On Fire (14 page)

Straker stood in front of the woodstove, the fire crackling, hot against his back. She was softening, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t. This was his opening, and he had to seize it. “I don’t want your thanks. I want you and Sig to pack up in the morning and get the hell out of here. Go back to your mother’s, go back to Boston. You two must have friends who’d take you in for a few days.”

To his surprise, she nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing. Sig…” She blinked rapidly, holding back tears. “What does Matt think he’s doing? Doesn’t he know she’s—can’t he
tell?
”

“He knows something’s wrong, but he thinks it’s him. The man’s caught up in his own hell right now. He can’t see your sister is, too.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“From your point of view, no, it’s not.”

She sighed, looking exhausted. “I’m in no mood to be reasonable.”

He smiled. “That’s a mood I know well.”

With another sigh, she ran a hand through her hair, muttered about needing air and suddenly shot outside. Straker could hear her race down the steps, and by the time he’d put another log on the fire and followed her out, she was charging toward the water.

The wind had picked up, howling in steady gusts. He walked at a deliberate pace, debating whether it would be best to climb into his boat and head on back to the island. Riley stormed off to the end of the dock, her arms crossed against the cold, her jaw set.

“You want to be alone?” he asked, coming up behind her.

She turned slightly. “I want…” She stopped, swallowed, caught her breath. “I want this all to go away. I want to toast marshmallows on the fire, I want Sig’s babies to have a chance at a happy life, I want Emile…” She couldn’t go on. She shifted back toward the water, dark and churning in the wind.

Straker said nothing. He knew what it was to have the world close in on him. His answer had been Labreque Island, six months of solitude, of a simple, if hard, life. If he didn’t do it, it didn’t get done. If he was socked in with fog for days on end, there was no running down to the store for milk and videos. There had been days—weeks—when he’d thought he wouldn’t come out of his exile sane or whole, able ever again to connect with another human being.

Riley suddenly leaned against him, her arms still tightly crossed on her chest, her gaze still on the bay. Her body was warm, and her hair smelled of ocean and a citrusy shampoo. The months of isolation welled up in him, seized him with an urgency so ferocious it took his breath away. He wanted her. He ached with it, burned with it.

She turned into him, draped her hands around his neck, and he knew she couldn’t possibly know what he was feeling, thinking, fighting back. She whispered, “Straker, I swear, I don’t know what I’m doing,” even as she let her mouth find his, tentatively, as if she were testing her own resolve, or sanity.

The taste of her seared through him, but he knew he was dangerous, knew he had to exert his considerable willpower over the rest of him. One slender
hand drifted over his shoulder. It might as well have been on fire. His pulse raced; need surged through him. He wanted to make love to her there, then, on the old wooden dock. His head, his soul, ached with the taste of her, the possibilities.

But he controlled the urge to push and push hard, sensed that what she wanted from him was tenderness, softness, a kiss that restored and gave, when all he wanted was to take and demand, end this pounding need.

She opened her mouth to his, took herself onto very dangerous ground. Restraint was impossible. Her fingers intertwined with his, and she placed his hand on her breast, a soft swell covered in layers of fabric he imagined tearing away. In another two seconds, he would. The sand had run out of the hourglass.

Instinctively, she must have known. She pulled back. She was breathing hard, her dark eyes shining. He was thinking about the fire in Emile’s woodstove, the long, comfortable couch, the blankets and cushions, the braided rug on the floor. Plenty of places to make love. They could go on all night, into the morning, until whenever Sig staggered down from the loft.

Riley smiled, touched a finger to the scar she’d given him above his eye. “I was a pretty good shot, wasn’t I?”

“I let you hit me.”

Finally a spark of humor lit her eyes. But it faded quickly, and she kissed him lightly, softly. “I’ll take care of Sig. You find Emile, find my brother-in-law.” Her eyes were black now, deadly serious. “Stop them.”

She turned abruptly and ran off the dock, up the dark road. She didn’t glance back, didn’t hesitate.
Straker kicked a loose board in the dock. He could have ripped out every board and nail and post, flung the whole damned mess into the ocean.

Honor and restraint, he thought bitterly, had got him exactly nothing. A perfectly good fire, a perfectly good woman, and here he was, standing alone in the cold and the dark.

Sig awoke in a panic. Her heart was racing, and she couldn’t breathe. Nightmares. She’d dreamed of Matt. Dangerous dreams, frightening dreams. She needed air, a drink of water. Her head ached. Dehydration. She’d thrown up everything in her stomach.

Straker…he’d been damned decent. Riley was such an ass about him. Obviously he was smitten with her, even if she drove him crazy.

Air…she needed to breathe.

“Sig.”

“Huh?”

“Sig.”

Riley’s voice. Determined, fighting panic. She was shaking her. “Stop,” Sig said, feeling cranky. “That hurts.”

“Sig, we need to get out of here. The place is on fire.”

“Fire?” She sat up, her head spinning, pounding, her stomach reeling. Her sister stood close, her fear palpable. “Riley, you must be having a nightmare. There’s no—”

“We don’t have time! Get up. I can’t carry you. You’re too tall.”

“Carry me—why would—” She stopped, could
smell the smoke, could see it curling up the stairs. She saw Riley’s desperate look in the dark. Heard the crackle and spark of flames downstairs. She was wide-awake now. This was no nightmare. “Oh my God.”

Riley yanked the quilts off her. “We can make it through the window.”

“I don’t know…I…
Riley, I can’t breathe!
”

“Come on, Sig. You can do it.”

Sig dropped her feet to the floor. She had on socks. Straker and Riley had put her to bed in her clothes. She could feel the pull of skin over her bulging stomach. The babies were quiet. “I don’t want to faint,” she mumbled, and rose carefully. Riley had one hand on her elbow, steadying her.

“I’ve got to push the screen out.”

Sig gave her a shove. “Go.”

She followed her sister, crouching down, feeling the fire sucking the oxygen out of the small cottage. It was like a being, oozing, terrorizing. She heard the screen crash onto the woodshed roof below the loft window. The cold, clean air drew the smoke.

Riley coughed, grabbed Sig. “You first.”

“No!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

Sig choked for air. “My babies…I’m so big….”

“You’re not that big. You have to do this, Sig. Your babies won’t have a chance if you don’t. Jump onto the woodshed. Then slide off. Like when we were kids.” Riley squeezed her.
“Go.”

If she didn’t, they’d both die up here. Staving off her panic, Sig pulled herself up onto the sill window-
washer style, then dragged one leg over, until she was three-quarters out, the woodshed six or seven feet under her. She had to get the other leg out. Any further along in her pregnancy, any taller, and she wouldn’t have fit. Riley was there, helping her.

“Stand back,” Sig said. “I don’t want to kick you in the head and knock you out.”

Riley took a step back. Sig could hardly make her out with the dark, the smoke.

“You’re next. You understand me, Riley?”

“No, I’m going to stay up here and fry.”

In a single, unartful movement, Sig forced her stray leg over the sill, and before she could get tangled up, sprawled forward, landing hard on her feet on the cold, scratchy shingles of the woodshed roof. Pain shot up from her ankle, and her knees buckled, but she rolled out of the way, waiting for Riley to drop beside her.

Sig heard glass exploding, saw the glow of flames, smoke pouring from the loft window. She coughed, tasting the acrid smoke. Where the hell was her sister?

“Riley!”

“I’m coming. One, two, three…”

And she landed like a panther, her dark eyes gleaming and wild. She was totally focused, just as Sig remembered on the few times she’d joined her at a whale stranding.

“You have to jump to the ground now, Sig.”

Her head spun, sparks of light flashed, followed by passing waves of darkness. Everything seemed far away.
You have to jump off this woodshed.
It was a
voice. She didn’t know where it was coming from. Riley? Where was Riley?

“Matt.”

Suddenly her sister’s face was in hers. She was screaming at her. “You are going to jump off this fucking roof.” Riley almost never swore. “Do you hear me? If you don’t, I’m going to push you.”

“Something’s wrong,” Sig mumbled.

“I know. Emile’s cottage is on fire.”

“With me. Something’s wrong with me.”

“It’ll be okay, Sig.” Riley had her by the shoulders, was scooting her down to the edge of the roof. “Listen, I can hear the fire engines. Music to our ears, isn’t it? Someone must have spotted the flames.”

“I can’t jump. I can’t think….”

“Sig, listen to me. I’m not going to count. I’m going to say ‘jump!’ and you’re going to jump.” She gave her half a beat.
“Jump.”

Sig could feel the roof disappearing under her. She didn’t know if she’d jumped, if Riley had pushed her, if she’d simply fallen.

They landed almost simultaneously. Sig felt another sharp pain shoot up from her ankle and she sank to the ground. The grass was cold, damp, smelled of earth and ocean.

Riley, little sister Riley, tried to lift her from the hips, was crying, cajoling, “Sig, goddamn it, we have to get away from the cottage, it’s on fire,” until a voice—a man’s voice, not Matt’s—told her to move aside.

Sig couldn’t stay on her feet.

Strong, firm hands took hold of her. She could smell
smoke, her own acrid sweat, could hear the fire, thought she could even hear the smoke. She tried to claw her way to full awareness, kept losing her grip, falling back.

“My babies,” she whispered, sinking again.

T
hey took Riley’s car to the hospital in Ellsworth. Straker drove. Riley sat rigidly beside him, unable to make herself look back at Emile’s burning cottage, cry, even speak. She’d managed to pull on hiking pants before clearing out of the loft with Sig, but there’d been no time for car keys, pocketbooks, anything. Luckily, she had an extra key taped inside her glove compartment.

Sig was already on her way to the hospital by ambulance. Lou Dorrman was meeting them there. He had questions, he’d said when he arrived at Emile’s with the volunteer firefighters. A lot of questions. Sig had collapsed, semiconscious, incoherent, when Straker had carried her off. The woodshed had caught fire seconds later.

“If you hadn’t shown up…”

Riley’s words sounded unintelligible to her, but Straker, his eyes pinned on the long, dark, straight road, said, “I did show up.”

The EMTs had taken over, put Sig on oxygen and an IV as Riley hung over them, warned them her sister was almost five months pregnant with twins, aching to do something to help.

Her hands were blackened from smoke and soot, felt cold and stiff as she clasped them together on her lap. She stank of smoke. Her heart was racing, but she was very still, every muscle tensed against shaking, against a rush of emotion she knew she would never control if she let it slip through her defenses. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Her sister needed her.

“How did you know to come?” she asked.

“I saw the glow of the flames in the sky. It had to be a fire.”

“You called it in?”

He nodded. “I used the radio in my boat.”

“Thanks.”

He’d arrived on the scene just as she and Sig leaped off the woodshed roof. His training had kicked into gear, the tight control, the crisp professionalism. He’d dealt with the firefighters, the police, the EMTs, informed Sheriff Dorrman they were following Sig to the hospital. For once, Riley thought, she and Straker weren’t at cross-purposes—but she didn’t want to get ahead of herself. Right now, her interests dovetailed with his. When they didn’t, so much for being allies.

“Thank God you didn’t stay tonight.” Her voice was distant, almost as if it were coming from the back seat. “You’d have been downstairs where the fire started.”

“We might have caught it in time.”

She shut her eyes.
We.
As if she’d have stayed down-
stairs with him. But whatever Straker was to her, at least he was there. Sig was so damned alone. Married, pregnant with twins, but alone.

Not, Riley amended, that she and Straker were a pair in the making. After months of isolation and recuperation, of course he’d have at her when he got the chance. It wasn’t a ringing endorsement of her attractions, but a practical, objective look at the facts that dictated that conclusion. This was John Straker. He’d never liked her. She wasn’t his type. The sexual electricity he generated just proved what all that time alone could do to a man.

As for herself, she had no explanation. The stress of finding Sam Cassain’s body, Emile’s disappearance? She didn’t know.

And yet earlier on the dock, she’d sensed the possibility of more between them than sex. That, she knew, was dangerous thinking. There was no question he wanted sex. He was physical, earthy, unleashed after many long months of self-denial. It was a tough combination to resist, and she found herself increasingly unable—unwilling—to bother trying. But expecting anything else from him beyond hot, torrid sex was insanity on her part. She wasn’t one for self-delusion.

She felt a twinge of guilt at her train of thought. It was so much easier to think about going to bed with Straker than about fires and sirens and her and Sig’s narrow escape.

Riley twisted her hands together and blurted, “Sig thinks Matt might have financed Sam Cassain to find the
Encounter
and bring up its engine. That’s where the fire on the ship started.”

Straker nodded without surprise. “Makes sense.”

“He and Sam couldn’t have done it alone. They must have left a trail.”

He downshifted, turned into the hospital driveway. “If they did, Emile knows. That’s why he took off.”

Riley fell back against the seat. “He’s crazy.”

Straker pulled up to the emergency room. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.”

But when she hit the sidewalk, her legs went out from under her without warning, and for a mortifying second she thought she might pass out. Some idiot saw her and called for a stretcher.

Straker came around the car and shook his head. “Forget the stretcher. You’d have to staple-gun her to it.”

But once inside, he turned her over to a very intense young doctor and told him to check her out. Straker had that FBI air of authority about him, and Riley looked like hell. Not a good combination. He slipped off to see about Sig while the doctor checked her blood pressure, eyes, nose, mouth, lungs. Any bruises or sprains or pain from jumping? Her right forearm was scraped and bloody. She hadn’t noticed. He had a nurse clean and bandage it.

“My sister,” Riley said. “How is she?”

“The doctors are with her.”

“What does that mean?”

It meant she’d have to wait. She staggered back to the waiting room, and after a few minutes, Straker joined her. He shoved a bottle of water at her. “Drink up. They won’t let anyone see Sig yet. I called your mother. Your father’s there, too. They’re on their way.”

“They must be out of their minds with worry.”

“The hospital’s calling Caroline Granger on Mount Desert.”

Riley nodded dully. “She’s up for the weekend. Abigail and Henry are there, too.”

“Then that saves you from having to tell Matt.”

She bristled. “I’m not telling that son of a bitch anything. The hospital shouldn’t, either.”

Straker’s eyes went dark. “Sig’s his wife. If they’re not divorced, the medical staff won’t really have any choice.”

“For all I know he’s the one who set Emile’s place on fire!”

Straker took her by the shoulders and pushed her, not that gently, onto a chair. “You don’t believe that.”

“Do
not
tell me what I believe and don’t believe.”

“Okay.
I
don’t believe it.”

She started to shake. She was exhausted, irritable, smelled like a chimney. Here she was, so glad to have Straker with her, and she was barking at him. But her sister was hurting, and the only real home Riley had known as a child had just been torched. When she’d smelled the smoke, she’d assumed she’d messed up the dampers on the woodstove. She’d pulled on hiking pants and slipped on her sneakers before realizing it wasn’t that simple.

“I felt the fire,” she said. “I was bending down to tie my shoes, and I
knew.
I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to. It happens all the time. Somehow you put together the danger signs on an instinctive level, before they register in your conscious mind.”

“I was afraid Sig wouldn’t make it through the window. She’s tall, and her stomach—”

“She did make it.”

“I had to yell at her. She was still so done in from throwing up.”

Riley couldn’t hold it in anymore. She couldn’t keep up the fight. She sank her head into her hands and cried, sobbed, coughed, choked. She smeared black gunk over her face.

When she’d finished crying, Straker took her water bottle and dampened a couple of tissues for her. She wiped her face and hands, blew her nose. “I’m a mess.”

“That’s the least of your problems.”

He wasn’t going to pull any punches. And he was right. She flopped back against her chair. “I want to see Sig.”

Lou Dorrman arrived, and Straker stood back while the sheriff had Riley tell him about her night, start to finish. She didn’t volunteer anything about her brother-in-law showing up after dinner, and Dorrman didn’t ask. When she finished, he turned to Straker, who calmly explained how he’d come upon the fire just as the St. Joe sisters were leaping off the woodshed roof.

“Looks like we have a firebug on our hands,” the sheriff said. “Sam Cassain’s place burned down the other night. Now Emile’s.”

“Any evidence they’re related?” Straker asked.

“We got the fire out before Emile’s woodshed burned completely, found suspicious materials tucked off in the far corner. He has a nice selection of firebug favorites. Linseed oil, rags, beakers, candles, matches,
string, an old-fashioned alarm clock.” Dorrman shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.”

Riley shot to her feet. “That’s insane. Someone’s setting him up.”

The sheriff was unmoved. “Your grandpa needs to come in and explain himself.”

“You can’t possibly believe Emile would set his own place on fire!” She paused, tried to calm herself. Shouting wasn’t going to help the situation. “Sheriff, you’ve known my grandfather for years. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

“The state police are involved. It’s not like what I think or don’t think’s going to make a difference. They have to go by the evidence.” His cop gaze settled on Riley. “We all do.”

“But you have to look at the evidence with some degree of common sense.”

“You talk to your FBI friend here,” Dorrman said. “He’ll tell you all about evidence. Now, I know you’re looking for Emile. I’m going to tell you this once and only once. You listening?”

She sighed, nodded. Even her skin tingled with the frustration boiling through her.

“If you find him and don’t tell us, you’re going to be in a whole heap of trouble.” He paused, let his words sink in. “That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

“You
know
Emile’s not your man.” She crossed her arms over her chest as if to keep herself from flying apart. “He didn’t kill Sam, and he didn’t set those fires. It’s just not possible.”

“Then let him talk to the investigators, straighten ev
erything out.” Dorrman’s tone said he was finished arguing with her and she’d better figure that out before he lost patience. The trauma of jumping out of a burning building with her pregnant sister would only excuse so much. He yielded slightly. “How’s your sister?”

“I’m still trying to find out.”

He nodded. “I’ll talk to her later. Hope she’s okay.”

He left, and Riley dropped back onto a chair next to Straker. “You trying to make yourself disappear?”

“Emergency rooms aren’t my favorite place. How’re you doing?”

“Okay, I guess.” She gulped in air, trying not to shake. “I need to see about Sig.”

“Go ahead.”

But as she got to her feet, Caroline arrived, with Abigail and Henry right behind her. “Oh, Riley—my God! Are you all right? We couldn’t just sit out there and wait.” Caroline took in Riley’s soot and scrapes, her tear-streaked face. “We had to come. Is there anything we can do?”

Riley shook her head. “Thanks for being here.”

“No thanks are necessary.” She dipped into her expensive handbag and pulled out a handful of individually wrapped, lemon-scented wipes, which she tucked into Riley’s palm. She gave a comforting smile. “You look as if you’ve stepped out of the pages of a Dickens novel.”

Abigail was fighting off tears. She asked about Sig, and Henry promised to find out what was going on. Straker, on his feet, started to pace. Riley knew the inaction was getting to him, just being in a hospital again after his ordeal six months ago.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” she said. “I know you wanted me to get far away from trouble, and here I’ve just jumped from a burning building.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” he said. “The important thing is that you and your sister are all right.”

Facing Henry Armistead, however, was nothing compared to facing Mara Labreque St. Joe. She burst into the waiting room with the air of a woman who’d flown up the coast on a broomstick. She was disheveled, frantic, refused to wait for anyone to tell her where to find her daughter. She grabbed Riley and took off into the treatment rooms, muttering, “Damn Emile,
damn him.
”

“Mom, I should warn you. Sig’s pregnant.”

“Damn it, I know she’s pregnant! I have eyes in my head!”

“She’s having twins,” Riley added.

Her mother faltered. Her dark eyes shone. Her lower lip trembled, but she rallied. She turned on Riley as if she were Emile’s clone. “And you let her come up here with you? The least you could have done was stay in a motel. You didn’t have to stay at the cottage. Damn it, Riley, what were you thinking?”

“Mara.” Richard St. Joe eased in behind them. “Riley’s been through a rough time tonight, too.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry….” She put a hand on Riley’s cheek, tried to smile through her tears. “You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“I spoke to a doctor,” her father said. “She said Sig’s doing well. She sprained an ankle and had some smoke inhalation, and she’s dehydrated.”

“Can we see her?” Mara asked.

“Yes, but she’s asleep right now. They want to get her into a regular room and keep her at least until morning.”

“I want to see her,” Mara insisted.

Richard nodded. “I know. Me, too.”

A nurse escorted the three of them to Sig’s treatment room. She was asleep on her side under a thin blanket, her pregnancy obvious even to someone who wasn’t looking for it. She was still hooked up to an IV but had been taken off oxygen. Riley stood back while her parents came to terms with the reality of how close they’d come to losing not one daughter this time, but two.

“Come on,” Richard said, putting an arm around his wife, “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. I’m not going anywhere until she wakes up and I hear her voice. Riley?” He attempted a smile. “You look like you could use a whole pot of coffee.”

“I’ll be along.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Tell the rest of the crowd Sig’s okay, will you? Then send them home. Henry’s ready to fire me as it is.” She breathed in. “Forget Straker. It won’t matter what you tell him. He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

“He’s always been that way,” her mother said.

After they left, Riley moved next to her sister and tried to let the relief she knew she should be feeling register. Her
mind
was all set: Sig was okay. She hadn’t died. She hadn’t lost her babies. Intellectually, Riley could grasp those basic facts.