by David Wood
“I will see to it that the place is thoroughly examined.” Her face brightened. “Do you have the ring?”
A line of dialog from The Princess Bride flashed through her mind. “Have you da wing?” She stifled a laugh and nodded. She fished into her pocket and took out the felt bag in which she’d placed the ring. She opened it and held it out to Nineve, who reached in and plucked the ring out.
Nineve pursed her lips as she held the ring up to the light.
“It’s not the right one.”
“I’m sorry?” Isla couldn’t believe it. “This has to be Launcelot’s ring. Everything fits. I know it’s Egyptian but...”
“It might be Launcelot’s ring, it might even have certain powers, but it’s not the ring I’m looking for.” Nineve closed her eyes and three seconds of tense silence filled the air. “This is my fault,” she said, finally opening her eyes. “I have told you that I am looking for a magic ring, but I haven’t told you everything.”
“You don’t trust me,” Isla said flatly. Suddenly Nineve’s temper was of no concern to her. She’d put her life at great risk to recover this ring. If the woman couldn’t appreciate that, maybe they shouldn’t work together.
“I didn’t trust you. At least, not completely,” Nineve admitted. “But this,” she held up the ring, “proves that you are trustworthy.”
“Trustworthy enough to tell me what, exactly, you’re looking for?”
Nineve nodded. “Let me put this ring in a place of honor, and then I’ll stand you to a cup of tea and tell you exactly what we’re trying to find.”
Chapter 11
Williamsburg, Virginia
The streets of Colonial Williamsburg were crowded with tourists, gawking at the colonial-era buildings and snapping photographs of the costumed staff members. Occasionally, someone would stop what they were doing and slowly turn to gape at Bones.
“You know what they’re thinking, don’t you?” Maddock asked.
“That I’m one of the tools who work here,” Bones said. “The first person who asks me to put on a war bonnet and do the tomahawk chop is going to get a throat punch.”
“Relax,” Maddock said. “They don’t mean anything by it.”
“I can’t relax. It’s like a comic con for history nerds.”
Maddock laughed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He was a bit of a history buff, particularly when it came to Colonial America. Consequently, Colonial Williamsburg was one of his favorite tourist destinations. He’d visited a few times with his dad and once with his late wife, Melissa. Neither of his subsequent serious girlfriends had been interested, so it had been several years since he’d paid this place a visit. He was pleased to see that little had changed.
Located in the historic district of Williamsburg, Virginia, the living history museum preserved the buildings and culture of eighteenth-century Williamsburg, as well as Colonial Revival structures from the seventeenth and nineteenth century. Here, visitors could enjoy a slice of colonial life and educate themselves about the era leading up to the American Revolutionary War.
“Is there anything here for me to do?” Bones asked.
“You mean besides the four taverns?”
“Now you’re talking!” Bones looked around, as if one of the aforementioned establishments were hiding somewhere nearby. “What’s the chick situation?”
“Thin on the ground,” Maddock replied. In fact, The College of William and Mary was located nearby, but Bones didn’t need anything to distract him. They had work to do.
Off to their left, the sun shone down on the capitol building. The sturdy, brick structure was constructed in an H shape, with two large chambers connected by a central, open arcade. The steep roof of the two-and-a-half story structure was surmounted by a tall, white clock tower.
“Awesome!” Bones said.
“It is cool, isn’t it?” Maddock agreed. “This is where Patrick Henry made his famous ‘Give me liberty or give me death’ speech. It’s actually a reconstruction of the original capitol building. Some people think it’s not quite accurate, but it captures the spirit.”
“What are you talking about?” Bones asked. “Other side of the road, bro.”
To their right, on the other side of the road, a brick sidewalk led the way to a two-story house. A covered front porch ran along its length. The sign out front read Christiana Campbell’s Tavern.
“I’ve been there,” Maddock said. “It was George Washington’s favorite place to eat. Amazing crab cakes.”
“What’s the beer situation?”
“I don’t remember. But they don’t open until evening.”
“Of course, they don’t,” Bones grumbled. “This is the lamest vacation you’ve ever taken me on.”
Of course, they weren’t on vacation, but Maddock saw no point in correcting his friend.
They rounded the corner and soon found themselves standing before the Williamsburg Public Gaol. They purchased tickets for the tour and joined the crowd queuing up in front of the sturdy, pitched roof brick structure.
“Why do they call it a gaol?” Bones asked.
“It’s pronounced ‘jail.’ It’s from a French word derived from a Latin word that means ‘cage.’” Maddock explained.
“I thought maybe it’s because dudes who stay locked up together sometimes...”
“Just don’t,” Maddock said, holding up a hand.
“Not judging. Just wondering.”
Thankfully, a costumed docent chose that moment to appear at the front door and begin the tour. Bones dropped his line of questioning and directed his attention toward the man in the tricorn hat.
“The so-called ‘strong sweet prison’ was constructed in 1701 and remained in use until after the Civil War,” the docent began. “The original jail measured twenty by thirty feet with two cells, an exercise yard, and lodgings for the jailer. A reinforced floor prevented prisoners from digging their way out. The facility expanded over time. Most of it was destroyed during the Civil War. It was restored in 1936. In years past, thieves, debtors, political prisoners, runaway slaves, and sometimes the mentally ill were detained in this jail. During the revolution, Tories, or loyalists, along with spies, traitors, deserters, and military prisoners were confined here. Some of the more notorious prisoners who passed through these doors include Henry ‘Hair Buyer’ Hamilton, a British Lieutenant Governor accused of buying pioneer scalps from the Indians.” Bones’ shoulders bobbed in silent laughter. “And fifteen pirates who served on the crew of the legendary captain Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard, were held here prior to execution.”
Maddock and Bones exchanged knowing looks as they and the other guests followed their guide up the steps and into the gaol. The tour first took them through the jailer’s living quarters. Their guide gave a little background on the gaol and the life of Peter Pelham, the jailer who lived here during the time period the living history museum replicated. Next, he led them along a lantern-lit corridor into a jail cell where he handed them off to another docent. This man, though apparently in his sixties, was sturdily built, with powerful arms and a broad chest. Maddock thought the fellow the very picture of a Colonial Era jailer.
The cell in which they stood was large and fairly comfortable, with a fireplace, pit toilet, and space to hold several inmates. Light streamed through a double-barred window, illuminating the dark wood walls and floor. This, the guide explained, was where debtors were held, usually under limited supervision. Outside, he added, were the more secure cells, which housed the more serious criminals, including Blackbeard’s pirates.
Conditions in the outdoor cells were Spartan. Solid wood from floor to ceiling, heavy doors, no heat source, and only a pair of small, barred windows to admit light. Maddock winced at the thought of prisoners passing the winter months here.
“I think this is a dead end, Maddock,” Bones said. “So much of this place has been reconstructed, I don’t think we’re going to find a ring hidden here.”
�
�We’re here for information, clues.” Maddock approached the guide and asked a couple of simple questions about the construction of the facility and eventual disposition of the prisoners. Next, he broached the subject of archaeology.
“I know the site has been destroyed and reconstructed. Have there been any excavations?”
The guide nodded eagerly. “Extensive. Lots of artifacts recovered.”
Maddock tensed. He knew from research that there had been digs on the site, but could not find specifics of what had been unearthed. “What sorts of things did they find?”
“What you’d expect. Leg irons, chains, broken tools, bits of crockery. Nothing remarkable, but interesting to those who are passionate about the period.”
“Any jewelry?” Bones asked. “Rings, necklaces, personal effects?”
“Not that I’ve heard of. Those sorts of things would likely have been confiscated from the prisoner upon incarceration. As far as the living quarters are concerned, a jailer would have taken his personal effects with him when he left his post, or his family would take his effects if he died.”
“What happened to the artifacts that were recovered on the site?” Maddock asked, though he held out scant hope that the ring would have been among the items uncovered.
“A few are on display in the museums on site. The rest are in storage, I assume. As I said, nothing remarkable there.”
Maddock nodded thoughtfully. “You mentioned pirates. Any stories about Black Caesar?”
The guide’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of the name. “You’re a historian, I take it?”
“My dad was interested in pirate lore.”
“Everyone asks about Blackbeard but no one asks about Black Caesar. He was an interesting character.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Bones asked.
“Not much, but I know someone you can ask. Kendra Gill. She’s one of our ghost tour guides.”
“Ghost tours?” Bones blurted. “Seriously?”
“Williamsburg is one of the most haunted places in all of Virginia. Even the jail is haunted.”
“Awesome!” Bones turned to Maddock. “Dude, you’ve been holding out on me.”
Maddock grimaced. He’d known it was only a matter of time before Bones learned of the legends of so-called haunted Williamsburg.
“I can give you Ms. Gill’s number,” the guide said. “I’m sure she’d love to meet with you. She’s quite passionate about her job.”
“How does she know so much about Black Caesar?” Maddock asked.”
When the man replied, Maddock thought he was joking, but his expression was sincere.
“She’s spoken with him.”
Chapter 12
Miami, Florida
Nomi answered the phone on the first ring. The number was private, but she knew it could only be one of a handful of people, none of whom she wished to speak to at the moment.
“Yes.” She tried keeping her voice steady. Theirs was a cutthroat organization, and showing any sign of weakness could permanently harm one’s standing.
“I’m in the hotel bar. Far corner table. Come down immediately.”
Nomi’s blood turned to ice. It was the last person from whom she wanted to hear, much less see in person. Constance.
“If you want to see me, come up to my room.” Too late. Constance had ended the call as soon as she’d issued her directive. Damn! Nomi now had two choices—follow directions like an obedient dog, or ignore Constance’s instructions and appear frightened. “Someday soon,” she whispered.
She checked her reflection in the mirror and was satisfied with what she saw there. If Constance had arrived an hour earlier, she’d have found Nomi in her workout clothes and without a stitch of makeup. But now, she was dressed for business, but it seemed her plans for the day would have to wait. She spared a moment to conceal a tiny .380 beneath her jacket, then checked to make sure her mace and stun gun were still in her purse where she could easily reach them.
“All right, you bitch,” she said as if Constance could hear her from five floors up, “let’s hear what you have to say.”
The hotel bar was sparsely populated at this late morning hour. A few groups of self-important men and women in cheap suits conducted business over bottles of beer and a lonely man, a pale ginger, watched a football match on the television behind the bar. An anxious frown painted his face and he held a glass of amber liquid in a white-knuckled grip.
Must have money riding on the outcome, Nomi thought. If she’d been alone and didn’t have important business, she might have joined him. He was cute in a geeky sort of way. No time for that.
Across the bar, she spotted Constance. The woman could have been carved from obsidian. Everything about her was cold, hard, and dark. Her finely chiseled features only served to add to the air of a master sculptor’s work come to life. Nomi hated her.
Constance pretended not to notice Nomi’s approach and only looked up from her paperback novel when Nomi sat down opposite her.
“Cousin,” Constance said by way of greeting.
“Cousin,” Nomi replied, her cordial tone belying the tension that pervaded every muscle, every sinew.
Constance signaled to the bartender, a small gesture that somehow managed to convey both grace and economy of motion. The woman did everything, even killed, with that same gracefulness. “I ordered you a cucumber breeze. I know that’s your favorite.”
“Thank you.”
A contemplative silence hung between them while they waited for their drinks. Their eyes remained locked on one another like prizefighters waiting to touch gloves. It was juvenile, but that was how things worked in their peculiar milieu. As if by mutual agreement they both broke off the stare when the bartender set their drinks down on the table and asked if he could get them anything else. His lascivious grin expanded the horizons of the question, but Constance dismissed him with a single flick of a finger. The corners of the man’s mouth fell, and he hurried away.
Nomi took a sip of her drink. It was a bit early in the day for alcohol, but the pleasant blend of cucumber vodka and lemonade with a slice of cucumber was the perfect remedy for the Florida heat.
On the other side of the table, Constance ignored her drink, Scotch neat. “Can we agree that the juvenile game of waiting for the other to speak first would be a waste of both our time?”
“If you say so,” Nomi said, both embarrassed and slightly pleased that Constance had been the first to get down to business.
“Whatever you found in the journal, you must share it with the family.”
It was a good thing Nomi had just set her glass on the table. Otherwise she might have spilled it. How had Constance already found her out?
“Nothing,” she said flatly. “It’s ruined.”
Constance smiled, but there was no warmth there. “Come now. You don’t expect me to believe that.”
“If you know I found the journal, that means you either spoke with Doctor Waite, hacked his computer, or both. Which means you know the journal is ruined.”
Now Constance took a drink. “You are correct, of course. But he’s a red herring, isn’t he? You wouldn’t entrust such an important find to a man who is well known on conspiracy theory sites. You knew Waite wouldn’t be able to keep such a remarkable discovery as Black Caesar’s journal a secret.”
Nomi felt her right hand twitch, itching to grab her pistol and end Constance for good. The woman was not only beautiful and deadly, but brilliant and resourceful as well.
“You give me too much credit,” Nomi said.
“And you insult my intelligence. You are among the cleverest in the family. Deception is a habit with you. You cover your tracks even when there is no need.”
“In our family there is always a need.”
Constance sighed. “I am sorry you feel that way.” She took a drink, frowned, and then her eyes brightened. “Let us set aside the question of the journal’s contents. Tell me how you found it.”
N
omi saw no harm in this. She recounted the tale of finding Caesar’s headquarters, recovering the journal, and destroying the entrance. She omitted Maddock and Bonebrake from the retelling. Those two loose ends were already tied up.
“How did you learn of the existence of this hideout?” Constance asked.
“Research. Bits and pieces here and there. Honestly, I was not confident that it actually existed, much less that I had the correct location.”
“Be that as it may, you were wrong to hide the information from the family. You know that.”
“Are you telling me that none of the rest of you has ever hidden anything from me?” Nomi asked, flaring up.
“Our private business dealings are always private, but when it comes to Caesar, we hide nothing.” Constance’s left hand disappeared from sight beneath the table. For an instant, Nomi considered reaching for her weapon, but something told her that was not what this was about. Her instincts were proved correct when Constance produced a manila envelope and slid it across the table.
“What is this?” Nomi picked up the envelope but did not open it. “My death warrant?”
“Proof that we are not keeping secrets from you. At least, I am not.”
Frowning, Nomi removed the contents of the envelope—a few papers clipped together. She recognized digital scans of portions of the journal.
“Your Professor Waite missed a few things. Here and there, legible bits of handwriting survived. In most cases only a letter or two, but my people managed to sift a few nuggets from the dross. Phrases, mostly. It’s the last sheet.”
Nomi riffled to the back sheet and scanned it. It was just as Constance described. The ring was mentioned, though no details were provided.
“This is the only new information we have about Caesar, and we are giving it to you. As you can see, there are mentions of the ring, his legacy, birthright, and his island. Piece them together and I think that is where we should look next.”
“That island has been searched before. I don’t think...” Nomi froze, the full impact of Constance’s words hitting her like a sledgehammer. “Wait. We?”