y^~

Oig raced up Pinckney Street and turned onto Louis- burg Square, her  head spinning, throbbing with tension. She'd hated to leave Matt in the  ER, but she'd had no other choice. She couldn't stand by while her  family destroyed itself.

She'd pelted him with questions. How had the Encounter engine ended up  at his family house in Maine? Why would Emile be at Abigail's to push  him down the stairs? Where was his sister?

He hadn't responded. Had refused to answer. His injuries weren't stopping him. He was closemouthed, stubborn, maddening.

Overprotective. She was Sig, the free spirit, not Sig, the fighter.

Not this time. She knew her husband, knew how to read his silences, his  fears. She trusted her intuition, relied on it in her work as a  painter--she didn't need to be a damned scientist to know that Matt was  terrified his sister somehow had gotten herself involved in Sam  Cassain's death, the fires, perhaps even the attack on him.                       
       
           



       

Sig was as positive, as certain, as she'd ever been about anything.

And it was ridiculous. Absurd. Matt had lost all perspective or he'd  know. Of course Abigail wasn't involved. Of course she hadn't sabotaged  the Encounter or murdered Sam Cassain. The idea was insane.

Sig felt the strain in her lower back, knew she needed to slow down and  stay calm. She simply wanted to allay Matt's fears, then tackle the  police and all their questions.

Louisburg Square was quiet, bathed in sunshine, as if to remind her of  the life she used to lead. She slowed her pace, tried to consider her  actions. Was she being like her sister, like Emile? Acting first,  thinking later?

No. She'd thought this through, if rapidly.

"Sig!" Riley jumped out from the private park and landed at her sister's side.

"What are you doing here?"

Sig put her hand on her heart.

"Scare me to death, why don't you?"

"Sorry. I was lying in wait for Emile, hoping he'd walk by and I could nail him. How's Matt?"

"I left him in the ER." "What? Why? Did you sneak out or did he let you  go? Forget it, you snuck out. He'd never voluntarily let you come up  here."

Sig inhaled through her nose.

"I make my own decisions."

"Just as well he's in no condition to come after you," Riley said.

"You're exasperating. Did Emile give you the slip?"

"I never picked up his trail. He must be ex-CIA or something, I swear."

"What about Straker?" Sig asked.

"He went after you--he looked ready to throttle you."

But John Straker, Sig could see, had her sister in knots.

"He drove past me once. I thought about flagging him down." Riley glanced sideways at Sig.

"I didn't trust him not to run me over and call it a day."

"Anyone in his place would." "Look who just abandoned her beaten and battered husband in the ER.

You're worried about the same things I am. " Riley frowned, a bundle of  pent-up energy and frustration. She pointed at an expensive car parked  in the square.

"Look, there's Abigail's car. I rang her doorbell a little while ago, but she didn't answer."

"Maybe she's indisposed."

But Riley clearly didn't believe it.

"And maybe she was there when Matt got helped down the stairs."

Sig licked her lips, which were dry and parched, and her babies gave a  fluttering little kick; the skin on her lower abdomen felt tight,  stretched. She cleared her throat and focused on the mission at hand.