Pirate

  “I noticed. Speaking of, would you like something to drink before dinner?”

  “Yes,” Bree said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “What would you like? Coffee, tea, or something stronger?”

  “You know . . .” Bree took a deep breath. “I think something stronger. As long as it’s not vodka. Maybe a little sherry.”

  Their flight attendant, Sandra, appeared with a tray bearing cheese and crackers. Remi thanked her. “Two glasses of sherry will do nicely,” she said. “Actually, pour a scotch, too. Sam will undoubtedly join us.”

  Sandra returned shortly with the sherry and scotch, then faded into the background. Remi lifted her glass. “So glad to have you back.”

  “Thank you.” Bree gave a tired smile, then sipped, catching her breath as the alcohol hit her mouth. “That’s . . . more than I’m used to.”

  Remi smiled as Sam joined them at the table, taking a seat next to her. “So,” he asked, “how is Larayne doing?”

  “Fine, I guess. She was pretty upset, apologizing for what happened, saying it was her fault, that she brought Charles Avery into all this.”

  Sam picked up a couple of crackers from the tray. “We don’t know yet if he’s behind this.”

  “Larayne seems to think he is. She said she remembered one of them talking to someone named Charlie on the phone about looking for these markers.”

  “Markers?” Sam said.

  “Something to do with the map book. I have to assume it was related to this key or something.”

  “Did she say where?” he asked.

  “Something about some pit or oak on some island? Larayne was pretty blitzed,” she said as Sandra walked back from the cockpit.

  Sandra smiled at Sam. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Fargo. We’ve received clearance for takeoff.”

  “Hold up a sec,” Sam said, then looked at Bree. “Is it possible your cousin was talking about the Money Pit at Oak Island?”

  “It could have been. It was hard to understand her.”

  “What do you think, Remi?” Sam asked.

  “Nova Scotia?” She wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery, but she was worried about Bree’s well-being. “Only if Bree is up to the trip.”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  He turned to Sandra. “Inform the pilots we’ll need a change in flight plans. Halifax International. We’ll arrange to get Bree home from there.”

  “Very good.”

  When she left, Bree said, “What if they’re still out there? I’m not even sure I want to go home.”

  Remi gave her a sympathetic smile. “You can stay at our place in La Jolla until this is all over.”

  “Trust me,” Sam said. “That house is a fortress. You’ll be safe there.”

  Bree shook her head. “I can’t possibly impose—”

  “You won’t be,” Remi replied. “Between you and Selma, we may very well get to the bottom of this mystery. Speaking of, Larayne was saying you knew more about the history of this book . . . ?”

  “A bit. I know that Uncle Gerald bought it during an estate sale from a distant cousin on my father’s side. The so-called family history that was guarded by the male line of the Marshal family since the time of King John.” She gave a cynical laugh. “Of course, that can’t possibly be true because the book was written in the late seventeen hundreds. And, really, a book on pirates and privateers being passed down from generation to generation?”

  “Unless,” Remi asked Bree, “the value had something to do with this key everyone seems so interested in?”

  “Even that is historically questionable. After all, the key is to the maps in the book, maps that are related to pirates and privateers who came several centuries after King John. So you see, I don’t know how that could help much.”

  Remi smiled at her. “An interesting history nonetheless.”

  “You both have been so nice to me. After everything that’s happened—” She stopped, tried to smile, then broke down in tears.

  Remi waved at Sam to vacate his seat. Sliding out, she walked over to Bree, put her arms around the girl, then drew her from the table. “Maybe you’d like to wash up, then lie down for a bit? A good nap might be just the thing. There’s plenty of time to go over this later.”

  Bree nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  Remi walked the young woman to their sleeping quarters at the back of the plane, then returned a few minutes later. “Poor thing,” she said to Sam. “I feel horrible about what happened.”

  “She has a right to be upset. Imagine losing your uncle, then being kidnapped like that.”

  “She’s safe now and that’s what counts.” Remi lifted her glass, about to take a sip, then stopped, eyeing Sam. “So when did you say this week of rest and relaxation was going to start?”

  “Remi, why ruin a perfectly good moment? It’s not every day we get to sip twenty-five-year-old scotch while parked on a tarmac in North Carolina.”

  “Not trying to ruin it at all.” She sipped her drink, enjoying the moment. It was one of the things she loved about Sam. Being able to laugh in the face of adversity. “Just wondering if I should block out more time on my calendar.”

  “Day after tomorrow, then.”

  “Not tomorrow?” she asked.

  “We have a lot to do before we even get to Oak Island. Never mind that once we get there—assuming Bree understood her cousin’s intoxicated ramblings—there’s bound to be two or three angry mobsters who want to use us for target practice.”

  “We did get trip insurance, didn’t we?”

  “I knew there was something I forgot,” he said, snapping his fingers.

  “What do you think about this Charles Avery character?”

  He eyed his glass of scotch, swirling the liquid, thinking about everything they’d been through these last few days. Clearly, the man was dangerous, with no regard for human life. Of course, one had to look at all the facts, not just make opinions based on a few events. “Timing is everything, isn’t it?”

  “My thoughts exactly. He suddenly finds out he’s not going to be able to acquire this book and then the robbery and kidnapping occur?”

  Sam drained his glass, then reached for a pad of paper and a pen at the side of the table. “I’ll add his name to Selma’s research list. It might be a good time to find out not only who this Charles Avery is but what’s his interest in the map book.”

  Eleven

  Charles Avery examined the list of assets of his newest possible acquisition. Salvaging ran in his blood, and when he couldn’t be involved in the stealing of rare and valuable treasures, he whetted his appetite by searching for companies on the brink of bankruptcy. He’d buy them for a pittance, rip them apart, parcel out the remains, and make a tidy profit. Granted, there were a lot of casualties in the form of jobless employees when he finished, but collateral damage was the price one paid to succeed, he thought, turning the page, as his CFO sat across the desk from him waiting for his input.

  The numbers satisfied him and he closed the folder. “Has anyone else shown an interest?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  His CFO, Martin Edwards, had been with his company since its inception. When it came to finances, Charles trusted him implicitly. “Your recommendation?”

  “Considering the basis—” Edwards stopped as Colin Fisk walked into the room.

  “My apologies for the interruption,” Fisk said, his tone sounding anything but sorry, “but I have news that can’t wait.”

  Charles eyed him, trying to determine if the news was good or bad. The man’s face was a blank slate, he thought, turning to Edwards and saying, “The figures speak for themselves. Unless there’s something I’m not seeing?”

  “No, sir. My opinion is, we should proceed.”

  “Do so. Now, if you’ll
excuse us, apparently I have some pressing business that needs dealing with.”

  Edwards gathered his papers, then left.

  Charles waited until the door had closed behind him before addressing Fisk. “Is it done?”

  “We have the book and the key. On the way here as we speak.”

  He leaned back in his chair, relieved, and very much pleased with the outcome. “And the Fargos? They believed the story?”

  “Not exactly. They followed my men to the warehouse.”

  “Tell me they were dealt with.”

  “They escaped. But then, so did two of my men, so all was not lost.”

  Charles gripped the arms of his chair, wanting to lash out, break something. These Fargos had already cost him considerable time and money. “I want these treasure-hunting socialites dealt with.”

  “At the moment, they’re no more trouble than a thorn in our side.”

  “Thorns have a way of becoming infected. If they so much as appear on the fringes of any of my operations, kill them.”

  “I have a plan in the works.”

  “What sort of plan?”

  “Involving the two women. Pickering’s niece and daughter. Let’s just say they’ve been very useful up to this point. If things proceed as expected, we should hear good news within the next day or so.”

  Twelve

  Sam and Remi sat across from each other in the cabin of their jet, both enjoying the relative solitude of each other’s company. Remi was refreshing her memory about the history of Oak Island and the hunt for treasure in the so-called Money Pit while he read the report on Charles Avery that Selma had put together and forwarded.

  After a while, Sam sat back, then looked up at Remi. “I thought this guy’s name seemed familiar. I remembered reading about him in Forbes,” he said. “Made his millions raiding corporations. When he’s not buying cash-strapped companies, he fancies himself an expert in maritime salvaging.”

  “How is it we’ve never heard of him beyond that?”

  “We don’t run in the same circles. And judging from the number of people he’s put out of business, I wouldn’t want to.”

  Remi smiled as Bree wandered in, looking somewhat more refreshed from having had a nap. “Feeling better?” Remi asked her.

  “Much.”

  Sam nodded at a light dinner laid out on the sideboard. “Help yourself. Selma’s made arrangements for you to fly home tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thank you.” She looked over the paperwork Remi had spread all over the table. “Oak Island? You really think that’s what Larayne was talking about?”

  “It’s a logical assumption based on the information given. And the map found in the endpaper certainly resembles the island. Do you know anything about it?”

  “The basics. The constant hunt for a seemingly nonexistent treasure after a couple of teenagers dug up some stones and oak logs in the late seventeen hundreds.”

  “Seventeen ninety-five,” Remi said. “In fact, starting right around the time Pyrates and Privateers hit the market.”

  “Coincidence?” Bree asked.

  Sam glanced up from what he was reading to answer. “My opinion? Yes. Personally, I’ve never believed there was any treasure on Oak Island. And the various reports from scientists and engineers who’ve studied it over the years seem to confirm that.”

  Bree picked up one of the printouts on the island. “Then why would Avery’s men be headed there? Assuming Charles Avery is behind this.”

  “Judging from this,” Sam replied, holding up the papers Selma had sent, “I think we can safely assume he is behind it. As for why they’d go there in search of treasure? Not everyone believes the evidence.”

  Remi searched through the many photos on her tablet downloaded from the Pyrates book. When she found the illustration of the map hidden behind the endpaper, she held up the screen for Bree to see, then showed her the actual map of Oak Island. “My opinion, which is not based on any scientific background whatsoever, is that they believe this map in the book bears a strong resemblance to Oak Island.” She glanced at Sam. “You have to admit, this particular map does look like it.”

  “It also looks like a lot of other small islands dotting the Atlantic. It would be nice if they had satellite photos back then.”

  Remi wasn’t about to be dissuaded. “What about that mysterious cipher stone found in the pit at Oak Island declaring that two million pounds were buried forty feet below?”

  “You mean the mysterious stone supposedly found in the pit? One that’s never been seen—never mind the message on it is thought to have been a hoax.”

  Remi knew Sam’s dim opinion of any treasure being on Oak Island. “Be that as it may,” she said, “our kidnappers seem to think there’s some reason to head in that direction and so we should brush up on the lore of the island. And if that’s not enough to pique your curiosity, there are several known shipwrecks in the area. The one we’re looking for could very well be there.”

  Bree eyed all the papers scattered about on the table, telling Remi, “I’d be glad to help.”

  “And we’re glad to accept. Aren’t we Sam?”

  “We are.” He smiled at Bree. “Remi’s right. It doesn’t matter what she or I believe. If they’re heading there, there has to be a reason. And considering what they’ve recently put us all through—you especially—I’m making a point to find out what that is.”

  Of course, by the time they landed in Nova Scotia, they were no closer to discovering whatever secrets the island held. All they knew for certain was that millions of dollars had been sunk into the Money Pit by numerous groups over the last couple of centuries in the belief that a treasure was buried there. Remi hoped they’d learn something more by actually visiting the island.

  The following morning, Bree remained with the crew, insisting that she felt much safer there, while Remi and Sam rented a car and drove the hour from Halifax down to the western shore of Mahone Bay and across the causeway to Oak Island. Selma managed to reserve two spots for them on the tour of the famous Money Pit.

  Remi looked over at Sam as they got out of the car. “Do you think this is a good idea with all the tourists?”

  He put his arm around her, giving her a reassuring hug. “Those men who came after Bree and Larayne were careful to make sure there were no witnesses. Think about it. If they’re here on this tour—something I find unlikely—I seriously doubt they’ll do anything with so many others around. Safety in numbers.”

  And there were certainly a lot of potential witnesses here. Remi knew the island was popular, but she never expected the number of people on the two-hour walking tour. The weather was perfect, the sky blue and cloudless, a soft breeze rustled the evergreens on the outskirts of the parking lot near the tourist center.

  Men, women, and children gathered round as one of the guides, a young man in his twenties, called out to get everyone’s attention. Remi and Sam moved to the back of the crowd, Remi searching to see if Avery’s men had joined the group of about thirty tourists. “Quite the popular attraction,” she said.

  “No kidding. See any familiar faces?”

  “No. So what is it we’re looking for?”

  “That’s the question.”

  They pretended interest as the guide detailed the island’s history, moving them in the southerly direction of the famed pit, the depression in the earth near the sole oak tree. “If history is to be believed,” their guide said, “the two boys who found and first dug into the pit discovered layers of non-indigenous rock as well as oak logs every ten feet. They finally gave up after digging through about thirty feet. And there it remained, untouched, until one of them remembered it early in the nineteenth century.” He stopped to face the crowd. “Neither boy could have foretold the man-hours and the amount of money poured into the aptly named Money Pit in search of whatever secrets it might reveal. T
emplar treasure? Burial crypt of a long-forgotten high priest?” He took a dramatic pause. “No one knows. But the new owners of Oak Island intend to find out, and we’ll let you make up your own mind. So if you’ll follow me this way . . .”

  He led them inland toward the pit, relating more history as they walked. There seemed to be nothing that stood out beyond the known history: the pit, the rocks with symbols carved on them, the reported tunnels that flooded the pit every time someone dug deep enough.

  In fact, it was beginning to look as though they’d wasted two hours. After being led to the outer shore where another cryptic formation of carved rock supposedly pointed to the Money Pit—thereby strengthening the legend—Sam said, “Hear that?”

  The loud revving of a motorboat out on the water.

  “Over there,” he said. He nodded toward the small island just east of them, where Remi saw two men motoring toward it in a boat.

  “Is it them?” she asked as he lifted his binoculars for a better view.

  “Sure looks like it,” he said and handed the glasses to her.

  She adjusted the focus and watched as the boat maneuvered into the cove at the south shore of the island. One of the men got out, waded toward the shore with a shovel and a backpack, searching for something on the rocks. She recognized one of the two from the warehouse and their hotel in San Francisco. “Our book robber and one of the faux cops.”

  “Clearly, they know something we don’t.”

  After several minutes, Sam drew Remi from the crowd, not heading toward the pit but toward the outer bank through a stand of trees. He continued watching the men on the other island.

  “They found something,” he said. “They’re digging behind that boulder.”

  “Excuse me,” came a voice from behind them. “You’re not supposed to be over here.”

  They turned and saw one of the tour guides standing a few feet away, his arms crossed.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “We didn’t realize . . .”

  “You’ll need to rejoin the others.”