Kathy Reichs - Seizure

None of the pew sitters uttered a word.

The boys gathered our things while I kept an eye on Short, Duncan, and Marlo. In moments we were ready to go.

“What’s the plan?” Shelton whispered. “We can’t just leave them here.”

“Cut me a break,” Marlo pleaded. “You’ll never see me again. That’s solid.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Telling Short to shoot someone was a dealbreaker. Hiram? A moment.”

I whispered instructions. Hi nodded, grabbed Shelton and Ben for a conference.

“I’ll stay with Tory,” Ben said. “Don’t want our guests getting cute.”

Shelton and Hi shouldered our gear and hurried from the chapel.

Ben and I leaned against a wall, eyes on our prisoners, pistols at the ready. The silence stretched. I grew edgy, worn thin by the pressure of keeping a loaded gun aimed at three human beings.

An eon later, Hi and Shelton returned. Hi flashed a thumbs-up.

“Now run down to the post office,” I told him. “There must be some type of security on this island.”

Hi hustled off again.

“Police?” Marlo’s fingers traced the scar on his cheek. “Come on. We can work something out.”

“Dream on. Shop’s closed.”

“You stole the map from the museum,” Short hissed. “You’re going to jail, too.”

“Maybe. But you killed the Fletchers. You’re going to answer for that.”

Hi appeared at the door. “You’re not going to believe—”

A familiar voice cut him off. “What in the world is going on here!?”

Sergeant Carmine Corcoran whaled into the chapel, sides heaving under a tan uniform stretched to its limits.

Had Bigfoot appeared, I’d have been less surprised.

“Sergeant Corcoran?”

“Tory Brennan.” Corcoran’s thick black moustache arced down in stern disapproval. “And the rest of the Morris Island hoodlums. Of course. Walking, talking proof that God hates me.”

I was still on tilt. “You work on Dewees now?”

“Laid off by the Folly PD.” The chubby face reddened between the mutton-chop sideburns. “Probably because of the embarrassment you brats caused me. It’s ‘Security Director Corcoran’ now.”

Corcoran’s eyes zeroed in on the guns I was holding. Widened. Moved from me to the trio on the bench. To the weapon in Ben’s hand.

“Are those real firearms?”

“These three tried to kill us,” Ben said. “Arrest them.”

“Who are they?” Corcoran tried to look everywhere at once. “Are you holding them hostage?”

Shelton snickered.

“I’ll take it slow,” I said. “These people attacked us. We—”

“Freeze! Just freeze!” Corcoran extended one hand, palm out, and yanked a bottle of pepper spray from his belt with the other. “I’m detaining everyone! No one move!”

“You don’t understand,” I began.

“You’ll turn those guns over, right Tory?” Corcoran was clearly uneasy. “No funny stuff?”

I sighed. “Cuff those three, Security Director. Then we’ll do whatever you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Unclipping a walkie-talkie, Corcoran began shouting orders to some unfortunate flunky. When finished, he clamped ZipCuffs onto each of our prisoners.

Satisfied, Corcoran turned. Ben and I passed him all three pistols.

“Wrists,” Corcoran ordered.

“What?” I said in surprise.

“You heard me. I’m detaining everyone .”

Sighing, I extended my arms. Corcoran worked down the line, zipping on four more sets of plastic restraints.

I slumped into the closest pew. Shelton joined me, followed by Hi and Ben.

“What a day.”

It was all I could say. The tank was empty.

THE REST OF that afternoon was a blur.

Interviews. Statements. We told our story over and over, then told it over again. Hours later, I’d had enough.

A director of the Charleston Museum arrived to collect the stolen treasure map. The squirrel went apoplectic when he spotted my writing on the back, was only partially mollified to learn my note was a record of Bonny’s cryptic poem.

Threats were voiced, but in the end he decided not to press charges. With two of his curators murdered, our larceny was low on his list of concerns.

A call was made to the Exchange Building, and an inspector was sent to the Provost Dungeon. Once Bonny’s bolt-hole was discovered, the atmosphere changed dramatically.

Dubious cops became fascinated listeners. Their stern frowns at our multiple petty crimes morphed into grins at our moxie.

Then Kit arrived.

“Tory!” Wrapping me in a fierce hug. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“What’ve you heard?” Testing the waters.

“Nothing! I received a message saying you were at police headquarters downtown. That’s it.”

“Right. Kit, I uh … have some things to tell you.” I swallowed. “You’re not going to like it.”

His face fell. “Are you in trouble?”

“Actually, I don’t think so.”

“Then why are you here? Did you break the law?”

“Yes. Quite a few.” I held up a hand. “But for a good cause!”

Kit’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But you’ve been grounded all week.”

“Yeah. About that. A few days ago the boys and I stole a treasure map from the Charleston Museum. It led to tunnels beneath the Provost Dungeon, so we snuck out Friday night, broke in, and explored them.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The tunnels run under East Bay, all the way to the Battery. We found Anne Bonny’s original hiding place, but the treasure had been moved. Then someone following us opened fire and we escaped by swimming into the bay.”

Kit dropped to the bench beside me. “We had breakfast. You said you were bored.”

“The pirates had left a poem as a clue,” I continued in a rush. “I called Aunt Tempe because she knows Gaelic, and then we needed Chance Claybourne because his father had purchased Anne Bonny’s cross. We snuck him out of his mental hospital, and he helped us figure out the treasure’s new location. Bull Island.”

“Tempe? Chance Claybourne? Bull Island?”

“Yes, we went there late last night. Kit, the clues were right! We dug up a treasure chest! But then the shooters showed up again—these whackadoo married curators named the Fletchers—and we got into a scrap. We managed to knock them out and escape, but the chest was empty.”

Kit’s hands floated to his face. “And?”

“I suspected the treasure might’ve been moved again, and things pointed to Dewees Island, so we went there this morning. Before leaving we heard the Fletchers had been killed in a car wreck, which we thought was suspicious. When we got to Dewees Dr. Short attacked us. He’s a document expert. He’d teamed up with the Bates brothers, these thugs who work for a pawnshop guy in North Charleston. It turns out we were right—they’d killed the Fletchers! Anyway, we managed to disarm the three of them and get help. Sergeant Corcoran arrested everyone, only he’s not a cop anymore.”

Kit winced. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Not on our side. Oh, I borrowed your 4Runner a few times. Sorry.”

Kit got to his feet and strode to the duty desk. “Is my daughter being held for any reason?”

“No sir.”

“Then I’m taking her home.” Kit signed my release forms and fumbled for his keys, then spoke to me without turning. “Car. Now. No more talking.”

I moved as quickly and quietly as possible, pleased that Kit hadn’t asked if we’d found anything.

We’d fooled the police. I didn’t want to lie to him, too.