Circle of Bones - Kling Christine - Страница 37
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Michaut raised his head and began whispering to the captain in French.
“What’s he saying?” Woolsey pointed at the young Frenchman.
Lamoreaux waved his hand in the air, shushing Woolsey until Michaut had finished. Then he raised his eyebrows and lowered his jaw with a look of incredulity. The captain turned to Woolsey. “It seems the men who took my ship have made enemies already. Henri thinks there are more who would like to see me regain my command. They fear Gohin cannot get control of the men to run the boat.”
“You see?” Woolsey said as he reached for one of the lengths of baguette on the tray. “There is more than one man on your side. We’ve got to get out of here and get to that bomb.”
The captain ignored him. “Michaut, how are things with Gohin’s men?” He spoke in English this time.
The young man spoke in slow, accented English. “Not good. Many are drunk. Many fight. They try to destroy the radio equipment. Is very dangerous.”
“What about weapons?”
“Gohin open the gun cabinet with your keys. Only he has pistol.”
Woolsey fingered the knot on the side of his head. “Had the gun when he escorted me here. Made me intimately aware of it.”
The captain ignored him. “C’est bien. He does not trust any of the others with side arms.”
Michaut continued. “The doctor say something to him and Gohin beat him unconscious. The men are now afraid.”
Lamoreaux rubbed his hand across his chin. “They should be. Gohin’s a fool. Without the radio, we have only signal lamps for communication.”
“You can’t just sit there,” Woolsey said. “You know how desperate the situation is. We haven’t much time – and no idea at all how reliable that timer is.”
Michaut’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men. “Captain? What –”
“No time, Henri. They will come for you soon. Listen, can you come back alone? C’est tres importante. No one can see you. With so much wine, the men will be sleeping soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
The wheel controlling the waterproof door creaked as it began to turn. Henri Michaut jumped to his feet.
“Return within the hour,” the Captain said when the signalman passed him on his way to the door. “Alone.”
The door closed and the lights went out again.
After the sound of scraping on the deck, the captain’s torch clicked on. Woolsey and the captain resumed talking in low voices. McKay wandered over, leaned down and tried to push a wine crate toward the other two. He couldn’t budge it. He stood up saying, “What the bloody hell?”
The captain jumped up and offered McKay his seat. “Here. Sit down. Join us.”
“We’re trying to work out a plan here,” Woolsey said.
“I heard ya’.”
“The captain and I –” Woolsey began.
“I said I heard ya. I’ll take care o’ yer bomb.” McKay stuffed some bread and cheese into his mouth and began to chew.
“Stupid fucking war,” he said, spewing bread crumbs.
“We could use –” Woolsey said.
“We din’t learn nothing from the first one,” McKay said ignoring Woolsey. “Mullins brought me a message yesterday. Jerries dropped a bomb on the house. All dead. My mum, sister, her boy Fred. He was six. His dad died at Dunkirke.”
Woolsey sighed. “Sean, I’m sorry.”
McKay grimaced, his eyes fixed on the still form on the other side of the hold. “Mullins told me when this war is over, I could go live with him and his mum.”
“Sean —”
“Shut up. It’s McKay to you.”
“Look man, we could use your help here and now,” Woolsey said.
“Naw,” the big man said, then tore off another piece of bread with his teeth. “Don’ trust you.” He swallowed and ran his tongue over his teeth before continuing. “You get control, mate and yer likely to leave the rest of the crew to go up in smoke. I’m goin’ fer the bomb. Fer Wally.”
McKay picked up a mug of cold coffee and drained it. Then he walked around the hold until he found a tarp covering a stack of crates. He pulled it free, then crossing to the body, he knelt down and pulled the shard of glass out of Mullins’ chest. He wiped the glass on the young man’s trousers, then draped the dark oilskin over the body and sat on the floor to wait.
Woolsey turned back to face Lamoreaux.
The captain was still watching McKay. “Do you think he will do as he says?”
Woolsey tried to push his doubts aside. “Of course, he will.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Aboard the Fish n’ Chicks
March 26, 2008
8:15 p.m.
Diggory settled onto the front seat of the Boston Whaler as Spyder started the outboard engine. His thoughts were still roiling, as they had throughout his meal. What was Cole Thatcher doing on Riley’s boat? Assuming it was Thatcher — but he had to assume worst case scenario here. If she had just picked up the guy swimming at sea as the immigration officer had stated, why would Thatcher return to break into her boat here in the Saintes? What did she have that he wanted?
As the dinghy approached the sport fishing boat, lights came on illuminating the aft deck. There, leaning over the transom, was one of the ugliest men Diggory had ever seen. He had a protruding lower jaw and a broad nose, but his Afro-style hair was pure white. The hand that held the door to the swim platform had brown skin down to the knuckles, then pinkish-white fingers out to the nails. It looked as though he were wearing brown gloves with the fingers cut off. The skin of his face and neck above the collar of his shirt was mottled and splotched with patches of brown and pink.
When the Whaler nudged the bigger boat, the odd-looking man called out. “Where you been, man? She left half an hour ago.” His nasal voice seemed not to fit the fleshy body.
Spyder spun his head around and squinted into the dark. “Shit!” Turning back to Diggory, he said. “This here’s my brother Pinky.” Spyder struggled to hold on to the bigger boat as the dinghy bounced in the wind chop. “Open the fuckin’ door and take the man inside, Pinky.”
Diggory stepped through an opening in the stern of the boat, his bag under one arm. He didn’t like boats — hadn’t spent much time on them, and it was one of the few areas where he had to admit to a lack of expertise. When he’d been a boy, his father had kept a sailing yacht in Newport and the local papers often ran photos when he won in the yacht club’s races. Diggory used to dream of the day when he would be a part of that yachting world, but once he had the money, his time for learning to sail had passed. He would not buy a boat and have everyone laugh at him as he learned to sail the thing.
Diggory followed the man named Pinky up several steps and into what looked like a living room with a couch and a kitchen just beyond. Dirty clothes and towels lay scattered about the floor and the stuffy interior stank of sweat and cigarettes. In the kitchen sink, stacked dishes teetered several inches higher than the counter level. Pinky sat down in front of a computer on the dining table and slid large earphones onto his head. Diggory stood there surveying the mess as Spyder came in the door.
“You want sumptin’ to drink?”
“You’re living like pigs,” Diggory said. “Doesn’t this boat have air conditioning?”
“Hey, you want to pay for the fuel, I’ll be happy to fire up the generator and turn the AC back on. We ain’t been running the AC at night.”
Pinky pulled off his headphones. “Didn’t you guys hear me? She left. And a guy was with her. The Doc, I think.”
“First, get the AC running and clean this place up.” Diggory went down the steps into the accommodation area. One of the brothers had already settled into the master stateroom. He took the man’s things and tossed them into the hall. He set his own bag on a bench at the foot of the bed and retrieved a small black case from his shoulder bag. Had Thatcher been the man on Riley’s boat? If only he had told the barbarian to plant a listening device in the cockpit of her boat. He would like to know what those two had to talk about.
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