On Fire (24 page)

“With pleasure.”

“She and Emile…” She brushed at tears with the back of her hand, but Straker had no illusions. She’d be fine. She was fully engaged, determined. “They’re devoted to each other. You know it, you’ve seen it yourself. And they’re just alike. They act first, think later. They’re so smart they usually can get away with it.”

“Not this time. This time, they need to goddamn back off.”

“They won’t. Neither one.”

He nodded. “When you get to the hospital, call the police. Tell them everything.”

“I will. I promise.”

He believed her. In her own way she was as strong as the rest of her family. It would be a mistake, Straker thought, to underestimate Sig St. Joe Granger’s strength.

Matt was regaining consciousness, and Sig shut the
door on him before he could fall out or try to go after Emile himself. She hurried around to the driver’s side and climbed in, started the engine, gunned it and was off.

Straker headed back into her house. It was quiet, its elegance marred by the smears of blood on the walls, floor and woodwork. He went down to the kitchen and out to the pretty courtyard garden, which had obviously been neglected in recent months.

No trail of bread crumbs. He reined in his frustration, knew there was no point in following Riley on foot. He wasn’t worried about her few minutes’ head start, but she knew Beacon Hill better than he did. He’d be lucky to find his way back out to the street from the damned courtyard.

He went back to his car. He’d missed Granger’s entrance; he’d missed Emile. He shook his head, disgusted with himself.

The snaking network of hilly one-way streets, originally designed for horses, tangled him up and slowed him down. He stopped in the middle of Louisburg Square, realizing Riley could have followed Emile all the way to Logan Airport and onto a plane to Greece or South America by now.

He double-parked and checked Abigail Granger’s house. Locked up tight. He rang the doorbell, knocked. No answer. He stood on the front stoop, imagined himself on Labreque Island. It was a clear, warm, perfect September day. He’d take his kayak out, sit on the rocks, maybe dip his feet in the bay. But that life seemed remote now, as if the past six months had collapsed into a matter of seconds.

So what was Matt Granger doing here that got him pushed down the stairs and thrashed?

Straker drove down the hill to Mass. General Hospital. No Sig in the ER waiting room. No police arriving to take her and her husband’s statements. Straker swore under his breath and pushed his way to Matt Granger’s treatment room. The doctors had gotten right to work. His broken forearm was already set, and he had his ribs wrapped and the cuts and bruises on his face treated. He looked like hell, physically and emotionally spent.

He glanced at Straker. Even beaten to shit, the man had a patrician look about him. “Where’s Sig?” But Straker’s hesitation told him, and he jumped off the treatment table and grabbed his shirt, shrugged it on as he addressed the doctor who’d been shining a light in his eyes. “I have to go.”

“Mr. Granger, I don’t recommend—”

“My wife is in danger. You have any Tylenol or something you can give me?”

“You need something stronger.”

Granger shook his head. “Anything stronger’ll knock me out.”

The doctor sighed, handed him samples of Extra-Strength Tylenol and Tylenol with codeine. “I want you back here. You’re leaving against my advice.”

“I know, Doc.” Matt gave a rakish, Robert Redford grin, despite his swollen, bloody face. “I won’t sue you.”

The doctor wasn’t amused. He kept arguing as Granger headed for the door. Adrenaline and pain had him focused and alert. Straker didn’t try to stop him.
If Sig St. Joe was his own wife, he’d drag his ass off an ER treatment table and go after her.

“I’ll look after him,” he told the doctor, “and get him back here as soon as I can.”

The doctor didn’t like that, either, but there was nothing he could do.

“Sig would blithely walk into the mouth of a dragon,” Granger told him as they headed outside. “She’s oblivious. Here she’s nearly been killed, I’ve nearly been killed and she goes off—” He grimaced, as if he’d thought too far ahead already and couldn’t stand what he saw. “What the hell is she thinking?”

“Riley took off after Emile.”

“Damn it. They’re both impossible.”

“You said it yourself. Loving a St. Joe isn’t easy.”

Matt half fell into Straker’s front seat. “If I brought this on Sig—”

“That kind of thing won’t get you anywhere,” Straker warned, and shut the door.

He took Cambridge Street to Government Center, snaked through the jammed traffic and endless waterfront construction and tried to push back his own rampant thoughts. “If you’re right and Emile killed Cassain, he wouldn’t deliberately hurt his own granddaughters. He had that chance back on Chestnut Street. Instead he got out bandages for you.”

Granger cradled his broken arm, swallowed the Extra-Strength Tylenol without water. He had to be in immense pain. “You don’t think it’s Emile.”

Straker reluctantly slowed for a stoplight, clenched the wheel. “No, I don’t.”

“I just don’t know anymore. My family…” Granger shut his eyes briefly, every fiber exuding misery on a large scale. He swallowed. “Christ.”

“Maine CID talked to your stepmother this morning. They found the engine parts Cassain brought up from the
Encounter
in an outbuilding at your family house on Mount Desert. Do you know how they got there?”

Granger sat in tight-lipped silence. Straker didn’t push it. He pulled up in front of the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research. No reporters jumped in front of his car, which was at least something. “You stay put. Security’s suspicious of me as it is. They don’t need to see me walk in with a bloodied Granger. Keep the car running.” He gave Granger a hard look. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need. You steal my car and pass out and kill a pedestrian—”

“Ten minutes. Go.”

On his way Straker called Richard St. Joe on his cell phone. “I’ve lost both your daughters. You want to let me in?”

“I’ll meet you at the main entrance.”

“Henry Armistead has me down as a stalker.”

“Screw Henry.”

Despite his rumpled, distracted appearance, Richard St. Joe commanded a certain respect among the center’s staff. The security guards let Straker pass.

Straker didn’t mince words. “Your son-in-law just had the shit kicked out of him at Abigail Granger’s house. Is she here?”

“I don’t know. I think so. John, what the hell’s going on?”

“Someone sabotaged the
Encounter
last year. It
should have been a nice little explosion that made everyone feel bad. Instead it was a great big explosion that sank the ship and killed five people.”

“Jesus Christ,” St. Joe said.

“That’s the short version.”

“Emile?”

Straker gave a tight shake of the head. “No.” For the first time, he was convinced his instincts were right. It wasn’t Emile. “Sam Cassain came out and blamed Emile, and that suited the saboteur just fine. With the
Encounter
at the bottom of the ocean, there was no proof of what really happened. Then your son-in-law secretly funded Cassain’s bid to bring up the ship’s engine. He succeeded.”

“And the engine showed evidence of sabotage. Do you think that’s what Sam expected?”

“Initially, I think he was just looking for something that proved conclusively that Emile was responsible.”

“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 anything 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.”

S
ig raced up Pinckney Street and turned onto Louisburg 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. “I have a key.”

“Good. Let’s let ourselves in and hope we’re just catching her in the tub.”

“Do you suspect Abigail?” Sig asked bluntly.

Her sister seemed surprised. “No, of course not. She wouldn’t know how to sabotage a ship engine or dip a rag in linseed oil and set Emile’s cottage on fire, never mind want to do something like that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Emile.” Riley marched up to Abigail’s front door. “Matt followed him here, says Emile pushed him down the stairs and beat him up. So what was Emile
doing here? What did he see that he didn’t mention to us? And if he didn’t attack Matt—which he didn’t—then who did?”

“Abigail?”

Riley groaned in exasperation. “
Sig.
I just said she’s not on my list any more than Emile is. If you apply the process of elimination and a little common sense, you come up with—”

A stab of pain nearly brought Sig to her knees. She almost couldn’t speak. Her head pounded. “Henry. He was here yesterday. He and Abigail are having an affair…damn.”

“The only problem is he doesn’t strike me as someone who’d know how to commit arson and blow up ships, either. He’s an administrator. He studied oceanography, but he hasn’t really been in the field in years and—” She stopped, stared at her sister. “What is it?”

“But he would. Riley, remember?” They stopped at Abigail’s brass-trimmed front door, and Sig swallowed, her throat tight and dry. “Henry was one of those volunteer wildfire fighters out west. That’s how he and Bennett met.”

“No, I didn’t know. I didn’t pay much attention when he was hired. We were revamping the recovery and rehab program.”

Sig smiled feebly. “You and your one-track mind.”

“But fighting wildfires isn’t the same as committing arson.”

“Who knows what all those firefighters sat around talking about during breaks? The fires at Sam’s house
and Emile’s cottage were both caused by crude time-delayed devices. Henry could have chosen his timing.”

“And he was desperate,” Riley said.

“Yes. If he sabotaged the
Encounter
, he’s responsible for the deaths of five people. He’d lose everything, including Abigail.”

“I hate this. Explosions, fires, assaults and murder—they aren’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“Maybe we should find Straker,” Sig said.

“I don’t see Henry’s car. He’s probably still at the center. Maybe he and Abigail rode together and no one’s here.” She gave Sig an encouraging smile. “This could be our best chance to look around her house and settle our minds. Maybe we’re way off the deep end here.”

“Do you think so?”

Riley shook her head. “No.”

Sig wasn’t sure. All the threads and pieces seemed to float past her, and she couldn’t put anything together. She fumbled with her keys, too nervous to single out her copy of the key to the Granger house.

Riley, ever impatient, grabbed them from her. “Which one?”

Sig pointed, her hand shaking. “That one.”

Riley grasped the key, stuck it in the door, pushed it open. “It’s not really breaking and entering,” she whispered as they slipped into the cool, elegant home. “We’re just taking a look around.”

Sig called out, “Abigail? You home? It’s me, Sig.”

Total silence. Given her mood, it seemed eerie. On another day, it would be refreshing, soothing to encounter such a place of peace and elegance in the heart of the city.

“I’ll check the kitchen,” Sig said. “You look around here and upstairs.”

Riley nodded.

Sig stifled a surge of guilt. Her sister-in-law had never faltered in the past year. She’d been strong, capable, determined. Without her energy and focus, the center might never have survived Emile’s downfall and Bennett’s death.

Thinking of her husband’s battered body, Sig started down the kitchen stairs. She looked behind her after every step, not wanting someone to shove her from behind, then give her a few kicks while she was down. She shuddered, pushed the images out of her mind. Matt was in good hands now. He’d be okay.

She peered down the stairs, balanced herself with one hand on the wall. She could see something at the foot of the stairs. She leaned forward to get a better look.

Abigail.

She was sprawled on the floor at the foot of the stairs. Sig jumped back, shrieked. Her breath went out of her. She lost her footing and grabbed the railing, caught herself before she could tumble down the stairs.

“Sig!” It was Emile, down in the kitchen. “Run! Get out!”

She turned, tripping on her long skirt, and, almost on her knees, scrambled up several steps.

Something tugged at the hem of her skirt. She kicked backward, and a hand grasped her lower leg, twisting. If she didn’t go with it, she’d break her leg. She turned over, sat on the step.

Henry snatched her hand and jerked her to her feet. “Abigail’s alive.”

Sig gasped for air. “What the hell’s going on here? Henry, for God’s sake—”

“Shh, shh.” He put a finger to his lips. He was dressed casually in a cotton sweater and trousers, handsome, totally calm. “It’s okay. Shh. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Riley. Her sister must have heard the commotion in the kitchen. She would call the police. She would get Straker. She would run out into the street and get someone in here. Sig couldn’t give her away. She had to be brave. She kept her eyes pinned on Henry, refusing to glance back up the stairs and alert him that Riley had come in with her.

“What did you do to Abigail?” Her voice was hoarse, breathless. “Did you push her down the stairs and beat her up the way you did my husband?”

“I could have killed your husband. I didn’t. Be grateful.”

“You
monster.
”

“If your husband had minded his own goddamned business, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

“His father’s death
is
his business.”

Henry’s eyes darkened, and he jerked her down the stairs, not caring if she stumbled, if he had to drag her. She managed to stay on her feet. Adrenaline shot painfully through her. Her knees weakened. She should have found a gun, grabbed a poker from the fireplace.

He tightened his grip on her arm and elbowed her in the chest to break her momentum and keep her from
toppling into him. She tried to pull herself free. “Ouch—Henry, you’re hurting me!”

“Armistead,” Emile yelled from deeper in the kitchen. She’d never heard him sound so certain, so furious. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you myself.”

Henry smirked, cocky, nasty. He didn’t even look in Emile’s direction. “Your grandfather doesn’t seem to understand he’s tied up and can’t do anything. It’s his life that hangs in the balance. Not mine.”

“I’ll haunt you from the grave,” Emile said. “You won’t have a second’s peace.”

“Henry,” Sig croaked, gasping for air, “for God’s sake, you can’t believe this is going to work.”

“The police already suspect Emile. I just need to help them reach the correct and logical conclusion, provide proof that what they believe he’s done, he did, in fact, do.”

“What about Abigail?”

He ignored her and pulled Sig over Abigail’s prone body. Sig was sickened, terrified for herself, for her sister-in-law, for Emile.

Henry touched her hair. “Sig, you of all people should understand.”

“What? I don’t understand any of this.”

“Loving a Granger. Wanting to be one of them. You don’t understand?”

Bravado, anger, kept her on her feet. “You don’t love Abigail. You don’t know what love is. And I never cared about being a Granger. I cared about my husband.”

“I never meant…” He broke off, his eyes misting, not with regret, Sig thought, but self-pity. “No one was supposed to die.”

“Five people
did
die. And now with Sam’s death, six.”

Henry’s gaze hardened, his grip on her tightening painfully, to the point she thought her arm would break. “Trust me, no one misses our good Captain Cassain.”

He shoved her backward, sent her sprawling against the table. She stumbled, held on to the back of a chair. A knife. Where did Abigail keep the knives?

She saw her grandfather in the corner by the stove, his hands and feet tied to a chair. He was white-faced, old, trembling not with fear or pain, she thought, but unbridled anger. “Emile,” she breathed. “Oh my God.”

His dark eyes leveled on Henry. “Kill me. Leave Sig.”

“That won’t work, Emile. I’m not stupid. I’ve examined every option. You’re the one who backed me into a corner. If you’d just left me alone—”

“You sabotaged my ship. You killed members of my crew. You murdered my captain.”

“Your captain discredited you. He tried to blackmail me. Why would you risk your life for him?”

“That’s my duty,” Emile said simply.

“If no one had died,” Henry sneered, “you would have thanked me for getting rid of the
Encounter.
”

Emile’s expression was stony. “Abigail saw you before you hit her.”

“No, she didn’t.” Henry was confident, arrogant. “She’ll blame you. You hurt her brother, now you’ve hurt her.”

“She suspects you, Henry. You know she does.”

“Shut up.”

Sig felt bile rise up in her throat, and she put her free hand on her abdomen as if to soothe her babies. She
needed a weapon. Some way of stopping this from happening. How could it be Henry? How could he have killed Bennett, four other crew members, Sam Cassain?

And where was Riley? Sig felt sick to her stomach.

Henry turned to her, as if reading her mind. “Where’s your little sister? She’s a pill, that one.”

“I left her with John Straker. They’ll have the police here any second. You should stop now while you still can.” She raised her chin, breathed in. “Damn you, Henry.”

“Oh, yes. I’m damned. But not today. Today, finally, I’m free.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You, Sig?” He smiled, an unsettling mixture of sadness and relief. “I want you to prove to the authorities just what a madman your grandfather has become.”

Riley searched madly for a telephone. She needed to call the police; she needed help. She raced silently through the parlor. “Even the damned Grangers have to have phones!” she muttered under her breath, forcing back panic. Henry had Sig. Something had happened to Abigail. And Emile—he was down there, too, in danger.

She stopped in the middle of the thick Persian rug, tried to remember the layout of the huge, old house. There would be a phone in the kitchen, but Henry was in the kitchen. Wasn’t there an office upstairs? And bedrooms—surely there would be a phone in the master bedroom.

If Henry heard her, she was sunk.

She eased out into the hall and stood at the top of the stairs, listening to the low, intense voices coming from the kitchen. If only she knew how much time she had!