Kathy Reichs - Seizure

“Men got inside that thing? Underwater? In the 1860s?” Hi shivered. “No thanks, pal. I’ll pass.”

“Good call, since the sub didn’t work out,” Ben said. “They found the real Hunley in 1995.”

“Where?”

“At the bottom of the harbor. Crew still inside.”

“But Hunley got her target.” Shelton read the sign next to the replica. “First sub in history to sink a ship. So she’s got that going for her.”

A nearby stand held an assortment of museum handouts. Hi grabbed one and began flipping pages.

“Oh!” he squealed. “The museum has the largest silver collection in Charleston! And a section dedicated to eighteenth-century women’s clothing!” He mock-sprinted to the doors. “I hope those exhibits aren’t sold out!”

“There’s a pirate collection, too!” I called after him. “Smartass.”

Inside, a blast of AC triggered goose bumps on my arms and legs. I’d forgotten the absurdity of museum thermostat settings. It felt like I’d entered an industrial freezer.

Enormous bones loomed to our left. “What the what?”

“The full skeleton of a right whale, one of nature’s goofiest-looking seafarers.” Shelton paraphrased from the placard. “This dude swam into Charleston Harbor in 1880 and never swam out. Tough break.”

“Somewhere in here are the remains of an extinct crocodile over twenty-five million years old.” Hi gestured vaguely past the whalebones. Then he turned, eyes wide, hands clamped together before him. “Can I go see it, Mommy? Please please please? ”

“Fine.” I waved, magnanimous. “Have fun. But no talking to strangers.”

Hi winked, then set off in pursuit of his fossil. Ben, Shelton, and I proceeded to a brightly lit info desk.

“Can I help you?” A plastic name tag identified the young woman as Assistant Curator Sallie Fletcher.

Sallie definitely dressed the part. Black cardigan. White turtle-neck. Gray tweed skirt. Beyond the clothing, however, nothing was dowdy.

Sallie was pretty, with elfin features and close-cropped black hair, stylishly mussed. A tiny thing, she couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds. There were rides at Six Flags for which she might’ve failed the yardstick test.

“You guys here for the knitting exhibition?” Sallie’s caramel eyes twinkled with good humor.

Okay, did I say she was pretty? Striking was more accurate. Even stunning.

Ben flushed, straightened. Shelton focused on his shoes.

Boys. I took the lead.

“We’re looking for the exhibit on Anne Bonny.” I didn’t mention the map. No need to seem foolish right off the bat. “We understand the museum has a pirate collection?”

“That we do. Unfortunately, the display is closed for renovation right now.”

Damn.

“Any chance we could get a look anyway?” I asked. “We came such a long way.”

Sallie tapped her lips with one manicured nail. An emerald-cut diamond sparkled on her petite third finger.

“I think we can pull that off.” She beamed a mile of teeth, devastating my male companions. “Franco’s on security today, and he never leaves the booth. Bad hip. And I know the other curator fairly well, since he’s my husband.”

I could sense Ben and Shelton deflate.

Tough break guys. Otherwise, you totally had a chance .

Doofuses.

“Follow me.” Sallie popped up from her chair. “No one else is here, so I can give you a quick peek.”

We wound through the museum, collecting Hi along the way.

Sallie led us up two sets of stairs and down a long hall to a room closed off by thick black curtains.

“I’ll text Chris,” Sallie said. “He’d hate to miss a chance to pontificate about Anne Bonny. He’s infatuated.”

I hid my impatience. I just wanted access to the damn exhibit.

“He’ll be right up.” Sallie closed her phone and stretched both arms above her head. “I’m so tired of manning that desk.”

In my periphery, the Three Stooges followed her every movement. Elbow-jabbing each other in the ribs.

Good Lord.

Seconds passed. Became minutes.

Sallie broke the silence. “What got you interested in our female pirate?”

“I just learned about her,” I said. “I didn’t grow up around here. She sounds incredible.”

“Oh, she was,” a voice called from behind me. I turned. A smiling young man was striding toward us.

“Franco?” he asked Sallie.

“In his cubby. The Braves are up in the fourth, so he won’t be out for a while.”

Chris wasn’t bad looking either. Pale blue eyes, collared shirt, weathered jeans, red hair curling from under a beat-up Mets cap. Though a bit soft at the belt line, the guy radiated a sense of ease.

Chris stepped past me, arm-wrapped Sallie, then introduced himself with a round of handshakes. “It’s great to welcome Anne Bonny fans. I meet very few people your age who know of her.”

“We’re very advanced,” Hi said earnestly. “I can even zip my own pants. Most times, anyway.”

“Thank you so much for letting us steal a peek at the collection,” I said quickly. “We really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.” Chris pulled back the curtain and waved us through. “But let’s not mention this visit in the comment box.” He fired a shooter at Hi. “And nice going on that pants zipping. That’s sophisticated work.”

Hi snorted, shot him a thumbs-up.

Eyes rolling, I slipped through the drapes into darkness.

I HEARD CHRIS pass me on the right.

Fiddling sounds. Then a floor lamp ignited, followed by another. Chris moved to the opposite side of the room and powered a third.

“Sorry for the gloom.” He foot-shoved an extension cord toward the wall. “The power is disconnected in this area. We’re re-jiggering the wiring.”

The lighting was soft and yellow, perhaps fifty percent of normal. The room’s corners remained deep in shadow. I wished I could flare to see better, but I wasn’t crazy.

We were standing in a windowless chamber about thirty feet square. Display cases lined the walls, each stuffed with antique pirate paraphernalia. Tattered banners. Replica ships. Gold coins. Daggers.

Beside each cabinet, a sign explained the contents in flowing, antiquated script. The room had a jumbled, eclectic feel.

I was captivated. Pirate gear is just too cool for words.

The room’s center held a small assemblage of dummies, each costumed in authentic pirate regalia. Foremost among them was a woman wearing a white linen shirt, a red and purple velvet vest, men’s breeches, wool stockings, and a mottled waistcoat. Gold hoop earrings, a silver pendant, a pearl necklace, a wide leather belt, ribbons, brass buckles, and sturdy black boots completed the ensemble.

The lady had flair.

She also had a wicked iron cutlass, three knives in leather sheaths, and a pair of pistols strapped to her chest.

“Meet Anne.” Chris gestured to the lady buccaneer.

“Amazing.” I crossed to study the mannequin. “Where was she from, exactly?”

“Her early history is hard to pin down,” Chris said. “The most widely accepted story places her birth in County Cork, Ireland, sometime before 1700.”

“Her father was a Kinsale lawyer named William Cormac.” Sallie had been so quiet I’d forgotten she was there. “He was quite prominent, but had an affair with his serving woman and got caught.”

“ Playa’s gotta play ,” Hi muttered under his breath. “Oof!”

My elbow, his gut.

Chris picked up the story. “When his wife exposed the adultery, Cormac was publically shamed and driven out of business. His reputation was shattered, so he fled to the New World with his mistress and their newborn daughter. That would be Anne.”