Thriller (54 page)

Nick could only twist frantically like a spider impaled. Then Nick

reached inside his jacket for a bone-handled dagger Lord Hawke

had given him for protection. He plunged that blade deep into

the fleshy part of Old Bill’s calf. Roaring in pain, Blood didn’t see

Hawke approach from behind.

“‘The boy said the glass belongs to Nelson,’ Hawke said, the

point of his cutlass in Billy’s back. ‘I’ll thank you to return it to

him. Now.’

“‘Your tongue has wagged its last,’ Bill said, whirling to face

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Lord Hawke. They eyed each other. Bill lunged first, his blade

going for Hawke’s exposed gut, but this time it was Hawke who

spun on his heel in lightning fashion, whirling his body with his

flashing cutlass outstretched. And then an awful sound, the

sound of steel slicing through flesh and bone. The sound of steel

through
flesh and bone!

“There was an enormous howl of pain, and Billy held up a

bloody stump of his right arm.

“On the deck lay Blood’s still-twitching hand, bloody fingers

clenched round the shining golden spyglass.”

I stood again and looked down at old Hornby, who was staring into the fire with gleaming eyes.

“Ho! Hawke had Nelson’s glass?”

“Aye, we had it, for all love. The longitudinal and latitudinal

coordinates of the ambush, scratched into the gold in code. But

the Portugee spy, he’d given up that code long ago. Hawke read

off the numbers plain as could be and a marine wrote ’em down.”

“And that’s the end of it?”

“Not quite, sir. A bit remains to be told.”

“What, then?” I asked, almost pleading, for surely I could already see his story appearing under my byline in the
Globe.

“Please continue, Mr. Hornby, I beg you.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I should finish it, shouldn’t I? Because,

you see, I myself reappear in the story.” He chuckled, threw back

a swig, and got on with it.

“On the quarterdeck, the French captain Bonnard went down

on one knee and presented the sword of surrender to Lord

Hawke. Hawke took it and spoke, but there was no trace of pride

about him.

“‘Captain Bonnard, on behalf of the
Merlin
and His Majesty’s

Royal Navy, I accept your surrender. I will present your colors

and sword to my captain forthwith. You are a gentleman and it

has been my honor to do battle with you, sir.’

“The French struck their colors and every English heart lifted

as the Union Jack rose against the blue sky at
Mystere’
s topmast.

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Hawke stepped to the binnacle and raised the surrendered flag

of France into the air.

“‘My brave shipmates and comrades,’ Hawke began, ‘I hardly

know how to express my gratitude for your gallant—’

“‘Father! Father!’ came a tiny voice that pierced the silence in

a way that made Hawke’s heart leap up into this throat so quickly

he could scarce get another word out.

“And then Hawke saw the sailors part and a small ragged boy

racing across the deck toward him, followed by a grinning powder monkey who was living his finest hour. I was a bit bloodied

by my most recent encounters with Snakeye and his men standing guard below at the brig. But I had done my duty and I was

smiling, sir, believe me, as all the wee children came pouring up

onto the decks, laughing and gulping the sweet air.

“‘Oh, Father, it’s really you!’ the small boy cried, and Hawke

leaped down from the binnacle, falling to his knees and embracing his boy, Alex, as if he’d never let him go.”

A silence fell then, only a patter of rain on the roof could be heard.

“A marvelous tale,” I finally said, looking over at Hornby. He

seemed a bit overcome.

“My tongue hasn’t wagged so in years,” he said, looking a

might done in. “My apologies.”

“You do yourself credit, sir. Is there more?”

“Soon enough, the barky was under way again, and she had a

fine heel to her, and, looking aloft, I saw clouds of billowing

white canvas towering above, pulling hard for England. A corps

of drummers dressed with magnificent battle drums launched

into a stately military tattoo that rolled across our decks.
Merlin

was a fine, weatherly ship and I recall thinking that, if this breeze

held, we’d have no trouble completing our do-or-die mission.

We’d reach Portsmouth in time to personally warn Nelson of the

intended ambush.”

“And you did, did you not?”

The old fellow leaned forward as if he had a further confidence

to impart, and I saw his eyes welling.

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“We did, sir, and I was honored to be present at St. James’s

Palace on the occasion. Afterward, Lord Hawke himself came

over to me, Alex in his arms. He bent down and looked me

straight in the eye.

“‘Magnificently done, young Mr. Hornby,’ he said, and handed

me a canvas packet, but my eyes were too blurry to know then

what it was. Years later, I hung it there, on the wall there beside

the hearth. D’you see it?”

I rose from my chair and went to inspect the item, glinting in

the shadowy firelight.

“Yes, I see it, Mr. Hornby,” I said. I reached up and fingered

the old leather strap, careful lest it crumble under my touch.

Lord Hawke’s gift that day to the young powder monkey, Martyn Hornby, once a shining treasure, was now a tarnished memory of glory hung by the hearthside. It was Lord Nelson’s

spyglass.

“Go on, Mr. Tolliver, put it to your eye. That’s history there in

your hands, sir!”

I lifted the glass from the nail where it hung, and that’s when

it happened. The strap parted and the glass slipped from my fingers and smashed against the hearthstone. The lens popped into

the air, spinning like a tossed shilling, and I reached out and

snatched it.

“Sir!” I cried as I bent to retrieve the dented tube. “I’m dreadfully sorry!”

“No worry, Mr. Tolliver,” he replied kindly. “It’s seen far worse.

Look closely, you can see Bill’s inscription there by the eyepiece.”

But something far more intriguing had fallen from the tube.

A thin, yellow roll of parchment, tied with a black ribbon.

“Mr. Hornby,” I said, trying to control my emotions, “there appears to have been a message of some kind inside. Were you

aware of it?”

“A message, sir?” he said, getting slowly to his feet. “Let’s

have a look.”

I untied the ribbon with utmost care and spread the letter

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upon a table. We both looked down in utter disbelief. The letter

was signed and dated by Napoleon himself! Here is what it said:

Captain Blood,

Make for Cadiz at once under a full press of sail. Once our fleets

are united with Spain’s, England is ours! Surprise Nelson en

route to Trafalgar and all will be over. Six centuries of shame

and insult will be avenged. Lay on with a will! His Majesty

counts as nothing the loss of his ships, provided they are lost

with Glory…

N
.

I said in a daze, “Astounding, sir. And proof of the tale!”

“Yes. Proof enough, I should think.”

We were both silent, staring down at the remarkable document.

“How much is the
Globe’
s prize then?” Hornby asked, puffing

his pipe in a contemplative fashion.

“Seventy-five pounds, sir.”

“A goodly sum.”

I took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Hornby. There is one last

piece of business I must discuss with you. Cecily and I—well,

Cecily and I are to be married. Sorry. What I mean to say, sir, is

that I’ve come here because I should very much like your permission to ask for your daughter Cecily’s hand in marriage!”

He stared into the embers and made no reply. I was sure he

found me, shabby as I was, a poor match for his beautiful daughter. It seemed he couldn’t even summon the energy to deny me

my hopes. I got to my feet and stretched my weary bones. I

closed the notebook and slipped it inside my breast pocket, patting my jacket, finding some measure of hope and reassurance

for my future there.

I was about to head upstairs in search of an empty bed, for I

was sorely tired, when Hornby got to his feet.

“You’re a good man, Penn Tolliver. An honest soul. Cecily

said as much in her letter. I told her I should like to find that out

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for myself. It was I who suggested you make this long journey

in fact.”

“Well, sir, I don’t—”

“Take the Napoleon letter, lad, as your proof. You’ll win the

prize, all right. It’s yours. I’ve always wondered these many years

whether or not it was worth anything. Now I see that it is worth

a great deal, indeed.”

“You knew of the letter?”

“Of course. It’s how Captain McIver and Hawke proved the

existence of the plot to Lord Nelson himself!”

“But, Mr. Hornby, this letter is worth thousands of pounds! Ten

thousand at least! Perhaps more! I cannot possibly accept it.”

He put the battered glass into my hands and closed my fingers around it.

“Take it, lad.”

“And, about Cecily, sir? I don’t mean to push, but—I do love

her very much, sir, and I can only pray that in time you could

come to accept me as someone who only has her best—”

“I’d be honored to have you in the family, Mr. Tolliver.”

The old man put his head back against the cushion and was fast

asleep before I was halfway up the stairs, flying up them, a happy

man, determined to get a bright and early start next morning.

After all, I was a young man with a future.

Legal thrillers have always provided high drama and intense

conflict. As a child, M. Diane Vogt was a devoted fan of

Perry Mason. Every week, Vogt and her dad would watch Erle

Stanley Gardner’s Mason outsmart the bad guys on television,

matching wits with Mason in the process. Those evenings

were at least in part responsible for Vogt becoming a lawyer

and, many years later, writing legal thrillers. She is the author of the highly acclaimed and popular
Judge Wilhelmina

Carson
series.

Vogt believes that fictionalization of the legal world is

necessary to good stories. But, like Gardner, she takes little

dramatic license with the lawyers she portrays and the world

they inhabit. From an insider’s perspective, she shows what

actually happens in lawsuits, courtrooms and lawyers’ offices,

not just in criminal matters, but in civil cases—where most

people collide head-on with the law.

Karen Ann Brown is a young lawyer disillusioned with the

law’s compromises enough to leave her job as a prosecutor and

strike out on her own. She now works as a “recovery specialist,” with a cover identity as a travel writer. Karen is

forced to make tough choices when her clients’ needs are

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thwarted by gaping holes in the law, particularly concerning

children abducted by their parents.
Surviving Toronto
was inspired by the plight of Vogt’s good friend, who was embroiled

in a futile ten-year custody battle. It’s a tale of irrational

anger and rage, something all too familiar to many divorces.

But, luckily, Karen Brown is watching.

Dressed in black, Karen Brown was indistinguishable from her

surroundings. Ambient light was nonexistent in the expensive,

quiet neighborhood, where
crime
should’ve been nonexistent.

The microwave clock glowed 3:00:15 a.m.

She switched the Sig-Sauer’s grip to her left hand, raised her

right to rub her sore neck and stretched her shoulders. Man, she

hated custody battles. But this one was different, not because of

the challenge, but the parties.

Karen leaned back, ankles crossed, heels propped on the

kitchen table, and settled in to wait through the remainder of the

third night.

Jeffrey London, as malevolent a bastard as ever drew breath,

was far from stupid. He would try again to steal his daughter. If

not tonight, then tomorrow or another night soon. She felt it.

And she knew Jeffrey. Instinct and preparation had saved her life

before. She wouldn’t ignore them now.

Combating boredom, her thoughts wandered to Jeffrey when

she’d been in love with him. He was her first college romance

and she’d felt as treasured as a rare art object, although the warn-
422

ing signs were there. A chill ran through her. How narrowly

she’d escaped his bondage when he dumped her for sexier,

younger, more fun-loving and naive Beverly.

Ten years later, Karen felt not only grateful to have escaped,

but guilty. S
urvivor guilt
was what psychologists called it. Irrational perhaps, but real enough. Jeffrey had to marry someone.

Karen had tried to warn her, but Beverly’s inexperience prevailed

and the two began the destructive tango that led them all here.

Karen knew exactly why she’d accepted this job. A second

chance to save Beverly and her child before Jeffrey destroyed them.

Maybe Beverly had forgotten her worth, but Karen would not.

At 3:34:17, as if her thoughts had conjured him, she heard Jeffrey’s heavy tread on the squeaky plank decking. Karen pressed

the remote button to activate the security camera outside the