Clive Cussler: Pirate

Relief at the sight of his auburn-haired wife, now seated by a cluttered desk, was short-lived as he angled the compact farther and saw the short, swarthy fellow holding a semiauto to the shopkeeper’s back. The two men stood in front of a large floor safe, the shopkeeper turning the dial. If Sam approached from this position, it put Remi between him and the gunman.

He didn’t like the odds. At the moment, he had no other choice.

C’mon, Remi. Turn. See me…

He rocked the tiny mirror back and forth so that the light caught her face. Unfortunately, she looked away, leaning toward the desk, as an audible click indicated the safe had unlocked. Pickering pulled open the door, revealing a smooth wooden box large enough to hold two bottles of wine.

The gunman stepped closer to it. “What’s in the box?”

“An old book. Just an antique.”

“Put it on the desk.”

He complied, placing the box on the desk near Remi.

Sam grasped the handle-heavy knife by its blade, stepped into the doorway, aimed, and threw.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

At that very moment, Remi jumped from her chair and swung the brass desk lamp against the gunman’s hand. Sam’s knife struck the man’s shoulder. A shot cracked the air as he twisted, his gun flying from his hand.

Sam rushed in. The gunman pushed Pickering onto Remi, then grabbed the box. He slammed it into Sam’s head as he ran past and out the door.

Sam wasn’t sure if it was the jangling of bells as the front door opened or the blow to his head causing the ringing.

“Sam…?”

It was a second before he realized his wife was speaking to him. “Everyone okay?” he asked.

“Are you okay?” she replied.

“Fine…” He reached up, touched his head, his fingers covered in blood. “Looks like I came in second.”

Remi set the gun on the desk, then pushed him into the chair she’d been sitting in moments before. Placing both hands on his cheeks, her skin warm, soft, she leaned down, searched his eyes, as if to ensure that he really was okay. “You’re always first in my book. Ambulance?”

“Not necessary.”

She nodded, took a closer look at his head, then turned toward the bookseller, who was using the desk to pull himself to his feet. “Mr. Pickering. Let me help you.”

“I’m fine,” the old man said. “Where’s Mr. Wickham?”

“Mr. Wickham?” Remi asked.

“My cat. Wickham…? Here, kitty, kitty…” A moment later, the Siamese wandered into the storeroom, and Pickering scooped it up.

“Well, then,” Remi said, “everyone accounted for. Time to call the police.”

Pickering eyed the phone as she put the receiver to her ear. “Is that necessary?” he asked.

“Very,” she replied, pressing 911 on the keypad.

The police arrived about five minutes later, sirens blaring, even though she told them the robber had left.

One of the officers drew Sam aside to take his statement. When he’d finished, the officer asked Sam to show him where the gunman had been standing when his weapon discharged. Sam positioned himself next to the desk, then demonstrated the man’s movement as Remi bashed his hand with the lamp. The officer stood where Sam stood, looking around. “And where were you when you threw the knife?”

“In the doorway.”

“Stand there, please.”

Sam did so.

The officer walked over, placed his finger on the doorframe. “Here’s where the bullet hit.”

Sam looked over, realized it was just a few inches from his head. “My lucky day.”

“Mr. Fargo. While I commend your actions, in the future might I suggest you call the police?”

“If this happens again, I’ll make sure to do that.”

More often than not, he knew Remi would take the proactive approach.

It was one of the many things he loved about her, he thought, glancing toward the front of the store. She had already given her statement and was waiting patiently by the door.

A plainclothes investigator, Sergeant Fauth from the Robbery Detail, arrived and was questioning Mr. Pickering, who seemed distracted — understandable, considering his age and the circumstances. He opened the still-unlocked safe as the investigator asked, “Was anything else taken?”

“No. Just the box with the book in it. There’s really nothing else of value in there. A few old coins. Spanish gold, but nothing that — well, nothing. The coins are still there.”

“What sort of book was this?”

Pickering shrugged. “Just a reproduction of an old book on pirates. The book itself is of little value. I have several on the floor. I can show you.” He walked out, retrieved one from the bookshelf, and set it on the desk.

“The box it was kept in, then? Did that have any value?”

“Not much. No.”

“Why was it locked up, then?”

“I suppose in hopes that if someone thinks something is valuable, he’ll ignore what really is?”

“Mr. Pickering,” Sergeant Fauth said, looking at his notebook, then at the bookseller. “Any reason at all you can think of that this man targeted your store?”

He wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow, his hand shaking slightly. The robbery had clearly taken its toll on him. “It may have something to do with a rumor that started about an original of this book being here. Why or who, I don’t know. But really, page for page, the book that was stolen is the same book as this copy. A reproduction only.” He patted the volume of The History of Pyrates and Privateers that he’d taken from the shelf.

The sergeant thanked him, then tucked his notebook into the breast pocket of his suit coat. CSIs arrived to dust for prints and photos. Once that process had started, the investigator handed his business card to both men. “If anything comes up — questions, something you remember — you have my number.” He started to walk out, then turned toward Pickering. “Anyone you want me to call? Family member? Friend? Maybe come by, help you out?”

“No one. I’ll be fine now.”

He left, nodding at Remi on his way out the door.

Sam glanced over at the CSIs, then at Mr. Pickering, concerned about his being here by himself. “Are you sure we can’t do anything for you?”

“No. Thank you, Mr. Fargo. I think after they’re done here, I may just go upstairs and take a long nap.”

Remi walked up to Pickering, giving him a hug. “I’m very sorry for what happened.”

He took a deep breath and smiled at her. “I can’t thank you enough. Your bold action may have saved our lives.”

Sam picked up Remi’s purse and handed it to her, wanting to speed their departure. “Ready?” he said, holding the door.

“Definitely.”

“Wait,” Mr. Pickering called out. “Your package. It would be a shame to have gone through all that and leave it behind.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the parcel from him, then handing it to Sam as soon as they were outside.

“I take it this isn’t a cookbook?” Sam asked.

“It’s not even the book I came for. It’s more a didn’t-want-to-go-home-empty-handed book. I think it’ll look nice on the table in your office.”

“We’ll certainly appreciate the backstory.”

They crossed the street, walking uphill toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. They’d been in tough scrapes before — and they would be again. And even though he had every confidence in his wife’s ability to take care of herself, he was never going to stop worrying about her.

It was this last thought that caught him each and every time. He reached over, took her hand in his, and she leaned her head into his shoulder. “You okay?” Sam asked after a bit.

“Me? Fine. I’m not the one bleeding.”

“Superficial cut. It’s already stopped.”