“Then there’s the Shillingford family that lives up in the valley. Now don’t rush off. I don’t get many folks coming to visit.”
Riley said, “Sorry, we’ve got to go,” as she went down the steps.
“Come on,” Cole said when her feet hit the street. He took her hand and started off at a trot.
Over her shoulder Riley called out, “Thanks Ms. Bert. You’ve been a big help.”
After they had gone about fifty yards, she grabbed Cole’s arm and pointed to a sign. It read King Street. “Look. Turn up there.” On the side street, the incline increased. They slowed to a fast walk up the steep hill.
The houses were all painted bright colors and next to the door frames, some of the houses had signs with names. She read them out loud as they passed.
The electric blue house would have been difficult to miss. Again, the door stood open and Riley bounded up the stairs and knocked on the door frame. This time the man who came to the door had very dark black skin that contrasted with his close-cut gray hair. There was no doubt about the origin of his lilting voice. He nodded.
“How d’you do,” he said.
“Mr. Charles?”
“Yes, how may I help you?”
She felt Cole’s eyes on her back, so she jumped right in this time. “My partner and I are here on the island doing some research on a submarine that may have sunk in this area in the second world war. Did you live here at that time?”
“Ah. You must be looking for my father. I’m sorry. He’s in hospital in Rouseau at the moment.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. I was born here during the war, but I don’t remember it. Still, I haven’t heard about any submarines, and I’ve lived here for sixty-five years. I wish I could be of more help to you.”
“Thanks for your time.”
When she reached the street, Cole crossed his arms across his chest and said, “Is that it?”
She looked across the street at the yellow house, then up the street with houses that stretched for another quarter mile before giving way to the jungle on the side of the mountain. Hidden in the clouds above them was Dominica’s Soufriere volcano. She didn’t answer him. She understood his urgency, but she couldn’t explain it to him. James Thatcher had been so precise about everything else, he would not have sent them to search a five square mile area for a submarine. He wanted them in Scott’s Head, not Soufriere Bay. And Mikey did, too.
“Riley,” he said. “Priest has got access to satellites, for Pete’s sake. He can phone up to Washington and ask them to point the cameras at the islands to look for my boat. They’re probably en route from the Saintes while we’re wandering around town having tea with the locals. Come on.” He turned and started walking back down the hill.
Riley was about to follow him when she could have sworn she heard her brother’s voice. “Look,” he said.
At what? Across the street, a cat stood up and stretched on the porch of the tidy yellow house with a red tin roof. The house looked more like those in the Saintes with the neat whitewashed railing around the porch and the lacy gingerbread cornices where the roof supports met the eaves. Next to the open door was a hand painted sign. It said Le p’tit coco in bright green letters.
“Cole!” she called out. “Come here.”
He must have heard something in her voice. He stopped and retraced his steps. She had crossed the street and she now pointed up the porch steps at the sign. “Look. What do you think?”
“What?”
“The song in your dad’s journal. Le p’tit coco.”
“I don’t know, Riley.” He pointed down the hill to the dark blue waters of the bay. “My gut’s telling me the answer’s out there.”
And my brother is telling me to keep looking here, she thought. Riley climbed the steps. No one responded to her knock, but she heard voices around back. She descended the steps and waved at Cole to follow her on the dirt driveway that led alongside the house. As she neared the back, she heard a woman’s voice speaking in Dominica’s unique Creole patois.
“Hello?” she said.
The voices stopped.
When she came around the corner, she saw an old man sitting in a plastic chair just outside the back door of the cottage. He had a towel wrapped around his shoulders and a full head of straight, white hair. The old man’s features were Caucasian, but his skin was so dark and wrinkled from decades in the sun, his eyes were mere slits in the folds of skin. On his right cheek, a mottled red shape looked as though it might be melanoma. Next to him stood a lovely coffee-colored woman, a pair of scissors poised above the old man’s head.
“Excuse me,” Riley said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I’m looking for Mr. Jules?”
The young woman lowered her scissors and stared. When the old man tried to stand, she placed one hand on his shoulder, restraining him. She spoke to him so softly Riley couldn’t hear the words, then she said, “How may I help you?”
Riley heard Cole come up behind her. The old man’s eyes grew wider. They were a very pale shade of blue, perhaps made even lighter by cataracts. “This is my friend Cole and I’m Riley. We wondered,” she said, “if we could ask you a few questions about the history of Scott’s Head.”
The woman rested one hand on the old man’s shoulder. “My great-grandfather’s health is not good. It distresses him to speak with strangers.”
The old man pulled the towel off his shoulders and leaned forward to stand. This time when she tried to restrain him, he shook her off. Once on his feet, he stood hunched forward, teetering a bit. The woman grabbed a cane that rested against the back of the house and put it in his hand. She leaned down, and he whispered in her ear. She nodded, collected the towel and scissors and went into the house without another word. The old man indicated some chairs in the center of the yard.
“Please sit,” he said, then he stepped across the grass to the wooden chairs. Riley was surprised to hear his French accent.
When Cole approached, the man reached out and motioned for him to come closer. The old man pointed to the coin on the chain round Cole’s neck and said, “May I see it?”
Cole surprised Riley when he lifted the chain over his head and passed the French Angel coin to the old man. He turned the gold piece over, held it close to his eyes and carefully examined both sides. When he looked up, he was smiling. He handed the coin back to Cole.
“Welcome,” the old man said. “I’ve been waiting for you. Your father said you would come.” He stretched out his thin, boney hand. “My real name is Henri Michaut.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Îles des Saintes
March 30, 2008
12:15 p.m.
It was another bitch of a hot day and Spyder’s fucking head was killing him. He’d managed to swipe a wallet out of a tourist’s beach bag yesterday, and he’d used the hundred euros he’d found inside to score some weed from the French wannabe Rastas with their blond dreads who hung out on the town beach. They’d passed around their jug of rum, too. It was some kind of island-made shit. Even the last doobie he smoked when he got up this morning hadn’t made the steel spikes in his brain go away. The Polaroid glasses he’d found on the boat were too big, and they did a lousy job of keeping out the sun’s glare. Spyder was getting sick and tired of hauling his ass up this hill and over to Marigot Bay to check on the fucking boats. They had the GPS tracker inside the bitch’s oars, but that asshole Thor wanted a phoned-in visual report on all three boats twice a day. He lit a cigarette, drew in a lungful of smoke, and blew it out through his nostrils. He woke up late this morning and dashed ashore to try to make his midday report. Didn’t matter. Nothing never changed.
Spyder reached the small dock and walked out to the end where he could see beyond the fishermen’s boats that were moored close in to shore. He saw the big white yacht that had entered the bay the day before — but the two boats he was supposed to be watching were gone.