Black Jack Point

by Jeff Abbott

  We fired on Laffite’s ships south of Matagorda Bay, but he turned into the maze of bays and shoals, guarded by the thin strips of barrier islands, and we could not give chase without running aground. We caught him coming out of St. Leo Bay the next morning. There was scant loot on his ship, some silks, Madeira, a few handfuls of coins at most—little enough for the great pirate. His crude, stupid men were hungry, and beaten. There was no sign of the Spanish treasure. Offers of immunity from prosecution won the crew over. We escorted Laffite’s ship to Vera Cruz; I do not know what happened to him afterwards. We were all sworn—and paid in bonus—not to discuss this operation since it had disregarded a legal safe passage, and the navy wanted no embarrassment. I left Lynx in New Orleans, and tragically Lynx and all her hands were soon lost in a storm, on a cruise to Jamaica to fight piracy in the Caribbean. So I alone remain to give witness, but I cannot bear to dishonor Captain Madison’s memory by confessing what the Navy did in public. Here I can write my thoughts without fear. For those who recall Laffite’s heroic service to New Orleans—and to America—during our late War with the British, it seems particularly scandalous and unfair to have broken a promise, even one made to a pirate.

  Ample discussion followed that Laffite had buried his booty along the coastline where he had evaded the task force and one of the younger pirates spoke of a nighttime expedition at Widows’ Point in St. Leo Bay, where only Laffite, out of four men, returned. But this fellow Jack was both simple and a hopeless drunkard whose story changed with the level of rum in the bottle. I think that the idea makes an excellent story and my grandchildren enjoy it so at their bedtime. I record it here simply as a matter of interest.

  “Who wrote this?” Claudia stared at Danny as he lowered the paper from her face.

  “John B. Fanning, ship’s surgeon aboard Lynx. He wrote this journal years later. I guess his descendants found it in a family trunk and they put it up on an on-line auction site, simply mentioning it talked about Laffite and navy operations in the 1820s. They had no idea of its value. So I bought it. Widows’ Point, see. That’s what they call Black Jack Point now.”

  Black Jack Point. Where those two old people had been murdered. David’s case.

  He didn’t say anything for a minute, not looking at her, putting the copy back into the cabinet, locking it up. “You should understand why this is all mine. By inheritance. My last name is Laffite. Daniel Villars Laffite.”

  Claudia watched him. Finally she said, “You’re descended from Jean Laffite?” She tried not to laugh.

  “And Catherine Villars, his great love. So that money, that hidden gold, it’s mine. Mine.” His voice fell to a whispering mumble. He was used, she saw, to talking to himself, telling himself what he wanted to hear. “No. One. Else’s. I got the best claim on it imaginable.”

  She gathered herself, tried to stay calm. At first she thought his grudge against Stoney was a battle between one treasure hunter versus another. But this.

  “You don’t believe me,” Danny said, a low rumble in his voice.

  “Sure I do,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “People laugh at me. Not much longer though. Not much longer.” His voice rose, spittle flying from his lips, hitting her cheek.

  She didn’t move, didn’t react, put a gentle, calm smile on her face. “Danny, it was sweet of you to share your meds with me. Really. But maybe you should take them again. Just because you want to be at your best when—”

  He leaned down and slapped her, hard. She stared past his shoulder. He rubbed her cheek, his fingertips smelling of the moist towelettes. “No. No more of those. Keep me from being me.”

  The radio beeped. She heard its call through a little speaker in the cabin. A hail for Miss Catherine. Maybe Stoney’s voice? Hard to tell. Danny rushed out of the cabin without giving her another look. She heard his feet pound on the stairs.

  She had to get loose, fight him, there had to be a way. The stateroom was dark now, with the door closed and the shades lowered, thin slices of light lying in lines on the bed, but she inched over. A bedside table stood on each side of the narrow bed. With her hands tied behind her, she pried open one drawer with her fingers, rolled around to see what was inside. A pair of reading glasses, stubby blue pencils, a notepad. She eased the drawer shut with her foot, wriggled to the other side of the bed, and slowly forced the other table drawer open. She rolled again. Inside lay a pack of gum. A ballpoint pen, missing its cap. A scattering of pennies, dimes, and quarters. A set of nail clippers.

  Clippers.

  She turned her back to the drawer, easing around, and carefully leaned backward, her fingers wiggling, trying to close around the little plastic case of the clippers. Her fingertips brushed the dimes, the foil of the gum pack. Her fingernails tapped the plastic… and she leaned back too far, her exhausted muscles in her back and arms cramping. She fell off the bed, the drawer smacking hard against her neck and shoulder. She hit the thin carpet hard, teeth jarring together, one of her fingers jamming and she cried out in pain.

  She raised her feet, shut the drawer, her back straining, her muscles begging for mercy.

  The door opened. He stood there, watching her, the Sig in hand, and she wondered, Who’s steering this boat? He gently put her back on the bed, pulled the sheets over her like he was tucking her in for sleep.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Trying to stretch a little. I’m cramping everywhere. Please untie me.”

  “I just spoke with Stoney. He’s agreed to the trade. He asked to speak to his brother but I said no. He thinks I got Ben.” He grinned. “So this will be over soon.”

  And he shut the door behind him.

  Her hand hurt like the devil; her head felt like it was full of sand. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She blinked them back.

  Not much time. She rolled back toward the drawer.

  22

  WHIT WAS GOING to be late for Friday morning juvenile court, but that hearing was his least favorite chore, lecturing kids who ought to know better while their impatient or embarrassed parents, arms crossed, stood there as the county doled out the discipline.

  He pressed Stoney Vaughn’s doorbell. The same cars—a Porsche and a beat-up van—were still parked in the oversize curve of the driveway.

  He waited. No answer. He tried the doorbell again.

  Still no answer. Whit walked around the front of the house, around a corner, across a lawn so manicured golf could have been played on it, and down to the sprawling home’s back. A metal fence enclosed the back, fancy wrought-iron curlicues at the posts’ tips, but the gate was unlocked. The back wasn’t a yard so much as a multitiered deck. He climbed up wooden stairs. At the top he could see two more platforms below him, a nice long private dock with no boat in residence, lights still on like they’d been left on all night. A pool, set into the deck. Expensive patio furniture, a restaurant-style grill built into the brick.

  The French doors opened behind him. A man—Whit knew he was Stoney Vaughn, recognized him from the pictures in the articles on the Internet—stepped outside. The guy looked like hell, rumpled clothes, unshaven, like he’d slept on the street. Lip split and puffy.

  “Excuse me,” Stoney said. “This is private property.”

  “I know,” Whit said. “But you didn’t answer your door.”

  “Yeah, I sure didn’t, did I?”

  “I’m Judge Whit Mosley. I’m the JP and county coroner. I’d like to talk to you about two recent homicides.”

  “Call my office. Make an appointment.” Stoney shut his mouth, as though reconsidering this as an initial reaction.

  “I’m here now. You don’t appear to be busy.”

  “I had a late night working,” Stoney said. “Sorry to be gruff.” He shut the door behind him, came out onto the deck in full light, glancing toward the stretch of the bay. “And I’m afraid I have a business appointment in Corpus that I need to get ready for. I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “You
knew Patch Gilbert, though, didn’t you?”

  “The name’s vaguely familiar…”

  “You sent him a bottle of Glenfiddich after talking to him at a Laffite League meeting,” Whit said.

  Stoney shut his mouth, smiled, wiped his eyes. “Oh. Yeah. I do remember him. Charming guy.”

  “Was. You probably heard he got killed Monday night. Along with his girlfriend.”

  Stoney’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. Mr. Gilbert’s dead?”

  “You don’t watch the news?”

  A pause. “Not lately. And I’m deep in putting together a new business deal, so I’ve been working 24/7.”

  “More financing for treasure hunts?” Whit gave a look of angelic purity.

  Stoney stared again. “Um, no, but you sure seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Mosley.”

  “Judge, please. I prefer the formal title.” Whit folded his arms across today’s shirt, lime-green with waltzing, bug-eyed pineapples.

  “Uh, sorry, Judge. I’m out of the treasure-hunt game. Too expensive a hobby. May I ask how you know about me?”

  “I’m conducting the inquest into Mr. Gilbert’s death. I’m trying to get a picture of his life in the months before he died.”

  “Well, I met him the one time. We chatted.” A pause. “I was interested in his land, asked him about selling. He said no.”

  “And the other Gilbert family members—you approached them?”

  “Am I suspected of something here? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  “Do you have some ID? Because you sure don’t look like a judge.”

  Whit handed him a laminated card, showed his driver’s license. “I don’t have a lot of time either, Mr. Vaughn. But your name cropped up more than once and I wanted to know your connection to Mr. Gilbert.”

  “Vague at best, Judge.” Now Stoney smiled. “Yes, I think I met another Gilbert—Suzanne, right?—and asked her about her land. She also declined to sell.”

  “Not everyone wants every inch of the coast developed.”

  “True enough,” Stoney said. “Is there anything else? I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help—”

  “Yes. Where were you Monday night?”

  Stoney’s smile faded, came back on. “Um, I was here at my house.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “My brother, Ben, lives here with me.”

  “I’d like to talk to him, if I may.”

  “He’s not in at the moment.”

  “When do you expect him back?” Whit asked.

  “You know, he’s taken my boat out for some fishing and R and R, and I’m not sure when he’s going to be back.” The smile again. “I don’t even have time to play with the toys, but my brother does.”

  “Okay.” Whit glanced toward the French doors. He thought he’d seen someone behind the glass, but with the glare from the sun, maybe he was wrong. “Please ask him to give me a call.”

  “Is this really necessary, sir? Honestly, am I in some sort of trouble? I mean, the police haven’t questioned me or contacted me.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Whit said. “Oh. Since you’re a treasure buff, maybe you can help me.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “You got any books on old coins?”

  The cutting was going slowly… too slowly.

  On Claudia’s second try for the clippers, she’d managed to slide open the large file. She found after experimentation that she could hold the file in her right hand and saw at the knots binding her hands together. But the file was too dull, jabbing her wrist every third stroke, and the rope unyielding. Her hands and forearms cramped. She lay on her side, keeping the tedious cutting motion going, the ropes death-grip tight, no progress.

  She stared at the ceiling, thirsty, hungry, trying to think straight.

  Stoney hadn’t—since yesterday—called the coast guard. Otherwise helicopters screaming out of Corpus Christi would have spotted Miss Catherine from the air, radioed her position and heading to cutters who would have intercepted Danny Laffite. She’d be off the boat by now, Danny in custody, wheeled in front of eager psychologists who could mine a dozen papers out of his obsessions.

  Does a man like Stoney Vaughn—self-made, into millions—let a guy like Danny Laffite order him around? Did he tell Gar that you’re a cop?

  If police were with Stoney, helping him lure in Danny, they’d say, Don’t say anything about her, don’t risk panicking him.

  Maybe it was a stupid mistake. Or maybe Stoney hoped Gar would kill you.

  She had to get free. Because Danny was going to kill her if Stoney didn’t have this emerald. And if there was one bit of truth to Danny’s story, Stoney might not wish her well either. Claudia pulled herself along the bed, her feet and hands still bound. And the purr of the engines, the full throttle of Miss Catherine told her Danny had abandoned caution and now was in a hurry to get to Stoney’s bayside house.

  Danny was up on deck, leaving her below, but that might not last long.

  She hopped across the floor. The closet door was a slider, one pane covered with a mirror. On the closet floor she found a pair of flip-flops, oversize for her feet. She put them on. The toe Gar broke was purpled and sore and she was about to make it feel worse. With her shoulder, she inched the closet door shut. She eased herself onto the floor, feet toward the mirror.

  Now. Either he’ll hear you and come down and shoot you or the engines and the wind will mask the noise. Time to find out. She thought of her mother and her gentle nagging for a moment, her father, so proud of her as a police officer. Her sisters and brothers, all good people that she loved dearly. David on their wedding day, smiling hugely. Whit, crazy, sweet Whit in a loud shirt and windblown hair that he’d forget to smooth down after he put on the judge’s robe. The odd little twist he always put in her heart while knowing he wasn’t really the one for her. Ben. Poor Ben, smiling at her, the nice boy grown into a better man. Probably dead now, thanks to Danny.

  She aimed her feet and kicked hard against the mirrored door. It shook, wobbled in its cheap frame.

  The engines still thrummed and hummed.

  The glass webbed on the third hard smack, cracks in the mirror distorting her reflection. Her foot throbbed. She kicked again. Again.

  Two big slivers of mirror fell out of the frame, one a crescent, the other a triangle. She stopped, breathing, listening to the engines. The roar stayed steady.

  Now. The trick is to not lose a finger. Or all five.

  Claudia turned, wriggled her back up against the bed, grabbed a corner of the cheap bedspread. On it dolphins and mermaids cavorted in tacky glee. But the fabric was thick and she covered her fingers and her palms with it. She took a deep breath, eased back toward the splinters, tried to lift the crescent of mirror. Her covered fingers closed around it. No grip. It shifted and fell from her hands.

  Try again. Don’t rush. Sweat dribbled along her ribs.

  The third try, she got a hold on the sliver. She steadied with her right hand and slowly, slowly, gripped it until she was sure it wouldn’t cut through the bedspread to her flesh. She leaned to one side, stretching, turning a sharp edge toward the ropes. There. She moved the glass, felt it slice into the meat of the rope.

  Not too fast, and don’t dare slip, or you’ll cut your wrists open. That would be hysterical, yes. Lie here on the floor, tied up, bleeding out into the dingy carpet while Danny sailed them home.

  She made a little noise in her throat as the first loop in the knot broke under the mirror’s edge.

  Slowly. Find the rhythm, feel the rope against you so you don’t cut yourself. She sliced deeper into the big knot fashioned around her hands, forcing herself not to rush.

  The knot began to unravel. She steadied her hand. Now the remaining rope was a thick strand right around her wrists, covering the tender lace of veins. Careful.

  The deck began to pitch. Danny was in a hard turn, a sudden turn. The crescent slipped in her grip, an edge b
it into her skin. She let the fragment go, rolled away from the closet. The deck pitched again, crazily.

  Why wouldn’t he steer like a maniac? He is a maniac.

  The deck settled, the engines resumed their hum. A little ooze of blood tickled her palm. She pulled on the ropes and her left hand—uncut—came free. She pulled her right hand around to her front, saw a cut in the fleshy part of her palm, blood welling, odd that it didn’t hurt much. Then as feeling crept into her numb hands, it stung like the devil. She unraveled the rope off her hand, grabbed the bedspread, stanched the bleeding. Not bad but worse than it looked.

  Claudia cut through the ropes on her feet.

  She wobbled as she stood, sensation ebbing back into her feet, arms, hands, and the small of her back. She ached everywhere. She bandaged her hand with a T-shirt she found in the bureau, tearing off a sleeve and wrapping the fabric around twice.

  She tried the door. Locked. A deadbolt, locked from outside, above the knob. She cussed under her breath, glanced around for a way to smash the door. Although Danny would hear that and come running, gun in hand.

  The porthole. Salt and oily stains grimed over the glass. It was secured with four twisting locks. She began to undo them.

  So what do you do? Bail out over the side and hope someone picks you up? You don’t even know where in the Gulf you are. Maybe the cops are there at Stoney’s house, waiting, and you’re running away from a rescue.

  But her gut said that wasn’t the case. She couldn’t be far from the bay; he couldn’t have wandered or waited too far away.