Clive Cussler - Pirate

“He seems nice enough,” Remi said.

Except for that theft part. Knowing the guy stole Madge Crowley’s papers bothered him. He gave a noncommittal response as he held the door open for Remi so that they could look over the brochures that highlighted the various tours. Sam was opening the maritime history tour pamphlet when Remi said, “This one sounds intriguing. ‘The Darker Side of Lynn. Tales of murder, treason, hangings, and witchcraft.’” But then she returned it to the rack. “Never mind. They only offer it in the summer.”

He handed her his brochure. “Then the maritime walk wins by default.”

Instead of following the guided tour as mapped out, they used it to look up points of interest as they walked through the historic sections of King’s Lynn. Remi used her cell phone to take a couple of photos of the Town Hall, a stunning, checkerboard-fronted building. They turned down a quaint, cobbled street, with its fifteenth-century brick-and-timber houses. About midway down Nelson Street, Remi pointed to a placard posted on an arched entrance to a narrow street beyond. “Devil’s Alley. I’d love to know the story behind that.”

Sam tried to find a reference to it in his brochure. “Not here.”

“Maybe it’s part of the Dark Side tour. The witches and murderers.”

They peered beneath the arched entrance to the alley just as a woman emerged, her gnarled hand holding on tight to a cane. Dressed head to toe in black, her shoulders stooped from age, she stopped when she saw them looking at the sign. She pointed at it with her cane. “He was there.”

“The Devil?” Remi asked.

“Aye. Came in on a ship one day. But a vicar stopped him with a prayer and holy water. The Devil stamped his foot and left his print in the alley. Or so they say.”

Remi loved old legends. “Let’s go take a look.”

Sam thanked the woman and was about to follow Remi into the alley when the woman said, “Watch out for Black Shuck.”

“Black what?” Sam asked.

“Shuck. The red-eyed Hound from Hell. Comes out after dark, it does. Heard tell it’s here e’en now. With the Devil.” She tottered off, planting her cane with each step, muttering to herself.

Sam glanced back at Remi, who was busy searching the cobblestones for some sign of the Devil’s footprint. The sun, well past its zenith, cast long shadows across part of the cobbled lane, accentuating every lump and bump, making it look as if an entire herd of cloven-hoofed creatures had left their mark.

“See anything?” he asked.

“No.” She took a photo of the alley anyway, and they continued on through, past the buildings, to a bordered walkway between two empty lots, following it until they reached the water at the South Quay. With time to kill, they strolled along the water’s edge until they reached Marriott’s Warehouse, where they stopped for a drink. Sam was always up for a Guinness, and they sat at a table overlooking the Great River Ouse. As the late afternoon turned to evening, a light fog swept in from the river, obscuring their view. When it was nearly time to meet their guide, they returned to the Custom House.

Nigel wasn’t there when they arrived and so they waited out front, the fog thickening as the evening wore on. Sam looked at his watch, saw Nigel was twenty minutes late. He called Selma, who gave him Nigel’s cell phone number. He left a voice mail saying they were waiting at the Custom House. After ten more minutes, he was about to suggest they call it a night when a figure emerged from the mist, walking toward them. Not Nigel.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“We’re waiting for Nigel Ridgeway.”

“Right. He was a bit late on his last tour. He did mention he was meeting someone back here, if that helps.”

“Thanks,” Sam said as the man unlocked the door and let himself into the building.

Remi wrapped her arms close about her. “I hope he gets here soon. It’s getting cold out.”

Sam pulled her close. A few minutes later, the same man stepped out, locking the office door behind him. He nodded at Sam and Remi as he left.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, stopping him. “Do you know which tour he was on last?”

“Pretty sure it was the maritime. That ends on South Quay in front of Marriott’s Warehouse. You might check there. A lot of the tourists stop after for dinner.”

“Thanks.”

“We were just there.”

“Let’s go back and check,” Sam told Remi. “Maybe someone there will know if he actually made it that far.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“We start looking for him.”

By the time they reached the warehouse café, visibility had lessened considerably. The gentle lapping of water on the quay quickened with an approaching boat, invisible in the fog. Diffused auras of light encompassed the street lamps, the glow barely reaching the ground.

They stepped into the café, looking around, but didn’t see Nigel. The hostess who’d seated them earlier smiled. “Forget something?”

“Looking for someone,” Sam said. “Any chance you’re familiar with a tour guide named Nigel Ridgeway?”

“I am, but I haven’t seen him tonight. He did have a tour, though. I seated some of the guests.” She nodded toward a table near the window where two couples sat, drinking wine. Sam thanked her, then took out his cell phone, telling Remi, “I’ll try calling him again.”

“I’ll check with them,” Remi said, walking toward the table.

Sam stepped outside the restaurant and hit redial. The phone rang several times, then someone answered, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Ridgewell?”

“Who — who is this?”

“Sam Fargo. We were supposed to meet. Where are you?”

Several seconds of silence, then, “The silos… I’m — I think I’ve been robbed.”

Nigel’s voice sounded groggy to Sam, and when he tried to ask where these silos were, he heard a soft beep as the phone disconnected. Sam returned inside the restaurant and saw Remi talking to the diners who’d been on Nigel’s tour. He started toward her but stopped when he saw the hostess returning to her station. “Where would I find the silos?” he asked her.

“Silos? They’re gone.”

“Gone?”

“Demolished several years back. Why?”

“If someone said they were at the silos, where would that be?”

“Just down the road.” She pointed south. “Can’t miss it. The lots are still empty.”

He realized she was talking about the vacant lots this side of Devil’s Alley. Remi returned just then, and Sam drew her outside. “Something’s happened to Nigel,” he said as they walked in the direction indicated. “He said he was robbed.”

“Has he called the police?”

“Not sure. You find out anything?”

“Not much. He was here but took off in a hurry.”

Sam took Remi’s arm as he quickened his pace, almost missing the pathway due to the thick fog. He stopped, listened, hearing nothing but the rhythmic splashing of water.

“What are we doing here?” Remi whispered.

“He said he was at the silos.”

“There aren’t any silos here.”

“There used to be.” He took her hand and led her down the path. Unfortunately, they couldn’t see more than a few yards in front and he stopped. “Nigel?”

No answer.

Sam turned at the sound of footsteps but couldn’t see anyone in the thick fog. Whoever it was continued on around the corner, their footsteps fading in the distance.

“Listen,” Remi said. “I think I hear something.”

Sam heard it, too. Coming from somewhere to their left in the lot. “Wait here,” he said, then climbed over the cable barrier that marked the pedestrian path. He took out his phone, turned on the flashlight. Sparse, long weeds and grasses grew on the rocky soil, looking undisturbed as far as he could see. But as he walked a bit farther, he noticed the grass and weeds were trampled, the rocky soil disturbed. Drag marks, he realized. He followed along, reaching a thick growth of shrubs near the adjoining building. Something rattled the branches down low.