On Fire

She all but sputtered again. “You listen to me. I do not need and will not tolerate a reclusive, lunatic FBI agent with post-traumatic stress disorder in my hip pocket.”

He got to his feet, crumpled up his Big Mac wrapper and walked through the dining room into the kitchen. Riley followed him. She wondered if she’d said something wrong. If she’d said a lot wrong. She reminded herself that everything she’d said was true and thus it might have been wiser on her part not to say it out loud. What if he snapped?

He glanced back at her. “Trash can?”

“Under the sink.”

He pulled open the cupboard and tossed in the crumpled wrapper. He turned back to her. His eyes were narrowed; his body was rigid. She wasn’t nervous, but she was on high alert. He said, “Two things.”

“Okay.”

“One, I don’t have PTSD. I’d have PTSD if the guy’d shot his hostages. He didn’t. He shot me. So, no PTSD.”

She nodded. “No PTSD.”

“Two, you need a drink.”

“I don’t need a drink. I don’t need anything—”

He sighed. “Now I remember why we threw rocks at each other when we were kids. Do you have whiskey or is wine it?”

“Wine’s it.”

He plucked a half-full bottle of chardonnay from her refrigerator. He didn’t bother tracking down her wineglasses, just filled two juice glasses. He handed her one. “Toast?”

She was past arguing. “Sure.”

He clinked his glass against hers. “To the first thing Riley St. Joe needs.”

“I don’t know the first thing I need.”

He winked. “That’s why we’re toasting it.”

“Huh?”

“One night on your futon. Tomorrow I’ll figure out whether I need to jump into your hip pocket or not.”

“I won’t let you.”

“Sweetheart, I’m a pro. You won’t even know I’m there.”

Straker had never slept on a futon. As sofa beds went, it wasn’t bad, and he had to admit it was better than that thing in his cottage Emile called a mattress. It was the clutter and the city noises that got him. And perhaps the presence of Riley St. Joe under the same roof. At least she didn’t have a cat. If he’d had to put up with a cat, too, he might not have endured.

She was up at the crack of dawn, putting coffee on, humming to herself, digging through piles for odd items she tossed into her leather tote bag. Straker had a pretty good idea she’d forgotten she’d let him sleep on her futon.

Suddenly she gasped and went still. She had her back to him. He figured she was trying to make herself disappear. She had on oversize, black-watch-plaid flannel boxers and a T-shirt with a guy snowboarding down a mountainside on the back. She had slender, shapely legs. The boxers were too big for him to make out the shape of her bottom. Forget the T-shirt; he could fit in it. He could also get it off her in one fell swoop. She was small, sexy and not as easy to figure out as he remembered. From what he could see, she didn’t have much of a life. He guessed she’d gone underground since the Encounter disaster. Instead of a deserted island, she’d picked think-tank clutter.

He sat up and rubbed his overnight stubble. “You wear boxers to bed, huh? Not me. I sleep in the buff.”

She didn’t turn around. “I’ll put more coffee on,” she mumbled, and quickly retreated to the kitchen.

He pulled on his pants and shirt and for once didn’t bother checking the scars on his lower right side and thigh. His wounds had healed. He could climb tall mountains if he wanted to.

He went to join Riley in the kitchen, but she’d already dashed off, presumably to her bedroom for more clothes. He poured himself a cup of coffee, made a spot at the table and sat down to mull over his options. Yesterday his mission had seemed clear. Find Emile. Start with Riley. Boom. Here he was.

This morning, things were muddier. Riley had a job and didn’t want him around. Emile could be anywhere. Neither necessarily had any connection to the body found on Labreque Island.

The telephone rang. Who’d be calling at seven in the morning? He waited a half beat after the final ring before picking up the portable.

Riley was talking. “Sig—slow down. What’s wrong?”

“Mom just talked to the police.” Sig spoke rapidly, obviously not getting enough air. “Riley, they’ve identified the man you found. Oh, Jesus.”

Straker stiffened. This wasn’t good news. He could hear Riley gulp in a breath. “Tell me.”

“It’s Sam Cassain,” Sig said, sobbing.

Riley was silent. Then, in a strangled whisper, “Oh, my God.”

Straker frowned. “Who the hell’s Sam Cassain?”

Sig almost screamed. “Riley? Who’s that? Who’s there?”

“Straker, get off my damned phone!”

He didn’t move. “Who’s Sam Cassain?”

“John Straker?” Sig said, more calmly now. “Riley, what’s he doing in your apartment? Are you crazy?”

This wasn’t getting him anywhere. Straker hung up and went into the bedroom. Riley was sitting on the edge of her unmade bed in her work clothes, no shoes. Her eyes were huge. Her skin was pale. She stared up at him. “I’ll call you later, Sig,” she told her sister, and hung up.

“Who’s Sam Cassain?” Straker repeated.

She placed a shaky hand on her forehead. “He—he was the captain of the Encounter.”

The pieces fell together. “He’s the one who laid the blame for the explosion and fire at Emile’s feet.”

She nodded dully.

“He turns up dead on Labreque Island, and Emile disappears. Police’ll be calling you next.” He thought a moment, ignoring her increasing paleness. “Strike that. They’ll come see you in person. You didn’t recognize him?”

“No. I didn’t get that close a look, and the gulls…”

He remembered. “Emile must have figured it out.”

“How could he? He never saw the body.”

“Instincts,” Straker said.