“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

Iles 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.

“Shit,” he said, throwing the smoldering butt of his cigarette into the water. He ran off the dock and hurried farther down the beach for a better look into all the coves around the bay, but the change in vantage point did not change the facts. The doc and the bitch had got back to the island somehow and now they were gone.

Spyder turned around and started to run.

The inflatable dinghy was where Spyder had left it tied up at the town dock. He stepped into the boat, untied the painter, and yanked the cord to start the engine. He revved the engine and turned to round the big ferry boat at the end of the dock. That was when he saw the sleek, black Donzi tied alongside Fish n’ Chicks.

“Fuck,” he said aloud as he throttled back on the outboard. An ocean racing boat like that could only mean one thing. That asshole Thor or one of his goons was here. If it was Thor, he’d like to see what his face looked like after docking that sucker. Boat’s name was Fast Eddie and he could believe that baby was fast with her twin Merc sterndrives. Whoever came on that boat was already aboard Fish n’ Chicks and Pinky was in there, too. Much as Spyder wanted to turn around and wait ’til somebody left, he figured he couldn’t do that to his brother.

Spyder cut the engine and glided alongside the swim step. After tying up the dinghy, he climbed up to the aft deck. When he slid open the door to the main salon, he was already thinking that whoever it was should have money, and maybe he could get a cold beer.

Thor was sitting on the couch with his arms spread on either side atop the cushions.  His hair was messed up and his face looked a little white, so Spyder figured he’d driven the boat over from the big island on his own. He was lucky he made it. The dude was dressed like one of those guys in the ads for fancy watches that cost as much as a good boat. When Spyder came through the door, Thor lifted his left wrist and glanced at his own fancy watch.

Pinky stood in the galley holding a towel to the side of his face. Towel looked like it was full of ice cubes, and the skin under the towel was bright pink. His brother wouldn’t meet his eyes.

On the low glass coffee table in front of Thor he saw the black GPS box. The screen glowed blue, but Thor’s eyes were on him, not the screen.