Seven Days Dead Part 24

"He works the salmon farms. That's not fishing. I know, a lot of money is changing hands. Most of it went into Orrock's pocket, but still, it's lucrative for everyone. I don't get along with those guys. They don't do much, really. Take amphetamines, fix a net, call it fishing. Fishing is dangerous, but what's the main cause of death on the boats? Storms? Hazards on board? Nope. It's crack cocaine, baby. Not the wild sea. Not the scary work. Just crack, that's the number one killer in the modern age."

Cinq-Mars needs time to absorb that opinion. He keeps falling into a fondness for this man who's illusive and difficult to comprehend. Could he really be someone who doesn't fish, or fish-farm, because he's disappointed in the culture? If so, he's a more complex individual than probably anybody knows.

"I still think it's remarkable that you managed to do it, however you did it. Go to university, I mean. Who raised you?"

Roadcap seems reluctant to answer the question, as if hoping that Cinq-Mars will settle for a shrug. The detective can see why women make remarks. If he stares at him long enough, he feels as though he's been lulled by the man's beauty. It's astonishing, the jawline and the intelligence embedded in his dark eyes, and the striking details of his eyebrows and chin and forehead. The strength of his perfect nose. emile conjures what life must be like for this man. He himself has been stared at for his immense beak, but people stare at this man for his total lack of common imperfection. He should be on a billboard advertising cigarettes. Men and women both would find themselves taking up smoking again without knowing why. emile gives himself an inner shake to overcome the la.s.situde he's feeling in his bloodstream and doesn't take his eyes off the handsome fellow until the other man relents.

"Did you see those kids out on the flats?" Roadcap asks him.

"We spoke."

"Believe it or not, they're picking dulse today. At the end of the day, they'll make somewhere between fifty cents and a buck fifty. When I was their age, I also picked dulse. Except, even back then, when we made less per pound, I'd take home twenty to twenty-two bucks a day. If I was having a bad day, I'd stay out longer until I made quota, even if it meant swimming in that cold water to cut dulse. I saved up. Made money. In university, I came back here every summer and paid my own way. On fish boats, or working the weirs, or picking dulse. Those kids out there, officially they're home-schooled. Unofficially..." He lets his voice trail off.

"I can't imagine what that means," Cinq-Mars admits. "Are you saying they're not schooled at all?"

"Unofficially, you are sitting on the front porch of Dark Harbour Elementary School. They're home-schooled, only it's not at home. It's by me, right here. In the off-season, I'm their teacher. I don't get paid for that, but others schooled me and raised me. This whole community-this hamlet, if you want to call it that-parented me. We've developed the ways and means of living off the grid, you know? Not just the electrical grid. We slip through the cracks and sometimes it's not by accident. So," Roadcap concludes.

"So," Cinq-Mars repeats.

"You have something on us now. We'll find out what kind of cop you are."

"Mmm." Cinq-Mars understands, and resorts to the whiskey. Then he says, "I'm not sure what kind of cop I am. At least not anymore. But I've never been a truant officer and I don't suppose I'm going to start today."

"Good to know," Roadcap states, and the two share a smile, then salute each other with their gla.s.ses, as though the day, and their talk, is as good as that.

emile breaks the ambient quiet. "Two questions on the tip of my tongue. Perhaps your answers might alleviate my suspicions. Maybe not."

"Ask."

Cinq-Mars had talked to Margaret, down at the General Store, who knows things. He knows things, too, now, even before he asks his questions. "Who do you sell your dulse to? I mean, is it Orrock? Did he come here personally in a truck and hand out cash? Do you deliver it to him in a wheelbarrow? How does the system work?"

For the first time, Cinq-Mars notices that his host is uncomfortable.

"We dry the dulse in the sunlight, which lightens the load. Then we pack it and carry it up to our own vehicles, and drive it into his plant, where some of it is turned into chips, some is pulverized. Tourists pay more to have a nibble, but we don't really have time to sell it ourselves. Orrock buys in bulk."

"Not anymore. He's dead. Is that an issue?"

Roadcap twists around in his chair a little. "We're hoping the company keeps going somehow."

"Any compet.i.tion? Other buyers?"

This is a question Roadcap is apparently unwilling to answer. His protracted stare out to sea seems hard, unreasonable. He has literally to shake himself to return his attention to the porch. "Some say so. People have gone up against Orrock from time to time, but if someone controls the market, if someone has the foreign buyers in his hip pocket, then anybody else coming along doesn't have much of a chance."

"But others have tried."

"It's futile."

"And others might seek to steal away the foreign buyers."

"Anything's possible. Not my lookout."

He knows Roadcap is lying. "Interesting," Cinq-Mars notes.

"What was the other question on your tongue?"

Cinq-Mars doesn't want to lose this man's confidence, such as it is. He's glad that he does have a second question and that this one is less intrusive. "About your going up to the cliffs in a storm. Is that a secret? Or do others know that it's a habit of yours?"

While he thought that he was asking a more straightforward and nonthreatening question, the man appears to have qualms.

"What is it?" emile asks, encouraging him.

"I'm having trouble answering because it's not clear-cut. Do I advertise that I have this predilection for storms? No. Is it anybody's business? No. Is anybody likely to see me? Maybe once in a blue moon, but they're not likely to think it's a habit."

"So that answers that, no?"

Roadcap shrugs. "Look. I've had girlfriends. Tourists, sometimes, summer people, and island girls, too. When I'm in a relationship, do I share stuff about myself? It happens. On this island, we understand something. That a secret doesn't mean a secret for life, except-maybe-in the rarest of circ.u.mstances. A secret is something we hold for a good long time, that's all, then we let it go. And once it's let go, it finds its way around. It's not a wildfire. We never know when or how long it will take. Eventually, on this island, what was a secret one year becomes common knowledge down the road."

Cinq-Mars has a more pressing inquiry to get to, but he's interrupted by shouting. He's unable to decipher the loud, confused outcry from far off, a bit higher up the cliff, although the expression on Roadcap's face is one of swift alarm.

When Sandra Cinq-Mars awoke that morning after her husband's departure, she hurried through breakfast to be dressed and ready when Maddy Orrock arrived to pick her up. They had an early appointment with a pastor who'd agreed to do the funeral. The Reverend Robert Unger receives the pair into his humble vestry, and after a few minutes Sandra perceives that his distracted, somewhat batty persona conceals a perfectly competent man. He's podgy in a way that lets her feel at ease-given her work around horses, she's probably stronger than he is, despite his greater ma.s.s-and his hair, she decides after some careful evaluation, is best described as orange. The pastor's schedule is a busy one, as he's preparing to bury his best friend, the Reverend Simon Lescavage, and is acting also as a representative of Jason DeWitt's family. "One tragedy piled upon another." The professor's remains are to be dispatched home to Boston.

The funeral is about flowers and protocol, seating arrangements, and a choice of hymns. "You understand," the pastor a.s.sures her, "that my remarks will be kind. I will also acknowledge Mr. Orrock as a man of authority. His will was formidable, his reach extensive. He never tried to please everybody all the time."

"Or anybody ever," Maddy interjects. The pastor chooses not to hear.

The ground they must cover is quick and simple when presented by someone who goes through the ritual repeatedly, and afterward they agree to coffee, as their host already has a pot perking. Especially good coffee, they find.

"He was too brainy, our Simon," the Reverend Unger attests, off in his own thoughts. "He refuted my opinion on that, but he was too brainy for a simple man. Too many high-and-mighty thoughts in his head and not much of an outlet for them. Except for his sermons, but his homilies pa.s.sed people by, I think. But ... it's the savagery I cannot abide. Why must we be brutes? Simon asked me that question once. 'Why must we be brutes?' Safe to say, he was speaking of the human race in general. But it's the specifics..." The reverend loses himself in a vision of his friend's death, of that horror. He adds quietly, "Why must we be brutes?"

He seems to be addressing Sandra directly, but she's at a loss and doesn't wish to respond with only a faint notion. She lowers her head.

They wait there, in the quiet sadness of the room, before taking their leave.

Roadcap, in his thirties the more agile of the two, lights out from his house along a narrow ascending footpath, kicking up stones and thrashing through undergrowth. Cinq-Mars can't keep up, then stops trying, recognizing that nothing good will come from turning an ankle or breaking his neck. He measures his pace and keeps a keen eye to the ground to secure his footing. The best that he can hope for is to keep Aaron Roadcap in sight, and in that mission he is successful.

They run in the direction of a commotion-outcry, shouts, a scream.

Some sort of chaos.

What's ahead comes into focus through the trees. A fire. He sees it first, then smells the smoke. He a.s.sumes that a house is ablaze, but cutting through a thick stand of pines and skirting around an immense boulder, he recognizes his own vehicle on fire. The Jeep. His heart pounds. Carrying on for another twenty yards, he stops, as though he can't trust his vision unless he does so and takes a good look. His breath is short, a bit painful. No doubt now. That's his own Jeep Cherokee going up in flames and thick black smoke.

Arriving back upon the rocky road, he finds that a brave brigade of men and women who want to fight the fire is being held back. Roadcap has taken charge. People are being pushed away in case the vehicle explodes. Smart.

"Gas or diesel?" Roadcap shouts out to him. Cinq-Mars delivers the bad news. Gas is far more likely to explode, making this a dangerous situation.

People know it's his Jeep, so when he joins the fray to help push everyone farther back, he's obeyed with less reluctance. Anyway, they all realize that it's too late to save anything now.

The interior is gutted. The seats have been incinerated, the roof linings are in flames. The engine compartment has not been touched, but it's a risk to fight the fire up close. Men are discussing it and weighing the odds, and Cinq-Mars steps up alongside them. They debate the wisdom of smashing windows out, which might fan the flames with more oxygen, and yet, as a result, the interior might burn itself out more quickly, sparing the engine and therefore the likelihood of an explosion. No one knows what will happen, but the consensus is to smash windows. Roadcap looks at Cinq-Mars, as though requesting permission.

"Go ahead. She's toast anyway. Stay safe."

Yet there is no way to stay safe except to run. The cliff dwellers are worried about the potential for a forest fire if the vehicle explodes. Such an eruption could destroy their homes and possibly the entire hamlet.

Four big rocks are located, and one person at a time races to the car and hurls his rock. The windows dent and splinter but don't give way easily. A number of throws from close in are required, then there's a surge of flame as the first window shatters and the rock goes right through onto the front seat. The men decide that that's enough, no further risk need be taken. After this initial flurry, the fire does go hotter, but it also appears to be exhausting its fuel supply and petering out.

Roadcap, who took several runs at the Jeep, is breathing heavily. "Follow me," he says.

Cinq-Mars is glad to discover that they're not running this time, although his companion takes long strides through the woods, then quickens as he nears a home. He dashes up steps onto a porch and bursts through the front door. When Cinq-Mars falls in behind him, Roadcap is coming back out again.

"He's not here. He's gone."

"Who?"

"Your arsonist. The guy who burnt your Jeep."

"How do you know? Why'd he do it?"

"That's what he does." The younger man flexes his shoulders, not to suggest that he doesn't have an answer; rather, that it's obvious. "Somebody paid him to." He seems ready to burst off again when he casts a glance at emile's face. Then he taps emile's elbow. "Sorry about your Jeep," he says.

"Yeah. Thanks. So am I. But it's replaceable."

"You're right, by the way. In your suspicions."

"Meaning what?"

"There's compet.i.tion in the dulse business."

"And what part do you play in that?"

"We have other problems right now. Do you have a cell phone on you?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I think you should call the cops. The Mounties."

Cinq-Mars endorses Aaron Roadcap's suggestion with a nod.

Sandra just loves stepping into this old house. She lives in an old one herself, but this cottage gets boarded up for the harsh winters and accommodates only summer guests, so it secretes a persona of sea breezes as the curtains lazily breathe out and in, and exhibits a patina not only of time and summery days but of a tranquillity, earned and nurtured and made to hold amid the tumult of the modern world. She loves it here.

She imagines that emile will be home for lunch, and although it's officially his turn, she elects to prepare it. Noon is still a couple of hours off, but if she can have the salad ready to be tossed and the cold cuts lined up neatly, when he does arrive, it'll be a speedy presentation. She might take a stroll down to the water or into town after that, wherever her mood takes her.

In the kitchen, she hears a sound, then another. Sandra smiles. She knows it's not emile. Being in the back of the house, she would have heard him drive up and probably seen the Jeep by now, so what she's listening to are the grumbling conversations old wood gets into sometimes. A floorboard creaks. A crossing beam seems to groan under its breath. She detects a faint snap. As though these old seaside cottages breathe with the coming day, fueled by sunlight. Yet another sound does disturb her, seems a trifle loud. Too specific. Expecting only a quiet place to sit on a beautiful day, she pokes her head into the living room. Sandra utters a surprised murmur, mingled with a sharp intake of breath, before a man's hand prevents her from screaming as she's thrown down upon the old pine floorboards.

In emile's estimation, Aaron Roadcap is deliberately keeping his distance and protecting himself from further questioning by maintaining a protective buffer. It's not as in the old days, when, if he wanted to question a material witness, he could exercise his authority to do so. Now, he remains at the mercy of such people and their whimsy. For the nonce, Roadcap has chosen to go mum.

He thinks about calling Sandra. That will be a difficult discussion. To reveal that the Jeep burned would be bad enough if they were home, but accompanying the report will be the observation that they've again been able, largely at emile's behest, to run their time away into the ground. Danger lurks once more, damage has been done, and rather than broach that conversation, emile elects to procrastinate. He knows that he's being a coward, but it's better, he argues with his angels, to let Sandra enjoy her morning in peace before breaking the ugly news.

With any luck, he might discover that today's misfortune is merely random.

Not that he believes it for a second.

They wait for Corporal Louwagie to show up and make an official report-emile will need to make an insurance claim. Once again, he reminds himself that this isn't like the old days, when he could have damaged a department issue and checked off a few boxes on a form and been done with it. This is all on his own dime now. The Jeep Cherokee, saved from any explosion, is nevertheless destroyed. A more n.o.ble soul might think to file down the pa.s.senger compartment, pry in new seats, lay fresh carpet, replace the roof and wall linings, and pretend that the smell of smoke and charred metal is dissipating. For his money, this is one for the junkyard, although it has served him well. Better for someone to pilfer the engine and the transmission. Heck, even the tires have survived, with the possible exception of the spare, which may have melted in its rear bunk. The metal is still too hot for him to check. The Jeep's a stinkpot now in the literal sense.

Standoffish initially, the denizens of Dark Harbour are sympathetic as they peruse the sad remains. This is not normally how tourists are treated here. Like tourists anywhere, they may be privately scorned from time to time, but for the most part their business is appreciated and the natural friendliness of islanders surfaces first. Sometimes disputes are resolved by burning cars, but not a tourist's car, and rarely even in the summer, because that's just bad for the island's reputation. Even when it comes to arson, a standard of etiquette is followed. You wrong me, I burn your dinghy. I wrong you, you burn my shed. Okay, we're done, let's move on. But this, in the wake of murder, is out of line, out of character, and this poor man deserves to be comforted, increasingly, by the minute.

Cinq-Mars is ready to make a break for it from under the welter of so much heartfelt commiseration and kindness when Louwagie finally shows up, saving him.

Roadcap breaks from the small crowd that he's put around himself as a protective moat to greet the Mountie first. More polite, Cinq-Mars needs a little more time to extricate himself from his band of new friends. When he goes over, though, Louwagie separates from Roadcap and speaks to him privately.

More commiseration. "I'm really sorry about this emile. Any ideas?"

"Ask him."

"You think Roadcap did it."

"He was with me. So no. Nor do I think he was involved, although that's conjecture. I'm pretty sure he has something more than a good idea who did it."

"All right. I'll get to him. First, let me ask you a couple of questions."

"Such as?" He's surprised by the man's initiative.

"Have you p.i.s.sed anybody off in particular?"

"Not to my knowledge. At least not royally. I supposed I've p.i.s.sed off half a dozen people by now. But I can't point a finger, no."

"Okay, then," Louwagie says, and turns to examine the charred wreck again. emile is guessing that the man is done, that he has nothing more to ask, only to be brought up short by his next volley. "Was anything in the car stolen? Or, if you don't know that yet, was anything in the car worth stealing?"

Cinq-Mars just stares at him a moment.

"The fire could have been a cover," the Mountie states, as if in his own defense.

Of course he's right. emile's just surprised that he hadn't thought of it, and that Louwagie has more potential to be a detective than he'd noticed.

"It could have burned," Cinq-Mars tells him.

"What could've?"

"My notebook. My notes on this case."

Louwagie checks out the Jeep again from their safe distance.