Seizure:

by Kathy Reichs

  We entered a narrow channel overhung with trees that blocked the moonlight and wrapped our vessel in shadow. As our progress slowed, my anxiety increased.

  Finally, the canal opened into a wide tidal lake. Scattered docks appeared. Ben skirted the shoreline, then turned into a network of narrow creeks. Shelton sat next to him, relaying GPS directions stored on his iPhone.

  After a zigzag course we pulled into Bull Harbor. I could hear the Atlantic surf not far off.

  “There she blows.” Ben pointed to the landmass looming ahead. “Oneiscau. Bull Island.” To Hi, “You have that map handy?”

  “Yep.” Hi tapped his smartphone.

  “Which way?” Ben asked. “The island has only one dock.”

  “We should anchor near the watchtower,” Shelton blurted. “Keep the boat close.”

  “Why?” Hi asked.

  Shelton’s teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Call it a hunch.”

  “Care to share more?” I said. “We’re on a tight timetable.”

  “Not just yet. But I’ve got an idea. Humor me.”

  “Humoring you means getting in the water,” Hi grumbled. “It better be worth it.”

  Shelton slapped Hi’s shoulder. “Seeing you in a wet tee is reward enough.”

  “Which way to the fort?” Ben asked.

  “Hard to starboard.” Hi’s features glowed blue in the light of his phone’s display. “The watchtower is near Bull’s northeastern point.”

  Ben skimmed past dense forest growing tight to the water’s edge. Live oaks and palmetto palms jockeyed with cedars, loblolly pines, and sprawling magnolias. The tangled understory blocked all view of the island’s interior. Like Loggerhead, I thought.

  As Sewee crept forward the woodland gave way to marsh. The water grew shallow. Reeds and spartina grass poked from its surface. Frogs croaked. Insects hummed and whined all around us.

  “Bull Island has an enormous alligator population,” Ben whispered. “So … uh … keep your head on a swivel.”

  “Swamps suck donkey balls,” Shelton muttered. “Seriously.”

  “There.” Hi pointed inland, where, roughly a quarter mile distant, a steep hill rose in the moonlight. A jagged silhouette crowned the hilltop.

  “It’s too boggy to go ashore here,” Ben said.

  “Continue north a bit.” Hi was peering at his iPhone. “There’s a beach.”

  Shelton nodded with feeling. “I’m not swimming here. This place looks like a gator’s kitchen.”

  Five minutes motoring brought us to a white beach running the island’s northern rim. Twenty yards inland, a row of head-high dunes marched to a grassy plain. The moonlit hill was a vague cutout in the darkness beyond.

  Ben coaxed Sewee as close to shore as possible.

  “There’s a trail from the beach.” Hi pocketed his phone. “The tower’s about a half mile away.”

  Chance was watching the beach. “What lives out here?”

  “Animals,” Ben said.

  “Care to be more specific?”

  “The Refuge website listed deer, raccoons, gators, and some smaller guys like fox squirrels and lizards.” Shelton was untying his tennis shoes. “But Bull is really about the birds. Over two hundred species.”

  “Ducks, mallards, pintails.” Ben cut the engine and tossed the anchor overboard. “Sandpipers, yellowlegs, warblers, sparrows, woodpeckers. Not that you’d know the difference.”

  “Keep talking,” Chance warned. “But don’t act surprised when I clock you.”

  “Enough!” I said. “Let’s get to the beach.”

  We divided the gear. Then, Nikes strung around my neck, excavation tools strapped to my back, I lowered into the surf and waded ashore. The boys followed close behind.

  Once on dry land, I set down my tool kit and pulled on my socks. The others gathered in a semicircle to re-shoe. The huge moon lit the landscape with an eerie blue radiance. We kept our flashlights off.

  “Where exactly is the tower?” Ben.

  “In those hills.” Hi pointed south over the dunes. “Past the beach is a long grassy field. From there, a trail leads into the woods. The tower should be along it somewhere.”

  “I’ll scout ahead.” Ben shouldered my tool bag. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, follow me south.” With that, he disappeared over the nearest dune.

  “Is he always like that?” Chance asked.

  No one bothered to answer.

  I had one sneaker laced when I heard a soft rustling off to my left.

  I peered down the beach.

  Nothing but moonlit sand.

  My second shoe was half-tied when sand swished somewhere among the dunes. My eyes darted, searching for the source of the noise.

  “Ben?” Shelton called hesitantly.

  Two points of yellow flashed in the night. Disappeared.

  “What was that?” Hi whispered.

  “Shh!” My eyes strained to pierce the gloom ahead.

  Two shadows streaked from a stand of sea oats. Four amber dots flashed, closer this time. Shot sideways. Vanished.

  My mind filled in the blanks.

  Eyes. Circling.

  I began to hiss a warning, but a growl stilled my tongue.

  More snarls joined the first, creating an eerie, keening chorus.

  Chance dropped to a crouch. “Whatever’s out there doesn’t sound happy.”

  “I forgot to mention something.” Moonlight reflected off Shelton’s glasses. “Next year, the Wildlife Refuge plans to reintroduce red wolves to Bull Island.”

  “Sounds like they stepped up their timetable,” Hi whispered.

  Three silhouettes loped across the dunes. Sleek. Four-legged.

  “There!” Hi pointed to our right. “Wolves! Big ones.”

  Chance gestured left. “Over here, too.”

  As I stared in terror, a shape took form directly before me. My mind logged details. Large, triangular head. Massive forepaws. Powerful, muscular trunk.

  Wolf. Male. Enormous.

  I could make out some of his coloring in the pale moonlight. Cinnamon-brown belly and pelt. Charcoal back and tail. White muzzle.

  My brain estimated stats. Length: five feet. Weight: eighty pounds.

  Almond-shaped eyes studied me.

  “Easy big fella.” I took a small step backward, arms straight down at my sides. “We’re all friends here.”

  A second wolf appeared, then a third, each resembling the leader, but smaller.

  I stood facing the wolves, Hi and Shelton flanking me, Chance a step behind. Where was Ben?

  “Another on our right,” Hi whispered.

  “And left,” Shelton said. “Pacing.”

  Five in all. A decent-sized pack.

  “We can swim to the boat,” Chance hissed. “They hate water, right?”

  “What about Ben?” Hi’s voice cracked.

  “Everyone relax,” I said. “Red wolves don’t attack people.”

  “You sure?” Hi croaked. “This one’s staring like I’m Lean Cuisine.”

  The wolves did seem agitated. Though White Muzzle sat calmly on his haunches, the others circled, growling and sniffing, tossing glances at the night sky.

  Suddenly it dawned on me.

  “The full moon,” I whispered. “It’s freaking them out.”

  “Great,” Shelton whimpered. “We’re dog food.”

  White Muzzle abruptly stood. Hackles up. Ears flattened. Tail horizontal.

  Uh oh.

  The rest of the pack froze.

  “Not good,” Hi said. “Where do I kick an attacking wolf?”

  Shelton tugged my arm. “Talk to them, dog whisperer. Calm them down.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Chance’s face glistened with sweat.

  But I understood what Shelton meant.

  Keeping Chance at my back, I stilled my thoughts and closed off sensory input.

  SNAP.

  My canine DNA fired into action. As the flare ripped through me, the world
cranked into focus.

  But something was different.

  Though always a struggle, this time the transformation was wilder and more chaotic. Raw-edged.

  My body pulsed with more power than ever before. My brain flooded with too much data. I nearly lost control.

  White Muzzle tensed, barked twice, and lunged in my direction.

  “I’m there.” Shelton’s voice sounded strangled. “But amped too high.”

  “Plenty of flare over here,” Hi spluttered. “Overload. What’s going on?”

  Watching the skittish wolves, the answer suddenly dawned.

  “The full moon,” I whispered. “It must be affecting our flares. Riling the wolf DNA inside us.”

  “What are you babbling about?” From behind, Chance couldn’t see our eyes. “We should retreat to the boat!”

  White Muzzle’s lips drew back. Predatory teeth gleamed in the moonlight. He growled, fur bristling.

  Tread carefully.

  White Muzzle viewed us as a rival pack invading his turf. He was alpha. I was alpha. This wasn’t Whisper, an animal accustomed to human interaction. This was a wild creature, feeling threatened, instinctually defending his family.

  Inching forward, I willed the wolf to understand.

  We mean you no harm.

  My mind probed, found the invisible barrier blocking my thoughts from the rest of the world. I pushed.

  Hi and Shelton hovered close. I strained. Reached. Failed. No matter my effort, the wall separating our psyches wouldn’t yield. I couldn’t connect my brain to theirs.

  Frustrated, I fired my message outward, toward White Muzzle.

  A primal consciousness brushed against mine. Contact.

  An electric shiver coursed through me as our thoughts melded.

  We mean you no harm.

  White Muzzle started, stepped backward, raised his snout and howled. The rest of the pack joined his keening wail.

  We mean you no harm.

  SNUP.

  I fell to my knees. Beside me, Shelton trembled. Hiram wheezed and spat.

  “What’s happening!?” Chance sounded near panic. “Are you guys okay!?”

  I wobbled to my feet, eyes never leaving our four-legged hosts.

  White Muzzle eyed me a moment longer, then turned and trotted over the dunes. The other wolves followed single file.

  “They left.” Chance barked a nervous laugh. “Just like that. They left.”

  “Yeah,” I panted. “Just like that.”

  Head spinning, I turned and puked on the sand.

  WE’D JUST CROSSED the dunes when I spotted Ben pounding down the trail.

  “What happened!?” Concern crimped his features. “Is everyone okay?”

  “Fine,” I said. “We met a wolf pack, but they left in peace. I got sick.”

  Ben looked a question at me, but because of Chance, didn’t press. He gestured back the way he’d come. “I found the watchtower.”

  I noticed Ben was empty-handed. “Where are my tools?”

  “By the fort. I had a sudden … feeling you guys needed help.”

  “Psychic?” Chance needled. “Who ya got in the Super Bowl?”

  Ben’s jaw tensed. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

  We followed the moonlit trail downward into swampier terrain. Ravenous insects began to feast, sent invitations to all their friends and relatives. More than once we paused to slather on bug spray.

  As we walked, Ben whistled “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”

  “You forget about our stalker?” Shelton complained.

  “There must be a thousand gators on this island,” Ben said. “I’d rather not surprise any that might be snoozing on this path.”

  Ten more paces. Shelton began humming “Who Let the Dogs Out?”

  A stream took shape alongside the trail, eventually dumping into a large pond. Rising from the pond’s shoreline was the steep wooded hill we’d seen from the boat.

  “The watchtower must be up there.” Ben pointed to the crest. “Highest point for miles around.”

  Hi squinted. “Could be. I see some broken stones littering the hilltop.”

  “There’s a marker here.” Shelton rubbed at the plaque, then read aloud. “‘Near this site the first permanent European settlers of South Carolina landed on March 17, 1670, on their way to establish the settlement of Charles Town.’ Man, that’s old.”

  “This way.” Ben led us along a narrower side path branching toward the water’s edge. Shelton’s humming grew louder. And shakier.

  In twenty yards we reached the base of the hill. Grabbing my tool kit from where he’d left it, Ben started up a broken track barely visible in the moonlight.

  As we climbed, questions lined up for attention.

  Bonny’s poem was cryptic and vague. Did we have the correct translation? The right location? What were we supposed to do next?

  Bull Island is immense. We could spend years digging in random spots and still find nothing. To have any hope, we had to solve the clues.

  At the summit, we stopped to catch our breath and look around. A ring of stones circled the tiny hilltop. From this vantage, I could see the whole island.

  “Look at this.” Shelton had dropped to a knee beside one of the rocks. “These were cut and fitted in place. This must’ve been the tower’s foundation.”

  “So.” Hi walked a circuit. “We’re supposed to do what, exactly?”

  “Focus on the poem,” I said. “The first line said, ‘On the moon’s high day, seek Island People.’”

  “Full moon on Bull Island,” Shelton said. “Check and check.”

  “Then we move to line two,” I said. “‘Stand the high watch, hold to thy faith, and look to the sea.’”

  “Hopefully we’re standing the high watch right now,” said Hi. “So we need to ‘hold to thy faith and look to the sea.’ Whatever that means.”

  “The last part is easy.” Chance pointed. “There’s the Atlantic.”

  Everyone gazed at the iridescent black ocean stretching endlessly eastward.

  Across the pond, beyond a low wooded ridge, I could just make out a jumble of debris on the seaward shore.

  We surveyed the eastern landscape for long minutes, seeking inspiration. Found none.

  “Um.” Hi shuffled his feet. “Okay.”

  “We skipped the middle part,” Shelton said. “We’re supposed to ‘hold to thy faith’ somehow.”

  “Which means?” Chance crossed his arms.

  “Bonny’s clues have been literal,” I said. “What could we hold?”

  Hi sucked in his breath, then scurried to my backpack. “The second rhyme from Bonny’s treasure map had similar wording.”

  Of course! I felt like a dunce. “The riddle about the bridge!”

  “Exactly.” Hi withdrew and scanned the map. “Here, Bonny used the phrase ‘thy faithful servant’ to describe the correct lever to pull.”

  “The lever shaped like Bonny’s Celtic cross!” Shelton was working his earlobe double-time.

  “And we have Bonny’s cross,” Ben said. “A tangible thing.” “That makes sense.” Chance pulled the cross from his pack and handed it to me.

  “This cross has been the key,” I said. “Bonny’s touchstone. The symbolic expression of her faith.”

  “Don’t just stand there!” Shelton was on fire.

  “Do what, exactly?”

  No one could answer.

  “Talk the instructions through,” Ben said. “Step by step.”

  Worth a shot.

  “Stand the high watch.”

  I moved to the center of the hill.

  “Hold to thy faith.”

  Grasping the cross with both hands, I held it aloft before me.

  “Look to the sea.”

  I turned due east and faced the Atlantic Ocean.

  Holding that position, I peered across the moonlit island. Searched. My arms soon grew heavy.

  “Now what?” I said finally.

  �
��See anything unusual?” Hi stepped up beside me. “If the treasure is hidden below, there must be some indication from this spot.”

  “Unless it’s gone,” Ben said. “That poem was written three hundred years ago.”

  “But nothing’s changed!” Shelton whined. “There’s been no development here. No houses. No sewers. No Time Warner Cable.”

  I studied the panorama below. “Hi, what am I seeing?”

  “Jack’s Creek. It’s kind of a swampy lake that spreads out like an amoeba with tentacles. Shallow water riddled with sandbars and small islets.”

  “That’s probably where the gators live,” Chance said.

  “A terrible place to bury valuables,” Ben said. “You’d never get them back.”

  “What’s beyond Jack’s Creek?” I asked. “Straight east.”

  Hi checked his phone. “There’s a ridge, then a wide beach.”

  “Hold up!” Shelton piped. “I forgot to tell you my hunch.”

  “Anytime you’re ready,” I said.

  “We’ve followed Bonny’s poem so far, but there’s one line remaining.”

  “You’re right.” I recited the last part of Aunt Tempe’s translation. “‘Let a clear heart guide you through the field of bones.’”

  “That stretch down there?” Shelton pointed to the debris-littered beach bordering the Atlantic. “It’s called the Boneyard.”

  An electric sizzle traveled through me. “Why?”

  “Hiking websites list Boneyard Beach as Bull Island’s top attraction. The sand is littered with dead trees and branches, giving it the appearance of a graveyard of half-buried monster bones.”

  “Everything fits!” Hi exclaimed. “We must be looking in the right place!”

  “But we don’t know where to dig.” Chance’s frustration was making him cranky.

  “I don’t see you helping,” Ben said. “All you do is complain.”

  I ignored the bickering.

  There was a stirring deep in my brainpan. The tiniest jolt of recognition. What? Something Shelton said? Hiking? Bonny’s poem?

  No go. The idea refused to surface.

  “Quiet!”

  The other Virals stilled. Chance started to protest, thought better of it.

  “Let Tory do her thing,” Hi whispered. “Trust me, this is our best shot.”

  I shut out the chatter. Something about that last line nagged at me.