Текст книги "Circle of Bones"

Автор книги: Christine Kling

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

The Caribbean Sea off Guadeloupe

February 17, 1942

“Avions au large de la tribord avant!” one of the sailors on the bridge shouted. Another man handed a pair of binoculars to the captain when he emerged through the hatch.

Woolsey climbed out behind the captain, blinking in the bright slanting sunlight. He stopped for a moment to revel in the warm wind on his face and breathed deep grateful lungfuls of the flower-scented air. He had been on the French boat long enough to understand tribord avant meant starboard bow – and avions were planes – but for a moment, he wanted to let the tropical air thaw his bones. Four days in the hold had taken something out of him. Whether it was by the noose in Martinique, or from these damned advancing planes, odds were he was not going to survive this war. Any small pleasure might very well be his last.

He swiveled his head around to squint into the sky, trying to get his bearings. He was startled to see the low green hills of an island close off their starboard beam, and the water the sub steamed through was no longer the dark shadowy blue of the deep Atlantic. Woolsey estimated they were no more than six miles from shore, dangerously close for a sub the size of Surcouf.

The captain was shouting incomprehensible orders, and his second in command repeated his words into the voice tube. Woolsey wished he could understand what they were saying.

“Lieutenant!” the captain barked.

Woolsey stepped to the front of the conning tower. “Whose are they, Captain?” he asked.

Lamoreaux did not lower the glasses when he spoke. “Les Americains,” he said. “They are searching to the southwest by the entrance to Pointe-à-Pitre. They have not seen us yet, but it will not be long.”

Woolsey scanned the sky, but he still saw nothing. The planes were not yet visible to the naked eye. Americans. That was a bloody bit of irony for you. He’d loved America the four years he’d lived in New Haven and attended Yale. And they’d loved him. Enough to ask him to join Bones, anyway. Now there were American planes out there searching for him, ready to send him and the lot of Frenchmen to the deep sea floor.

“Do you think it’s a regular patrol or are they looking for us?” he asked the captain.

“Difficult to say.”

Woolsey didn’t think it was so difficult. The Royal Navy had not heard from the sub since she’d left Bermuda. The Allies didn’t trust the Free French to begin with, and once Surcouf went silent, they’d assumed she was no longer a friendly, that she was making a run for the Vichy controlled islands of Guadeloupe or Martinique. Woolsey examined the shore. He had thought all the islands in the Caribbean were high and mountainous, but this was a lush green strip on the horizon. Clouds gathered above the land like a dramatic dome of white and gray cumulous, and a couple of villages of red-roofed houses squatted along the coast.

“Place doesn’t look like much,” he said.

Lamoreaux lowered the glasses and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his wool coat. “This is the low side of Guadeloupe. The volcano is under those clouds.” He turned and pointed aft. “We came through the cut there.” Woolsey followed his finger to the small gray smudge on the horizon. “Between La Desirade and Pointe Des Chateaux.”

Both men turned back to resume their search of the sky off their bow. Surely the planes would spot them soon, Woolsey thought. He noticed the gunners had not taken their stations in the big turret. That could only mean one thing. The captain did not intend to fight.

“What’s our depth?” Woolsey asked.

“Twenty-five meters. That is what makes this the last place to look for us. Or so I thought.”

The Surcouf drew nine meters. Woolsey had no idea if the water was deep enough to hide from a plane, but he assumed the captain’s rapid-fire orders were readying the boat to dive. If only they could stay hidden the two hours or so until dark. God, he hated this waiting, but with each minute that passed, their chances for survival lengthened.

They had been running at the surface these last five days for a reason, though. Woolsey had heard there were problems with the sub’s electric motors. The mechanics had been working on them since Bermuda, but they were Frenchmen.

One of the sailors shoved a signal lamp into Woolsey’s hands, mumbled something about captain’s orders, then disappeared back down the hatch.

“A few miles ahead,” the captain said, “beyond those small cays called Îles de la Petite Terre, the bottom drops to more than three hundred meters. The question is, will we make it?” The captain turned and spoke orders to his second who again shouted them into the voice tube.

Woolsey examined the small archipelago off their bow. He could make out palm trees and white sand beaches, but no signs of any human inhabitants. The little islets were perfect tropical deserted islands.

The conning tower shook with the vibration of the diesel engines. The captain was pushing the sub at maximum revolutions in her run for deep water.

Whether or not they would make it in time wasn’t the only question, Woolsey thought. “What about the electric motors, sir?” he asked Lamoreaux.

“Mon Dieu. Our mechanics were working on farm tractors one year ago.” The captain shook his head. “We’ll be good for a few hours. On one motor. No more.”

Woolsey turned his attention to the device in his hands. They were counting on him to signal the damn planes, if – or when – they came this way. But he hadn’t used one of these things since his all-too-brief training more than a year ago. And the one he’d trained on wasn’t made by the bloody French.

Henri Michaut appeared at his side. He reached for the lamp. “You want I show you how?”

“Are you good with this thing?” Woolsey asked the French signalman.

He blew air out through his rounded lips. “But, of course. It is my job.”

“Then you do the signals. I’ll dictate.”

“D’accord.”

Woolsey stepped to the far side of the bridge with young Michaut, and they rehearsed the English spelling of the words, so that Michaut could send the signals as fast as possible.

He heard one of the sailors call out the depth: thirty meters. They were getting close.

 “Les avions! Ils arrives!” The lookout shouted the warning.

The captain barked, “Préparez à plonger.”

Ready to dive. Woolsey kept his eyes on the sky. He wanted to ask for the binoculars, but the captain had them glued to his eyes. The sun slid behind a bank of clouds on the horizon, and while the shadows would work in their favor once they dove, for now, the Surcouf still stood out as a huge target on that pale-colored sea.

There. He spotted them. Three small dots in the sky. Flying a V formation. Only they weren’t so small anymore.

“Lieutenant, they will make one pass for observations. That is your chance. Tell them we are damaged, but are not stopping here. We are Free French, not Vichy.”

Right, Woolsey thought.

Only the helmsman and two look-outs remained with them on the bridge. The others had already clambered below to ready the boat to dive. He began spelling it out for Michaut. The lantern clacked-clacked-clacked as Michaut sent out the signal code, and Woolsey felt his heart hammering just as loud.

Who had issued the orders for these planes? Had their orders come from Washington? In that case, they might believe this story Lamoreaux was fabricating. But if their orders were from New Haven, they were more concerned with that pouch below – and not letting it fall into the wrong hands – than with the sub’s destination.

Woolsey heard the planes’ engines now. The sound started off thin and tinny, like toy planes, but as the V-formation neared, the engine noise dropped in pitch to a throaty roar. He recognized the American planes because of their twin engines. They were P-38’s and they were coming in low. This was no practice run.

“Plongez!” the captain yelled into the voice tube. He ordered his men to clear the bridge as he dashed below.

The claxon sounded, drowning out the men’s voices as they scrambled after the captain, pushing for the hatch. Their lack of training turned the cramped conning tower deck into a free for all. The helmsman nearly knocked Woolsey to the deck when he shoved him out of the way.

As he struggled to regain his balance, Woolsey saw the bright red tracers seconds before he heard the pop-pop-pop of the gunfire. The lantern continued clacking behind him as he struggled to reach the hatch. He saw the water rising up the sides of the sub.

With his feet on the second rung he turned and looked behind him. “Henri!” Woolsey called. The young man did not stop signaling as the water erupted in a peppering of mini-geysers far off the bow of the sub. “Michaut!”

The young signalman stopped and turned at last. His eyes grew huge as the sea rushed up toward him. The lower decks were covered and the water was nearing the top of the conning tower. If the hatch was not secured, the sub would flood and they would all drown.

Henri threw down the signal lamp and began to run, but those last few seconds of hesitation had made all the difference in the world. Woolsey saw that it was too far, too late. He would never make it. Waiting any longer would doom them all. Woolsey stepped down a rung and pulled the hatch closed behind him. He spun the wheel to engage the airlock.

The diesel engines stopped and the electric motors kicked in with a soft whine. From two decks down, he heard the captain give the order to take her down to twelve meters. Clinging to the ladder, his cheek resting against the cold steel of the top rung, Woolsey listened to his heart pounding in the sudden silence. Clang-clang-clang. It was his heart, he insisted, until the banging suddenly ceased.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Scott’s Head Bay, Dominica

March 30, 2008

11:35 a.m.

Stepping into the knee-deep water off the village, Riley thought about the dream she’d had that morning when she’d first arrived in Scott’s Head Bay. Cole and Theo had arrived hours earlier, but she told them she needed a few hours in her bunk after the all night sail. That’s when Mikey had come to her in her dream, told her what to do, and that she needed to hurry.

Riley knew why, too. She’d seen the fury on Dig’s face when they were at her father’s townhouse. He was coming for her and she had no doubt he would find their trail. If they were going to succeed at finding whatever it was James Thatcher wanted them to find, they had very little time. Cole lifted the outboard engine so that the propeller wouldn’t hit the stones, and she hauled the dinghy up the rocky beach.

“I think we’re wasting time,” Cole said. “We have a few precious hours of lead time, and we shouldn’t squander it.”

She realized she and Cole had been thinking parallel thoughts. “I know we haven’t got much time. But I think it makes sense to ask if anyone in the village was around back then. See if they remember something that will give us a clue as to where to look.” It was more than that, but she didn’t know how to tell him about the dream. About Mikey who had told her to go ashore and talk to him. Only she had no idea who he was.

“And if we don’t find anyone who remembers, we’ll have wasted an hour.”

“Cole, they won’t know which way we went. And there’s no reason to believe they’ll come straight to Dominica. But you’re right – I think our lead is measured in hours, not days.”

“They found us quick enough last time.”

“I know,” Riley said. “Either it was luck, or I don’t want to think about the second possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“That Dig has somehow placed a tracking device on your boat.”

“Why my boat?”

“We only took Shadow Chaser to Dominica last time.”

“Shit,” Cole said. He grabbed the small anchor out of Riley’s dinghy and buried it in the black sand and pebbles above the tide line. “I’d much rather be out there helping Theo rig up the ROV. And searching my boat for a god damned bug.” Cole stood up, brushed the sand off his hands and stared out into the bay. “That’s a mighty big search area out there, though.”

“My point exactly. We don’t have time to search it all.”

Shadow Chaser had arrived in Soufrière Bay before 3:00 a.m., and the guys had been up and starting their search grid towing the proton magnetometer over the bottom when she motored into the bay at dawn, then anchored. Afterwards, she’d crawled into her bunk for a few precious hours of shut-eye. When Riley finally pulled alongside in her dinghy four hours later, the guys had agreed to reel in the magnetometer’s fish and drop the hook so Cole could accompany her to shore.

“Come on, Cole. One hour, okay? That’s all I’m asking.” The man was exasperating. He’d been fighting her on this issue ever since she’d picked him up in her dinghy.

“Dammit, Riley, this is the closest I’ve been. I feel it. I know this is where my father sent us.” He pointed to the cone shaped island to the south. “Scott’s Head is a tombolo. He wanted us to come right here to this bay. It’s plenty deep enough for a sub out there.”

“I know all that, Cole, but what’s the likelihood a submarine sank right off the beach out there in Soufriere Bay and nobody on shore saw a thing? Besides, what would she have been doing here?”

He threw his hands into the air. “How the hell do I know? Something happened on board that boat when they left Bermuda maybe. I don’t know what. Mutiny? Hell, this is more than five hundred miles away from where she was supposed to be. I don’t know why she was here, but if James Thatcher is telling me she’s here, I believe him.”

Yeah, Riley thought, your dead father is telling you what to do, and now my dead brother is telling me to go visit somebody in the village – and to make sure Cole comes along. “Cole,” she said. “This is one of the hottest dive spots on the island. If there was a three hundred and sixty foot submarine out there with a hold full of gold, trust me, somebody would have found it by now – even way out there where it’s over six hundred feet deep.” She turned away and climbed up the soft sand embankment that led up to the paved road. At the road, she turned. He still stood on the beach, his feet planted far apart, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Riley, Theo and I should be out there running a grid right now.” He half-turned and pointed out to where Bonefish and Shadow Chaser lay anchored. “I know for damn sure we’re not going to find a submarine in the village. We’re blowing what little lead we’ve got. You check the village. I’m going back to the boat.”

She stood her ground, her hands on her hips. “Cole Thatcher, you are the most stubborn man I have ever met. One hour. That’s all I ask.”

He crossed his arms high on his chest and glared at her. “Stubborn? Riley, look in the mirror.”

“Fine,” she said. “Do whatever you want. I’m going to ask around.” She turned and started walking. Before long, she heard his footfalls coming up behind her. She started to smile just before his hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. She opened her mouth to protest, but he wrapped his arms around her and held her face in the hollow of his neck.

Chin resting on her head, he said, “Oh Miss Maggie Magee.” She could feel his chest bounce as he laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Us. I might be stubborn, but I’m not foolish enough to let you walk out on me. Come on. Let’s get this excursion over with. There’s one thing I know for certain. We work better as a team than we do when we’re knocking heads, to quote Theo.”

She leaned back and looked up at him. “You do have a way of making teamwork very pleasurable, Dr. Thatcher.”

Cole framed her face with his hands. “Okay, this time, we do it your way. One hour. But you’ll owe me, Magee. And I have some very specific ideas on how to make you pay up.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I might have to tap my savings account. After all, I’ve been saving it for a couple of years.”

“I think I’ll put you on a regular installment plan,” he said as he ran his hands down her arms and then up under her T-shirt. “But frequent unscheduled payments will help –”

She swatted his hand away. “Town?” she said. “Submarine? Remember?”

He whirled on his heels and took off down the road, his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts, whistling the tune, “We’re Off To See The Wizard.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Scott’s Head Bay, Dominica

March 30, 2008

12:05 p.m.

When the colorful clapboard houses gave way to a few sundry shops, Riley knew they were in the “downtown” of Scott’s Head village. Another ten minutes of walking and they’d be through it. Ahead, she saw a couple of wood tables on the front porch of a house. When they got closer, she saw the sign Ma Bert’s Restaurant. She climbed the steps and knocked on the door frame.

“Hello?” she called out.

Cole stood in the street, his back to her, one hand on his hip. He was staring out at his boat.

From inside a voice sang out. “I be right with you.”

Seconds later a large woman emerged from the back of the house. As she passed down the hall, she filled the space with her bulk. Riley stood aside as she stepped through the doorway. She was wearing an orange plaid jumper over a bright yellow blouse and in the mid-morning sunlight, Riley squinted against the glare.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said. There was something off about her island accent. It didn’t sound quite real. “Would you like to eat?” She waved a hand with a flourish in the direction of the two empty wood tables.

“I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions for me.”

“All right.” The sing-song quality of the woman’s voice sounded too extreme.

“Have you lived here long?”

Little lines appeared between the woman’s eyebrows when she noticed the marks on Riley’s neck, but then she pasted the smile back on her face. “Yes,” she said drawing the word out. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re looking to talk to someone about something that happened here during the Second World War. In 1942.”

The woman reached for one of the laminated menus that rested on the table and she began to fan herself. “Do you mind if I sit down?” The sing-song quality to her voice was gone. It had lowered almost an octave and her accent now sounded more like the deep south than the islands. She eased herself into the chair.

Riley pulled out the other chair and sat across from her. She heard Cole cough several times out in the street.

“That’s better,” the woman said. “Whew! Nineteen forty-two. That’s a long time ago.” She stuck out her hand. “Eugenia Bert.”

Riley introduced herself and they shook. “It’s for this research project we’re doing,” she said.

The woman leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Did he do that to your face?”

Riley smiled. “No, it wasn’t him.”

“Well, that’s good then. As you can tell,” Eugenia continued, “I didn’t grow up here. My daddy was from Dominica, but I grew up in St. Mary’s, Georgia. Inherited this place. Tourists want the real thing, so I try, but this island life is getting to me.” She fanned herself harder. “What I wouldn’t give for a Big Mac.”

Riley heard a sigh from out in the street, and the woman sitting across from her glanced out at Cole’s back.

“Hmm. Not on island time, is he?”

Riley smiled and shrugged as if to say, you know men. “We are in a hurry, though. If you don’t know anyone —”

“Now, hold on. I didn’t say that. Everybody knows everybody round here.”

“So you can help me?”

“Sure. Hmm. Old timers. Start with the Charles family. They live up King Street here in the blue house with a plumeria tree out front. Name of the house is Parrot Perch. You’ll see the sign. Old Mr. Charles is in his eighties. Then, let’s see, there’s Mr. Jules, he’s the oldest, I believe. Lives right across the street from Mr. Charles. The two of them been friends a long time. No wait, I think I heard Mr. Jules married into that family after the war. His wife died just last year.”

Riley stood. “I’ll start with Mr. Charles. Thanks.” She backed her way off the porch while Eugenia kept throwing names her way.

“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.”