The remaining papers provided no spoilers. Most were contemporary descriptions of Bonny’s sea conquests. A few were reports on her trial. Interesting, but not useful.
I scanned the last page with a sigh. “We done here?”
“Completely.” Hi yawned. “I’m still gassed from last night.”
I pressed the call button. When Short arrived I thanked him, and we headed for the door.
“I’ll expect Bonny’s letter in a timely fashion.”
“Yes sir.” I followed the others outside.
The sun was a brilliant white disc high in the sky. It was hard to believe that, just a few hours earlier, I’d swum from a submerged sea cave into Charleston Harbor.
Though dog-tired, we weren’t done yet.
“So what’d we learn?” Ben asked.
“Not much,” I admitted. “Short said the poem is written in Gaelic. We need a translation.”
“We learned Tory descended from a filthy, murdering, hot-tempered lady-pirate.”
“Shut it, Hiram.”
We trooped down the front steps and started back toward the marina.
Stopped.
Marlo and Tree Trunk were leaning against a fence halfway up the block.
Marlo again wore a long white tee and black jeans. A white iPod was strapped to his belt, earphones snaking up to his head. Tree Trunk rocked another NBA jersey, this one a Charles Barkley Sixers throwback.
There was no way to avoid them without turning around.
“Ideas?” Hi asked sideways.
“Walk right by,” I whispered. “They don’t intimidate us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Shelton muttered.
As we drew close I smiled and flicked a wave. Marlo’s face remained stone, but his eyes followed our progress. One hand rubbed the Zorro scar on his cheek. Tree Trunk ignored us completely.
Shelton’s comment about coincidence replayed in my head.
A few steps more, and we rounded a corner.
“Gheeeyaaaah!” Hi scrunched his shoulders. “Those guys give me the creeps!”
“What’s their deal?” Shelton glanced behind us, but the pair hadn’t followed. “You think they’re the ones that stalked us in the tunnels?”
“Look at my arms,” Hi said. “Goose bumps everywhere.”
“Forget them,” Ben said. “Let’s focus on the Gaelic poem.”
“How do we get it translated?” Shelton asked.
“We’re in luck,” I said. “I know a languages ace. Time to bring in a heavy hitter.”
“Who?” Hi sounded wary.
“My great-aunt Tempe.”
MARLO BATES WATCHED the nerdy kids disappear around the corner.
He didn’t move to follow. Didn’t move at all.
Instead, he kicked back against the fence and bobbed to the Lil Wayne track blaring through his earphones.
Moments later, a giant hand tapped his shoulder.
His brother, Duncan, looked a question at him.
With a sigh, Marlo paused his iPod and removed the buds from his ears.
“What, yo?” Marlo had to crane his neck upward to see his brother’s face.
Duncan said nothing. No surprise there. But Marlo understood.
“I don’t know, man.” Frustrated. “I ain’t never been down here, neither.”
Duncan frowned—which, for the big man, was practically a shout.
“What is this place, anyway?” Marlo turned to scrutinize the large stone building at their backs. “Some kinda white people church?”
Duncan folded his arms in a clear expression of impatience.
“You heard Pops.” Marlo spat in disgust. “Ain’t like this was my idea.”
Marlo stroked the Z-shaped scar on his cheek, an unconscious tell that he was considering something.
Finally, he pushed off the fence.
“Let’s see what’s inside real quick.” Marlo hitched his pants, then brushed pollen from his plain white tee. “I ain’t spending my whole damn afternoon on this shit.”
Wordlessly, Duncan followed Marlo up the steps.
“These youngins sure be pissing me off,” Marlo grumbled. “I should be tending my business, not wasting time down here with the damn tourists.”
Duncan didn’t comment, a moving, breathing statue come to life.
At the entrance Marlo tugged a door open. Paused. Peered into the lobby.
“Pops better know what he’s talking about.”
Marlo hated big buildings like this. Imposing. Official looking. They reminded him of the schools he’d attended before finally dropping out. Of the failed expectations, the humiliation of needing help but being too proud to ask.
“Better be right,” Marlo muttered before stepping inside, the giant shadow of his brother looming on his heels.
BACK HOME, I made my second call of the day.
A familiar voice answered. “Temperance Brennan.”
“Aunt Tempe? Hi, it’s Tory.” Then I quickly added, “Kit’s daughter.”
“That was my guess,” Tempe quipped, “since I’ve only got one grandniece. How are you, sweetie?”
“I’m good. You?”
“Swamped. I’ve got three cases in the lab, and a fourth on its way. The price I pay for the glamorous life.” Her voice grew softer. “I heard about LIRI. I’m so sorry, Tory. Tell Kit I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”
“Thanks,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your offer.”
Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Tempe changed the subject. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Not that I’m complaining, since we rarely get a chance to chat.” Her voice became mock stern. “You must call more often.”
“I will, promise. But I do have a specific question, if you’ve got a moment.”
“Fire away. Your timing is perfect. I’m grabbing a late lunch.”
“Are you sure? I know how busy you are.”
I was finding it hard to get to the point. Aunt Tempe is my hero. She’s the last person I want to view me as foolish.
“Never too busy for you,” Tempe chided. “Let’s hear it.”
“You once told me your family came from Ireland.”
“Our family,” Tempe corrected. “Kinsale, in County Cork. My grandfather was born there.”
“You wouldn’t happen to speak Gaelic would you?”
“Níl agam ach beagainin Gaeilge,” Tempe replied. “That means, ‘I only speak a little Irish.’ At least, I think that’s what it means.”
“So you know the language?”
“Nil agam ach beágainín Gaeilge,” Tempe repeated with a laugh. “I’ve conquered French, can get by with Spanish, even a little German. But Gaelic is tough stuff.”
“There aren’t any Gaelic translator programs online,” I said. “Only chat rooms.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a beautiful language that was spoken for centuries, but Gaelic declined sharply under British rule. Then the Great Famine of 1845 devastated rural Ireland, where Gaelic was most prevalent. The language never really recovered.”
“So no one speaks it anymore?”
“Less than fifteen percent of the Irish population, though the current government is working hard to preserve it. Gaelic speakers are fairly rare here in the States.”
“Oh.” My spirits sank.
“I can give it a shot.” I heard static as Tempe adjusted the phone. “When I was a kid, a second cousin lived with my family briefly. She spoke Gaelic fluently, so I learned the language to keep her company.”
“And you still remember it?”
“We’ll see. Do you need something translated?”