by Jeff Abbott
“But you admire him.”
“I admire his decisiveness,” Jason Salinger said. “We’re a much less decisive world now. We analyze. We agonize. We second-guess. Laffite never had that luxury. Maybe one day I’ll write a book for business managers: Business by Laffite. You know, you find different avenues to make your money these days as an academic. Got to go mainstream.”
“So where did Laffite keep all his money? There were no banks in Galveston then, and presumably a legitimate bank wouldn’t touch him.”
“He probably laundered money and gold back into the banks in New Orleans. He had the best lawyers in New Orleans working for him. And he and his brother, Pierre, filed bankruptcy, saying they had very little. But of course mobsters today have hidden under that same cloak.”
“But any accounts would have always been in danger from the U.S. government? If they suspected an account was Laffite’s, they’d’ve seized it, right?”
Jason frowned but nodded.
A large map of the Texas coast was pinned above the computer. Whit stood and studied it. “Indulge me. Let’s just say, over the years, Laffite amasses a tidy fortune in gold. At least enough to get him started over if he abandons Galveston or his New Orleans accounts get seized. Or maybe he makes a few big captures right before he’s forced out of Galveston. He can’t go into port in New Orleans—he’ll be arrested as a pirate if he steps on U.S. soil, right?”
“Yes,” Jason said. “He’d have been arrested if he set foot in America. His forces had already annoyed the navy by attacking an American merchant ship, although he’d executed the captain responsible. What finally empowered the American government to kick him out of Galveston was the capture of one of his ships, Le Brave, during an attack on a Spanish ship. Le Brave’s captain had papers that outlined the division of booty, written in Laffite’s hand, with his signature. It was the smoking gun the navy needed.”
“So Laffite’s on the run. He’s got no place to go. If he’s transporting gold he stands to lose it if he’s stopped or attacked, right?”
“He was given a document guaranteeing safe passage by the U.S. Navy to leave the Gulf. They wouldn’t have bothered him.”
“But that wouldn’t protect him from the Spanish, right, or any other country whose ships he attacked?”
Jason frowned. “No, it wouldn’t. But pirates really didn’t bury treasure very often. That’s way more Treasure Island than common practice. I mean, it’s accepted that Captain Kidd buried a treasure up in New England. But it’s never been found.”
“But maybe Laffite’s got a better chance for long-term survival burying this treasure—just for a few weeks or months—than hauling it around a gulf sailed by navies who are pissed at him and risk losing everything. He’s a man without a country. Put yourself in his shoes. Where would you bury it?”
Jason stared at him, as though wanting to ask a question, but didn’t. He ran a finger along the curve of the coast on his wall map. “Not Galveston or Bolivar. Far too risky to be caught by an American patrol making sure he didn’t return to the area to set up shop again. Maybe further south or north.” His finger moved south along the map. “Laffite had camps up and down the coast. For sure in Matagorda Bay and on St. Joseph Island.”
“Did he have a camp on St. Leo Bay?”
Jason glanced at him, then back at the map. “Legend says that he did, but no trace has ever been found.”
“Maybe he wanted to erase the trace of himself here,” Whit said. “If I had buried gold, I wouldn’t have my name right over it in big letters.”
“His camps weren’t fancy. Just shelters if he or his men needed to get ashore, say in a storm, or to hide from other ships. Just four walls and a spare cannon, maybe.”
“And one assumes if he buried the treasure he would mark it or come back for it quickly, if he could.”
“Sure.”
“So what happened to Laffite after he left Galveston?”
“No one knows. There were a variety of reports. He might have died, might have gone to Cuba or to Mexico. Recently it’s been theorized he died in South America, as a freedom fighter.” He smiled. “People are always trying to redeem pirates. We like them too much to remember they’re murdering thieves.”
“So—possibly—he could have been kept from retrieving a treasure. Killed. Or imprisoned.”
“Possibly. Sure. We don’t know with complete certainty what happened to him.”
“Do the legends get specific about where this St. Leo Bay camp might be?” Whit asked.
“Some say Copano Flats, some say Black Jack Point. Obviously old Black Jack believed Laffite had been there.”
“You know about him?”
“Just that he was a crazy old hermit, lived out on the Point from the Civil War until about 1890. I don’t know if he was black or his name was Jack. I think the Point must’ve gotten its name from the blackjack oaks that grow there. And maybe the name stuck to him, too. He claimed he’d sailed with Laffite as a boy and Laffite was coming back to the Point, gonna kill everyone in Port Leo because they’d taken his gold. Loony. He sure thought there was a treasure—he dug up enough of the Point. I guess the Gilbert family—they’ve had that land forever—tolerated him. Sad, though. A whole life dedicated to greed.”
“Wouldn’t you say that was Laffite’s life as well?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Except for saving New Orleans, which was pretty cool.” Jason raised an eyebrow again. “You going to tell me about why you’re asking all these semiloaded questions?”
“I’m trying to get a feel for Patch’s life in his final weeks. Everything we discuss, Jason, remains confidential. I’m conducting an official death inquest.”
“I think you’re believing these legends.”
Whit shook his head. “We have no indication that Patch had found any antiquities or relics of any sort.” That was true—Patch hadn’t. Maybe others had. “I would hate for a bunch of rumors to get started. Have people stampeding around on that land like a bunch of Black Jacks when the Gilbert and Tran families are grieving.”
“Of course not,” Jason said. “I don’t get off on rumors. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But if there’s a story…”
“There’s not. I asked about treasure pretty much out of curiosity. It’s what people first think of with Laffite and I knew Patch had this new interest in him. Nothing more.” Jason didn’t look convinced so Whit shifted gears again. “You know Stoney Vaughn?”
“Sure. He’s the president of the Corpus chapter of the Laffite League.”
“Friend of yours?”
“No. Cat litter has more brains than Stoney. He’s all into the treasure hunter mystique. He’s financed treasure dives in the Florida Keys, where a lot of the Spanish galleons wrecked over the years. Tried to finance a partnership to dive on galleon wrecks down off Padre, but the state blocked him. The Texas Historical Commission, they hate treasure hunters. Any treasure in state waters or buried on public land is theirs by law, and they make sure you don’t dive without their approval.”
“He finances treasure hunts?” Whit kept his voice flat.
“Yeah, well, in Florida. Lot more wrecks there, in the shallows along the Keys. I think he might have been in the group that financed Barry Clifford diving on Whydah, up off Cape Cod. That’s the only sunken pirate ship ever recovered. They got a load of gold, silver, and jewels off it. At least Stoney likes to talk big about it. He paid for a trip for about a dozen of the Leaguers last year to go to Yucatán, see the town where Laffite’s brother died.”
“Were Stoney and Patch buddies?”
“Don’t think they knew each other, but they probably met at the meeting,” Jason said. “Okay, now you got me hooked. You ask about Laffite’s treasure and then you ask about a guy who does treasure hunts.”
“If there’s anything to say… I’ll give you the exclusive story. But don’t hold your breath. And if you say a thing too early, no story.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Ok
ay.”
“Are there any other… treasure hunter types around here, or in the Laffite League?”
“Stoney did have a friend who came along on the Yucatán trip, a guy he knew from Florida. Allen Eck, I think his name was. Yeah. Looked like a professor. Comes across as very cool. But what an weird jerk. We were taking a tour of Mérida. The tour guide was telling about Laffite history, but got a couple of really minor details wrong. I mean, most people would never know. Allen told him he was wrong, very quietly, and the guide firmly said, no, he was right. Maybe just thinking Allen’s some dumb tourist. I’ll never forget the look Allen gave him, just beyond cold, like this poor stupid guide wasn’t worth a roach’s ass. But he didn’t say anything more. Next day, they find the tour guide in an alleyway. Both arms broken, face a solid bruise, nose broken. Guy wouldn’t say who attacked him—either he didn’t see or he was too scared.” Jason shook his head. “I know it’s crazy, but I kept thinking maybe Allen beat up that man.”
21
STONEY TOSSED ALL night, like he slept on rocks, lying on a blanket in front of the big French doors leading to the dock. He’d switched all the lights on along the dock, waiting. No boats came out of the night. Alex got comfortable at the dinner table, gun in front of him, reading a thick book on seventeenth-century Asian piracy he’d found on Stoney’s shelves, making noises of agreement and disapproval as he scanned the pages.
Finally he’d fallen asleep. He awoke once to hear Alex talking quietly on a cell phone. He heard Alex say, “Fine. I agree.” Then nothing more but the sound of Alex clicking off his phone. He played possum, felt Alex’s gaze go along his back. Stoney didn’t go to sleep again for a while, but the whiskey he’d drunk earlier caught up with him and he drifted off.
He awoke at seven, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his back a solid ache. Along the dock the lights still gleamed. No boat, no Danny, dead or alive. He got up, went into the kitchen. No Alex.
He should have felt relief. He knew Alex wanted to kill him last night. Wanted to burn his face. Instead he felt panic at Alex’s absence. Where the hell was he? And if Danny or his gang showed up while Alex was gone…
He went to the phone. No messages. He called the satellite phone system on Jupiter. No answer. He turned on the television, watched the Friday morning local news. No reports of a millionaire’s brother kidnapped at sea, nothing on a missing boat or Ben and Claudia’s bodies washing ashore.
He heard the front door open, hurried to the foyer, saw Alex coming in, closing the door behind him.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“They show?”
“No. Where were you?”
“Attending to some business.” Alex dusted his hands. “You can cook, right? Eggs. Bacon. Black coffee. I need some protein.”
“What business, Alex?”
Alex’s mood seemed ominously good. He patted Stoney’s cheek. “They may not be coming. Danny and his friends must have lost their nerve. Or maybe Danny killed his buddies.”
“Or he killed Ben,” Stoney said. “He’s got nothing to bargain with, except an accusation against me that won’t hold up.”
Alex went into the kitchen, washed his hands. “This girlfriend of Ben’s. The cop?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she took them all out.”
“She’s one person. And a woman.”
“A gun and the knowledge and will to use it are a great equalizer. Call your boat again.”
“I already tried. There wasn’t an answer.”
“Danny Laffite, he has a boat? Presumably they had a boat to board Jupiter with.”
“Yes.”
“You remember the name?”
“Miss Catherine. After Catherine Villars.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “Start hailing that boat on the radio. Maybe they’re trying to figure out how to trick us. Maybe they’re playing it safe. Maybe they didn’t want to come in at night.” He gave a wicked smile. “Maybe they found the Eye hidden on your boat and they’ve sailed off to China.” The smile—wry, like he didn’t care—stayed in place. It made Stoney’s stomach sink.
“I got an extra marine radio in my office, high-end, long-range.”
“Let’s see if anyone wants to talk to us,” Alex said.
Claudia awoke slowly because waking meant pain. Hard, throbbing pain that pulsed in her head like a heartbeat, each pu-pump a double shot of eye-clenching agony. The pain roared hard enough for her first cogent thought to be: Don’t move, because your brains will leak out your ears.
She opened her eyes. Coldness—from air-conditioning—prickled her skin. Morning light, soft in color but a slap against her eyes. A slow awareness of the rest of her body—not welcome, everything hurt—crept along her nerves. She was tied again, hands behind her this time, wrists raw, foot a dull ache. A coppery, sour taste made her want to spit out her tongue. Bed sheets—smelling unwashed and of suntan lotion—lay greasy against her skin.
Tied up and tucked into bed.
“Danny?” Claudia called weakly. “Danny?”
The door cracked open, light hit her eyes like a fist.
“You’re awake,” Danny said. “You worried me. You wouldn’t wake up before.”
“What… what happened? I hurt…”
“You’ll be fine.” A pause. “It’s good you didn’t die, because then how could you help me?”
He sat by her on the bed, put a moist cloth dispenser next to her head, plucked a cloth free, gently wiped her face and her hands. “Moist towelettes help you stay clean. You should wash each day,” he said, as if by rote. It sounded like a rule mentioned in a hospital, a mantra of nurses.
His tone was a little different today. She didn’t like it.
She stayed still while he wiped her face, cleaning her skin and hair of dried extinguisher foam and her own spittle and blood. He brought her a glass of cold water. The water tasted bitter, but her mouth craved the wetness. He held her head up gently and she gulped the glass dry.
“Good girl,” he said.
“Untie me.”
“No.”
“You… you hit me.” Her mouth tasted like it was crammed full of wool.
“Just a little love tap,” he said. “You’ll be okay.” His jaunty confidence made her skin crawl. He smiled, shook a finger in her face she wanted to bite to the bone. “Remember, we’re going to Stoney’s house.”
“Ben…”
“I wouldn’t worry about him anymore. They’re gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Sailed off. I’m certainly not looking for them now. He must’ve heard the gunshot, decided to take off. Zack—the redhead—he’s basically a coward without Gar around. Probably dump Ben in the Gulf, ditch the boat close to shore, find a rock to hide under. Less likely he’d go to Stoney’s house, cut a separate deal. But you just never know about people, do you?”
“You’re a smart guy, Danny,” she managed to say. “But you know the police are looking for me and Ben by now. And I need medical attention.” She put the edge of a whine in her voice. “Please, you hit me hard in the head. I’m sick.”
“How about some delicious Aspergum? I have regular and cherry flavors.”
“I might have a fractured skull.”
“You’re blinking okay,” Danny said. He frowned. “Gar called you Officer. Why?”
She stared at him. “I’ve no idea.”
“I think you’re a cop, Claudia.”
“You think a lot of things, Danny, more than most people.”
He laughed. “I suppose I do.” He ran a thumb along her lip. “I wish we could be friends. Don’t have a lot of those.” He sounded regretful.
“We can be. Untie me.”
“No. You’ll nap for a while. I put a little of my meds into your water. I don’t need ’em no more. I’m feeling awesome. I want you calm till we get to Stoney’s house. I didn’t want to go at night. I want to see clear. And let’s say he’s gotten his brother back from Zack.
The brother being there, he’ll make Stoney trade for you. Stoney wouldn’t care about you on his own. If he hasn’t gotten Ben back, then I tell him I’ve got Ben with you, down below. See?” He smiled at his own cleverness.
She closed her eyes.
“Because I’m gonna call him when we get in close to shore. Tell him he’s got to meet us out on the dock with the Devil’s Eye and the journal.”
Claudia was silent.
“Then I’m gonna shoot him from the boat, make his head go boom like a ol’ melon. Like Gar’s did. Then I’m getting my stuff, ’cause he’ll have it there at his house. I figured his house is big, he’ll want the treasure where he can see it, know it’s okay,” Danny said with a smile. Touching his fingers to her throat, taking the measure of her breath, savoring the moment. Flush with success at having bested Gar. She saw suddenly that Danny probably hadn’t had a lot of success in his life.
“If he doesn’t have this emerald there, you’re screwed.”
“Okay. I’ll shoot after he gives it to me or tells me where it is.”
“The journal,” she said. “Tell me again what it looks like, Danny. Maybe I saw it at Stoney’s.”
Danny studied her for a moment, touched her jaw—which ached still—with tenderness. Then he went to the cabinet in the stateroom’s corner, unlocked it with a key from around his neck. From a drawer he pulled a piece of paper, bleary with photocopy streaks. He held the paper above her face.
She wriggled into position where she could see the page, written in the flowing scrawl that passed for nineteenth-century penmanship. Sorting the words was a struggle:
In late May 1820 a small force led by the schooner Lynx chased Laffite’s little fleet (being two schooners and a brigantine) down the Texas coast. Feeling ran high that Laffite might simply move south onto other Texas islands and re-establish his pirating base. Captain Madison was ordered to ignore the safe passage that Commodore Patterson issued to Laffite, which made me uneasy. Our word in the Navy should matter. But in Vera Cruz Madison received reports of a Spanish ship, the Santa Barbara, carrying a trove of gold and jewels. SB vanished in the Western gulf—in fair weather—in the weeks before Laffite abandoned his privateering, and I suspect the government thought him involved. I fear no one informed Mr. Laffite of this change in the government’s attitude.
