Pirate (8 page)

E
very creak in the house seemed magnified. The rain lashed against the windows, the crack of thunder made Bree and Larayne jump.

The police were just a few minutes away, but Sam wasn't about to relax until they arrived. The odd phone call had rattled the two women, and while it could have been a coincidence, the timing set everyone's nerves on edge.

Armed with a rusty shotgun that belonged to Larayne's late husband, Sam gave Remi his revolver, then had everyone sit in the front room while he stood where he could see out the window to the road beyond.

Remi was doing a great job keeping their minds off the interminable wait by peppering them with questions about the map book. And when Larayne was ready to flee the house—an idea that Sam was against—Remi distracted her by asking, “Why is everyone after this book?”

Larayne looked at Bree, saying, “I—I heard them talking about it. These—these people who showed up at my house. It was right before they brought Bree here. Before they forced her to call you about sending us the book.”

“What exactly did they say?”

“That once they got this map from it, they'd have everything they needed to find the key. If it was there, they'd get their money and they'd let me go.”

Bree nodded. “That's what they told me, too. That they were going to let us go when they got the book and their money. But they were going to have to find the key somewhere. Honestly, my heart was beating so fast, I may have misunderstood.”

“The book,” Remi said to Larayne. “What made them think it was
the
book?”

“Bree knows more than I do about that.”

Clearly, Sam thought, they were missing some important detail regarding this book's history. And the one man who might know what that could be was now dead. “What did your uncle have to say about it?”

“He said more research needed to be done. He was in the midst of doing that when Larayne first approached him about selling the book to Charles Avery.”

Charles Avery . . . The name seemed familiar to Sam, but he couldn't place why. There were other factors that bothered him as well. The timing and location of this kidnapping. Why drag Bree all the way across the nation to get this book? Maybe it had more to do with the isolation of Larayne's house, but that was another point that bothered him. “Larayne,” he said. “Is there any reason you can think of that you were singled out for this?”

“Of course. My father owned the book.”

“Beyond that, even. Did you speak with this Charles Avery personally?”

“I've never met him. He sent someone here to the house.”

“Has anyone else come to the house or contacted you about the book?”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“I just think it's strange that all this happened here, of all places.”

“You don't think that Charles Avery's behind this?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. But it's worth looking into.”

Larayne leaned back in her chair, then glanced at Bree. “Couldn't it have been someone else that my father may have contacted? You were closer to him, Bree. Did he say anything to you?”

“Not about anyone in particular. He did mention that he'd found something. But he said he wanted to check into it some more.”

Sam looked out the window, saw headlights in the distance coming their direction. He glanced at Bree, then back out the window. “When was this?”

“Around the time those articles came out about the theft of the endpapers from other first editions.” She looked down at the water glass in her hand, turning it in her fingers. “But then the robbery happened, and—” She turned an apologetic smile toward Remi, saying, “I never meant for any of this to happen. Not to you. I would never have mentioned the book to you if I'd known. I swear.”

“Do not,” Remi said, “blame yourself for what happened.”

The detective arrived and took their statements. He seemed particularly interested in the man Sam had shot. Probably because the body was gone by the time they got to the warehouse. “You're sure you shot someone?” he asked Sam.

“Positive.”

“Whoever's involved in this didn't want him identified.”

In the midst of all this, a CSI arrived, and Larayne, more nervous than ever, sipped at her vodka while she watched the woman dusting for prints. In Remi's opinion, Larayne had had far too much to drink—not that anyone could blame her.

It was nearly five in the evening when the detective completed his investigation, then offered to give Sam and Remi a ride to their rental car since they were going to tow the SUV for evidence.

Sam accepted, and Remi turned to Bree, asking, “Would you like to fly back to California with us?”

Bree seemed torn as she eyed her cousin. “I don't want to leave Larayne alone.”

“Don't worry about me,” Larayne said. “I'm gonna have a friend come get me. Go. I'll be fine.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm not alone,” she said, nodding to the woman dusting for prints. “If my friend doesn't get here by then, I'll get a ride to his place with the CSI. If that's okay. He's just a mile up the road.”

The CSI agreed, saying it wouldn't be a problem.

“Then, yes,” Bree said to Remi. “I'll go with you.”

Two hours later, they arrived at the hangar where the jet awaited.

Sam and Remi changed out of their damp clothes that were covered in glass dust from the SUV's broken window. While Sam was up front in the cockpit discussing their travel plans with the crew, Remi sat with Bree at the table in the main cabin.

Bree was talking on the phone. “Why don't you try to get some rest. I'll call as soon as I get home . . . Talk to you then.”

When Bree disconnected, Remi asked, “Everything okay?”

“I just wanted to check in with Larayne to see if her friend had picked her up. He did. She'd had quite a bit to drink by the time we got out of there.”

“I noticed. Speaking of, would
you
like something to drink before dinner?”

“Yes,” Bree said. “If it's not too much trouble.”

“What would you like? Coffee, tea, or something stronger?”

“You know . . .” Bree took a deep breath. “I think something stronger. As long as it's not vodka. Maybe a little sherry.”

Their flight attendant, Sandra, appeared with a tray bearing cheese and crackers. Remi thanked her. “Two glasses of sherry will do nicely,” she said. “Actually, pour a scotch, too. Sam will undoubtedly join us.”

Sandra returned shortly with the sherry and scotch, then faded into the background. Remi lifted her glass. “So glad to have you back.”

“Thank you.” Bree gave a tired smile, then sipped, catching her breath as the alcohol hit her mouth. “That's . . . more than I'm used to.”

Remi smiled as Sam joined them at the table, taking a seat next to her. “So,” he asked, “how is Larayne doing?”

“Fine, I guess. She was pretty upset, apologizing for what happened, saying it was her fault, that she brought Charles Avery into all this.”

Sam picked up a couple of crackers from the tray. “We don't know yet if he's behind this.”

“Larayne seems to think he is. She said she remembered one of them talking to someone named Charlie on the phone about looking for these markers.”

“Markers?” Sam said.

“Something to do with the map book. I have to assume it was related to this key or something.”

“Did she say where?” he asked.

“Something about some pit or oak on some island? Larayne was pretty blitzed,” she said as Sandra walked back from the cockpit.

Sandra smiled at Sam. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Fargo. We've received clearance for takeoff.”

“Hold up a sec,” Sam said, then looked at Bree. “Is it possible your cousin was talking about the Money Pit at Oak Island?”

“It could have been. It was hard to understand her.”

“What do you think, Remi?” Sam asked.

“Nova Scotia?” She wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery, but she was worried about Bree's well-being. “Only if Bree is up to the trip.”

“I'll be fine. I promise.”

He turned to Sandra. “Inform the pilots we'll need a change in flight plans. Halifax International. We'll arrange to get Bree home from there.”

“Very good.”

When she left, Bree said, “What if they're still out there? I'm not even sure I want to go home.”

Remi gave her a sympathetic smile. “You can stay at our place in La Jolla until this is all over.”

“Trust me,” Sam said. “That house is a fortress. You'll be safe there.”

Bree shook her head. “I can't possibly impose—”

“You won't be,” Remi replied. “Between you and Selma, we may very well get to the bottom of this mystery. Speaking of, Larayne was saying you knew more about the history of this book . . . ?”

“A bit. I know that Uncle Gerald bought it during an estate sale from a distant cousin on my father's side. The so-called family history that was guarded by the male line of the Marshal family since the time of King John.” She gave a cynical laugh. “Of course, that can't possibly be true because the book was written in the late seventeen hundreds. And, really, a book on pirates and privateers being passed down from generation to generation?”

“Unless,” Remi asked Bree, “the value had something to do with this key everyone seems so interested in?”

“Even that is historically questionable. After all, the key is to the maps in the book, maps that are related to pirates and privateers who came several centuries
after
King John. So you see, I don't know how that could help much.”

Remi smiled at her. “An interesting history nonetheless.”

“You both have been so nice to me. After everything that's happened—” She stopped, tried to smile, then broke down in tears.

Remi waved at Sam to vacate his seat. Sliding out, she walked
over to Bree, put her arms around the girl, then drew her from the table. “Maybe you'd like to wash up, then lie down for a bit? A good nap might be just the thing. There's plenty of time to go over this later.”

Bree nodded. “Yes. I'd like that.”

Remi walked the young woman to their sleeping quarters at the back of the plane, then returned a few minutes later. “Poor thing,” she said to Sam. “I feel horrible about what happened.”

“She has a right to be upset. Imagine losing your uncle, then being kidnapped like that.”

“She's safe now and that's what counts.” Remi lifted her glass, about to take a sip, then stopped, eyeing Sam. “So when did you say this week of rest and relaxation was going to start?”

“Remi, why ruin a perfectly good moment? It's not every day we get to sip twenty-five-year-old scotch while parked on a tarmac in North Carolina.”

“Not trying to ruin it at all.” She sipped her drink, enjoying the moment. It was one of the things she loved about Sam. Being able to laugh in the face of adversity. “Just wondering if I should block out more time on my calendar.”

“Day after tomorrow, then.”

“
Not
tomorrow?” she asked.

“We have a lot to do before we even get to Oak Island. Never mind that once we get there—assuming Bree understood her cousin's intoxicated ramblings—there's bound to be two or three angry mobsters who want to use us for target practice.”

“We did get trip insurance, didn't we?”

“I knew there was something I forgot,” he said, snapping his fingers.

“What do you think about this Charles Avery character?”

He eyed his glass of scotch, swirling the liquid, thinking about everything they'd been through these last few days. Clearly, the man was dangerous, with no regard for human life. Of course, one had to look at all the facts, not just make opinions based on a few events. “Timing is everything, isn't it?”

“My thoughts exactly. He suddenly finds out he's not going to be able to acquire this book and then the robbery and kidnapping occur?”

Sam drained his glass, then reached for a pad of paper and a pen at the side of the table. “I'll add his name to Selma's research list. It might be a good time to find out not only who this Charles Avery is but what's his interest in the map book.”

C
harles Avery examined the list of assets of his newest possible acquisition. Salvaging ran in his blood, and when he couldn't be involved in the stealing of rare and valuable treasures, he whetted his appetite by searching for companies on the brink of bankruptcy. He'd buy them for a pittance, rip them apart, parcel out the remains, and make a tidy profit. Granted, there were a lot of casualties in the form of jobless employees when he finished, but collateral damage was the price one paid to succeed, he thought, turning the page, as his CFO sat across the desk from him waiting for his input.

The numbers satisfied him and he closed the folder. “Has anyone else shown an interest?”

“Not yet, sir.”

His CFO, Martin Edwards, had been with his company since its inception. When it came to finances, Charles trusted him implicitly. “Your recommendation?”

“Considering the basis—” Edwards stopped as Colin Fisk walked into the room.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Fisk said, his tone sounding anything but sorry, “but I have news that can't wait.”

Charles eyed him, trying to determine if the news was good or bad. The man's face was a blank slate, he thought, turning to Edwards and saying, “The figures speak for themselves. Unless there's something I'm not seeing?”

“No, sir. My opinion is, we should proceed.”

“Do so. Now, if you'll excuse us, apparently I have some pressing business that needs dealing with.”

Edwards gathered his papers, then left.

Charles waited until the door had closed behind him before addressing Fisk. “Is it done?”

“We have the book and the key. On the way here as we speak.”

He leaned back in his chair, relieved, and very much pleased with the outcome. “And the Fargos? They believed the story?”

“Not exactly. They followed my men to the warehouse.”

“Tell me they were dealt with.”

“They escaped. But then, so did two of my men, so all was not lost.”

Charles gripped the arms of his chair, wanting to lash out, break something. These Fargos had already cost him considerable time and money. “I want these treasure-hunting socialites dealt with.”

“At the moment, they're no more trouble than a thorn in our side.”

“Thorns have a way of becoming infected. If they so much as appear on the fringes of any of my operations, kill them.”

“I have a plan in the works.”

“What sort of plan?”

“Involving the two women. Pickering's niece and daughter. Let's just say they've been very useful up to this point. If things proceed as expected, we should hear good news within the next day or so.”