Kathy Reichs - Seizure

“That’s a strange idiosyncrasy to share.” Short looked at me oddly. “Normally, I’d consider such a peculiarity a fairly strong identifier.”

“That’s why I never write anything longhand,” I joked. “Too hard.”

“No one does anymore.” Short tsk ed in disapproval. “Cursive is a dying art. But. That aside.” His voice grew serious. “This letter is a historic treasure. We need to validate it scientifically, then discuss preservation.”

“And we will,” I hedged. “But for now, we’ll hang on to it.”

Short scowled. “Young lady, I have no intention of interfering with your ownership of this document. You can sell it for whatever you like. But we need to assure its safety until—”

“Dr. Short, you misunderstand. I don’t plan to hawk the letter on eBay. But we need it for the time being. Sorry.”

“Very well.” Cold. “Please wait.”

Lips tight, Short disappeared through the same doorway as before.

“Why are you pissing him off?” Hi whispered.

“We have to keep the letter. It might help us locate the treasure.”

Short returned with a notebook-sized metal case.

“At least use this container for transport.” Without asking for permission, he inserted the letter. “Take extreme care when handling these pages. They are irreplaceable.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

“You can thank me by returning the letter undamaged.”

“We will,” Hi promised.

“Then be off. I have work.”

Needing no urging, we headed for the exit.

Sudden thought. I hit the brakes. Turned.

“One last thing, Dr. Short.”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever heard of something called Half-Moon Battery?”

Short hesitated. “Why?”

“I’m curious about the original Charles Town dungeons.”

Short seemed to debate with himself. Then, “In 1771, the Exchange Building was constructed on the site of an older fortification known as Half-Moon Battery. A decade later, during the Revolution, the British converted the cellars into the Provost Dungeon. Seems Charleston’s darkest cells have always occupied the same space.”

“Thanks!”

Short watched us hustle from the chamber.

“Did you hear?” I practically skipped. “The Provost Dungeon was built on the ruins of Half-Moon Battery. Bonny’s original cell may still exist!”

“That’s the right area,” Shelton said. “The Exchange Building is on lower East Bay Street.”

“Why do we care about the dungeon?” Ben asked. “Aren’t we looking for some kind of tunnel?”

“Mary Read’s letter,” I reminded him. “Read said the ‘recent earthen works’ were close to Bonny’s cell. ‘Earthen works’ must refer to the tunnels depicted on the treasure map. I think the pirates used those tunnels to break Bonny out of Half-Moon Battery.”

“ If they broke her out,” Shelton said. “We don’t know for sure that Bonny was rescued. She could’ve been hanged.”

“She must’ve escaped! Otherwise, there’d be a record of her execution.”

Data bytes coalesced in my brain. “We just learned that Half-Moon Battery—the place Bonny was held—was located close to the East Bay docks,” I said. “That confirms we’re looking in the right place!”

“Stop.” Hi literally quit walking. “Let’s spell it out.”

We circled up on a street corner, one of our habits.

“Fact one,” I said. “Anne Bonny drew a treasure map, which hints that her fortune was buried in downtown Charles Town, somewhere close to the East Bay docks.”

“Some huge leaps there,” Ben said, “but go on.”

“Fact two,” Shelton said. “We found letters between Anne Bonny and Mary Read stating that Bonny was transferred to Half-Moon Battery, a Charles Town dungeon.”

Hi picked up the thread. “Fact three: Read’s letter hints at a possible breakout attempt. Fact four: the letter also suggests that the treasure tunnels lie close to Bonny’s dungeon at Half-Moon Battery.”

“Fact five,” Shelton added. “The dungeon was close to the docks.”

“Which leads to my deduction,” I said. “Because the treasure tunnels were close to Bonny’s prison cell, they might’ve factored into her rescue.”

We all paused to digest.

“Flash forward fifty years,” Hi said suddenly. “The Exchange Building is constructed over the remains of Half-Moon Battery. Its cellars are later converted into the new Provost Dungeon.”

“Okay,” Ben said. “Let’s assume the map’s treasure tunnels are somewhere near where the Provost Dungeon is today. What next?”

“We get inside,” I said. “Poke around.”

“And how do we do that?” Ben asked.

We shouted the answer as one.

“Ghost tour!”

I UPENDED A bulging Hefty bag and disgorged the contents.

Crumpled clothes tumbled to the paving stones. My fifth heap so far. Once again, I began sorting mismatched garments into smaller piles.

Friday morning. Seven a.m. Saint Michael’s on Broad Street.

My cotillion group was providing manpower for a winter clothing drive, and I’d been tasked with organizing donated articles. A mountain of black plastic bags loomed on my right, proof that parishioners had heeded the call.

Community service is fundamental to the debutante system, providing cover for the excess and redefining snobbery as “charitable work.” We participated in at least one major project per month.

Not that I’m complaining. Charity is the upside to an otherwise vapid tradition. Helping the less fortunate is the only part of cotillion I actually enjoyed.

I tossed a musty flannel shirt onto a stack, nose wrinkling at the smells of sweat and moldy tobacco.

Okay, maybe not “ enjoyed .” More like “ appreciated .”

While my hands worked on autopilot, my head moved ahead to the evening. We Virals would be taking the Fletchers’ ghost tour that night. Since it was the weekend, Kit had relented and given me a pass until ten o’clock.

I’d almost forgotten to show up this morning. Yesterday’s craziness had driven the cotillion event from my mind. Whitney remembered, however, and had texted a reminder thirty minutes before I was due.

Which explained my current look: an Outward Bound T-shirt, running shorts, sandals, greasy ponytail, and a double layer of Lady Speed Stick.

I’d volunteered to work outside. Alone. No one had objected.

Saint Michael’s is the oldest church in Charleston. Its famous spire rose two hundred feet behind me, gleaming white, an eight-foot iron weathervane crowning its apex.

The courtyard was pleasantly cool. White brick buildings formed the sides, shading a grassy enclosure bordered by a trestle-covered cobblestone walk. In the center, flagstones paved a circular space set with four curved benches, each now serving as one of my garment sections.

I was subdividing clothing by gender, then separating youth sizes from adult. Grabbing a pair of raunchy bell-bottoms, I tossed them on the proper stack. A college kid might buy them for a seventies party. Or maybe the style would come back. Who knew?

Jason appeared, lugging three more trash bags.

“They found these in a crawl space under the rectory.” Dropping the newcomers with a grunt. “Enjoy.”

“Fabulous.”

“Any interesting styles? I bet you could craft a wicked retro look.”

There’s a Brett Favre Jets jersey,” I said. “XXL. That’s worth what, two, maybe three bucks?”