Seizure:

by Kathy Reichs

  “Watch it!” I scolded. “I’m not done with those yet.”

  Since catching the altered parvovirus, I’d been researching like crazy. Behavioral studies of wolves. Canine anatomy and physiology. Viral epidemiology. I needed to learn everything I could about my new DNA.

  The sudden flare at the yacht club had only increased my anxiety.

  I’d decided to keep what happened to me a secret for the moment—the other Virals were worried enough already—but I had to find answers, and soon.

  But that project had to take a backseat.

  “Listen, dog-face, this stuff is interesting.” I tapped the computer screen. “Back when this city was known as Charles Town, it was a pirate magnet. They practically owned the place.”

  Coop righted himself and, less than riveted, switched to gnawing the leg of my desk chair.

  I swatted. Missed. Coop yipped once, then sauntered from my bedroom.

  “Ungrateful mongrel,” I called after his retreating tail.

  Safely back in my townhouse, I’d scoured the Internet for mentions of Anne Bonny. In the process, I’d unearthed a mountain of info on local buccaneers. Hundreds of links.

  “This calls for backup,” I told the empty room.

  Opening iChat, I checked to see who was available. Clicked Hi’s icon.

  He’d recently switched avatars and was now the Green Lantern. I was still the Gray Wolf. Classics never die.

  Wolf: Got a minute? I have a … plan? An idea. Sort of.

  Green Lantern: Do I need life insurance?

  Wolf: Haha. Come over now. Grab Shelton if you can.

  Green Lantern: Boo. I thought you were hitting on me.

  Wolf: Nope. Still intimidated by your good looks.

  Green Lantern: Understandable.

  Wolf: Try to grab Ben too.

  Green Lantern: Will do.

  Five minutes later, in strolled Shelton and Hi. Hi wore an eye-jarring orange Kool-Aid Man T-shirt, paired with khaki shorts. Shelton was sporting his favorite—a brown tee with “n00b” printed on it. Together, they looked like a Reese’s peanut butter cup.

  Hi flopped on my bed and kicked off his shoes.

  “Ahh! Lady pillows. So much fluffier than mine.” He took a giant whiff. “Why does everything girlie smell so delightful?”

  “Because we acknowledge the importance of basic hygiene. And periodically clean our bathrooms.”

  “Brilliant. I should write that down. After all, it takes a village.”

  Shelton shook his head. “I’d never let him roll in my bed. I’ve seen his. Not pretty.”

  “Believe me, I’m not thrilled.” I noticed Coop was missing. “Have you seen the dog?”

  “On the prowl,” Shelton said. “He ran right by us.”

  “Great.” Coop had snuck outside. Again.

  “You try stopping that mutt when he wants to go somewhere,” Hi said. “I don’t get between wolves and their goals. Safer that way.”

  “No biggie.”

  Charleston has a leash law, but on Morris Island, what’s the point? Isolation is the one advantage to living so far out. Collared, tagged, and chipped, Coop wouldn’t be mistaken for a stray.

  And by whom? The neighbors all knew Coop and had accepted him as my pet. To varying degrees.

  The dog would return when hungry. Count on that.

  “Ben’s on the dock changing an oil filter.” Mercifully, Hi abandoned my coverlet and moved to the ottoman. “I just shot him a text.”

  “What’d you find, anyway?” Shelton slouched on my daybed by the window. Outside, the ocean steadily lapped the shore. “Hi said something about selling junk bonds?”

  “Hilarious.” I hesitated. Was my idea any less crazy? But four eyes watched me expectantly.

  “Have either of you ever heard of Anne Bonny?”

  “Of course.” Shelton.

  “Aye, matey! I knowest that foul female brigand!” Hi.

  “Oh, good. I just found out about her.” I hedged. “Her story sounds fascinating.”

  “She was awesome,” Shelton agreed. “There used to be lots of pirates around here. From, like, 1600 to 1750, this area was swarming with them.”

  “The golden age of piracy!” Hi spread his hands wide. “Now you have to go to Somalia, and they use rocket launchers. That’s no fun.”

  “I found a ton of stuff.” I chin-cocked the computer. “And was hoping you guys could help me sift through it.”

  “Sure,” Shelton said automatically. “But why? Some kind of paper?”

  “Did you know that Blackbeard himself was killed off the coast of Ocracoke, right here in the Carolinas?” Hi continued with his documentary shtick. “Ambushed, he fought valiantly, absorbing twenty sword wounds and five pistol shots.” Dramatic tonal shift. “When Blackbeard finally fell, the British navy hung his severed head from a bowsprit to prove that he was really dead.”

  “Nice,” I said. “We didn’t study that in central Massachusetts.”

  “Blackbeard was a master showman,” Hi added. “Long hair. Wild beard. He wore six pistols, a bunch of knives, and a cutlass. He’d work himself into a frenzy before battle to scare the crap out of his opponents.”

  “Tricky, too,” Shelton added. “I read that he’d burn hemp rope under his hat to create a smoke cloud. When he attacked, his victims thought he was the real devil. Sailors would surrender at the sight of him. He wrecked shop all around here.”

  “Don’t forget the siege,” Hi said. “In 1718, Blackbeard and another pirate named Stede Bonnet attacked so many ships around Charleston Harbor that the city closed down the port. Nobody got in or out for months.”

  “Yikes,” I said. “Did Blackbeard kill everyone? Sink the ships?”

  “Naw, but he took a lot of prisoners,” Shelton said. “He’d snag the bigwigs and hold them for ransom. Usually freed them unharmed if the bounty was paid.”

  “Why is so much known about him?”

  “Blackbeard was pardoned for a while,” Hi said. “Used his real name: Edward Teach. But the straight life didn’t take. You know what they say: once a hijacking, murdering, high-seas gangster …”

  “That’s great,” I said, “but what about Anne Bonny?”

  “Bonny?” Shelton’s face scrunched in thought. “She came from Ireland, I think. Rolled with Calico Jack, the pirate who stole Bonnet’s ship, Revenge.”

  Hi resumed his TV-host baritone. “Master of both sword and pistol, Anne Bonny was a deadly fighter with a nasty temper. As a teenager, Bonny stabbed her serving maid.” Eyebrow flare. “As a pirate, she once undressed a fencing instructor using only her sword!”

  Shelton broke in. “Anne Bonny pummeled any fool who hit on her without permission. She was definitely a badass.”

  Inside, I smiled. I liked that.

  “But that’s all small potatoes,” Shelton said. “She’s famous, really famous, because …” He stopped dead. “Wait.”

  I met his gaze levelly. No point in being discrete now.

  “No.” Shelton shook his head. “You can’t be serious. That’s your plan?”

  “What plan?” Hi asked.

  “You have a better idea?” I crossed my arms. Defiant. And a little self-conscious.

  “But that’s not even a real plan. It’s a joke.” Shelton’s fingers found his left ear. Tugged. “Why not just chase rainbows looking for lucky charms?”

  “What plan?” Hi repeated.

  “I’m not claiming it’s a slam dunk,” I said.

  “It’s not even a full-court shot,” Shelton said. “Blindfolded. Underhand. With a bowling ball.”

  “We have to try something.”

  “WHAT. PLAN?” Hi. Exasperated.

  Ben walked in and popped the back of Hi’s head. “WHY. ARE. YOU. YELLING?”

  “Wonderful.” Hi slid to the floor and rolled to his back. “First ignored, then attacked. I need new friends. And a lawyer.”

  “You’ll survive.” Ben dropped into my lounger and crossed sneakere
d feet. His black T-shirt was stained with grease and oil. “Now answer the question.”

  Sighing theatrically, Hi spoke to the ceiling. “Tory came up with one of her special schemes. Shelton thinks it’s insane, big shock there. Neither will tell me what they’re talking about. Then you came in and assaulted me. That’s all I got.”

  “Brennan here thinks she’s found a way to solve our fiscal problem.” Shelton laid it on thick. “Easy! All we have to do is find Anne Bonny’s lost pirate treasure.”

  Ben snorted.

  Hi’s giggles rose from the floor. “Okay, that’s pretty nuts.”

  My face burned, but I didn’t back down.

  “Why is it so crazy? No one has ever found it, right? We need tons of cash, and we need it now. I’m open to other suggestions.” I cupped a palm to the side of my head. “All ears.”

  Ben’s forehead crinkled. “You’re talking about finding buried treasure. You realize how absurd that is, right?”

  “I do.”

  “No one’s sure the treasure even exists,” Shelton said. “It could be an empty legend.”

  Hi sat up. “Hundreds of people have searched. Experts. Geniuses. Dudes with elephant guns and funny hats.” He waved a hand. “It’s a myth.”

  “Fine. Prove it. Help me research. Show me how foolish I’m being.”

  Groans. Head shakes. The idea wasn’t a crowd pleaser.

  “You’ve got better things to do?” I wheedled.

  “I don’t,” Hi admitted. “I’m in.”

  Ben rolled his eyes.

  “Damn it, Hi.” Shelton sighed. “Now we’re all doomed.”

  “Hey, pirates are awesome.” Hi shrugged. “I don’t mind reading up on them. I thirst for knowledge.”

  “There’s an old Sewee legend about Bonny’s treasure,” Ben said.

  “All Sewee legends are old,” Hi quipped.

  Ben crooked two fingers, daring him to say more. Hi wisely refused the bait.

  “Supposedly,” Ben continued, “Bonny stashed her loot around the time my ancestors were forced into the Catawba tribe. I’ve only heard a little of the story.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Tell us.”

  “I don’t know it by heart. Something about the devil and red fire. I could ask my great uncle.”

  “Please do,” I said. “You never know what might help.”

  “I can do you one better,” Shelton said. “I read there’s a map.”

  “A treasure map!” Hi rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talking. This’ll be easier than a trip to the ATM.”

  “So where is it?” I asked.

  Two googles later, we had the answer.

  FOREGOING OUR USUAL route, Ben motored Sewee up the east side of the peninsula to the docks beside the South Carolina Aquarium. Charleston University reserves a slip there for the use of LIRI’s staff. It was empty, so we helped ourselves.

  No, we didn’t have permission. But it was late afternoon, crazy hot, and docking there made for a much shorter walk. It’s not like CU had an armada of boats. The time saved was worth the slight risk.

  We walked through the garden district, one of Charleston’s most picturesque neighborhoods. The street-corner parks were a riot of camellias, azaleas, and crepe myrtles. Ancient magnolias shaded the sidewalks, tempering the worst of the day’s heat.

  On Charlotte Street we passed the famous Joseph Aiken Mansion, a nineteenth-century carriage house converted to an upscale tourist hotel. At Marion Square we took a right and reached our destination in a few short blocks.

  “There,” I said. “The ugly one.”

  Founded in 1773, the Charleston Museum was America’s first. Located on Meeting Street, it anchors the northern end of Museum Mile, a historic district of parks, churches, museums, notable homes, the old market, and City Hall.

  “Not much to look at,” Ben commented at the museum’s front entrance.

  Ben was right. The two-story edifice is not Charleston’s finest architectural moment. Bland, late-seventies drab, where dull brick meets plain brown paint. The place looks more public high school than historic landmark.

  “The exhibits are pretty good,” Shelton said. “I went with my mom. Lots of natural history displays and Lowcountry stuff.”

  “Check that out.” Hi pointed.

  Just before the doors, an enormous iron tube gleamed in the sunlight. Thirty feet long and coal-black, the cylinder was covered in huge metal rivets. Two hatches protruded from its top. A thick wooden shaft jutted from its front end with a metal ball affixed to its tip.

  A red-faced man in an aloha shirt motioned his wife into position beside the monstrosity and began snapping pictures. We approached after they’d completed their Kodak moment.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “A replica of the H. L. Hunley.” Of course Shelton would know. “A Confederate submarine from the Civil War.”

  “Men got inside that thing? Underwater? In the 1860s?” Hi shivered. “No thanks, pal. I’ll pass.”

  “Good call, since the sub didn’t work out,” Ben said. “They found the real Hunley in 1995.”

  “Where?”

  “At the bottom of the harbor. Crew still inside.”

  “But Hunley got her target.” Shelton read the sign next to the replica. “First sub in history to sink a ship. So she’s got that going for her.”

  A nearby stand held an assortment of museum handouts. Hi grabbed one and began flipping pages.

  “Oh!” he squealed. “The museum has the largest silver collection in Charleston! And a section dedicated to eighteenth-century women’s clothing!” He mock-sprinted to the doors. “I hope those exhibits aren’t sold out!”

  “There’s a pirate collection, too!” I called after him. “Smartass.”

  Inside, a blast of AC triggered goose bumps on my arms and legs. I’d forgotten the absurdity of museum thermostat settings. It felt like I’d entered an industrial freezer.

  Enormous bones loomed to our left. “What the what?”

  “The full skeleton of a right whale, one of nature’s goofiest-looking seafarers.” Shelton paraphrased from the placard. “This dude swam into Charleston Harbor in 1880 and never swam out. Tough break.”

  “Somewhere in here are the remains of an extinct crocodile over twenty-five million years old.” Hi gestured vaguely past the whalebones. Then he turned, eyes wide, hands clamped together before him. “Can I go see it, Mommy? Please please please?”

  “Fine.” I waved, magnanimous. “Have fun. But no talking to strangers.”

  Hi winked, then set off in pursuit of his fossil. Ben, Shelton, and I proceeded to a brightly lit info desk.

  “Can I help you?” A plastic name tag identified the young woman as Assistant Curator Sallie Fletcher.

  Sallie definitely dressed the part. Black cardigan. White turtle-neck. Gray tweed skirt. Beyond the clothing, however, nothing was dowdy.

  Sallie was pretty, with elfin features and close-cropped black hair, stylishly mussed. A tiny thing, she couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds. There were rides at Six Flags for which she might’ve failed the yardstick test.

  “You guys here for the knitting exhibition?” Sallie’s caramel eyes twinkled with good humor.

  Okay, did I say she was pretty? Striking was more accurate. Even stunning.

  Ben flushed, straightened. Shelton focused on his shoes.

  Boys. I took the lead.

  “We’re looking for the exhibit on Anne Bonny.” I didn’t mention the map. No need to seem foolish right off the bat. “We understand the museum has a pirate collection?”

  “That we do. Unfortunately, the display is closed for renovation right now.”

  Damn.

  “Any chance we could get a look anyway?” I asked. “We came such a long way.”

  Sallie tapped her lips with one manicured nail. An emerald-cut diamond sparkled on her petite third finger.

  “I think we can pull that off.” She beamed a
mile of teeth, devastating my male companions. “Franco’s on security today, and he never leaves the booth. Bad hip. And I know the other curator fairly well, since he’s my husband.”

  I could sense Ben and Shelton deflate.

  Tough break guys. Otherwise, you totally had a chance.

  Doofuses.

  “Follow me.” Sallie popped up from her chair. “No one else is here, so I can give you a quick peek.”

  We wound through the museum, collecting Hi along the way.

  Sallie led us up two sets of stairs and down a long hall to a room closed off by thick black curtains.

  “I’ll text Chris,” Sallie said. “He’d hate to miss a chance to pontificate about Anne Bonny. He’s infatuated.”

  I hid my impatience. I just wanted access to the damn exhibit.

  “He’ll be right up.” Sallie closed her phone and stretched both arms above her head. “I’m so tired of manning that desk.”

  In my periphery, the Three Stooges followed her every movement. Elbow-jabbing each other in the ribs.

  Good Lord.

  Seconds passed. Became minutes.

  Sallie broke the silence. “What got you interested in our female pirate?”

  “I just learned about her,” I said. “I didn’t grow up around here. She sounds incredible.”

  “Oh, she was,” a voice called from behind me. I turned. A smiling young man was striding toward us.

  “Franco?” he asked Sallie.

  “In his cubby. The Braves are up in the fourth, so he won’t be out for a while.”

  Chris wasn’t bad looking either. Pale blue eyes, collared shirt, weathered jeans, red hair curling from under a beat-up Mets cap. Though a bit soft at the belt line, the guy radiated a sense of ease.

  Chris stepped past me, arm-wrapped Sallie, then introduced himself with a round of handshakes. “It’s great to welcome Anne Bonny fans. I meet very few people your age who know of her.”

  “We’re very advanced,” Hi said earnestly. “I can even zip my own pants. Most times, anyway.”

  “Thank you so much for letting us steal a peek at the collection,” I said quickly. “We really appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure.” Chris pulled back the curtain and waved us through. “But let’s not mention this visit in the comment box.” He fired a shooter at Hi. “And nice going on that pants zipping. That’s sophisticated work.”