Pirate

  “If there was, I’d know. There wasn’t.”

  Fisk narrowed his gaze, stepping in closer to her. “Then what are you digging around for? Because those don’t look like artifacts in that envelope.”

  “You said it was round, with symbols? I remember a drawing of something similar.” She shoved the box toward him. “You’re certainly welcome to look yourself.”

  He picked up a stack of papers from the box, then nodded at Ivan and Marlowe. “Keep an eye on those two.”

  Sam turned his attention to his wife. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “You shouldn’t have come back.”

  “I was worried. The ambulance that was supposed to be filled with explosives never showed.”

  “A needed ruse,” Fisk said without looking up from the papers he was shuffling through. “It worked.”

  “So,” Remi said, ignoring the man, her gaze moving to Sam’s wrists and the zip tie around them, “I was a tad worried about your safety.”

  Sam smiled at her, then glanced at Miss Walsh, who was going through the papers, but with a bit more care than Fisk, undoubtedly because she was more worried about preserving history. Or maybe she realized once this item was found, their lives were forfeit.

  Fisk held up a yellowed document, then took a step back. “This is it.”

  Miss Walsh froze.

  Sam had been trying to loosen the plastic tie around his wrists as he kept his eye on Ivan, who was watching Fisk for further instructions. Fisk, though, seemed in awe of his discovery, almost forgetting the others were there. Then, suddenly, he looked up. His gaze met Ivan’s, then Marlowe’s. “Meet me upstairs when you’re done. I’ll send Jak down to help.”

  He walked out.

  Not good, Sam thought. “You only have two bullets in that gun,” he told Ivan.

  “No worries. Got more in my pocket. And Marlowe’s itching to try out his new dagger.”

  Marlowe held up the gleaming blade and smiled at Miss Walsh.

  She took a step back, her face paling.

  Remi took a frustrated breath. “For heaven’s sake, if you’re going to kill us, at least let me put my shoes on and die with dignity. Here,” she said to Sam, holding her clutch almost to his chest so that he had no choice but to reach up with his bound hands and take it from her. She bent over, making a show of putting her high heels on her feet.

  Ivan sneered at her as if he couldn’t believe she had the audacity to worry about her appearance at a moment like this. Sam gripped the purse, only then realizing what was hidden under the flap. The brass star. And here he’d been hoping for a knife to cut the zip tie.

  Suddenly, Marlowe grabbed Miss Walsh, pushing the dagger against her carotid.

  Sam let go of the purse as he rose, then hurled the star. It struck Marlowe’s neck. The man’s eyes widened as he dropped the dagger, then grasped at his throat, unable to breath. He staggered back, crumpling to the ground next to Ivan, who’d just leveled his gun at Remi. Sam rushed forward, shoving Ivan’s gun hand upward as he fired. He struggled with Ivan, straining against the zip tie while trying to get ahold of the gun. Ivan fired again, the shot so close to Sam’s head, he felt the sting of gunpowder on his cheek. Ivan gripped the empty weapon, swung at Sam, then blindly reached behind him, grabbing the maul from the table. Sam jumped back as the sledgehammer narrowly missed him. He ducked as it came down again, then rammed Ivan in the chest with his shoulder. The maul fell from Ivan’s grasp and he tripped, stumbling into the table behind him.

  “Run!” Sam said.

  Remi pulled Miss Walsh from the room. Ivan grabbed the broken mace, holding the spiked ball in his fist, then came at Sam. Hands still tied, Sam dove for the leather shield on the table. He swung around, bringing it up. The mace skidded across the leather, piercing through it. Sam shoved the shield into Ivan’s face, pushing him back.

  Ivan tripped over Marlowe’s body and crashed to the floor.

  Sam threw the shield at him, then ran from the room. Remi and Miss Walsh were up ahead, racing down the hall.

  They stopped at the intersection, one hall leading back to the museum, the other up toward the emergency exit. “Which way?” Remi asked.

  Miss Walsh looked both directions, too shocked to make a decision.

  “Exit,” Sam said, hoping that the grounds would be filled with patrons who were waiting outside due to the alarm. Get lost in the crowd.

  They raced up the stairs, bursting out the door, only to find they were far from the front entrance and any crowd. Instead, they stood in a dark passage between buildings, used only by maintenance.

  They needed to get to the street outside the museum grounds. At the moment, their only choice was to turn left or right. Sam chose left, then stopped in the next doorway, where a shallow stairwell led down to another basement office. “Over here,” he said, urging them into the darkened stairs just as they heard the squeak of the emergency exit door opening, then slamming shut.

  Ivan’s booted feet scraped the gravel on the pavement just above them as he came to a stop, looking around, the small pistol in his hand.

  Sam drew in a slow, steady breath, pressing tight against the wall, as Remi cut the zip tie from his wrists with his pocketknife. Suddenly, Ivan turned. They froze as he walked in their direction, then stopped, so close that Sam could almost have reached up and grabbed the man’s ankles. Ivan pulled out his phone and made a call. “Marlowe’s dead . . . No. Lost them. I’ll check the grounds. You watch the streets . . . Do not leave here until you find them. The boss wants them—”

  A power generator in the next building kicked on, covering the remainder of his conversation. Sam watched Ivan walk off in the other direction, disappearing around the corner.

  Satisfied they were safe for the moment, he looked over at both women. “You okay?”

  They nodded.

  “Good. Let’s get out of here.” He eyed the door behind him. “Does this lead anywhere?”

  Miss Walsh, having recovered somewhat, shook her head. “Just the maintenance office. No inside entrance. Shouldn’t we just call the police?”

  “I’d like to make sure we’re alive to give our statements. How do we get back inside?”

  “The easiest and quickest way,” Miss Walsh said, “is back the way we came. But they took my key card.”

  “I have one,” Remi said, holding up her purse. “Borrowed it from another employee.”

  “That’s my girl.” He climbed the stairs, then stopped at the top, waited to make sure it was clear, then motioned the others to come up. “Straight to the other door,” he said, bringing up the rear.

  They filed in, Sam not relaxing until the door was shut tight behind them.

  “We’ll head to the security offices,” Miss Walsh said. “We’ll be safe there until the police arrive.”

  “This document they took,” Sam asked her as they walked, “did you happen to get a good look at it?”

  “It was a pen-and-ink sketch.”

  “Of what?”

  “A round object with symbols on it. I must have seen it back when I first started cataloguing the Herbert Collection because I knew right away what he was talking about when he described it.”

  “Any chance you might remember any of the symbols on it?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Sorry.”

  Hours later, Sam and Remi finally returned to their hotel room, exhausted. Side by side on the bed, they stared up at the ceiling. Remi reached over, grasping Sam’s fingers. “I can’t believe we were that close.”

  “A good effort. Just not good enough.”

  “How is it that he’s been one step ahead of us?”

  A good question, Sam thought. They’d stopped the leak. Archer had assured him that Bree had not contacted her cousin since they confirmed she’d been the source. And still
they were constantly behind with every step they took. “They did have several days’ head start.”

  “Maybe Selma has some news for us.”

  “You want to call or should I?”

  When Remi didn’t answer, he looked over at her. She was fast asleep. He watched her for several moments, thinking about the mixed emotions of that night’s events. He knew Fisk never intended to let them walk out of there, and while Sam wasn’t about to simply give up and die without a fight, he’d been okay knowing that Remi was outside and safe. At least until Ivan dragged her into the room.

  His lovely wife had risked her own life to rescue him. And she’d had the brains to grab a weapon in the process.

  He listened to the sound of her even breathing as she slept next to him and he smiled in the dark, thinking about the way she’d insisted that she be allowed to put on her shoes.

  “Good one, Remi,” he whispered.

  She stirred slightly but didn’t waken.

  When he woke, it was to the sound of the phone ringing. He opened his eyes, surprised to see sunlight through the window, his fog-filled brain trying to remember where they even were. Hotel, he realized as Remi blindly reached for her cell phone, then put it to her ear, her voice hoarse as she said, “Hello . . . ? Wait . . . What?”

  “Who is it?” Sam asked.

  “Miss Walsh.” She propped herself on one elbow listening, then turned to Sam. “She knows where to find that circle with the symbols.”

  Thirty-five

  How could we have been so blind?” Remi asked.

  “Easy,” Sam said, hitting the gas harder. The long stretch of country road before them was empty, which made the getting there that much faster. He checked his mirrors, even though he was fairly confident that they weren’t being followed. Why would they be? Fisk had gotten what he came for. “It was hidden in plain sight, and we weren’t looking in the right place.”

  Or, rather, when they were looking, they didn’t know what they were looking at. They did now, and he only hoped that they hadn’t made a grave mistake by chasing after the false lead at the museum.

  They made good time, and Sam relaxed slightly as he turned onto the dirt road that led to Grace Herbert-Miller’s farm. As before, the chickens scattered as they pulled up in front, the geese honked, and the few goats that had wandered up to the split-rail fence bleated their arrival.

  Sam and Remi walked across the graveled drive to the cottage, their footsteps crunching beneath them. No one was approaching this farm without being noticed, Sam thought as he knocked on the front door.

  There was no answer.

  He stepped back, glanced up at the chimney. No smoke. “Maybe we should have a look around. Make sure everything’s okay.”

  Remi nodded but didn’t comment. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was. Something had happened to the Herbert-Millers.

  They walked around to the side, the brick path thick with moss, making it slippery in some areas. Diamond-paned windows reflected the sunlight as they passed, the white lace curtains inside preventing Sam from seeing in. Around back, a well-tended vegetable garden was fenced off, but a few chickens had found their way in, pecking for grubs between rows of carrots and celery.

  Two steps led up to the back door, painted forest green, and Sam noticed fresh gouges in the wood near the lock as though someone had recently tried—or managed—to gain entry. “Not what I was hoping to see.”

  “Definitely not,” Remi replied.

  He was just reaching for the handle when he heard the loud chorus of chickens, geese, and goats out front, followed by the sound of a car’s tires on the gravel drive.

  “That,” Remi said, “is one heck of an alarm. Maybe we should look into getting one ourselves.”

  “I’m not sure Zoltán could resist the temptation of fresh chicken for lunch.”

  “Good point.”

  They retraced their steps, Sam taking the lead. At the front of the house, he signaled for Remi to wait as he peaked around the corner. Grace Herbert-Miller was getting out of the front passenger seat of a late-model blue Fiat that had pulled up behind their rental car. Judging from her red and black flowered dress, black wool coat, and the small black hat with red buds decorating one side, she’d just returned from church.

  What he didn’t see was her husband.

  Not wanting to alarm the woman, he waved Remi forward, and together they walked out to greet her as she said good-bye to the driver.

  She saw them and smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I certainly wasn’t expecting you today . . .”

  “Mrs. Herbert-Miller,” Sam said, smiling in return. “Sorry to drop in unexpectedly. I was hoping to have a word with you and your husband. Is he home?”

  “Unfortunately, no. He left early this morning to visit his brother, who’s been quite under the weather. But do come in.”

  She started for the front door. Sam reached out and touched her arm. “Actually,” he said, “I’m a little worried that someone might have broken into your house.”

  Surprisingly, she laughed, then started forward again, pulling her keys from her purse. “I doubt that. We’re so far out in the country, who would waste their time? It’s not like there’s anything of value in there.”

  “Even so, it looks like someone may have gone in through the back door.”

  Together, the three walked around to the back, and Sam pointed out the gouges in the wood by the lock.

  “Oh dear.”

  He reached out, opened the door. “It was locked, I assume.”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “I’m sure they’re gone,” he said. “But, frankly, I’d rather not take any chances.”

  “It will take forever before the police arrive. We’re so far out.”

  “I can check while you call from Remi’s cell phone.”

  “Please.”

  He pushed the door open, listening a moment before entering. Behind him, he heard Remi saying, “Don’t worry. He’s very good at this.”

  Then Grace replying, “Why would anyone break in?”

  The back door led into a mud porch, rain boots neatly placed on the floor beneath slickers that hung above them on the wall. He passed through the small kitchen, drawing his gun from its holster. Undoubtedly, they’d come for one thing only, and, sure enough, that’s exactly what he found was missing. Regardless, he checked the rest of the house, then holstered his gun before joining the two outside. “They’re gone.”

  Remi said, “The police are on their way.”

  Grace, her face pale, asked, “Is anything missing?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sam said, leading them to the front of the house, then pointing to the wall near the front door.

  She looked up at the empty space between the two paintings and below the family crest. “The shield? Why on earth would anyone steal that?”

  “We believe,” Sam said, “that the symbols on the shield boss were used in creating an old code to decipher a map.”

  “A shield boss? I’m not sure what that is.”

  “It’s the round brass seal at the center of the shield. It’s a decorative piece used to connect the handle to the shield itself.”

  She stared at the wall, then turned toward Sam. “You’re certain it hides a code? It was just a pretty Celtic design.”

  “It’s what was around the border of that design on the edge of the circle. Not the Celtic interlacing in the center.”

  “That’s . . .” Grace put her hand on her chest, shaking her head. “I think I need to sit down.”

  “Here,” Remi said, stepping forward and taking her by the arm, leading her into the parlor. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Thank you, no. I’m fine.”

  Sam took a seat in the chair across from Grace. “You said something about two men who came by just
before we did asking about the artifacts you’d inherited.”

  She nodded.

  “Would you be able to describe them?”

  “I think so . . . Do you think they . . . ?”

  “If it’s the same men we’ve run into, then yes.”

  “But why?”

  “This code I mentioned. We’re not sure, but it’s possible the map it deciphers is to some treasure.”

  Her brows went up. “That old legend?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Well, yes. But it was just one of those stories told at bedtime. No one actually believed.”

  “This legend,” Sam said, wanting to keep her on point before the police arrived. “Can you tell us the story?”

  “It’s been so long . . .” She leaned back in her seat, her glance straying to the empty space on the wall. “I couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. It was at my cousins’ . . . They teased me because I was a girl, therefore couldn’t be part of it.”

  “Part of what?”

  “The protectorship. I remember my oldest cousin teasing me, saying, ‘Don’t you know anything? You have to be a boy. Girls can’t be protectors.’” She gave a slight shrug. “Or something like that.”

  “Protector of what?”

  “King John’s Treasure, of course.”

  Thirty-six

  Remi was certain she’d misunderstood Mrs. Herbert. “King John, as in King Richard’s brother?”

  “The same,” Grace said.

  “That’s supposed to be quite the treasure,” Remi said. “Over seventy million pounds, if I recall correctly.”

  “But the stories aren’t real, are they? Why on earth would anyone believe them?”

  “Hard to say,” Sam said. “What exactly do you recall from the story you heard?”

  “Well . . .” She looked at Sam. “They were more like fairytales than anything else. King John asked William the Marshal to hide the crown jewels to save England. The treasure being lost in the fens was all a ruse so that the young crown prince wouldn’t be attacked. Or something along those lines. As I said, I never paid much attention. Just stories I heard my uncle telling my cousins when we were children.”