"You're here about that dead body?"
"You heard."
"Not much happens around here I don't hear about. Where's Emile?"
"I don't know. On the nature preserve, I expect. I'm on my way back to Boston." Riley dropped into a chair; she felt awkward, as if she were twelve again and Mrs.
Straker would offer her a glass of Kool-Aid.
"Actually, I'm not sure why I stopped by."
"Because you're afraid that body's got something to do with my son and it's going to come back and bite you in the behind." She took a breath, made a pretend drag on her cigarette. Her eyes were serious, experienced.
"It could, you know."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because that's the way it's been with John since he saw the light of day thirty-four years ago. He's an FBI agent now, Riley. He's seen and done things since you nailed him with that rock when you were twelve.
If I were you, I wouldn't mess with him. "
Riley fiddled with a length of twine.
"Too late."
"You couldn't have just pretended you didn't see that body and gone on your way?" She gave a long sigh. "No, I suppose not, and if you had, John would have known it and come after you. No way out of this one, Riley. If you're going to go toe-to-toe with him again, don't rely on luck. That's my advice. Take good aim, and if you do hit him, run like hell."
In spite of her tension, Riley managed a laugh. "I have no intention of seeing your son again, never mind throwing rocks or anything else at him."
The back door banged open, and Straker glared in at the two women. If Riley had still had any doubts he wasn't eighteen anymore, they would have been dispelled. He radiated hard-edged energy, the kind of raw intensity she'd expect from a man who'd gotten himself shot twice.
"Speak of the devil," Linda Straker said, unperturbed.
He kicked the door shut behind him.
"St. Joe-damn it, what the hell are you doing here?"
Riley groaned.
"I'm talking to your mother. I'm allowed. Aren't you supposed to be holed up on the island?" "He comes into town every now and then for supplies," his mother answered for him.
He turned to her.
"I thought you quit smoking."
"I did. It's not lit."
"Then what are these for?" He picked up a package of matches that Riley hadn't even noticed and tucked them in his jeans pocket.
"You'll be puffing away the minute I leave."
She dropped her cigarette into a brass ashtray shaped like a lobster.
"There. Nazi. I deserve a cigarette after hearing you found a dead body."
"I didn't. Riley did."
"You could have taught school like your sister," his mother said, "or taken up lobstering like your father. You could have opened up a law practice in town. But no, you have to join the FBI and get shot, bring dead bodies to town."
"That body has nothing to do with me." "Then it has something to do with Emile Labreque. Either way, you'll get involved. You've always had a soft spot for Emile. He believed in you when no one else did.
Even I had my doubts."
"Mrs. Straker," Riley said carefully, "just because the body was found on Labreque Island doesn't mean Emile" -- Straker didn't let her finish. He fingered a paper doily.
"What're you making?"
His mother bit off a sigh. "Your Christmas present. Keep your mitts off."
"I stopped by to reassure you. I knew you'd hear what happened." He shot Riley another nasty look, as if she'd been the one who squealed.
"It's nothing to worry about, probably just some poor bastard who fell off his boat."
"No one's been reported missing. You'd think" -- "Don't think, Ma.
Just let the police handle this one. And I'm fine, in case you were wondering."
She glowered at him.
"The hell you're fine. You've been sitting out on that island for six months. Half the town thinks you're a raving lunatic."
His jaw set hard.
"I've said my piece."
He about-faced and walked out. Just like that. Linda Straker snatched up a huge pair of scissors.
"That terrorist didn't do half the job on him I could do right now."
Riley judiciously said nothing.
"I'll tell you the truth, Riley. We all breathed a sigh of relief when he went out to Labreque Island to recuperate instead of up into the spare bedroom. I'd just as soon tend a wounded tiger as him."
Riley knew the minute she agreed with her, Linda Straker would turn on her. "Will you excuse me, Mrs. Straker?"
"Go on," she said.
"Go after him. You're looking good, Riley--I meant to say that right off. I wasn't sure what to expect after your grandfather's ship went down."
"That wasn't his fault, you know."
"You never know with ships," she said, and Riley, suddenly feeling the walls closing in around her, shot outside.
She caught up with Straker in the driveway.
"Where are you going?"
He whipped around. Every muscle in his body seemed tense, rigid, as if he was ready to burst out of his skin.
"Back."
"Back where?"
"The island."
"I've got your shirt. It's in my car." She eyed him, becoming aware of a strange sense of uneasiness. His mother was right--he wasn't the same kid she'd bloodied all those years ago. But she wasn't intimidated.
"You look as if you want to lock me in an outhouse."
His eyes sparked, and his mouth drew into a sardonic smile.
"That's not it."
Riley nearly choked. Bullet wounds, a six-month self-imposed exile.
Women probably hadn't been on his short list of things to do. Well, she'd walked into that one.
"Are the police finished?"
"No."
"Did you offer to help?"
"No."
"You know, Straker, if I had a rock..." Riley didn't go on. She'd pushed her luck enough with him.
"What else are you doing in town, besides reassuring your mother?"
His eyes turned to slits.
"Are you being sarcastic?"
"I'm not afraid of you, Straker."
"That always was your problem."
He turned and started down the narrow street. Riley sighed.
"What about your shirt?" she called after him.
"Keep it."
"Do you need a ride?"
"No."
"How did you get here?"
He glanced back at her.
"I live on an island. I took a boat."
"I hate you, Straker," she called.
"I've always hated you."
"Good."
She got in her car and drove in the opposite direction. She was agitated and restless and faintly sick to her stomach, and she didn't trust herself not to run Straker over. She headed out to the nature preserve, but Emile wasn't around. Neither was his car or his boat.
She stopped back at his cottage. Same thing.
She gripped the wheel.
"Well. Push has come to shove."
It was time to head to Camden and face her mother and sister. The first time she'd spent any time with her grandfather since the Encounter, and she'd found a dead body. No way would this go over well.
Two hours later, Riley rang the doorbell to her mother's little, mid-nineteenth-century gray clapboard on a pretty street above Camden Harbor. When the black-painted front door opened, she surprised herself by bursting into tears.
"Emile," Mara St. Joe said, tight-lipped.
"Damn him."
"It's not him--he didn't do anything." Riley gulped in air, feeling like a ten-year-old. She brushed her cheeks with her fingertips.
Thank God she hadn't fallen apart in front of Straker.
"I found a dead body."
"I know. I heard on the radio. It's Emile's fault. He never should have let you kayak alone."
She whisked Riley into the front parlor. This was her parents' first house--her mother's first house. Two years ago, Mara St. Joe had declared she'd had her fill of living aboard research vessels and in whatever rented apartment was nearest their work. She'd grown up like that, she'd raised two children like that and she'd had enough. She chucked her puffin and guillemot research and set off to picturesque, upscale Camden, with its windjammers and yachts and grand old houses built by legendary sea captains and shipbuilders. She became a successful freelance nature writer and bought a house. For a while, Riley wondered if her parents would call it quits, but if they'd ever considered it, they hadn't told her. Her father was free to come and go as he pleased, which seemed to suit them both. Her parents had, and had always had, an unconventional marriage.
"Sit," she said.
"Catch your breath."
"Mom, I'm fine. It was just pent-up tension." "It was just your grandfather."