Seizure tb-2

by Kathy Reichs

  “Quit being a spaz.” Shelton’s eyes met mine. “Thanks, Tor. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Done.” I smiled. “Should be easy, since I have no idea what I did.”

  Tensions eased slightly, but the good vibes didn’t last.

  “Now what? Should we call the cops?” Shelton sounded unhappy with his own suggestion.

  “With our track record?” Ben scoffed. “We can’t report another ancient skeleton and another mysterious gunman. After the monkey-bones fiasco on Loggerhead last May, we’ve got zero credibility with the police.”

  “Hello Officer Hates-Our-Guts,” Hi mimicked. “You remember us! Last night we used a stolen artifact to break into a historic city landmark. Which cell will be mine?”

  “Hi and Ben are right,” I said. “We’d be arrested, then committed.”

  “Someone’s gonna find that gap in the dungeon wall.” Shelton tapped his watch. “It’s a matter of hours.”

  “Then we need to hurry,” I said. “The Exchange is closed on weekends, so that buys us some time.”

  The boys glanced at each other, but not at me.

  “What?”

  “Tory, it’s over.” Ben’s voice was firm.

  “Over?” I was caught by surprise. “Of course it’s not over. We have the next clue!”

  “Shelton’s right,” Ben said. “On Monday, someone will notice the stone we dislodged. By lunchtime, everyone in America will know about Charleston’s secret tunnels.”

  “Crap!” Shelton sat upright. “We still have the treasure map!”

  Bonny’s drawing lay upside down on the table. A little worse for wear, but nothing too dramatic. Amazingly, the Ziploc kept it dry during our aquatic escape. The foreign words I’d copied onto its back were still visible in bright blue ink.

  Hi rubbed his forehead. “We have to return that, pronto. It’s about to be very popular, and it won’t take the Fletchers five seconds to figure out who stole it.”

  “We’re screwed anyway,” Shelton griped. “Tory wrote on it.”

  “I was a little short on options.”

  “When the news breaks,” Ben said, “treasure hunters will flock to Charleston from all over the world. One of them will find the stash.”

  “No!” I said sharply. “Think! The pool chamber flooded. No one else will have Bonny’s last poem.”

  “Which we can’t read,” Hi mumbled.

  “I’m working on that!” Their constant resistance was starting to irk me. “Quitting is not an option. Don’t you see? We’re the only ones with the final clue to the treasure’s location. We can find where Bonny moved it!”

  “What makes you think it’s still there?” Ben asked. “Maybe the pirates divided up the loot and skipped town.”

  “Then why leave a clue at all?” Snap decision. I’d share my pet theory. “I think Bonny left the poem for Mary Read.”

  “But Read was dead by then,” Shelton said. “She died of fever in a Jamaican prison.”

  “Maybe Anne didn’t know that. Or maybe Mary survived.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes,” Hi said.

  “Anne drew her signature cross next to the poem. I think she was letting Mary know the clue was genuine, like she did in her letter.”

  The boys remained mute, but I sensed a slight softening. I scratched Coop’s belly, allowing my argument time to sink in.

  Then I pressed forward. “The treasure wasn’t discovered, guys, it was moved. And we hold the only clue to the new location.”

  Nothing.

  “We can still win. We can still save Loggerhead.”

  Shelton rubbed his chin. Ben seemed skeptical. Hi had a speculative look.

  “It’s out there,” I insisted. “Waiting for us. All we need are the guts to take it.”

  Shelton and Hi nodded, the former reluctant, the latter suddenly eager.

  “Fine.” Ben picked up the tennis ball and lobbed it my way. “Where do we start?”

  I made the catch without looking. “We find out everything there is to know about Anne Bonny.”

  I SCANNED THE handout and dialed the number at the bottom.

  A female voice answered after two rings.

  “Charleston Ghost Tours.”

  “Sallie? This is Tory Brennan. My friends and I took your tour last night?”

  “Hi Tory, how can I help you? Did you lose something?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Breezy. Casual. “I actually have a question, if you’ve got a minute.”

  “Shoot.”

  Careful. Don’t remind her about the treasure map.

  “I was thinking about our conversation at the Charleston Museum.”

  “I’m manning the info desk as we speak,” Sallie said. “This is my cell number.”

  “Oh! Then I’ll be quick. I was just wondering where I could find more info on Anne Bonny.”

  “Hmm.” Brief pause. “There’s a bit online, and some decent books I could recommend, but so little is truly known about Bonny that most sources are repetitive, even contradictory.”

  “That’s been the problem.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “I have a school project,” I lied. “We’re supposed to trace the background of a Lowcountry historical figure, and I figured Anne Bonny would be fun.”

  “Did you try the Karpeles Manuscript Library? It has genealogies dating back to the first settlers. Their document guy is a bit pretentious, but he really knows his stuff. Sorry, his name escapes me.”

  “Thanks, Sallie. I think I know who you’re talking about.”

  “We appreciate your assistance, Dr. Short.” I flashed my most charming smile. “Especially on a Saturday.”

  “And I expect you to honor our bargain, Miss Brennan.” Short led us down a hallway exiting the library’s main gallery. “Anne Bonny’s letter will join the Karpeles collection after being properly appraised and registered. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Short had driven a hard bargain, but we’d had little choice. The clock was ticking.

  “Then I’m happy to be of service.” Short even smiled. “I’ve set you up in viewing room A. I was able to locate several documents I believe will be of interest.”

  We entered a brightly lit chamber housing four chairs and a long wooden table. Three carts lined the rear wall, each topped by a large metal container.

  “This area is temperature and humidity controlled.” Short was handing out pairs of linen gloves. “Please do not touch any documents with your bare hands. The oils on your skin can damage the parchment.”

  He gave us a sharp look. “You’re not chewing gum, are you? I know children like to do that.”

  Head shakes.

  Short clasped his hands before his chest. “On the first cart is a genealogy of the Cormac family, from their arrival in Charles Town in the late 1600s to the present.”

  I nodded, if only because he seemed to expect it.

  Short moved to the center cart. “Here are documents pertaining to William Cormac himself. Letters, estate records, wills, anything we could collect.”

  Excellent. Exactly what I wanted.

  “And finally we have documents relating to Anne Bonny.” Short gestured to the third cart. “Not much, I admit, but there are a few items of note.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “We’re extremely grateful for your thoroughness.”

  “I will return in one hour. If you need anything before then, or have additional requests, simply press the call button. And be aware.” Short pointed to a shiny black orb positioned in the center of the ceiling. “That device is a security camera.” He headed for the door.

  “Quick question before you leave …” I handed Short a slip of paper. “Can you identify this language?”

  Short glanced at the page, which contained a few words from Bonny’s poem.

  “Gaelic. Original dialect, not the offshoot Scottish idiom. The language is often referred to simply as ‘Irish.’ Anything el
se?”

  “Not right now, thank you.”

  As the door closed, Shelton snorted. “Of course he’s happy to help. We struck the worst bargain in history.”

  Hi shrugged. “It was the only way to get access. He had all the leverage.”

  “Let’s go one cart at a time,” I suggested. “Then we won’t miss anything.”

  We gave the first box a cursory examination. Cormac family history after Anne Bonny was of little interest.

  Moving to the middle cart, we inspected William Cormac’s private papers. Most were legal tracts, or reports on the productivity of his plantation. I began to worry we’d find nothing of use.

  “Nice!” Shelton had taken a handful of pages to the table. “Check this out!”

  I dropped into the chair beside him. “What’ve you got?”

  “A letter to Cormac from the father of his wife.”

  “His wife?” Hi asked. “You mean Anne Bonny’s mom?”

  “No, his real wife. The one Cormac cheated on in Ireland.”

  “Ouch!” Hi leaned over Shelton’s shoulder. “What did her father write? Is it a challenge to a duel?”

  “The language is pretty old school,” Shelton said, “but this is not complimentary. He’s railing Cormac for ‘lecherous behavior’ and things like that. Calls him a ‘paunchy, beetle-headed foot-licker.’”

  Hi smirked. “Why would anyone keep this letter? Cormac must’ve been a glutton for punishment.”

  “Well, well.” Shelton had reached the end. “How about that!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “We know Anne’s father was named William Cormac,” he said. “And when she married, Anne took the last name of her loser husband, James Bonny.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Guess what her mother’s name was? The serving woman Cormac ran on with.”

  Shelton waited, enjoying center stage.

  “Come on!” Hi said. “You don’t really expect us to guess names do you?”

  “It’s go-od!” Shelton promised in a singsong voice.

  “Out with it.” My patience was wearing thin.

  “Anne Bonny’s mother was named—” Shelton drum-rolled the table, “—Mary Brennan.”

  My eyes went squinty. “Seriously?”

  “See for yourself.” Shelton handed me the page. “Daddy is furious because Mary Brennan was his daughter’s personal servant. He wrote her full name twice.”

  “Shelton’s right.” Ben placed another document on the table. “This is an expense report from the Cormac estate in County Cork, Ireland. Dated 1697. It notes that a serving woman named Mary Brennan gave birth to a daughter, Anne.”

  “How about that?” Hi joked. “Anne Bonny could be your super-great-grandma. Must be the source of your charm.”

  “Very funny.”

  But a shiver flashed through me. The yacht club painting. The shared handwriting quirk. Now this. Was it possible? Could I be related to Anne Bonny?

  Nonsense.

  “There must be a thousand Brennans in North America,” I said.

  “How many in Massachusetts?” Hi was flipping through the last papers in the William Cormac box. “Here’s a letter written by Mary Brennan herself. 1707. Never posted, but addressed to a cousin in ‘the colony of Massachusetts Bay.’”

  Second chill. This was definitely getting weird.

  “That’s it for Big Willy Cormac.” Hi returned the sheet to its container.

  “Say hello to Anne Bonny.” Shelton moved to the third cart, then handed Ben a small collection of musty documents. “Enjoy!”

  “Not much to see.” Ben placed the papers on the table. “Let’s examine them one by one.”

  “Tory?” Shelton was studying the side of the last document box. “You don’t believe in coincidence, right?”

  “No,” I said. “Sharing a surname hardly proves—”

  “Not that. Guess who was the last person to review this stuff before us?”

  “Enough guessing games,” Ben growled. “Make your point.”

  “Check the signature.” Shelton passed me a smeary sign-out card. “None other than your boy, Rodney Brincefield.”

  “The old fogey again?” Hi arched one brow. “What gives?”

  I shrugged. “He really likes Anne Bonny. No big deal.”

  But part of me wondered. Brincefield kept popping up like a whack-a-mole. He seemed harmless, but I’d learned the hard way not to underestimate people.

  Was Brincefield involved in our attack?

  Shelton interrupted my thoughts. “You guys were talking about Massachusetts a minute ago, right?”

  Nods.

  “I never mentioned it before,” Shelton said, “but my pirate book includes a rumor that Bonny fled north.”

  “When?” Ben asked.

  “After her trial in Jamaica. One theory holds that Bonny sailed to Massachusetts Bay Colony and settled in New England. Nothing more specific than that.”

  This time the chill ran both my arms and legs. Things were getting freakier and freakier. I felt like I was being punked.

  Sudden pang. Mom would’ve loved the intrigue.

  I shoved the painful thought aside.

  “But that’s wrong,” Hi countered. “Bonny was transferred to Charles Town.”

  “Maybe she fled north after escaping Half-Moon Battery,” Shelton suggested. “I’m just telling you what’s in the book.”

  “Can we please get through this last set?” Ben said. “I’m losing steam here.”

  The remaining papers provided no spoilers. Most were contemporary descriptions of Bonny’s sea conquests. A few were reports on her trial. Interesting, but not useful.

  I scanned the last page with a sigh. “We done here?”

  “Completely.” Hi yawned. “I’m still gassed from last night.”

  I pressed the call button. When Short arrived I thanked him, and we headed for the door.

  “I’ll expect Bonny’s letter in a timely fashion.”

  “Yes sir.” I followed the others outside.

  The sun was a brilliant white disc high in the sky. It was hard to believe that, just a few hours earlier, I’d swum from a submerged sea cave into Charleston Harbor.

  Though dog-tired, we weren’t done yet.

  “So what’d we learn?” Ben asked.

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Short said the poem is written in Gaelic. We need a translation.”

  “We learned Tory descended from a filthy, murdering, hot-tempered lady-pirate.”

  “Shut it, Hiram.”

  We trooped down the front steps and started back toward the marina.

  Stopped.

  Marlo and Tree Trunk were leaning against a fence halfway up the block.

  Marlo again wore a long white tee and black jeans. A white iPod was strapped to his belt, earphones snaking up to his head. Tree Trunk rocked another NBA jersey, this one a Charles Barkley Sixers throwback.

  There was no way to avoid them without turning around.

  “Ideas?” Hi asked sideways.

  “Walk right by,” I whispered. “They don’t intimidate us.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Shelton muttered.

  As we drew close I smiled and flicked a wave. Marlo’s face remained stone, but his eyes followed our progress. One hand rubbed the Zorro scar on his cheek. Tree Trunk ignored us completely.

  Shelton’s comment about coincidence replayed in my head.

  A few steps more, and we rounded a corner.

  “Gheeeyaaaah!” Hi scrunched his shoulders. “Those guys give me the creeps!”

  “What’s their deal?” Shelton glanced behind us, but the pair hadn’t followed. “You think they’re the ones that stalked us in the tunnels?”

  “Look at my arms,” Hi said. “Goose bumps everywhere.”

  “Forget them,” Ben said. “Let’s focus on the Gaelic poem.”

  “How do we get it translated?” Shelton asked.

  “We’re in luck,” I said. “I k
now a languages ace. Time to bring in a heavy hitter.”

  “Who?” Hi sounded wary.

  “My great-aunt Tempe.”

  MARLO BATES WATCHED the nerdy kids disappear around the corner.

  He didn’t move to follow. Didn’t move at all.

  Instead, he kicked back against the fence and bobbed to the Lil Wayne track blaring through his earphones.

  Moments later, a giant hand tapped his shoulder.

  His brother, Duncan, looked a question at him.

  With a sigh, Marlo paused his iPod and removed the buds from his ears.

  “What, yo?” Marlo had to crane his neck upward to see his brother’s face.

  Duncan said nothing. No surprise there. But Marlo understood.

  “I don’t know, man.” Frustrated. “I ain’t never been down here, neither.”

  Duncan frowned—which, for the big man, was practically a shout.

  “What is this place, anyway?” Marlo turned to scrutinize the large stone building at their backs. “Some kinda white people church?”

  Duncan folded his arms in a clear expression of impatience.

  “You heard Pops.” Marlo spat in disgust. “Ain’t like this was my idea.”

  Marlo stroked the Z-shaped scar on his cheek, an unconscious tell that he was considering something.

  Finally, he pushed off the fence.

  “Let’s see what’s inside real quick.” Marlo hitched his pants, then brushed pollen from his plain white tee. “I ain’t spending my whole damn afternoon on this shit.”

  Wordlessly, Duncan followed Marlo up the steps.

  “These youngins sure be pissing me off,” Marlo grumbled. “I should be tending my business, not wasting time down here with the damn tourists.”

  Duncan didn’t comment, a moving, breathing statue come to life.

  At the entrance Marlo tugged a door open. Paused. Peered into the lobby.

  “Pops better know what he’s talking about.”

  Marlo hated big buildings like this. Imposing. Official looking. They reminded him of the schools he’d attended before finally dropping out. Of the failed expectations, the humiliation of needing help but being too proud to ask.

  “Better be right,” Marlo muttered before stepping inside, the giant shadow of his brother looming on his heels.