Circle of Bones
Authors: Christine Kling
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Crime Fiction, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers, #A thriller about the submarine SURCOUF
CONTENTS
6-The Atlantic south of Bermuda
13-The Atlantic south of Bermuda
20-The Atlantic south of Bermuda
27-The Atlantic south of Bermuda
32-The Atlantic south of Bermuda
39-The Atlantic south of Bermuda
41-From Bonefish to Shadow Chaser
47–The Atlantic south of Bermuda
73-The Caribbean Sea off Guadeloupe
84-From Bonefish to Fast Eddie
85-Off Îles de la Petite Terre
CIRCLE OF BONES
By Christine Kling
Published 2011 by Tell-Tale Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written consent of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Your support of authors’ rights is appreciated.
Copyright © 2011 Christine Kling
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by
Robin Ludwig Design, Inc.
Visit Christine Kling at
http://www.christinekling.com
This one is for my mother,
the ghost I talk to most.
The tale is different if even a single breath
Escapes to tell it
from “The Shipwreck”
by W.S. Merwin
(1956)
Where secrecy or mystery begins, vice or roguery is not far off.
Samuel Johnson
(1709-1784)
Map of Central Caribbean Islands of Guadeloupe and Dominica
Prologue
Cherbourg, France
November 19, 2008
The man lingered in the dark alley, the bill of his hat pointing through the gray veil of rain that poured off the café’s awning. From her seat inside the window, Riley blew at the steam rising off her
café au lait
and watched him from the corner of her eye. He rocked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Rain dribbled from the baseball cap jutting out from under his hood. She couldn’t see his face, but she looked down anyway. She knew it in her gut. He was watching her.
Her chest got that dizzy, hollow feeling as her heart rate climbed. She concentrated on slowing her breathing as she had been trained to do. She tried to sip her coffee with nonchalance but grimaced at the taste of it. Either the French had forgotten how to make coffee, or her mouth was dry from nerves. She’d thought she was over all this.
When she glanced up again, the man had disappeared. Riley brushed the hair back from her eyes and pressed her nose to the window. She checked the street in both directions. Her breath fogged the glass, but there was no sign of him. Closing her eyes for a moment, she rested her hot forehead against the cool glass. She was getting as bad as Cole. Perhaps paranoia was contagious, she thought, and that made her sit back in her chair and shake her head.
God, how she missed him. After all these months, she thought of him almost daily. Even the steady morning rain outside the café window reminded her of the falling ash. Down in the islands, it had covered everything – been impossible to wash away. It had blanketed her boat’s decks, clogged her nostrils, turned her sails gray.
But that was more than six months ago. Now she was back in France, in Normandy, watching as another shower battered the awning in front of the café where she sipped from a soup-sized bowl of
café au lait
, thinking of all the dead – and tasting ash.
Tossing some euros onto the table, she abandoned her coffee and pushed back her chair. She pulled on her yellow foul weather jacket. The rain had stopped abruptly so, when she reached the sidewalk, she left her hood down and glanced up at the gray sky. A last fat raindrop caught her in the eye. She brushed the back of her hand across her wet cheek. Not today. No tears.
From behind, someone grabbed her arm. Her fists flew up as she spun around, then she yanked her arm out of the grip of that hard hand. Adrenaline shot through her system and her pulse roared in her ears. The man in the black slicker and ball cap stood behind her. He grunted and held a cardboard sign in front of his chest. Words scrawled in black marker stated that he was both deaf and dumb, a veteran of
la guerre l’Indochine
.
She lowered her hands and examined him. His face was partially covered by wraparound sunglasses. Was he blind as well? Scraggly whiskers framed his yellow teeth, and beneath the slicker she saw layers of torn and dirty clothes. He bent down and picked up a crutch; his left leg was wrapped in bandages. Long strands of wet gray hair trailed out from under his cap. Riley inhaled a whiff of day-old garbage, and she saw the look of disgust on her own face reflected in the large mirrored lenses. He reached out a grimy hand, offering her one of several small brown paper bags of roasted chestnuts.
He
had
been watching her — but only because she was a tourist, a likely mark.
She swallowed the sour taste in her throat and dug into her bag. He was a soldier. Or had been. Like her. She placed a ten euro note in his palm and his fingers closed around hers.
All the nerve endings in her fingers lit up as his hot flesh squeezed her hand tight. Her heart ricocheted in her chest as she tried to pull free, and she felt the flush travel from her hand to her face. She gulped several shallow breaths. What was going on? The Marine Corps had trained her not to react, to be a stone-faced sentry, and she’d been damn good at it.
Then he pulled her fingers open and started to place the brown bag in her hand. She yanked her hand free. Waving off the bag, she backed away. Not certain if he could see her, she mumbled, “
Non, non
.”
She turned and started walking.
The man hobbled after her, grunting with insistence. He shook the brown paper, and she heard the sound of the nuts clicking together. She saw that she would have to take the bag to make him leave her alone.
“
Merci
,” she said as she stuffed the paper bag into the pocket of her rain jacket, careful not to touch him again. She turned and marched down the street, not knowing where she was going, but only that she had to get away.
