Seizure:

by Kathy Reichs

Wordlessly, I aimed the Beretta directly at Short’s nose. He rose and took the seat I’d indicated.

  Duncan was on his knees, a blank look on his face.

  “Sit beside Short and Marlo,” I said. “Now.”

  Ignoring me, Duncan got to his feet and brushed off his jersey.

  “Hey!” I flicked the gun for emphasis. “That wasn’t a request.”

  Duncan extended a palm. “Gun.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Now.”

  “Butt on the bench. Last warning.”

  Snorting derisively, Duncan moved toward me.

  Crack! Crack!

  Bullets struck the stone between Duncan’s massive feet.

  He froze. A dark blossom spread across the crotch of his jeans.

  “Correction. That was your last warning. Test me again, and you’ll limp for a very long time.”

  Duncan walked to the pew and dropped beside his brother.

  I caught the other Virals in the corner of my eye. “What?”

  Ben was staring, jaw open. “Good Lord, Tory.”

  “Nice shooting, Scarface.” Hi handed me Duncan’s weapon. “Remind me never to owe you money. Who taught you how to fire a gun?”

  “Long story.” I wasn’t answering “drunk grandfather,” true or not.

  “Tory’s a beast.” Shelton had recovered his composure and was collecting the doubloons. “You punks should know that by now.”

  None of the pew sitters uttered a word.

  The boys gathered our things while I kept an eye on Short, Duncan, and Marlo. In moments we were ready to go.

  “What’s the plan?” Shelton whispered. “We can’t just leave them here.”

  “Cut me a break,” Marlo pleaded. “You’ll never see me again. That’s solid.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Telling Short to shoot someone was a dealbreaker. Hiram? A moment.”

  I whispered instructions. Hi nodded, grabbed Shelton and Ben for a conference.

  “I’ll stay with Tory,” Ben said. “Don’t want our guests getting cute.”

  Shelton and Hi shouldered our gear and hurried from the chapel.

  Ben and I leaned against a wall, eyes on our prisoners, pistols at the ready. The silence stretched. I grew edgy, worn thin by the pressure of keeping a loaded gun aimed at three human beings.

  An eon later, Hi and Shelton returned. Hi flashed a thumbs-up.

  “Now run down to the post office,” I told him. “There must be some type of security on this island.”

  Hi hustled off again.

  “Police?” Marlo’s fingers traced the scar on his cheek. “Come on. We can work something out.”

  “Dream on. Shop’s closed.”

  “You stole the map from the museum,” Short hissed. “You’re going to jail, too.”

  “Maybe. But you killed the Fletchers. You’re going to answer for that.”

  Hi appeared at the door. “You’re not going to believe—”

  A familiar voice cut him off. “What in the world is going on here!?”

  Sergeant Carmine Corcoran whaled into the chapel, sides heaving under a tan uniform stretched to its limits.

  Had Bigfoot appeared, I’d have been less surprised.

  “Sergeant Corcoran?”

  “Tory Brennan.” Corcoran’s thick black moustache arced down in stern disapproval. “And the rest of the Morris Island hoodlums. Of course. Walking, talking proof that God hates me.”

  I was still on tilt. “You work on Dewees now?”

  “Laid off by the Folly PD.” The chubby face reddened between the mutton-chop sideburns. “Probably because of the embarrassment you brats caused me. It’s ‘Security Director Corcoran’ now.”

  Corcoran’s eyes zeroed in on the guns I was holding. Widened. Moved from me to the trio on the bench. To the weapon in Ben’s hand.

  “Are those real firearms?”

  “These three tried to kill us,” Ben said. “Arrest them.”

  “Who are they?” Corcoran tried to look everywhere at once. “Are you holding them hostage?”

  Shelton snickered.

  “I’ll take it slow,” I said. “These people attacked us. We—”

  “Freeze! Just freeze!” Corcoran extended one hand, palm out, and yanked a bottle of pepper spray from his belt with the other. “I’m detaining everyone! No one move!”

  “You don’t understand,” I began.

  “You’ll turn those guns over, right Tory?” Corcoran was clearly uneasy. “No funny stuff?”

  I sighed. “Cuff those three, Security Director. Then we’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Unclipping a walkie-talkie, Corcoran began shouting orders to some unfortunate flunky. When finished, he clamped ZipCuffs onto each of our prisoners.

  Satisfied, Corcoran turned. Ben and I passed him all three pistols.

  “Wrists,” Corcoran ordered.

  “What?” I said in surprise.

  “You heard me. I’m detaining everyone.”

  Sighing, I extended my arms. Corcoran worked down the line, zipping on four more sets of plastic restraints.

  I slumped into the closest pew. Shelton joined me, followed by Hi and Ben.

  “What a day.”

  It was all I could say. The tank was empty.

  THE REST OF that afternoon was a blur.

  Interviews. Statements. We told our story over and over, then told it over again. Hours later, I’d had enough.

  A director of the Charleston Museum arrived to collect the stolen treasure map. The squirrel went apoplectic when he spotted my writing on the back, was only partially mollified to learn my note was a record of Bonny’s cryptic poem.

  Threats were voiced, but in the end he decided not to press charges. With two of his curators murdered, our larceny was low on his list of concerns.

  A call was made to the Exchange Building, and an inspector was sent to the Provost Dungeon. Once Bonny’s bolt-hole was discovered, the atmosphere changed dramatically.

  Dubious cops became fascinated listeners. Their stern frowns at our multiple petty crimes morphed into grins at our moxie.

  Then Kit arrived.

  “Tory!” Wrapping me in a fierce hug. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “What’ve you heard?” Testing the waters.

  “Nothing! I received a message saying you were at police headquarters downtown. That’s it.”

  “Right. Kit, I uh … have some things to tell you.” I swallowed. “You’re not going to like it.”

  His face fell. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Actually, I don’t think so.”

  “Then why are you here? Did you break the law?”

  “Yes. Quite a few.” I held up a hand. “But for a good cause!”

  Kit’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But you’ve been grounded all week.”

  “Yeah. About that. A few days ago the boys and I stole a treasure map from the Charleston Museum. It led to tunnels beneath the Provost Dungeon, so we snuck out Friday night, broke in, and explored them.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “The tunnels run under East Bay, all the way to the Battery. We found Anne Bonny’s original hiding place, but the treasure had been moved. Then someone following us opened fire and we escaped by swimming into the bay.”

  Kit dropped to the bench beside me. “We had breakfast. You said you were bored.”

  “The pirates had left a poem as a clue,” I continued in a rush. “I called Aunt Tempe because she knows Gaelic, and then we needed Chance Claybourne because his father had purchased Anne Bonny’s cross. We snuck him out of his mental hospital, and he helped us figure out the treasure’s new location. Bull Island.”

  “Tempe? Chance Claybourne? Bull Island?”

  “Yes, we went there late last night. Kit, the clues were right! We dug up a treasure chest! But then the shooters showed up again—these whackadoo married curators named the Fletchers—and we got into a scra
p. We managed to knock them out and escape, but the chest was empty.”

  Kit’s hands floated to his face. “And?”

  “I suspected the treasure might’ve been moved again, and things pointed to Dewees Island, so we went there this morning. Before leaving we heard the Fletchers had been killed in a car wreck, which we thought was suspicious. When we got to Dewees Dr. Short attacked us. He’s a document expert. He’d teamed up with the Bates brothers, these thugs who work for a pawnshop guy in North Charleston. It turns out we were right—they’d killed the Fletchers! Anyway, we managed to disarm the three of them and get help. Sergeant Corcoran arrested everyone, only he’s not a cop anymore.”

  Kit winced. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Not on our side. Oh, I borrowed your 4Runner a few times. Sorry.”

  Kit got to his feet and strode to the duty desk. “Is my daughter being held for any reason?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then I’m taking her home.” Kit signed my release forms and fumbled for his keys, then spoke to me without turning. “Car. Now. No more talking.”

  I moved as quickly and quietly as possible, pleased that Kit hadn’t asked if we’d found anything.

  We’d fooled the police. I didn’t want to lie to him, too.

  “I’m taking out the trash,” I called.

  “Try not to commit any felonies,” Kit replied.

  “Very funny.”

  It was the following morning. I’d spent all night telling Kit what happened, down to the minutest detail. He’d taken special interest in how I’d deceived him. Mental notes?

  The only thing I’d held back was our powers.

  And what we’d found.

  In the end, Kit had posed just one question. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to move.” Tears streamed my cheeks. “I’ll do anything to keep my only friends.”

  The mood had been more pleasant after that. Kit decided that I’d committed so many fouls—been so irresponsible and reckless—that it was pointless to punish me.

  “What you did is incredible, Tory. You’re a remarkable girl.” Then he’d leaned forward, face tight with concern. “But you risked your life. Nothing is worth that. Not a job, not a place, not a treasure. I’m going to trust you to use better judgment in the future.”

  “I will, Kit. I promise.”

  I walked to the Dumpster and tossed our rubbish. When I turned, Rodney Brincefield was standing two feet from me.

  I jumped backward, mouth open, scream at the ready.

  “Hold on!” Brincefield raised both palms. “I come in peace!”

  “How did you find me?” I glanced around. No one else in sight.

  “I’ll admit I did some sneaking, but I mean you no harm. I’ve lived in this city a long time, and have a few friends on the force. One told me you located my brother’s body.”

  There was longing in Brincefield’s eyes. Pain.

  “Yes,” I said gently. “We found Jonathan in a tunnel beneath East Bay.” I hesitated. “He’d been killed by a booby trap. I’m very sorry.”

  “So he’d gotten close.” Though Brincefield smiled, his eyes were glassy. “That’s something, I guess.”

  “He was carrying a stone artifact,” I said. “We used it to reach the final chamber. We’d have failed without your brother.”

  “Was it there? The treasure?”

  I shook my head. “It had been moved. Later we found a chest, but it was empty. Bonny’s legend was a fraud.”

  Brincefield’s face seemed to crumple in on itself. I could practically read his thoughts. His brother had died for nothing.

  Maybe it was unwise, but I couldn’t resist. This Bonny-obsessed old man needed closure.

  “We did find something,” I whispered. “In another place. We’ve kept it secret from everyone.”

  “Thank goodness! Tell me.”

  “It’s not much, just a bag of gold coins and some old religious drawings.” My tone reflected my disappointment. “I think Bonny removed most of her loot when the chest was relocated to Dewees.”

  Brincefield stilled a moment, then danced a jig, moving nimbly for such a fossil.

  I stared at his performance, totally confused.

  “Tory, you don’t understand! The drawings are the treasure!”

  “Come again?”

  “Jonathan researched Anne Bonny and Calico Jack for years. Collected letters, reports, whatever he could find. He shared his discoveries with the only person who’d listen. His little brother. Me.” Brincefield was beaming. “Jonathan knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “After Jonathan disappeared, I became as obsessed as he’d been. Finding the treasure ate at me.” Brincefield’s eyes grew distant. “In the end, I had to choose between the quest and my sanity. So, two years ago, I sold Jonathan’s collection. For a measly twenty dollars.”

  The letters! That’s how Bates acquired them.

  “Our chat at the yacht club triggered the old itch,” he went on. “I even tried to buy back Jonathan’s papers. That’s when I learned that a group of teenagers purchased the collection the day before. I knew instantly who led them.”

  His look became sheepish. “I sorta kept tabs on you after that.”

  My arms folded. “The ghost tour. Brunch at the country club.”

  Brincefield nodded. “Sorry.”

  “Accepted. Now what did Jonathan know about the treasure?”

  The gleam returned to his eyes. “In 1718, Calico Jack captured a Spanish galleon sailing from Cadiz. The ship carried a wealthy Spaniard named Miguel de Fernan Ortega. Ortega was traveling to the New World to assume the governorship of Maracaibo.”

  “Okay.” Still lost. “Why does that matter?”

  “Because of what he had in his luggage!” Brincefield’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Ortega was a known collector of antiquities. Just before disembarking, he’d publicly boasted of a recent acquisition.”

  I saw where the story was going. “Jack and his crew stole it.”

  “Exactly. When the British captured Calico’s Jack’s ship—”

  “The Revenge.”

  “—they inventoried the hold.”

  Brincefield held up a single finger. “One item was notably absent.”

  “The papers we found?”

  “Yes! Jonathan burned the king’s official report to keep his discovery secret, always believing that Anne Bonny took the document for herself.”

  “So the pages have value?”

  Brincefield’s grin stretched wider than the Mississippi. “Of course.”

  “And you’re going to tell me?” I coaxed.

  “Yes.” The old man’s face grew solemn. “You found my brother. Soon I’ll be able to lay him to rest. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Thank you.”

  I waited.

  “Research the Abbey of Kells.” Brincefield winked. “You’ll find it worth your while.”

  “WHAT’S THIS ALL about?”

  Videoconference. Hi sat at his desk, dressed in his favorite Puma tracksuit. “I’m grounded for life, you know. My mother almost confiscated my modem.”

  Shelton nodded. “If we weren’t moving to Cali, I’d be in permanent lockdown. Good thing my parents feel responsible somehow. They think I was acting out misplaced aggression, or some such psychobabble. Works for me.”

  Ben’s face filled a third box on my screen. He was at his usual place on the couch in his father’s den, absently spinning a gold coin on the coffee table. “My guess. She wants to talk about the doubloons.”

  Before turning in Short and the Bates brothers, Hi and Shelton hid the pouch and pages in a locker on Sewee. Secrecy seemed prudent. There are few rules regarding buried treasure, and we’d decided to take no chances.

  “Actually, that’s not it.”

  I was a bundle of nerves. My news was colossal.

  Knowing me as they did, the boys sensed something was up.

  “Brincefield ambushed me by the Dumpster this mornin
g.”

  All three talked at once.

  “Relax,” I said. “We were wrong about him. Brincefield was just obsessed with finding his brother. He wanted to thank us.”

  “Not buying it,” Shelton was shaking his head. “That man turns up everywhere. I think he’s a few beers short of a six pack.”

  I chose my next words carefully. “Brincefield had some interesting things to say about the pages we found.”

  “How did he know about them?” Ben asked in surprise.

  I relayed our conversation.

  “That’s great!” Hi was pumped. “Between the document and the gold coins, we might still rack up a decent payday. Maybe I could bribe my parents to release me.”

  I tried to keep my own excitement in check. “This afternoon, I went back to the manuscript library.”

  “What?” Shelton said. “Why?”

  “They have another document guy, Dr. Andrews. I wanted an expert opinion.”

  Hi nodded. “Smart idea. Could he say what the pages are worth?”

  “How’d you get downtown?” Ben frowned. “Did you tell Kit about our find?”

  “No way. I took the ferry, then a bus. Kit had a staff meeting at LIRI, so he was out on Loggerhead.” I shrugged. “What’s one more secret trip at this point?”

  “What did the guy say?” Hi asked impatiently.

  A smile spread my face. “The pages appear to be a lost section of the Irish Book of Kells.”

  “That rings a faint bell,” Shelton said.

  “Dear Lord.” Hi’s jaw went slack. He knew.

  “What?” Ben sounded a bit defensive.

  “The Book of Kells is an illustrated version of the Christian Gospels.” I tried not to rush my explanation. “It dates to the ninth century.”

  “Where was it made?” Shelton asked.

  “Scholars think the book was created at an abbey on Iona, a small island off the Scottish coast.”

  “By whom?” Ben asked.

  “Followers of Saint Columba.” I glanced at my notes. “Later the abbey was attacked and the monks fled to Kells on the Irish mainland, taking the book with them. Then Vikings stole it in 1007. The manuscript was later recovered, but no one knew for sure if any pages were missing.”

  Ben scratched his chin. “What’s so special about it?”

  Shelton was totally transfixed. Hi appeared to be hyperventilating.