Circle of Bones (25 page)

Fais pas do do, Cole mon p’tit coco

Fais pas do do, tu l’auras du lolo

Yayd d’dir

Y’did yd

Jamais fais do do.

Cole leaned back in the seat opposite her and his shoulders slumped. “But I’ve tried everything. I’ve searched the text for a hint that he used a book code, tried various field ciphers. For a while, I thought the coin’s date was a key to the cipher. Then I figured that a letter/number substitution was giving me the longitude and latitude of an area off the west coast of the island. That’s why I was diving out there yesterday. None of it’s worked.”

“This is a weird version of a well-known French lullaby.
Don’t go to sleep, Cole my little coconut, Don’t go to sleep, you will have a treat
, then those weird letters as a chorus, and finally,
Never go to sleep
.”

“I know. I had a friend translate that much. Give me some credit. I get that he’s telling me to never be caught sleeping. But the code? I don’t have a clue. Yet I know it’s the key to this thing.”

He lifted the lockbox aside, and she saw there were still a few objects in the bottom. “What’s that?”

“It’s just some other stuff the old man sent me over the years. Kid’s stuff.”

“Anything might be relevant.” 

“No, it’s this coin,” he said pointing again at the heavy gold piece. “I’m sure of it.”

She picked up the coin again. “Have you got a magnifying glass?” Riley asked. “There’s a mark here, a scratch or something that I can’t read.”

“Sure.” He disappeared into the wheel house and when he returned, he handed her a small leather case. Inside was a round brass magnifier. There was a ring around the lens with three slender legs that kept it about an inch off the table.

“Nice,” she said. She turned the ring round the lens and saw that it adjusted the height to focus the lens. “I’ve never seen one of these.”

“It’s an old chart magnifier I found at a nautical flea market. My eyes aren’t so good when it comes to the fine print on charts – or anything else for that matter.”

 Riley slid the coin under the lens. The nude angel’s arm crossed the tablet and he held a pen of some sort in his hand. She saw the big letters above that hand that spelled out the word “Constitution.” But there was something else. Beneath the angel’s hand where a drape of fabric crossed the tablet, there appeared to be something scratched into the gold. She moved the coin back and forth in the light hoping to make it more clear in the reflected light. 

“What’s that written on the tablet?” she asked.

“Like I told you, Dupres designed this coin to honor the new French Constitution.”

“No, under the word. Beneath the angel’s hand. In tiny script.”

He leaned forward, his arms resting on the table, his head touching hers as he peered at the coin. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing under it.”

“Yes, there is.” She adjusted the outer ring on the chart magnifier, trying to bring the image into focus. “I think it’s a number.”

“What? Let me see.” He took the magnifier from her hand, slid the coin across to his side of the table, and squinted into the eye piece, one eye closed. “I don’t see anything.”

She put a hand on her hip and leaned back. “Okay. You think I’m making it up? Aren’t you the one who told me you can’t make out the fine print on charts?”

He sat up straight and without a word, pushed the coin and the magnifier back across the dinette table.

She lined up the coin and the eyepiece. “Have you got any better light?” she asked.

He got up, brought over a flashlight, a sheet of paper and a pen. She repositioned the magnifier and coin on top of the paper while Cole angled the beam under the lens. “There,” she said. “That’s it.”

“What is it? What does it say?”

“It’s three digits.” She stopped before saying any more. Her pulse began to throb in her neck, and she tried to slow her breathing.

“Yeah? I’m listening. What three digits?”

 There had been an inquest after her brother’s death. She’d read the court documents that described how the frat boys had tied off the end of the old musty sleeping bag so he couldn’t escape, the signs of his struggle as his asthma made his throat constrict, the condition of the body. She’d once teased her brother about that pocket pencil protector with his collection of pens and pencils. He’d used one of them to write on his hand.

“Are you okay?”

 She was sitting up, staring into space. His voice brought her back. She blinked. “Sorry.” She ran her hand over her eyes then picked up the pen and started to write. Three numbers. Three-two-two. She was looking at what she had written, but she was seeing the police photo of the pale hand, hearing the husky voice of the New Haven detective asking her parents if the number meant anything to them.

“Riley? You look like you’re going to throw up. What’s wrong?”

She realized she’d started rocking and rubbing her hands on her thighs as though trying to warm herself up. Forcing herself to stop, she laced her fingers together, rested her hands on the table. “It’s about my older brother,” she said. She took a deep breath. “He died his freshman year at college. A fraternity hazing. It was his asthma. He suffocated trapped inside a sleeping bag. Didn’t have his inhaler. Before he died, he managed to write three numbers on his hand.”

In the distance, she heard the whine of her outboard approaching. Finally. Theo returning with her dinghy. She’d been afraid he would stay away all night. But maybe Theo understood more than she was giving him credit for. Maybe he knew that after hearing all these tales about gold coins, shipwrecks, murder, conspiracies, and secret societies, she would be counting the minutes until he returned. 

“There’s Theo,” she said. “I need to go. Now.” And, she thought, I need to figure out how or if any of this connects to Michael.

Cole reached across the table and placed his hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

She glanced at his sea green eyes, but she had to look away. He was much easier to take when he was joking around.

“I need to get back to my boat.”

He squeezed her hand. “No, please. Riley. Don’t go. This is the first break we’ve had in weeks. We’re close, I know it.”

She slid her fingers out of his grip and moved her folded hands to her lap. She stared at the coin, unable to look at Cole. She, too, wanted answers. But hers were different questions.

Through the open galley door came the sputtering sound of the outboard shutting down, then the thudding of scrambling feet.

“Riley, I need your fresh set of eyes. I still can’t see those numbers. Theo never picked up on it. Stay and help me figure out what they mean.”

“Cole!” Theo called.

She glanced across the table and saw worry lines appear between his eyebrows. 

He lifted his chin toward the open door and called out, “We’re in the galley!”

Theo appeared in the doorway, his glasses askew and his breath rasping in his throat. His elbows were both raised over his head as he attempted to take off his backpack.

“They’re here,” he said. “I saw them both in town. And another fellow on the powerboat.” As he spoke, Theo untangled his arms from the straps, swung the backpack onto the table, and unzipped the front compartment.

“Slow down, Theo. You talking about the Brewsters? We know — we both saw Spyder.”

The younger man nodded and pulled a small digital camera from the backpack’s pocket.  He pushed a button on the camera and the LCD screen lit up. “Check this out. I couldn’t use the flash – obviously – but I thought you’d like to get a look at this guy.” Theo handed the small camera to Cole. “The brothers went to town to buy provisions. I saw them leave, so I went down to check out the boat. Then this other chap comes out. Push that silver button on the back of the camera to scroll through. I got three different shots of him before I took off.”

Cole moved the camera farther away from his body, then tilted the little screen, squinting to see the dark images. “He doesn’t look like he’d be friend or family of the Brewsters, that’s for sure.” 

“Not a boatman either, judging from the leather-soled loafers,” Theo said. “Pricey ones, I bet. When the brothers left the boat, they were complaining about him bossing them around.”

 Cole looked across the table at her. “Check this guy out. Looks like he stepped right out of an ad in GQ.” Cole set the camera down in the middle of the table and then spun it around so that Riley could see the image on the screen. 

She glanced at it more out of politeness than interest. She had been listening for a break in the conversation so she could make her excuses. She hadn’t at all expected to recognize the man in the photos.

She didn’t say anything. 

“Riley? What is it?”

She said nothing. She couldn’t breathe.

“Cole,” Theo said. “She doesn’t look too good.”

Cole slid off the table bench and stood. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Riley?”

She looked up and blinked at him. “Yeah,” she said, her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

“You know him, don’t you? You recognize this guy.”

When she had first agreed to meet him in Pointe-à-Pitre it was because she needed answers but all she kept finding was more questions.

She reached for the pen, underlined the number she had written on the paper. “Let me tell you about this number 322.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Atlantic south of Bermuda

February 13, 1942

By the time Michaut returned to the hold, they had armed themselves, Woolsey with his pocket knife, Lamoreaux and McKay with broken bottle glass. They waited in the darkness with only the occasional cough or shuffling feet to indicate the state of their nerves. Their plan was to go straight to the bridge, to take out Gohin first, and then hope the others would return to their senses once the man who had bullied them into this mad mutiny was out of the picture.

“When I leave the radio room,” Michaut said, speaking in his broken English so they all could understand, “Gohin go up to deck to take some air and smoke.” He pointed up with his index finger.

“What about the others?” Lamoreaux asked.

“Most men is sleeping from wine,
Capitaine
.  Gerard is the helm and Fournier
navigateur
. No diving, so no one do planes or vents.” 

“Reckless way to run a boat.” Lamoreaux’s eyes locked on Woolsey. “
Bon, Lieutenant
,
allons-y
. Let’s take back my boat.”

The four of them stayed together as they headed forward through the compartment containing the auxiliary pumps, hoses, and motors that brought fresh air into the sub when she ran at the surface. Their path would take them to the ladder just aft of the control room. Michaut went ahead to distract the men on watch there, and McKay followed him. Just before the big man peeled off into the radio room, a sailor stepped out of that compartment and into the companionway. His wide eyes registered surprise at seeing the captain there in the company of the two Brits. Before the seaman could open his mouth, McKay stepped behind him, wrapped one of his ham-sized arms around the man’s neck, then lifted, bending his head back and pressing the sharp glass against the taut skin.

“Non!”
the captain rasped in harsh whisper. He glanced forward toward the control room. He could hear Michaut chatting with the other men on watch just a few feet away. He lowered his voice.
“C’est pas necessaire, n’est-ce pas, Bertrand?”

The sailor attempted to shake his head in spite of the glass at his throat and the meaty hand clamped on his forehead.

The captain held his finger to his lips while staring at the sailor’s face. “Release him,” he whispered to McKay. When the big man obeyed, the captain stepped up and spoke in low, rapid French as the sailor gasped for air and clutched his throat. 

The captain’s words seemed to calm him, but when the old man finished, the sailor turned aft and took off at a dead run. Woolsey said, “That was a mistake, Captain. You should have let McKay kill him.”

McKay stepped up to Woolsey and backed him into the bulkhead.  “Sod off,” he whispered. “I wasn’t gonna kill him. No more needless killing on this boat.” The spray of spittle caused Woolsey’s right eye to blink.  McKay spun away and disappeared into the radio room.

Lamoreaux grabbed the side of the steel ladder, and Woolsey watched as he climbed through the first of three hatches that would take them to the conning tower. Looking straight up he saw only darkness above the captain, but he knew the conning tower hatch was open. He smelled the sea air. Woolsey was glad to let the French captain take the lead. No sense being the first to poke his head out there since Michaut had told them that Gohin was now armed. Their weapons would work up close, but they would have no effect at all against bullets.

Woolsey began to climb once Lamoreaux disappeared. When he got closer to the hatch, he could make out the stars. Then, the captain’s head appeared. Putting his finger to his lips, the captain pointed aft. Woolsey eased himself onto the conning tower deck and remained in a crouch. Even behind the bridge the cold wind lifted his hair and whistled around his ears. Looking aft, he saw the silhouette and the red glow of the cigarette on the gunnery deck just below them. Gohin had his back turned as he leaned over the rail and dragged deeply on his smoke.

The weather was on the mild side for February in the North Atlantic, but the sub’s forward speed of ten knots, coupled with the ten knots of breeze over the bow, resulted in a stiff and loud wind. Woolsey shuddered when he looked down at the black water rushing past the hull. One slip and he’d be in that water, drowning. He stifled a groan. Woolsey feared that any sound would carry straight back to Gohin. There was no moon, but the stars seemed all the brighter in her absence.

There were only two ways off the conning tower: back down the hatch or down the aft ladder to the gun deck. They would be totally exposed in the event that Gohin turned, but he hoped the noise made by the sub slicing through the water would offer them a chance — as long as they moved before the big man finished his cigarette.