Diablero

by Toby Tate

  Hunter eyed the ancient book lying on Jason’s desk. “Can I take a look at that?” he asked, nodding toward the book.

  Jason glanced down, then picked up the dusty volume and reluctantly handed it to Hunter. “Be careful. This book is older than the United States, and very fragile.”

  Hunter flipped gingerly through the pages and saw that it was nicely typeset and written in the poetic English of the age of enlightenment. The paper was as thin as onion skin. The writing reminded him somewhat of Thomas Paine, the eighteenth century rebel credited with starting the American Revolution.

  “Who wrote this, anyway? You said it was one of Blackbeard’s crew?”

  “Yes. Caesar Jefferson, one of the few members of his crew that wasn’t hanged. Caesar actually remained on board the Adventure, and was told to blow it up if the pirates were defeated. Before he could do it, though, he was found and subdued by the British troops. Apparently, he was told about the battle with Maynard’s ship by some of the Brits. When he later learned to read and write, he made quite a name for himself as a member of the infamous pirate’s crew.”

  Hunter closed the book and stared down at the plain, unadorned cover. It had a faded red color, the color of dried blood. “It’s amazing,” he said. “A man escapes from a life of slavery, joins up with a crew of pirates, narrowly escapes with his life, and then writes a book about the whole thing. I have to admit a certain admiration for a man like that. I’m surprised he was never recaptured as a runaway slave.”

  “His ex-master was fairly passive. He more than likely never reported it.”

  Hunter handed the book back to Jason, who gingerly handled it as if it were a Nuremburg Bible.

  “Have you told anyone else about this…whatever it is?” Hunter said.

  “Ha! Are you serious? Not only would I lose my job, they’d probably lock me up and throw away the key. No thanks. I like my life the way it is.”

  “If all that you’ve told me is true, we can’t just sit around with our thumbs up our asses. This could be the story of the century, and I want it. Any suggestions?”

  Jason walked back to the bookcase and slid the volume into its place on the shelf, then turned to face Hunter.

  “We could go to Charleston.”

  “South Carolina?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why Charleston?”

  “There’s someone there we could talk to, someone who can shed light on this whole problem.”

  “Who is he?”

  “You’d have to meet this person to believe he even exists. Let’s just say he probably knows more about the subject of Death Defiers than just about anyone on the planet. Can you get away for a few days?”

  Hunter shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. “I have some time off coming to me. I think I may be able to talk my editor into letting me go.”

  Then, he thought for a minute.

  “You know, there is one person I think we should call, at least try to appraise her of the situation.”

  “Who?” Jason asked.

  “Lisa.”

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “Your ex-wife?”

  “Not my ex-wife yet. Anyway, she’s been working hard on this case and I think she deserves to know that we may be on to something.”

  “You know she’s going to think we’re both nuts. Besides, all we have is conjecture at this point.”

  “Yeah, but I think she’s bright enough to let the evidence speak for itself, no matter how impossible it may seem. Anyway, she may have evidence we don’t know about, something that could help us.”

  Summerfield picked up the phone and dialed nine, then handed the receiver to Hunter.

  “What's the number?” he asked.

  Twenty-eight

  John Aiden watched as the moon descended on the horizon of his estate in Williamsburg, Virginia, which was within earshot of the Golden Horseshoe Golf Club. Though Aiden was a member in good standing, he rarely played in recent years, having other things on his mind. But today he had decided to play nine holes.

  Upon returning home, he stepped out of his Land Rover and appreciated the spectacular view. The moonlight reflected like a dream off the water of his private, well-stocked koi pond, golden fish swimming this way and that underneath the small, arched bridge upon which he now stood. He could hear the frogs calling to each other in the night, the screech of bats that would soon make a meal of them. All around him, the sounds of the swamp were beginning to come to life, but all Aiden could really focus on was the bone-white moonlight reflecting across the water.

  He had been having a recurring dream the last few weeks, a dream he believed foretold the future. In his dream, Death, adorned in a billowing black shroud and carrying a large scythe, stood in a dense fog and knocked a skeletal hand upon his door. Suddenly, the scythe morphed into an old, rusty cutlass, and the shroud fell away to reveal a barnacle-encrusted skeleton minus its skull. When he opened the door, the specter reached out a hand and offered not death, but knowledge, the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes.

  Upon waking, Aiden always thought that his sleeping vision was rather like Jesus in the wilderness being tempted by Satan, who offered all the kingdoms on Earth in return for obedience. But in the dream, when he reached out to take the hand, Aiden always awoke.

  Suddenly, the frogs and bats stopped their serenade, and he looked around at the forest behind his house, wondering what could cause such profound stillness.

  Then he heard something that startled him—glass breaking, the destructive sound of wood splintering.

  He turned toward his house. Aiden lived alone and had never bothered to hire security guards to protect his collection, relying instead on electronic surveillance and alarm systems. But on this particular evening, Aiden had disarmed the system, knowing in some intuitive way he would have a visitor and what the visitor would be after. He had hoped, however, to allow its entrance without the use of excessive force.

  Aiden ran to the house, a hundred yards away, saw that the front door—constructed of intricately carved heavy oak and stained glass—was smashed through and splintered as if it were a piece of rotted driftwood.

  He cautiously stepped through the opening and peered around inside. Being rather timid and small, he realized long ago that he was no match for anyone larger than himself. That was why he had gotten a license for what he liked to think of as his equalizer, a nine-millimeter Glock he kept in a holster beneath his jacket and that he now held firmly in his hand.

  Aiden listened. It sounded as if someone, or some thing, was in his office destroying the glass case that held his precious collection. Aiden felt a burning outrage, but knew he had to proceed carefully, so he swallowed back his anger.

  He glanced at the wooden floor leading to the carpeted hallway and saw muddy tracks resembling misshapen, out-of-proportion footprints scattered about.

  Aiden crept quietly down the darkened hallway, listening to the sounds emanating from the last room on the left. On the floor in the hallway, the shadow of the intruder danced and jerked with odd movements, as if he was having some kind of seizure. Then, the shadow abruptly disappeared, followed by a loud thump.

  Aiden stopped in his tracks and continued to listen. After several minutes of silence, he decided to take a chance.

  “Hello, is anyone there?”

  A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and over his glasses. Everything remained quiet.

  He tried again. “Hello, what‘s going on in there? I have a gun and I’ve called the police, so don’t try anything.”

  Still no reaction or sound whatsoever. Aiden finally worked up the courage to stealthily move toward the office door, watching for telltale shadows cast by the single light from within the room.

  Floorboards creaked beneath his feet.

  He stood just outside the door and craned his neck to peek around the doorframe and inside. Lying in front of the glass case was a dark figure that Aiden could not quite make out. He glanced at the case its
elf and noticed one thing missing—the cup made from Blackbeard’s skull.

  Certain that the intruder was out cold, Aiden slipped the Glock back into its holster and walked carefully into the room, toward the heap on the floor.

  Standing close to the body, he was able to plainly see the visitor, the culprit who had broken through his heavy oak door and smashed most of his prized collection to pieces.

  Aiden stood gazing downward for several seconds, trying to comprehend the thing that lay at his feet, and then turned as if to leave.

  He took all of three steps before he fell to the floor in a dead faint.

  Twenty-nine

  Lisa listened to the message from Hunter for a third time, wondering if what she heard was real or some kind of practical joke. She would never put anything past Hunter when it came to practical joking, but she also knew that he took his job very seriously. And no matter how she tried to dismiss it, what he said actually made sense within the context of the present murder investigation.

  The case was beginning to take on elements that frightened her, that were beyond rational explanation, and Lisa was not one to be easily frightened.

  Hunter gave her the condensed version of recent events, beginning with the phone call from his friend at the museum, Jason Summerfield. He told her the bizarre story of Blackbeard’s secret life, gruesome death, and possible rebirth. He also told her they would be going to Charleston to meet someone who could help them, but didn’t say who it was or how they would help.

  She turned off the machine and went to the bedroom to change from her uniform. As she thought about the message from Hunter, Lisa’s mind wandered back to happier times, to the days when Hunter and she were together and expecting their first child—before life had come crashing down around them. Then followed the arguments, the endless nights of tears and anger, fighting over the least little thing. All she had wanted was Hunter to comfort her, to tell her everything would be okay, that losing the baby wasn’t the end of the world.

  But maybe she hadn’t given Hunter the benefit of the doubt; after all, it was his baby, too. She should have tried harder to put herself in his shoes. It was likely that Hunter had been just as devastated as she, perhaps even more so, knowing what a traumatic experience it had been for his wife.

  That’s when she realized something, and it was like a slap in the face—she was still in love with Hunter. No escaping it, no denying it. If something happened to Hunter, Lisa would be heartbroken, and she would never be able to live with herself.

  She decided there was only one thing to do. She walked back into the living room, reached for the phone and picked it up to dial Hunter’s number.

  The doorbell rang at that precise moment.

  Thirty

  Stanton sat upright in his chair like a schoolboy chided by his teacher for bad posture.

  “I really need you here, Hunter,” he said. “What’s so important that you have to go all the way to Charleston, anyway? You know we don’t have a travel budget to send you anywhere, especially out of state.”

  “Then I’ll take a vacation. I have some time on the books.”

  “You want to work on vacation? I can’t sanction that.”

  “You don’t have to. We’ll just say it’s a vacation. If I happen to get a story, great. Besides, Edmondson can cover my beat while I‘m gone, right?”

  Stanton sighed deeply and shook his head.

  “You know, if you weren’t such a good reporter, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

  “But I am good. That‘s why you love me.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you want to go to Charleston. Are you into something I should know about?”

  “Maybe.”

  Stanton narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play coy with me. I can tell when you’re bullshitting me. Just give it to me straight. You’re on to something with this swamp murder, aren’t you?”

  “Okay, I‘m on to something. But it’s bigger, much bigger than just murder. If the things I’m hearing from my sources are true, it may be one of the biggest stories ever.”

  “What could be bigger than murder?”

  “Just trust me on this. If I tried to explain it, you wouldn’t believe me. Let’s just say it’s unlike anything we‘ve ever written, probably any newspaper has ever written.”

  “Okay, now it’s really getting deep. I’m telling you, you’re officially on vacation, so don’t try to come back later and charge me for overtime. It ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t think of it. I promise, you won’t be sorry.”

  Stanton rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “I should be so lucky.”

  Thirty-one

  Lisa laid the phone back in its cradle and put a hand on the butt of her service revolver. With all the killings that had been taking place lately, she was a little more on edge and a lot more cautious.

  The knock on her door came a third time. She doubted if Hunter would be at her apartment this soon after she had seen him, though she couldn’t discount the possibility. She also knew her parents or friends would call before coming over. That left either a salesman or a cop.

  She slowly walked to her door and looked through the peephole. Outside stood a tall, well-muscled black man, someone she had never seen before. He looked rather anxious, like he had something on his mind. A deep scar ran down the side of his neck and face. He was dressed in all black, but the clothes were casual, almost preppy.

  “Who is it?” she called through the door.

  She watched as the man stiffened and looked directly at the peephole.

  “Officer Singleton? My name is Jefferson, Jonathan Jefferson. I’m here to talk to you about the murders in the swamp, and the death of my partner on Ocracoke Island.”

  Lisa tried to think. A death on Ocracoke Island? Then she remembered the story Hunter had written for the Daily Tribune. It was still under investigation.

  Lisa unlocked the door, but kept the chain up. She opened the door slightly and peered out at the stranger through the crack.

  “So how do I know you’re not the killer?” she asked.

  Jonathan looked annoyed at the question.

  “Please. Do I look like a killer?”

  Lisa eyed the scar.

  Jonathan realized what she was looking at and smiled. “That’s not what you think it is,” he said, bringing his hand up to his neck. “It’s from a shark attack, off the coast of Australia. Please, can we talk? I think I may have some important information that could help you crack this case.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because, I’ve seen your name in the paper and you seem like a reasonable woman. Besides, some of what I have to say may sound a little strange.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Her face disappeared as she shut the door momentarily to take the chain off, and then opened it back up. Lisa stood in the doorway, one hand still resting on her pistol.

  Jonathan noticed the gun and glanced back up at her.

  “What, are you going to shoot me?”

  “Maybe. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you have to say.”

  She motioned him inside the apartment with a nod and shut the door. She eyed him as he looked around, checking out her pastel drapes, a large vase of daisies on her coffee table, and her Picasso prints on the living room wall.

  “I hope everything meets with your approval,” she said.

  She walked around a bar with three stools where a small TV sat on the counter.

  “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Jefferson? I have coffee, soda, water, tea…”

  “No thanks, I had something on the way here.”

  She reached up into one of the oak cabinets and grabbed a glass.

  “Suit yourself. Have a seat.”

  Jonathan looked down at one of the stools, pulled it out and sat.

  “Nice place you have here.”

  “Thanks. I like it.”
<
br />   After pouring a glass of tea, Lisa walked over to the bar and looked across at the man.

  “So, what’s this all about?”

  Jonathan eyed her for a long minute. “I think I know who the killer is,” he finally said.

  Thirty-two

  Lisa carefully sat her glass on the counter and watched Jonathan for some sign of insincerity—a flinch of an eye, a bead of sweat—but saw none.

  “So, who do you think the killer is?” she asked.

  Jonathan put his elbows on the bar and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Before I answer that, let me ask you this. Have you ever heard of an old pirate ship called the Adventure?”

  “Of course. Who around here hasn’t? It was the last known ship commanded by Edward Teach, or Thatch, or Blackbeard, or whatever you want to call him.”

  Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “I see you know your history. Well, people have been searching for the wreck for years, but no one has been able to find it.” He rose from his seat and began pacing as he spoke. “I’m an underwater archeologist, and at home I started having this dream, the same one over and over, of a wrecked ship at the bottom of a sub-oceanic cave. I went over the dream in my mind again and again, trying to figure out what it meant, then one day it hit me. It had to be the Adventure.”

  “Why the Adventure?”

  Jonathan stopped pacing. “Because, in the dream I could always look out the window of my boat’s pilot house and see Ocracoke Island. I didn’t know where the dream was coming from, or why I kept having the same one, but somehow I just knew it was right. It just felt right.”

  Lisa nodded and shot Jonathan a look. “Uh huh.”

  He stared down at the floor and shook his head, then glanced up. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but just hear me out.”

  He began pacing again.

  “My partner, Dan Brickhouse, and I were searching the ocean floor not far from the Island in a place called Teach’s Hole, which is where the Adventure was supposedly last seen. It‘s also where Blackbeard met his death.”