She closed her eyes.
‘Because I’m gonna call him when we get in close to shore. Tell him he’s got to meet us out on the dock with the Devil’s Eye and the journal.’
Claudia was silent.
‘Then I’m gonna shoot him from the boat, make his head go boom like a ol’ melon. Like Gar’s did. Then I’m getting my stuff, ’cause he’ll have it there at his house. I figured his house is big, he’ll want the treasure where he can see it, know it’s okay,’ Danny said with a smile. Touching his fingers to her throat, taking the measure of her breath, savoring the moment. Flush with success at having bested Gar. She saw suddenly that Danny probably hadn’t had a lot of success in his life.
‘If he doesn’t have this emerald there, you’re screwed.’
‘Okay. I’ll shoot after he gives it to me or tells me where it is.’
‘The journal,’ she said. ‘Tell me again what it looks like, Danny. Maybe I saw it at Stoney’s.’
Danny studied her for a moment, touched her jaw – which ached still – with tenderness. Then he went to the cabinet in the stateroom’s corner, unlocked it with a key from around his neck. From a drawer he pulled a piece of paper, bleary with photocopy streaks. He held the paper above her face.
She wriggled into position where she could see the page, written in the flowing scrawl that passed for nineteenth-century penmanship. Sorting the words was a struggle: In late May 1820 a small force led by the schooner Lynx chased Laffite’s little fleet (being two schooners and a brigantine) down the Texas coast. Feeling ran high that Laffite might simply move south onto other Texas islands and re-establish his pirating base. Captain Madison was ordered to ignore the safe passage that Commodore Patterson issued to Laffite, which made me uneasy. Our word in the Navy should matter. But in Vera Cruz Madison received reports of a Spanish ship, the Santa Barbara, carrying a trove of gold and jewels. SB vanished in the Western gulf – in fair weather – in the weeks before Laffite abandoned his privateering, and I suspect the government thought him involved. I fear no one informed Mr Laffite of this change in the government’s attitude. We fired on Laffite’s ships south of Matagorda Bay, but he turned into the maze of bays and shoals, guarded by the thin strips of barrier islands, and we could not give chase without running aground. We caught him coming out of St Leo Bay the next morning. There was scant loot on his ship, some silks, Madeira, a few handfuls of coins at most – little enough for the great pirate. His crude, stupid men were hungry, and beaten. There was no sign of the Spanish treasure. Offers of immunity from prosecution won the crew over. We escorted Laffite’s ship to Vera Cruz; I do not know what happened to him afterwards. We were all sworn – and paid in bonus – not to discuss this operation since it had disregarded a legal safe passage, and the navy wanted no embarrassment. I left Lynx in New Orleans, and tragically Lynx and all her hands were soon lost in a storm, on a cruise to Jamaica to fight piracy in the Caribbean. So I alone remain to give witness, but I cannot bear to dishonor Captain Madison’s memory by confessing what the Navy did in public. Here I can write my thoughts without fear. For those who recall Laffite’s heroic service to New Orleans – and to America – during our late War with the British, it seems particularly scandalous and unfair to have broken a promise, even one made to a pirate. Ample discussion followed that Laffite had buried his booty along the coastline where he had evaded the task force and one of the younger pirates spoke of a nighttime expedition at Widows’ Point in St Leo Bay, where only Laffite, out of four men, returned. But this fellow Jack was both simple and a hopeless drunkard whose story changed with the level of rum in the bottle. I think that the idea makes an excellent story and my grandchildren enjoy it so at their bedtime. I record it here simply as a matter of interest.
‘Who wrote this?’ Claudia stared at Danny as he lowered the paper from her face.
‘John B. Fanning, ship’s surgeon aboard Lynx. He wrote this journal years later. I guess his descendants found it in a family trunk and they put it up on an on-line auction site, simply mentioning it talked about Laffite and navy operations in the 1820s. They had no idea of its value. So I bought it. Widows’ Point, see. That’s what they call Black Jack Point now.’
Black Jack Point. Where those two old people had been murdered. David’s case.
He didn’t say anything for a minute, not looking at her, putting the copy back into the cabinet, locking it up. ‘You should understand why this is all mine. By inheritance. My last name is Laffite. Daniel Villars Laffite.’
Claudia watched him. Finally she said, ‘You’re descended from Jean Laffite?’ She tried not to laugh.
‘And Catherine Villars, his great love. So that money, that hidden gold, it’s mine. Mine.’ His voice fell to a whispering mumble. He was used, she saw, to talking to himself, telling himself what he wanted to hear. ‘No. One. Else’s. I got the best claim on it imaginable.’
She gathered herself, tried to stay calm. At first she thought his grudge against Stoney was a battle between one treasure hunter versus another. But this. Jesus.
‘You don’t believe me,’ Danny said, a low rumble in his voice.
‘Sure I do,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘People laugh at me. Not much longer though. Not much longer.’ His voice rose, spittle flying from his lips, hitting her cheek.
She didn’t move, didn’t react, put a gentle, calm smile on her face. ‘Danny, it was sweet of you to share your meds with me. Really. But maybe you should take them again. Just because you want to be at your best when-’
He leaned down and slapped her, hard. She stared past his shoulder. He rubbed her cheek, his fingertips smelling of the moist towelettes. ‘No. No more of those. Keep me from being me.’
The radio beeped. She heard its call through a little speaker in the cabin. A hail for Miss Catherine. Maybe Stoney’s voice? Hard to tell. Danny rushed out of the cabin without giving her another look. She heard his feet pound on the stairs.
She had to get loose, fight him, there had to be a way. The stateroom was dark now, with the door closed and the shades lowered, thin slices of light lying in lines on the bed, but she inched over. A bedside table stood on each side of the narrow bed. With her hands tied behind her, she pried open one drawer with her fingers, rolled around to see what was inside. A pair of reading glasses, stubby blue pencils, a notepad. She eased the drawer shut with her foot, wriggled to the other side of the bed, and slowly forced the other table drawer open. She rolled again. Inside lay a pack of gum. A ballpoint pen, missing its cap. A scattering of pennies, dimes, and quarters. A set of nail clippers.
Clippers.
She turned her back to the drawer, easing around, and carefully leaned backward, her fingers wiggling, trying to close around the little plastic case of the clippers. Her fingertips brushed the dimes, the foil of the gum pack. Her fingernails tapped the plastic… and she leaned back too far, her exhausted muscles in her back and arms cramping. She fell off the bed, the drawer smacking hard against her neck and shoulder. She hit the thin carpet hard, teeth jarring together, one of her fingers jamming and she cried out in pain.
She raised her feet, shut the drawer, her back straining, her muscles begging for mercy.
The door opened. He stood there, watching her, the Sig in hand and she wondered, Who’s steering this boat? He gently put her back on the bed, pulled the sheets over her like he was tucking her in for sleep.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Trying to stretch a little. I’m cramping everywhere. Please untie me.’
‘I just spoke with Stoney. He’s agreed to the trade. He asked to speak to his brother but I said no. He thinks I got Ben.’ He grinned. ‘So this will be over soon.’
And he shut the door behind him.
Her hand hurt like the devil; her head felt like it was full of sand. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She blinked them back.