Read Online Circle of Bones by Christine Kling - Free Book Online
Authors: Christine Kling
Tags: Thrillers, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, A thriller about the submarine SURCOUF
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she’d been distracted by her “date” tomorrow was no excuse. She thought about the clothes she’d given him. She’d miss that old shirt. Glancing around the cockpit one last time, she realized the handheld VHF radio was gone, too. Damn him.
“So, Mademoiselle ,” he said. “We go?”
Monsieur Beaulieu sat on a pontoon in the bow of the dinghy talking into his cell phone and waving his free hand through the air as she ran him back to the inner harbor her chart referred to as La Darse. The brightly-painted hulls of local fishing boats were tied along the eastern wall, so she continued to the head of the harbor in front of the Place de la Victoire and the still bustling fish market. White plastic buckets filled with ice and red squirrel fish were lined up behind the men who displayed the larger kingfish and grouper on their tables. Creole ladies with headscarves and huge shopping baskets were haggling for better prices. Riley smiled at their waving arms and shrill voices, not so different from the man in her dinghy.
Since she and Beaulieu had been speaking in English, he apparently did not realize she spoke fluent French. He was discussing what to charge her with. He snapped the tiny phone closed and sniffed as she turned the boat to come alongside the seawall.
Once Beaulieu had his feet on terra firma, he brushed his hands together as though he had dirtied himself by getting ferried ashore.
“You are certain your mysterious passenger was American?”
Riley stood in her dinghy looking up at him, one hand on the seawall steadying the boat. “Yes, no doubt about it. And he assured me he had already cleared into your country. Why do you ask?”
“The name he gave you. Surcouf . It is French and I am surprised he would use it.”
“Why?”
“There was a very famous French submarine with this name. Surcouf . Named after a pirate. She disappeared in the Caribbean in la seconde guerre mondiale . Over one hundred and thirty men died when she was lost in 1942.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“ Exactement. You are an American.” He snorted air through his massive nose. “You know so little about l’histoire of the rest of the world.”
Great. A fake name, and a French one, no less. God only knows what he was into. And the jerk stole her only handheld VHF radio.
Beaulieu waved his hand toward the immigration building on the waterfront. “You are coming.”
It wasn’t a question.
“You’ve got my paperwork, and you know where to find me,” she said.
“That is not sufficient, Mademoiselle . This man you brought ashore, the man you insist was American, has not passed through immigration. He is an illegal, undocumented alien. You will come with me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marigot Bay, Guadeloupe
March 25, 2008
5:45 p.m.
The Citroen pulled to the side of the road and screeched off again almost before Cole had fully climbed out of the vehicle.
“Thanks a lot,” he said to the red taillights as they disappeared around the next curve.
He reached down to brush the dust off the tropical print sarong. What did he expect when he was out hitchhiking in a dress — and going commando, no less? The driver had made certain assumptions, and he wasn’t exactly happy when Cole turned him down.
He started down the steep dirt road leading to the narrow rocky beach at the head of the bay. He picked his way between the stones since his bandaged feet had started to hurt again during the ride. He’d plucked the cactus needles out of his hand with tweezers he found in the head on Riley’s boat, and he flexed his hand as he walked. Nearly good as new.
The last rays of sun lit the treetops high on the mountain above him, but down in the cove night was descending. A restaurant was perched on the ledge above the dark water, its colored lights illuminating the small grove of coconut palms. When he reached the bottom of the hill, Cole lifted the green T-shirt and grabbed the VHF radio he had clipped to
“So, Mademoiselle ,” he said. “We go?”
Monsieur Beaulieu sat on a pontoon in the bow of the dinghy talking into his cell phone and waving his free hand through the air as she ran him back to the inner harbor her chart referred to as La Darse. The brightly-painted hulls of local fishing boats were tied along the eastern wall, so she continued to the head of the harbor in front of the Place de la Victoire and the still bustling fish market. White plastic buckets filled with ice and red squirrel fish were lined up behind the men who displayed the larger kingfish and grouper on their tables. Creole ladies with headscarves and huge shopping baskets were haggling for better prices. Riley smiled at their waving arms and shrill voices, not so different from the man in her dinghy.
Since she and Beaulieu had been speaking in English, he apparently did not realize she spoke fluent French. He was discussing what to charge her with. He snapped the tiny phone closed and sniffed as she turned the boat to come alongside the seawall.
Once Beaulieu had his feet on terra firma, he brushed his hands together as though he had dirtied himself by getting ferried ashore.
“You are certain your mysterious passenger was American?”
Riley stood in her dinghy looking up at him, one hand on the seawall steadying the boat. “Yes, no doubt about it. And he assured me he had already cleared into your country. Why do you ask?”
“The name he gave you. Surcouf . It is French and I am surprised he would use it.”
“Why?”
“There was a very famous French submarine with this name. Surcouf . Named after a pirate. She disappeared in the Caribbean in la seconde guerre mondiale . Over one hundred and thirty men died when she was lost in 1942.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“ Exactement. You are an American.” He snorted air through his massive nose. “You know so little about l’histoire of the rest of the world.”
Great. A fake name, and a French one, no less. God only knows what he was into. And the jerk stole her only handheld VHF radio.
Beaulieu waved his hand toward the immigration building on the waterfront. “You are coming.”
It wasn’t a question.
“You’ve got my paperwork, and you know where to find me,” she said.
“That is not sufficient, Mademoiselle . This man you brought ashore, the man you insist was American, has not passed through immigration. He is an illegal, undocumented alien. You will come with me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marigot Bay, Guadeloupe
March 25, 2008
5:45 p.m.
The Citroen pulled to the side of the road and screeched off again almost before Cole had fully climbed out of the vehicle.
“Thanks a lot,” he said to the red taillights as they disappeared around the next curve.
He reached down to brush the dust off the tropical print sarong. What did he expect when he was out hitchhiking in a dress — and going commando, no less? The driver had made certain assumptions, and he wasn’t exactly happy when Cole turned him down.
He started down the steep dirt road leading to the narrow rocky beach at the head of the bay. He picked his way between the stones since his bandaged feet had started to hurt again during the ride. He’d plucked the cactus needles out of his hand with tweezers he found in the head on Riley’s boat, and he flexed his hand as he walked. Nearly good as new.
The last rays of sun lit the treetops high on the mountain above him, but down in the cove night was descending. A restaurant was perched on the ledge above the dark water, its colored lights illuminating the small grove of coconut palms. When he reached the bottom of the hill, Cole lifted the green T-shirt and grabbed the VHF radio he had clipped to
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