Seizure:

by Kathy Reichs

  “I talked to a guy in Minnesota today.”

  “About?”

  “A job with the Forest Service. Near Lake Winnibigoshish. Could be fun.”

  “Winni-what?”

  “In the Chippewa National Forest.” Kit sat forward. “It’s gorgeous, all lakes and woodlands. Tons to do. Kayaking. Hiking. Ice fishing and sledding. You could ski every day.”

  “I don’t know how to ski, Kit.”

  “You could take lessons. Or ski cross-country; that’s more popular there anyway. We could live in Cohasset, which isn’t that much—”

  “Enough!”

  Coop’s head popped up.

  Kit flinched.

  “God, you just don’t get it!” I knew I was losing it. Couldn’t help myself. “I don’t want to move anywhere. I want to stay here!”

  “I have to find work, Tory.” Kit spoke carefully. “I don’t want the institute to close any more than you do, but it’s not up to me. And I have to take care of you.”

  “Bang-up job so far.”

  Unfair. Didn’t care. The words flew out.

  “You move me down here, I finally get settled, and then, boom, it’s all over? Just like that? And I’m supposed to just nod and accept it?”

  “I’m trying to find something you’ll like.”

  “That’s crap! Thirty seconds ago you were hard-selling the Great White North. Ice fishing? What a joke.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” he shot back. “You tell me.”

  “Fix it! Make it so we can stay!”

  Kit’s mouth opened, heated words at the ready. But they didn’t come. Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rubbed his face. When he finally spoke, the anger was gone.

  “I wish I could, Tory. I really do. But some things are beyond my control.”

  “That’s not good enough!”

  “No. It’s not. I feel terrible about the prospect of uprooting you again, so soon after …” Kit trailed off. Nine months in, yet he was still uncomfortable speaking about my mother. Then, finally, “I don’t know what else to say.”

  Coop came over and shoved his snout in my lap. Watery blue eyes met mine. Called me out.

  “I know it’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s just …”

  The words wouldn’t form. I was being selfish and immature, acting like a spoiled child. How could I blame him? But I was still too angry to apologize.

  “I’m taking Coop for a walk.”

  I crossed the room and grabbed the leash from its peg. Kit didn’t try to stop me.

  “Be careful. It’s late.”

  Coop scampered to the door, eager at the prospect of a nighttime jaunt. I carried the leash and let him run free.

  Outside, the moon was a bright lunar spotlight. A breeze tousled my hair. The air felt warm and moist, but not unpleasantly so.

  Walking in the dark, a feeling of shame overwhelmed me. Once again, I’d wrongly blasted Kit. My father. The person who wanted the best for me, and loved me above all others. Why did I use him as a punching bag? What good did it do?

  Coop ran ahead down the beach, chasing crabs and the occasional night bird.

  My pocket beeped and vibrated. Incoming text.

  I almost ignored it, certain Kit was sending a heartfelt request for forgiveness. The last thing I wanted was more guilt.

  But curiosity got the best of me.

  Digging out my iPhone, I tapped the screen.

  Jason Taylor.

  Great.

  I pulled up the message.

  Jason apologized for abandoning me at the yacht club. He’d just heard, felt terrible. Blah blah blah. Could I please write him back?

  Delete.

  The last thing I wanted to deal with right then. And for some reason, his message pissed me off. Where had Jason been? Five minutes after hitting the dock, he was gone. So much for showing me around.

  And why the apology? Jason hadn’t caused the Tripod attack. He owed me nothing. It wasn’t his job to defend my honor.

  His attitude annoyed me. I could take care of myself.

  “Why does everything happen at once?” I asked the Big Dipper overhead.

  Coop glanced up from a pile of reeds, trotted over, and licked my hand.

  “Thanks, boy.” I stroked his back. “You’re the number one man in my life.”

  I felt Coop tense. His head whipped toward the townhouses.

  “Something wrong?” I whispered.

  Coop stepped forward, braced his legs, and growled. Hackles up, his eyes focused on something in the darkness.

  It occurred to me that I was alone at night, on a dark beach, in the middle of nowhere.

  I froze, listening.

  The swish of shifting sand. The snap of flapping nylon.

  My eyes strained. A shadow took shape, denser than the surrounding blackness.

  It loomed directly between me and my home.

  “CHILL OUT, COOP!”

  Tension drained from me. I knew that voice.

  Shelton approached, careful to let the wolfdog recognize him. Though still a puppy, at sixty pounds Coop could do serious damage.

  “Easy, boy.” I scratched doggy ears. “He’s one of us.”

  Coop finally caught Shelton’s scent, yapped, and wagged his tail.

  “He’s becoming quite the guard dog,” Shelton said. “Good thing we’re tight.”

  Coop rushed forward and planted his forepaws on Shelton’s chest.

  “Okay, okay!” Shelton struggled to keep his balance. “I missed you, too!” I clicked my tongue. Coop spun back to my side, then scuttled off in search of more crabs.

  “What’s happening?” Me. False cheerful.

  “Something wrong?” Shelton. Not buying it.

  “I had a fight with Kit. And yes, it was my fault.”

  “It’s eggshells at my house, too. My parents are so stressed, barely anyone talks.”

  “Is that why you’re out here?”

  “Naw, I came to find you. Your dad said you’d taken Coop for a walk.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  Coop’s route took us back toward the docks. We trailed along, letting the wolfdog set the pace.

  “What’d you and Kit fight about?” Shelton asked.

  “Moving.” I sighed. “He keeps mentioning job offers in different places. I know it’s not true, but sometimes it feels like Kit doesn’t even care about my feelings. So I lost my temper and blasted him. I won’t be winning Daughter of the Year this time around.”

  We walked a few more yards in silence.

  “I can’t stop worrying about Whisper and the other Loggerhead animals. That island is a special place. Selling it to developers would be criminal.”

  “Remember when Hi sat on that anthill near Dead Cat Beach?” Shelton chuckled. “Sucked to be him. The welts didn’t go down for a week.”

  I giggled. “Almost as funny as Ben getting chased by those monkeys.”

  “Good times,” Shelton said. “Good times.” His voice was softer this time.

  More quiet paces. Thoughts of Loggerhead saddened me now.

  I changed the subject. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “Oh, right! I found something online,” Shelton said. “Anne Bonny–wise.”

  “Super.” Stuck in a funk, I couldn’t get excited. After my argument with Kit, searching for treasure seemed so juvenile.

  But Shelton was pumped enough for both of us.

  “I was bored, so I started googling names and phrases. Anne Bonny, treasure maps, whatever I could think of. For an hour, nothing but wasted time. Then I scored this baby!”

  Shelton held up what I guessed was a printout.

  “It’s too dark,” I said. “What is it?”

  “An ad. A pawnbroker in North Charleston is selling a box of pirate artifacts.”

  “That’s it?” Shelton’s naïveté surprised me. A pawnshop listing?

  “Of course not. This seller claims the collection includes papers belo
nging to Anne Bonny!”

  “And you believe it?”

  Shelton nodded. I think.

  “Wait a second. Where in North Charleston are we talking about?”

  “Well, not the best part,” Shelton admitted. “Myers.”

  “Myers.” One of the roughest neighborhoods in the area. Maybe the country.

  “It can’t be that bad,” Shelton muttered. “We can go during the day.”

  “Let me get this straight.” I stopped walking. “You want to visit a Myers pawnshop because of an ad for ‘pirate artifacts’ that mentions Anne Bonny? Seriously?”

  “I haven’t told you everything.”

  “All ears.”

  “Come over by the light.” Shelton hurried toward the dock with me trailing behind.

  “Notice anything?” Shelton shoved the paper into my hand.

  I skimmed. The print was hard to make out in the dim glow. The listing looked like any other classified ad. Authentic pirate collection. Rare papers. Anne Bonny. Priceless. Historical. Yadda yadda yadda.

  I was about to quit when I caught it.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh is right,” Shelton said. “Think maybe we should check that out?”

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  A rectangular border surrounded the ad, each corner embellished with a corny illustration. Skull and crossbones. Dagger. Treasure chest. Standard stuff.

  Except for the image in the lower right.

  That corner was decorated with a cross. Tall and thin, ringed, and oddly shaped, with the upper tine curving to the right.

  “Where have we seen that before?” Shelton crowed.

  Our high five echoed far out over the water.

  “HOW DO WE get there?” Hi wiped perspiration from his brow.

  We were on the blacktop behind our townhomes. The sun was already beating down, the morning a scorcher.

  Shelton was entering the pawnshop’s address into his cell phone’s GPS program. He wore a white polo and beige cargo shorts. Silent as usual, Ben stood beside him in his black tee and jeans. The heat never seemed to touch him.

  “Ben will drive,” I said.

  “I will?”

  “We’ll take Kit’s car. He’s at work.”

  “Kit said we could take his 4Runner?” Shelton sounded skeptical.

  “He never said we couldn’t. That gives me a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  “How do you figure?” Hi asked.

  “If Kit gets mad, I’ll play dumb and apologize. He’ll let it go the first time.”

  “I’m not stealing your dad’s car.” Ben was firm. “Call him.”

  “Trust me, he’ll never know.” I checked my watch. “We have six hours to get there and back. We could make five round trips!”

  Time for an ego tweaking. “You can drive, right?”

  “Of course I can!” Last month, with everyone grounded, Ben had finally gotten a driver’s license. “That’s not the point.”

  “There’s no other way,” Shelton said. “We can’t sail to North Charleston.”

  Ben said nothing.

  “Come on!” Sweat rings had formed around the pits of Hi’s sky-blue Hawaiian shirt. “We’re standing in the hottest spot on planet Earth. Let’s just go!”

  “Fine. Everyone wears seatbelts. No radio. No distractions.” Ben shot Hi a stern look. “No running commentary.”

  “Your loss,” Hi said. “To the pimp ride!”

  Five minutes later, we were cruising the unmarked, one-lane blacktop that connects Morris to Folly Island. After passing through Folly Beach, we picked up State Highway 171 and cut north toward James Island.

  I’d cranked the AC to maximum for Hi’s benefit, but I was only wearing a tank top, shorts, and sandals. The arctic blast immediately covered me in goose bumps.

  Honoring Ben’s request, we rode in silence. It was strange for us, traveling alone by car. A first for the Virals. Outside, Lowcountry marshland slipped by on both sides. Here and there an egret or crane rose from the still water on long stick legs.

  Turning right on the James Island Expressway, Ben crossed to the downtown peninsula and continued on Calhoun Street. A right on King took us north, away from the touristy, historic districts we usually frequented.

  We drove past the Cooper River Bridge, a dividing line between blue blood and blue collar. A few miles farther and we crossed into North Charleston.

  Myers is a tough district, filled with seedy houses, cheap high-rise apartments, liquor stores, and pawnshops. It’s one of the poorest locales in America—few residents finish high school, and even fewer attend college. Crime is common and frequently violent.

  Those lucky enough to have jobs are mostly factory workers or day laborers. The homeless and unemployed gather on street corners, shooting up and drinking to escape the reality of their lives.

  Myers was not a neighborhood to visit on a lark.

  Hi reached over and hit the door locks.

  “Next right,” Shelton said. Then, “There, on the left. Bates Pawn-and-Trade.”

  “Are we one hundred percent sure about exiting the vehicle?” Hi’s voice was a bit high. “It might not be here when we get back.”

  “I’ll park right in front.” Ben also sounded tense.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said. “In and out.”

  “That’s what she said,” Hi mumbled, hauling himself from the car.

  Bates Pawn-and-Trade was the last unit in a dilapidated strip mall composed of a Laundromat, a nail salon, a pool hall, and a Baptist church.

  A red banner proclaimed the shop’s name in bold letters. Barred windows displayed an array of dusty offerings. Nine-millimeter cameras. A drum set. A sad little collection of gold watches.

  And guns. Lots of guns.

  Ben shouldered the solid steel door. Nothing.

  “Hit the buzzer,” Shelton suggested.

  We waited a few moments, idly staring at a security camera set inside a metal cage. A buzzer sounded, the locks clicked, and we pushed through.

  Inside, naked bulbs hung from the ceiling, barely lighting the cloudy glass cases lining the concrete walls. Even by pawnshop standards, this store was dreary.

  A thick wooden counter ran the length of the rear wall. Behind it sat an immense black man counting a wad of bills. I put his weight at over three hundred pounds. Short and balding, he wore faded black pants, a UPS work polo, and red and white throwback Jordans.

  An unlit cigar jutted from a corner of the man’s mouth. The stool supporting his enormous derriere appeared on the verge of giving up.

  “Ya’ll need something?” The man didn’t glance in our direction.

  “Just looking, thanks!” Reveal our target and he’d jack up the price.

  “Umm hmm.” His eyes never rose. “The bongs are in the corner, FYI.”

  Great. He thought we were stoners.

  “Spread out,” I whispered. “Scratch your head if you spot the collection.”

  We all moved in separate directions, which caught the man’s eye.

  “Don’t even think about pulling a stunt.” A thumb jabbed his chest. “This here is my shop. Lonnie Bates. I don’t tolerate foolishness.”

  “No sir,” Shelton squeaked. “No stunts.”

  “Damn right.” Again the thumb. “Don’t forget I’ve got to buzz ya’ll back out.”

  Bates went back to counting.

  Noticing movement, I glanced to my right. Hi was rubbing his dome with both hands. Not exactly subtle. We all closed in.

  Hi pointed to a crate on a wall-bolted shelf. We scanned the jumbled contents. Dusty papers. A souvenir eye patch from the Pirate Aquarium. Costume jewelry. Two three-corner hats. Replica flintlock pistols. A torn Jolly Roger flag, made in China.

  “Garbage,” Ben whispered. “Useless crap.”

  “I see you’ve located some of my valuable antiques.” Bates slipped from his stool and waddled toward us. “Priceless heirlooms.”

  Shelton snorted. “You could buy this junk
at Party City. In better condition.”

  “Not true.” Bates yanked the box from the shelf. “Some crap was added later, but this crate is full of historical documents. Blackbeard’s personal shit. Some Anne Bonny stuff, too.”

  Beefy hands eased a stack of papers from underneath the kitsch.

  My pulse cranked. Bates was right. The documents were either very old or very good fakes. If the former, they might actually be worth something.

  “I’d need to have these appraised,” I said. “Verify they’re real.”

  “Sorry, paying customers only.” Bates held the papers to his chest. “I can’t risk ya’ll damaging historical treasures.”

  Crap! I needed to check for the symbol. To be sure. That meant haggling with this greasy con man.

  A crazy idea crossed my mind. Dangerous. Irresponsible.

  It worked before. Let’s put my nose to the test.

  I’d promised not to do it, but desperate times call for desperate measures. We needed an edge. I spoke before I could chicken out.

  “Do you have a bathroom?”

  “What am I? A spa?” Bates cocked his head. “Use the Laundromat next door.”

  “All by myself? Can’t I please use yours?”

  “Unbelievable.” Eyes rolling, he pointed. “Through the beads.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Don’t touch nothing! I got cameras back there, too.”

  My eyes widened.

  “No, I don’t mean—not in the damn bathroom!” Bates rubbed his forehead. “Just keep your hands in your pockets, you hear?”

  I hurried through the curtain, then listened to make sure Bates hadn’t followed. No way. He was busy pumping up the collection’s inestimable value. I locked myself in the bathroom.

  Ready? Not really.

  I shook out my limbs. Took several deep breaths. Closed my eyes. Reached.

  SNAP.

  The flare came easily, as if the wolf had been lurking just beneath the surface.

  But not without pain.

  My arms and legs quivered as the fire flowed through me. Lights strobed behind my eyeballs. I wanted to whimper, but clamped my jaw shut.

  In silence I rode the wave of primal energy. Suffered the transformation.

  My eyes snapped into hyperfocus. My body burned with visceral force. My ears hummed like a tuning fork.

  Ready to rock.

  Slipping on my sunglasses, I flushed the toilet and strode back through the beads. Nonchalant, but my heart was racing.