Authors: Kathy Reichs

Seizure (25 page)

BOOK: Seizure

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He didn’t move to follow. Didn’t move at all.

Instead, he kicked back against the fence and bobbed to the Lil Wayne track blaring through his earphones.

Moments later, a giant hand tapped his shoulder.

His brother, Duncan, looked a question at him.

With a sigh, Marlo paused his iPod and removed the buds from his ears.

“What, yo?” Marlo had to crane his neck upward to see his brother’s face.

Duncan said nothing. No surprise there. But Marlo understood.

“
I
don’t know, man.” Frustrated. “I ain’t never been down here, neither.”

Duncan frowned—which, for the big man, was practically a shout.

“What is this place, anyway?” Marlo turned to scrutinize the large stone building at their backs. “Some kinda white people church?”

Duncan folded his arms in a clear expression of impatience.

“You heard Pops.” Marlo spat in disgust. “Ain’t like this was
my
idea.”

Marlo stroked the Z-shaped scar on his cheek, an unconscious tell that he was considering something.

Finally, he pushed off the fence.

“Let’s see what’s inside real quick.” Marlo hitched his pants, then brushed pollen from his plain white tee. “I ain’t spending my whole damn afternoon on this shit.”

Wordlessly, Duncan followed Marlo up the steps.

“These youngins sure be pissing me off,” Marlo grumbled. “I should be tending my
business
, not wasting time down here with the damn tourists.”

Duncan didn’t comment, a moving, breathing statue come to life.

At the entrance Marlo tugged a door open. Paused. Peered into the lobby.

“Pops better know what he’s talking about.”

Marlo hated big buildings like this. Imposing. Official looking. They reminded him of the schools he’d attended before finally dropping out. Of the failed expectations, the humiliation of needing help but being too proud to ask.

“Better be right,” Marlo muttered before stepping inside, the giant shadow of his brother looming on his heels.

CHAPTER 40

B
ack 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 beagáinín 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?”

“
Níl agam ach beagáinín 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.”

CHAPTER 41

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.

BOOK: Seizure

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