On Fire (25 page)

There.

A phone. She spotted it on a table at the end of the hall. She’d have to be careful and speak quietly to keep Henry from hearing her. She moved quietly, quickly, down the hall, lifted the receiver and grimaced as she tapped out 911. She didn’t waste any time with explanations, told the dispatcher there was a hostage situation on Beacon Hill and gave the address.

The dispatcher wanted her to stay on the line, but she heard her sister scream. The police wouldn’t get there in time.

“Hurry,” she told the dispatcher, and hung up.

She ran into the parlor, grabbed an expensive, heavy brass poker from the marble fireplace. This was madness, she knew, but she couldn’t hide up here while her sister and grandfather were in imminent danger. Even if she raced outside, it was a quiet weekday afternoon. She couldn’t count on running into anyone who could help.

Straker…

He wasn’t here. She was.

She slipped silently down the stairs, concentrated on maintaining her footing, on the feel of the poker as she refused to let her fears overcome her. She didn’t think back, didn’t think ahead.

She managed not to gasp and give herself away when she saw Abigail at the bottom of the stairs. Farther into the kitchen, Henry stood with his back to her, Emile’s
gun pointed at Sig. She was at Emile’s side. Their grandfather was white-faced, furious, determined.

And he saw Riley. She knew he did. His expression didn’t change, he didn’t move, but she knew.

Abigail moaned incoherently, but Henry didn’t turn around.

“If you kill me,” Sig said coldly, “you kill my babies.”

Henry scoffed. “I’m not killing you.” His voice was high-pitched and jittery. “Your grandfather is killing you.”

“My husband will hunt you down.”

Riley could feel her body moving almost of its own accord, instincts taking over. Her world slowed down, enough for her to see, maneuver, act. Emile kicked forward, distracting Henry, and she swung her poker, hitting him in the arm.

The .38 flew from his grip, and she whacked him again. He cried out in pain and surprise, spun around and snatched the poker, raging as he backhanded her. She fell against the table, tripped backward over Abigail.

Sig dove for the gun, kicking it aside. Henry grabbed her from behind, held the poker over her pregnant stomach. She went still, her face drained of color. “No. Henry…my babies.”

“No more, Henry,” Emile said. “For God’s sake, no more.”

Armistead pulled Sig backward toward the counter, tightened his grip around her middle. In one swift movement, he dropped the poker and whipped a knife off a magnetic rack, put it to her throat.

Riley went still. Her grandfather didn’t even seem
to breathe. The police would be here any minute, she thought. They had to be. Neither she nor Emile said a word as Henry pushed Sig toward the stairs. Abigail, still moaning, rolled onto her side, coughed. Henry went around her, started up the stairs with the knife still at Sig’s throat.

When they were almost to the top of the stairs, Riley staggered over to her grandfather. “The police are on their way. They’ll get him. He won’t hurt Sig. Oh, God, he
can’t.
” She grabbed a knife, cut the duct tape and rope around her grandfather’s wrists. “He must be out of his mind—the police are on their way.”

“He’s past thinking.” Emile pushed off the dangling ropes, nodded to her as he tore at his bound feet. “Go. See what you can do.”

“I’m so scared. I’ve mucked things up as it is—”

“You bought us time. Sig would be dead if you hadn’t acted. This is Henry’s last chance. He knows it. Riley, you’ll know what to do. Trust your instincts.”

Abigail collapsed again, vomiting. Riley reclaimed her poker, and Emile waved her upstairs, even as he struggled with the last of his ropes and duct tape.

“Go,” Abigail echoed, her voice rasping, hoarse. “Stop him.”

Riley took the stairs quickly, silently, praying the police would arrive before Henry had a chance to harm her sister. She didn’t know what to do in a hostage situation. She just knew she couldn’t let the bastard hurt Sig.

She slowed her pace as she came to the top of the stairs. She held her poker high and took a breath, but
before she could assess what was happening in the hall, a hand shot out and whipped the poker from her grip. It clattered to the hall floor. She opened her mouth to scream, but Straker was there, scooping an arm around her.

“I didn’t want you to ram me through with that thing,” he said.

She started sobbing, gripped his shoulders, “Sig—he’s got Sig. Henry. He has a knife.”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m okay.” Sig’s voice, weak and shaky and angry, came from down the hall. “The son of a bitch ran into Matt and Straker. He didn’t stand a chance.”

Riley focused, and she took in her battered and bloodied brother-in-law holding Henry’s knife at the bastard’s throat. Henry had his face in his hands. Henry wasn’t crying, he wasn’t raging. He was simply sitting there quietly.

Straker rubbed a hand over Riley’s hip. “You hurt?”

“Bruised.”

“Good.” His gray eyes were unamused. “You St. Joes. Don’t you believe in calling the police?”

“I did call. They’re on their way. I just couldn’t wait for them to get here. Henry would have shot Sig.”

He nodded. “Then you did what you had to do.”

“Emile’s down in the kitchen. I think he’s okay, but Abigail—Henry did a job on her. We need an ambulance.”

“I think we need a couple of ambulances.”

“I’m fine.” But even as she spoke, Riley felt her legs going out from under her. Straker steadied her, and she
grumbled, “I can’t believe you get paid for doing this. How did you know to come here?”

He winked, tightened his arm around her. “I’m the FBI.”

“Well, I’m glad you showed up.” She squared her shoulders, sniffled and managed a quick smile. “I didn’t feel like catching Henry all by myself.”

R
iley breathed in the clean Maine air, shoved her hands in her jacket pockets as a breeze blew in off the bay. It was a shining autumn afternoon, as beautiful as any she remembered. Evergreens and hardwoods with leaves of red, orange and yellow were outlined against a deep, endlessly blue sky. The bay was choppy, the tide coming in hard. Lobster boats were out, their multicolored buoys bobbing in the swells. Cormorants dove for fish. In all the important ways, she thought, life here hadn’t changed.

Emile and his lobstermen buddies had hauled off most of the rubble that had once been his cottage. They were still arguing over drawings for a new one. They all had their own ideas about propane heat versus fuel oil, natural light, windows, keeping it simple or “yuppifying” it. Emile was tireless. Henry Armistead hadn’t succeeded in destroying him.

The police had conducted a thorough analysis of
the engine parts Sam Cassain had brought up from the remains of the
Encounter.
They had uncompromising proof of sabotage. Sam Cassain had been wrong about Emile.

But instead of exonerating the oceanographer immediately and publicly, and turning the investigation over to the authorities, Sam had slipped behind the scenes and tried to make a profit.

He’d fingered Henry Armistead early on. It was Sam who’d let Henry aboard the
Encounter
shortly before it set out to sea that final day. Abigail Granger had known. She hadn’t realized its significance, she’d explained from her hospital bed, until it was too late. When she’d finally confronted Henry, he’d tried to kill her. He loved her, wanted the status she could give him, but he’d been desperate, knew the walls were closing in on him.

Emile joined Riley down on the water. She smiled at him. He was sweating, in his element as he worked on his new cottage. “I think it needs more windows,” she told him.

“You going to pay for them?”

“Only if I can visit whenever I want.”

His dark eyes gleamed. “You’ll do that anyway.”

“I’ll miss the old place,” she said.

“I won’t. It had mice and snakes.”

“Not that many.” She squinted out at the water, felt the chilly breeze on her face. “You won’t change your mind and come back to the center?”

He shook his head. “No. This is my life now. It’s a good one. I have friends here.”

“Lobstermen. They’re lucky Lou Dorrman didn’t lock them all up.”

“Lou’s a good man,” he said.

“How did you know, Emile?” She turned to him, felt that pang she always did these days when she realized how close she’d come to really losing him. “That it was Henry, that he was as desperate as he was?”

“I didn’t know he was that desperate or I wouldn’t have ended up trussed up like a Christmas turkey. That it was Henry…I talked to your mother. Her last visit with Sam—he always wanted to put his best foot forward with her, even if he knew they could never be together again. He told her he was trying to put the
Encounter
right. She didn’t think it meant much of anything at the time.”

“It meant he knew what he’d found aboard the
Encounter
would exonerate you.”

“If he hadn’t tried to blackmail Henry, if he’d just gone to the police, to me, even to Matt…Sam underestimated Henry, and it cost him his life.” Emile shook his head sadly. “Sam’s was a life of missed opportunities.”

“Do you think Henry meant to kill him?”

“He let him die. That much we know from the police examination of the boat Abigail let Henry use while he was staying with her and Caroline on Mount Desert Island. That’s where Sam confronted him. I don’t think it was an accident. I think Henry hit Sam over the head, pushed him into the water and let him drown.”

“Then he thought better of letting the police find him off Mount Desert Island and pulled him out.”

“And dumped him on Labreque Island,” Emile said
grimly. “He probably cut his engines, slipped in under the cover of dark. Henry was bold in many ways, cowardly in others.”

“If Straker had caught him—”

“It does no good to go back and imagine what might have happened. It’s enough to deal with what did happen.”

“Henry chose Labreque Island because he’d already formulated a plan to blame the
Encounter
on you.”

Emile nodded, accepting this information philosophically. “His one problem—he couldn’t find Sam’s proof. He checked his house in Arlington, burned that down. Checked my house, burned it down—which also suited his plans to frame me.”

Riley sighed, continued to stare out at the water. “But Sam had tucked the engine on Mount Desert. Even Matt didn’t know where it was. That’s what brought him out here the weekend Sam died—he was looking for Sam’s evidence.” She could feel her grandfather’s sudden melancholy. She turned to him and smiled. “Thank God it’s over.”

Emile’s dark, intense gaze zeroed in on her, didn’t let up. “Riley, if you want a kayak, I can find you one. Yours burned up in the fire. You can paddle out to the island—”

She shook her head. “I’m not rattling that particular cage.”

Straker was there, had been for ten days. He’d settled affairs with the Boston police, the Massachusetts State Police, the Maine State Police and Sheriff Dorrman, and, after making love to Riley a final, bone-
melting time, had retreated to his deserted island. He didn’t say why. He didn’t ask her to wait or to understand. He just said he’d be in touch, and went.

“He can’t stay out there through the winter,” Emile said.

“I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

A car drove all the way up to the dock, and Riley, surprised, recognized her sister’s BMW. Sig popped out, looking even more pregnant. But the pale, serious look was gone, her free-spiritedness back. She waved, smiling. Matt climbed out from behind the wheel. He had a small cast on his forearm, his bruises had faded somewhat, but he’d lost weight.

“They’re both wounded,” Emile said. “They need some time away together.”

“They can afford to go anywhere they want.”

“‘Anywhere’ isn’t here.”

They got packs from the trunk. Riley gave Emile a questioning frown, but he was off to greet his older granddaughter and her husband. She gave up and joined them.

Sig beamed at her. “A week on the island is just what we need.”

“What island?”

“Labreque Island, idiot. It’s peak fall foliage, the weather’s not too cold.” She blushed, smiled at her husband. “Not that it matters.”

Matt slipped an arm around her. “John’s laid in provisions. He’s even appropriated a canoe for us.”

Riley stared at them. “A canoe?”

“We’ll be the last two people to stay at the cottage,”
Sig said, as if Riley knew what she was talking about. “Then the island becomes part of the nature preserve.”

Emile nodded, pleased. Riley scowled at him. “You knew?”

He blinked at her. “Knew what?”

“Oh, phooey, you know what I’m talking about. Has Straker been to see you? How do you know—”

“You ask too many questions,” her grandfather told her. “Come on, Matt. I’ll help you with your packs.”

Matt grinned at Riley. “You and your sister talk. I’m with you, Riley. I think you’ve been plotted against.”

“You just be quiet,” Sig said, giving him a shove.

He and Emile took the packs down to the dock. Riley saw Straker’s boat, out across the bay, beelining in their direction. Her sister dropped her sunglasses over her eyes. “Don’t kid yourself, Riley. You’re in love with him.” She laughed. “Thank God I’m not the only idiot in the family.”

“Matt really loves you.”

“I know.” Her laughter faltered. “When Henry had that knife on me, that’s what kept me going. Just knowing that single-minded dope loves me, that he’ll love our babies.”

“Sig…”

“We’re going to be okay. A week out here…” She breathed in the cool air. “It’s perfect.”

“Straker’s idea?”

“He called a few days ago. We accepted immediately. I can’t explain it—it’s as if he knew this is what we need to put this whole thing behind us. Maybe it’s because it helped him put his own ordeal behind him.”

“I hope your week doesn’t bleed into six months.”

Sig shook her head. “It can’t. I’m not having twins out on a damned island. And I plan to be back on Beacon Hill before the snow flies.” She turned to her sister. “Thank you, Riley. For all you did.”

“I didn’t—”

“You and Straker saved Matthew, and you saved me.”

Riley swallowed. “Straker…” She sighed, never one to articulate her feelings easily. “We have nothing in common.”

Sig grinned. “I beg to differ.”

And when Straker pulled up to the dock, Sig waved and ran down to greet him. He jumped out of his boat, kissed her on the cheek. The sight of him took Riley’s breath away. She walked slowly down to the dock, hyperaware of those gray eyes on her as she helped Matt and Emile load up the boat.

“I stocked up,” Straker said, “but if you want any gourmet food, I hope you brought it.”

Sig laughed. “Nope. We’re going to rough it. Beef stew, hash and eggs, lots of lobster. I think we’ll manage.”

“If you need anything—”

“We’ll call Emile. Don’t think Matt’s going out to a deserted island with a pregnant woman and no phone.”

They finished loading the boat in a flash. Emile promised to look after their car, and Matt tossed him the keys. For weeks he’d operated in Sam Cassain’s and Henry Armistead’s shadows, sometimes one step behind, at other times two steps ahead, always trying to keep from pulling his family into what he believed he’d created when he’d funded Sam’s efforts to bring
up the
Encounter
’s engine. Yet without him, Henry’s act of sabotage would have gone undiscovered.

“Oh,” Sig said, turning to Emile, “Mom said to tell you she and Dad are coming up tomorrow to help with the new cottage. We stopped in Camden on our way up. She says you’d forget to put in a bathroom without her.”

He smiled. “She doesn’t know how I survive without her.”

“And did Riley tell you? Dad wants you to be on the maiden voyage of the
Encounter II.
”

His old eyes misted, and he nodded solemnly. Riley had forgotten about her father’s message. She wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t been thinking clearly.

The boat pulled away, and Emile said, “So, John, I hear you’re going back to the FBI.”

“Yep. I’ve been assigned to the Boston office.”

“Heading up a new domestic terrorism unit’s what I hear.”

Straker smiled. “My father exaggerates.”

“Well, don’t plan on Riley here pressing your FBI suits. She doesn’t iron.”

“Hell, she doesn’t clean. She’s a scientist. Me, I cook, clean, capture bad guys.” He grinned. “The perfect man.”

Riley was at a loss. “Straker—”

Emile climbed into the BMW. “Fun having a rich granddaughter,” he said. “I’ll see you two later.”

He backed the car up to his skeleton of a cottage, and Straker eased closer to Riley. “You look as if you’ve just been caught in a whirlwind.”

“I have been,” she said. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

He held up a paper bag. “I have marshmallows and a fire ready to be lit on a narrow stretch of beach not far from here.”

“You’ve been thorough.”

“Always.”

“Straker, if you want to stay up here in Maine, I can—”

He shook his head, cutting her off. “Toasted marshmallows, fire. Then we’ll talk.”

The narrow stretch of beach was a short walk from the dock, where she’d put in her kayak what seemed like a million years ago. True to his word, he had a fire built. He lit the kindling and stuck marshmallows on green sticks. She could smell the smoke, feel the heat of the fire on her face. It was romantic, healing.

He held a marshmallow in the flames, watched as it caught fire. “Rumor has it you like your marshmallows charred on the outside and gooey on the inside.” He blew out the flames. “Your men, too.”

“Sig. That rat fink. Is that what she told you? Well, I haven’t had that many men in my life.”

“Too busy rescuing whales?”

She shook her head. “Too busy being busy.”

He handed her the blackened marshmallow. It was perfect, just the way she liked it. He touched her lips, kissed her lightly. “I love you, St. Joe. I think I always have.”

“Even when I hit you with that rock?”

“You’ve always been willing to take me on. You don’t back down, you don’t let me intimidate you, even if you are a little spit of a thing.” He smiled, kissed her
again before she could protest about being called little. He said close to her mouth, “Back in the spring after I got shot, I came to the island because my world was closing in on me. You’ve opened it up again.”

“I don’t think anyone’s said anything more wonderful to me. Straker, the past ten days while you’ve been out here plotting and God knows what else—” Her breath caught. “I tried to imagine going on without you…” She looked into those gray eyes, past the scars and the hardness to the kind, strong man she had fallen deeply, forever in love with. “But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.”

He put another log on the fire, the bright, hot flames glowing on his face. He sat back, moved in close to her, so that she could smell the sea and the sawdust, see the scar she’d given him when she was twelve, and he said, “Whatever demons we face from here on out, we face together.