Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

their husbands with their mistresses on a supposed business trip to Majorca. Apparently Truck had been hard-pitching a double date for the next night. Distracted by the plane, I’d walked right past the bar and entirely missed the three of them calling my name.

Morning brought a renewed sense of purpose. After rousing Truck from his lair, I promised him breakfast on the road. I wanted to get to where we were headed early, so if the people we were going to see had jobs, we’d catch them before they headed out.

The road to the left took us out past the graveyard filled with whitewashed above-ground tombs at the end of Lorient, up the meandering hill past Marigot, and down to Grand Cul-de-Sac. I told Truck that Lou Atlas wanted to keep us on the job, and we could still earn our reward if we found Jerry’s corpse—good news to Truck, albeit an upside with infinitesimal odds. The idea of treasure had grabbed his attention, but I’d downplayed it for fear of running into Jack Dodson. As a result, Truck wasn’t taking much of this seriously. It didn’t bother me, yet, but it would if I needed him to focus.

We reached the end of the easterly road, the Hotel Le Toiny up on the left. Marius had told us Gisele’s parents lived out here but not exactly where, so I drove up to the five-star restaurant and asked where I could find the Rigaud family farm.

The waiter’s eyebrow rose. I realized Rigaud must be a common name on the island, so I mentioned Gisele.

“Ah, Gisele.” He continued in French, slowly, and directed me a kilometer south toward the Grand Fond. Their farm was on the right side of the road, and there was a sign with their name by the driveway.

I told Truck to keep an eye out as we drove south. There weren’t many houses on this end of the island, which was where the local agricultural and dairy farming industry was centered. The bulk of gourmet food was imported directly from France, but the demand for milk, cheese, and other dairy products must provide the Rigaud family a steady business.

“There it is.” Truck pointed toward a gravel drive that wound up and around a hill and disappeared. “Man, this side of the island don’t look nothing like St. Jean or Gustavia.” He was right. Long, wind-swept, open hills covered with golden grasses led sharply up from the road, and the area was nearly devoid of the sleek villas found elsewhere around St. Barths.

No house was visible up the driveway. I turned and the tires spun gravel as we ascended the long road, fenced on both sides, where sun-beaten cows and goats watched us impassively from beyond the wire. A modest two-story farmhouse was at the top of the hill under the shade of large gaiac trees. A few old pick-up trucks were parked out front, a dusty tractor in a small barn next door.

Before we made it to the house, an elderly man opened the front door. He was holding a pitchfork. A woman peered out from behind his shoulder.

“What do you want?” he said in French.

Startled, I replied in English. “We’re friends of Lou Atlas, Jerry’s uncle.”

The man’s furrowed brow lifted, and he spat on the ground.

I waited, but he said nothing else. Truck and I glanced at each other.

“We’re here to help,” I said.

He spit on the ground again, and his wife said something and waved her palm at us as if to shoo us away.

“No more Atlas,” he said. “Go.”

“This is fucked up, dude,” Truck whispered.

“We went to see Gisele at the hospital yesterday. We want to help protect her from whoever attacked her.”

“You!” The man shouted. “You beat her!”

“What?” My jaw dropped. “We just got here yesterday!”

“No, she said two men, foreign men.” He shoved the pitchfork toward us.

“Let’s get outta here,” Truck said. “This dude’s nuts.”

An idea struck me. I held up both my hands.

“I can prove it to you—I’ll be right back.” I jogged back toward the Jeep.

“Reilly! Don’t leave me alone, dammit!”

I reached inside my flight bag and grabbed my passport. I ran back to them. The old man had crouched lower and aimed the pitchfork toward my chest, his wife hissing unintelligible French in his ear.

“Let me show you—I’m American!” I held up the passport. “We just arrived yesterday.”

They let me approach, slowly, my passport opened to the page with yesterday’s stamp from Customs. Monsieur Rigaud whispered something to his wife and she grunted, then stepped toward me and ripped the passport out of my hand. They studied it together, flipping through the pages. It was heavily stamped from locations all over the world, still active from my days at e-Antiquity. They whispered to each other, and I heard a loud exhale. He handed the pitchfork to his wife and the passport back to me.

They led us to an outdoor seating area and after a few questions finally opened up about their daughter’s relationship with Jerry Atlas.

“He was always trouble,” Madame Rigaud said. “Rich, yes, but trouble more. The drinking, always gone, never there for Gisele or les petits enfants.”

“And Gisele, why would someone attack her?” I said.

The old man shook his head. “The money. Jerry’s money.”

“The men from the Dominican Republic said they wanted to help too,” Madame Rigaud said. “But they lie.” Her eyes were thin as razor blades, her voice as sharp.

“Dominican Republic?” I said.

“The other two men who come here asking about Gisele, and Jerry too, always Jerry,” the old man said. “Then they threaten to get nasty.” He reached down and put his hand on the pitchfork.

“Did they mention Eden Rock?”

The Rigaud’s shared a knowing glance and nodded.

“Were they the ones who hurt your daughter?” I said.

“All Gisele told us was two men. Not from St. Barths, so could be them.”

“Gisele will get even,” Madame said.

“How, if she doesn’t know who attacked her?” I said.

She shook her head. “With Jerry, not them.”

I heard a child scream