Artifact

“Yes. I’ve called NYPD countless times. They’re not ready to let go of it. The good part is that they’ve assured me they won’t release it to anyone else.”

In San Gabriel, Peta had told Ma

“Believe me, I’ve thought about that a lot,” Peta said. “I think that I’m safe, for the moment.”

“Why?”

“Because it suits his purposes. We talked before about the possibility that Frik was the person who had Arthur killed to get at the artifact. We know for a fact that the killer didn’t get it. My guess is that Frik called NYPD, said he was Arthur’s closest friend, and asked them if they had it.”

“In which case,” Ma

“Yes, so his best bet is to make nice to me and try to regain my confidence so that he can talk me into giving him both my stone and Arthur’s.”

“I have to think about this.” Ma

Peta followed his line of vision. Out on the horizon, she saw the masts of theAssegai .

“Maybe he’s come to apologize.” Ma

“Apologize for what?” Ray asked, filling the doorway with his muscular form.

“Here’s the other trouble I saw,” Ma

“I got here yesterday. Didn’t your father tell you?” Ray shook Ma

“My father didn’t say a word.” Ma

“Twenty dollars.”

“American?”

Ray nodded. “He said he hadn’t seen you for weeks. I asked the other people in here too. A couple of leathery old men and that layabout fisherman whose wife always comes in looking for him.”

Ma

“Not much.” Ray set down his beer among the many circular rings on the single Formica tabletop in the corner of the bar. “Feels like home,” he said, cooling himself under the slow-moving ceiling fan.

“To what do we owe this visit?” Peta asked.

“I’ve been with Terris and—” He stopped short, clearly reluctant to continue whatever it was he had to say in front of Peta. “Look, this is confidential.”

“Don’t worry about it. The last thing I need is your little-boy games.” Peta slid off the stool.

“I’m sorry,” Ray said. “Arthur’s dead, but you’re not yet officially a member of the club. That doesn’t mean you don’t have my respect.”

“No problem. I’m leaving.”

“Stay,” Ma

Peta was torn between her first instinct, which was to tell Ray to stick it, and her need to find out what part—if any—he had played in Arthur’s death.

“If you have doctor-type things to do, I can call you later,” Ray said hesitantly. “You’re in my database.”

“Bad idea,” Ma

Peta knew that Ray couldn’t argue with him, not after being privy to many an argument with Grenadian officials about the fact that line tapping was legal on the island. Any attempt at privacy here was more of a challenge than all of the death-defying feats Ray had accomplished in his lifetime.

Judging by the look on the American’s face, he was making a tough decision. “I’ve been on theValhalla with Terris,” he said finally. “Took a short island hop from the rig to Trinidad, then a flight here.” He looked around, as if searching for eavesdroppers, then lowered his voice and looked at Ma

Without wasting words, he filled them in on McKendry’s plan to find Selene. Even before he was finished, Ma

“I’m coming too,” Peta said.

“No—”

“Yes. I’m going to do what Arthur would have done. First of all, it’ll save time if I fly you to Trinidad. Second, you may need a doctor—”

“No—”

“Don’t argue with her,” Ma

“I’ll clear things with my locum tonight,” Peta added. She thought for a moment. “Frik will probably call me on the pretext of seeing if I’m all right after the incident in the cavern.”

She was about to ask what she should say to him when, right on cue, her cell phone jangled.

“Yes.”

“Frik here. I’m sailing in. I want to apologize to you for the debacle in San Gabriel. Will you have di

“I’m busy,” she said.

“Tomorrow?”

“No. I’m flying out in the morning.”

There was silence at the other end. “I really need to see you,” Frik said at last.

“It’ll have to wait.”

“I won’t be here again until Carnival.”

August will be too late to feel me out, too late to find out what I know, Peta thought. Nevertheless, deciding she needed some insurance should he become persistent, she said a cursory farewell to Frik and a warm one to Ma

Exiting Aboo’s, she made her way past the awnings of the tourist shops toward the coal pot where an old woman was roasting corn on a makeshift grill over glowing coals. She bought several ears, wrapped them in one of the sheets of newspaper piled next to the fire, and flagged down one of the few taxis that roamed the Carenage on a Sunday evening.

With darkness descending and the sound of a lone steel drum in her ears, she directed the driver to take her home. She called the airport to tell them to have her plane ready for departure at noon. Then she ate her corn, bathed, and packed a small overnight bag. Before midnight, she was fast asleep.

The next morning, carrying nothing but a tote and her medical bag, she drove her Honda to the bank. She took her pendant out of her safe-deposit box, pocketed it, and headed toward Morne Rouge and her Rasta friend, Ralphie Levine. He was the only person on the island who could be trusted to do what she needed to have done: replicate the piece in her pendant and swap the two, putting his fake in the bezel while he held on to the original.

Everything went so smoothly that Peta was at the airport thirty minutes early. She made one last check on her plane and headed upstairs to the coffee shop. Ray was already there, eating a lunch of chicken roti. He pulled a small bone out of his mouth.

“Have some,” he said, pushing the roti toward her. “It’s good.”

“I know it is.” Though she never tired of the lightly curried chicken, cut into small pieces and wrapped, bones and all, in a thin East Indian flatbread, she scooted the dish back at him. “I don’t eat before I fly.”

“What’s wrong, Peta? Have I done something to upset you?” Ray looked genuinely distressed.

“I don’t know, Ray. Have you?”

“I would never do anything to hurt you. Surely you know that.”

Ray took her hand. His touch was warm and reassuring. “I do know that.” She smiled at him and retrieved her hand. “Now let’s get out of here.”

It wasn’t until the two of them stepped onto the tarmac that she saw Frik. He was dressed in long pants, wore shoes, and carried a briefcase—formal attire for him. His eye remained partially closed; his hand was wrapped in pressure bandages in a continuing attempt to minimize scarring from the deep burns he’d suffered.