by Kathy Reichs
BACK HOME, I made my second call of the day.
A familiar voice answered. “Temperance Brennan.”
“Aunt Tempe? Hi, it’s Tory.” Then I quickly added, “Kit’s daughter.”
“That was my guess,” Tempe quipped, “since I’ve only got one grandniece. How are you, sweetie?”
“I’m good. You?”
“Swamped. I’ve got three cases in the lab, and a fourth on its way. The price I pay for the glamorous life.” Her voice grew softer. “I heard about LIRI. I’m so sorry, Tory. Tell Kit I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”
“Thanks,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your offer.”
Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Tempe changed the subject. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Not that I’m complaining, since we rarely get a chance to chat.” Her voice became mock stern. “You must call more often.”
“I will, promise. But I do have a specific question, if you’ve got a moment.”
“Fire away. Your timing is perfect. I’m grabbing a late lunch.”
“Are you sure? I know how busy you are.”
I was finding it hard to get to the point. Aunt Tempe is my hero. She’s the last person I want to view me as foolish.
“Never too busy for you,” Tempe chided. “Let’s hear it.”
“You once told me your family came from Ireland.”
“Our family,” Tempe corrected. “Kinsale, in County Cork. My grandfather was born there.”
“You wouldn’t happen to speak Gaelic would you?”
“Níl agam ach beagainin Gaeilge,” Tempe replied. “That means, ‘I only speak a little Irish.’ At least, I think that’s what it means.”
“So you know the language?”
“Nil agam ach beágainín Gaeilge,” Tempe repeated with a laugh. “I’ve conquered French, can get by with Spanish, even a little German. But Gaelic is tough stuff.”
“There aren’t any Gaelic translator programs online,” I said. “Only chat rooms.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a beautiful language that was spoken for centuries, but Gaelic declined sharply under British rule. Then the Great Famine of 1845 devastated rural Ireland, where Gaelic was most prevalent. The language never really recovered.”
“So no one speaks it anymore?”
“Less than fifteen percent of the Irish population, though the current government is working hard to preserve it. Gaelic speakers are fairly rare here in the States.”
“Oh.” My spirits sank.
“I can give it a shot.” I heard static as Tempe adjusted the phone. “When I was a kid, a second cousin lived with my family briefly. She spoke Gaelic fluently, so I learned the language to keep her company.”
“And you still remember it?”
“We’ll see. Do you need something translated?”
“I’ve got a … poem.”
“From a book?”
“No,” I said. “Some pottery washed up on the beach near my house. A few lines are visible on the inside.”
I hated lying to my idol, but what choice did I have?
“A mystery! Awesome! Email me the poem and I’ll take a run at it.”
“That’d be great! Thank you so much.”
“Stop,” Tempe chuckled. “After what I’ve been slogging through today, poetry will be a welcome change of pace.”
There was an awkward pause while I debated with myself.
“Was there something else, Tory?”
Snap decision.
“Do you know anything about Anne Bonny, the female pirate?”
“I’ve heard of her, of course. But I’m a little light on specifics. Why?”
Throwing caution to the wind, I told Tempe my suspicions. Mary Brennan. The painting. Bonny’s Massachusetts rumors. Our shared handwriting trait.
When I’d finished, the line was quiet for a very long time.
Great. She thinks I’m a moron.
“Wow. Who knows? It could be true.”
I realized I’d been holding my breath. “It’s wacky, granted. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s a connection.”
“I understand,” Tempe said. “I’m a Brennan too, remember? Though I’m definitely not related to Anne Bonny. My grandparents didn’t leave the Emerald Isle until after World War I.”
“It’s crazy we share the Brennan name, even though I grew up in another family. But I’m glad we do.”
“It shows we were meant to connect,” Tempe said. “I just wish it had been under happier circumstances.”
Tempe went silent, possibly regretting the reference to my mother’s death.
“I’ll send the poem to your Gmail,” I said. “It was great chatting.”
“Don’t give up on the pirate connection. I expect a full report, matey.”
“Aye aye, captain. And thanks again.”
“Slán agus beannacht leat.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“‘Good-bye and blessings upon you.’” Tempe chuckled. “I hope.”
I FELT BETTER after hanging up.
Talking with Aunt Tempe always recharged my batteries. Watch check. Four p.m. Kit wasn’t due home for a few more hours.
After emailing the poem, I texted the Virals. We assembled in my living room ten minutes later.
The boys were running on fumes.
Shelton and Hi slumped on the couch while Ben fiddled with the remote, trying to locate a baseball game. Coop lay curled in his doggie bed, paws outstretched, content to merely observe.
“I sent the Gaelic stuff to my aunt,” I said. “She’ll take a crack at translating and get back to me.”
I didn’t mention the Anne Bonny portion of our conversation. I’d been teased enough for one day.
“How long will it take?” Shelton asked.
“No idea.”
“Seven to one?” Ben had finally found a game. “Man, the Cubs stink.”
“Yep.” Hi yawned. Then, “Oh! I almost forgot. My mother said something odd.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true.” Shelton placed a hand on Hi’s shoulder. “You’re not the most handsome boy in school. Oh, burnsauce!”
“Hilarious. No, she said a strange car drove by the complex this afternoon.”
“You can’t drive by,” I said. “This is the end of the world.”
“No argument here,” Hi replied. “But according to mommy dearest, a vehicle cruised up the driveway, idled a few minutes, then left. She almost called the cops.”
Ben fought a smirk. “Why?”
“You know Ruth,” Hi answered with a sigh. “She probably thinks the car was full of Al Qaeda operatives sent to exterminate the neighborhood watch.”
I didn’t like it. “Can you guys recall a car ever showing up out here by mistake?”
No one could.
“You can’t get that lost,” said Shelton. “Our townhomes are fifteen minutes from the last state road.”
“Most people don’t know anything is back here at all,” Ben agreed. “And a lost motorist would turn around long before crossing to Morris Island.”
“A delivery guy?” Hi offered. “Or someone’s guest? They could’ve called up, gotten no answer, then left.”
“Maybe it was local kids thinking they could drive all the way to the Morris beach,” Shelton offered.
“What type of car was it?” I asked.
“That’s the craziest part.” Hi sat forward, elbows on knees. “My mother is dead certain the car was a 1960 Studebaker Lark station wagon. Cherry red. She hadn’t seen one in decades. My grandfather apparently drove the same model.”
“That’s not a delivery vehicle,” Ben said.
I thought a moment. “What about the driver?”
“She didn’t get a good look. But whoever it was wore a fedora.”
“Stylin’,” Shelton cracked.
I didn’t like it. After dodging bullets in the tunnels last night, I felt as paranoid as Ruth. A strange car in the
neighborhood was definitely cause for concern.
“Old-man car. Fedora.” Shelton tapped the side of his nose. “Sounds like Tory’s buddy Brincefield.”
“The thought crossed my mind,” I admitted. “But why would he come way out here?”
“Who knows?” Shelton said. “Why’d he show up for our ghost tour? Maybe he’s senile. Or a pervert.”
“That Marlo guy and his ogre buddy are just as creepy,” Hi said. “And they were stalking us today.”
“We don’t know they were following us,” Ben said. “Being downtown could’ve been a coincidence.”
Coincidences seemed to be piling up.
“What about Lonnie Bates?” Shelton asked.
“The pawnshop guy?” Ben seemed to consider the idea. “He was pretty pissed that we outmaneuvered him.”
Hi’s palms rose in a “who knows?” gesture.
Ben clicked off the baseball game. “If it’s sharing time, I’ve got news, too.”
We all looked appropriately interested.
“I talked to my uncle Bill about the Sewee legend regarding Anne Bonny.”
“Fantastic.” I’d completely forgotten. “Anything useful?”
“Depends on your definition of ‘useful.’” Ben shifted his feet, as if suddenly uncomfortable. “Uncle Bill couldn’t recall the actual wording, but this was the general idea. It’s a chant.”
“A chant?” Hi asked innocently.
I narrowed my eyes in warning. No cheap shots.
With obvious reluctance, Ben recited, “When the night sky burned as daytime, a flaming brand mounted the field of bones, and staked the devil’s hand.”
“Umm.” Hi.
“Okay.” Shelton. Puzzled.
“I told you.” Ben sounded defensive. “It’s a Sewee story about Anne Bonny. And no, I don’t have a clue what it means.”
“I can’t handle any more brainteasers,” Hi grumbled. “I’m riddled out.”
“Then don’t,” Ben snapped. “Forget I said anything.”
“Thanks for running it down,” I said diplomatically. “Maybe it will prove useful later, when we have more insight.”
“I have a theory,” Ben said. “If anyone’s interested.”
“Please.” Carefully hiding my skepticism.
“I’ve heard the phrase ‘when the night sky burned as daytime’ in other Sewee stories. It refers to a full moon.”
“And the rest?” Shelton asked.
“No idea. But I think the full moon bit is important somehow. Otherwise, why include it?”
“You’re in luck.” Hi was tapping his iPhone. “The next full moon is in … three days. Ask your spirit guide for more specific instructions by Tuesday.”
“I’ll give you—”
Shelton cut Ben off. “So what’s our next move?”
“Maybe we should research Bonny’s favorite symbol,” I said. “We can’t work the poem yet. Why not try our luck with the cross?”
“We could run an image comparison,” Shelton suggested. “Online.”
“Worth a shot.”
I unfurled the treasure map on the coffee table, snapped a pic of the illustration, then downloaded the image to my laptop.
“Your move.” I stepped aside so Shelton could man the keys.
“I know a website that lets you upload images and search for matches online.” Shelton’s fingers were already flying.
In moments, a grid of crosses filled the screen. Shelton clicked one that linked to an online encyclopedia.
“It’s called a Celtic cross,” Shelton said. “The central ring is the defining feature.”
I nudged Shelton’s shoulder. “My turn to drive.”
“Every time.” Shelton slid right so I could take his spot.
“According to this entry, the Celtic cross was introduced by Saint Patrick while converting the pagan Irish,” I said. “It combines the traditional Christian cross with a circular emblem representing the sun. Some argue it originated from the ancient custom of wreathing a cross after a victorious battle.”
I navigated back to the pictorial grid. “Some of these crosses are tall and skinny, like the one Bonny sketched.”
I eyeballed the results, selected a design closely resembling Bonny’s sketch.
“This is called a high cross.” I clicked the brief description attached to the image. “A favorite of the Irish church, it was used in monuments as far back as the eighth century. Mostly headstones.”
“Ugh.” Hi was reading from his iPhone again. “The Celtic cross is now popular among white supremacy groups. The symbol has actually been banned in Germany.”
“Great job, Germans,” Shelton deadpanned. “Another ancient religious symbol ruined for all time. Shelve this one next to the swastika.”
“The top tine of Bonny’s cross always curves right,” I reminded them. “That must mean something, don’t you think?”
“It’s certainly distinctive,” Shelton said. “May I resume my work, madam?”
I yielded.
“I’ll keep looking.” Shelton was punching keys like mad. “But that might simply be Bonny’s thing.”
Fifteen minutes passed. Shelton ran through search screens faster than I could follow.
Then, “Oh no!” He slapped my laptop shut.
“What?” I asked. “Did you find something?”
“Nope!” Shelton’s left hand rose to his earlobe. “Hey, did anyone get a Mets score? My dad’s a big fan.”
“The Mets?” That didn’t make sense. “What’s going on?”
Shelton refused to meet my eye. “Your computer crashed.”
“No it didn’t. You closed it.”
“Spyware. Malware. I think you’ve got a virus.”
“It’s a Mac.”
His voice dropped to a mumble. “The battery died.”
“Shelton!” I’d had enough. “You’re lying. And you’re tugging your ear.”
“No I’m not.” The hand dropped.
That did it. “Stand aside, Devers.”
“No!” Shelton covered the laptop with both arms. “You’re gonna make a bad decision.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Ben barked. “Get out of the way!”
Shelton started to protest once more, then the fight drained out of him.
“Mistake,” Shelton muttered to Ben as he trudged to my couch. “You should’ve trusted me.”
I opened the screen and reloaded the last page.
And understood in seconds.
“Well?” Hi said. “Why did Shelton go nuts?”
“He located Bonny’s bent cross,” I said. “It’s real.”
“That’s great!” Hi exclaimed.
“No it isn’t,” Shelton moaned.
“Explain,” Ben said.
“A Celtic cross identical to one Anne Bonny liked to sketch was sold at auction fifteen years ago.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Right here in Charleston.”
“Even better,” Hi said. “I’m failing to see the downside.”
“Wait for it.” Shelton.
“Uh-oh.” A frown creased Ben’s brow. “Please tell me I can’t guess the buyer’s name.”
“You most certainly can,” Shelton said. “But now it’s too late.”
Hi’s gaze bounced from Ben to Shelton to me. “Out with it.”
I turned the screen to face him. “The winning bidder was Hollis Claybourne.”
“Oh,” Hi said. Then, “Crap.”
“I told ya’ll.” Shelton shook his head. “You should’ve let me erase the whole flipping hard drive.”
The boys glanced at me, knowing.
I didn’t disappoint.
“It’s time for a visit with Chance.”
KIT’S TEXT MESSAGE sealed the deal.
Behind schedule. Home late. Feed self.
“We’re going today,” I said firmly. “No arguments.”
The other Virals groaned, but fell in line without much fight. Perhaps they were too tired to protes
t.
“Told you,” Shelton muttered. “Once she found out Hollis bought the cross, our tickets were booked.”
Hi hauled himself from the couch and stretched. “Are we stealing Kit’s 4Runner again?”
“We’re borrowing it,” I amended. “We’ll be back before seven if we hurry.”
I knew where to find Chance. Everyone did. His current address was an open secret.
It’s not every day that Bolton Prep’s most illustrious student is committed to a mental institution.
Psychiatric care facility, I should say. Chance had been a patient at Marsh Point Hospital since the shootout at Claybourne Manor three months earlier.
“Will he agree to see us?” Ben asked.
“Leave that to me.”
Nestled within a tangle of creeks, ponds, and meandering swampland, Wadmalaw Island is one of Charleston’s most bucolic districts. Quiet, pristine, and intensely rural, its acreage is some of the least developed in the Lowcountry.
Winding country roads criss-cross the landscape, which is lined with family farms and roadside produce stands. The local population is sparse: most residents are farmers, fishermen, and employees of America’s only active tea plantation.
With only a single bridge connecting Wadmalaw to the outside world, conditions were perfect for the island’s most discrete tenant.
We drove north to the Maybank Highway, then headed southeast across Johns Island. Minutes later we crossed to Wadmalaw and followed signs toward Rockville. Several miles before the small village, Ben turned right onto a narrow private drive.
“Guardhouse,” he warned. “Dead ahead.”
Three officers sat inside a roadside booth, each wearing a firearm, their attention focused on a small TV. We stopped at the gate and waited.
Finally, a guard peeled his eyes from the screen, emerged, and walked to the driver’s-side window. Bald, paunchy, and well past forty, the guy’s name tag announced him as Officer Mike Brodhag.
“Name?” Bored, and slightly annoyed.
“Tory Brennan,” I answered from the passenger seat.
“ID?”
I handed over my Bolton Prep library card.
Brodhag’s gaze shifted to Hi and Shelton in the backseat before returning to me. Everyone was wearing a Bolton Prep uniform.
“State your business.”