Seizure(109)

“Butt on the bench. Last warning.”

Snorting derisively, Duncan moved toward me.

Crack! Crack!

Bullets struck the stone between Duncan’s massive feet.

He froze. A dark blossom spread across the crotch of his jeans.

“Correction. That was your last warning. Test me again, and you’ll limp for a very long time.”

Duncan walked to the pew and dropped beside his brother.

I caught the other Virals in the corner of my eye. “What?”

Ben was staring, jaw open. “Good Lord, Tory.”

“Nice shooting, Scarface.” Hi handed me Duncan’s weapon. “Remind me never to owe you money. Who taught you how to fire a gun?”

“Long story.” I wasn’t answering “drunk grandfather,” true or not.

“Tory’s a beast.” Shelton had recovered his composure and was collecting the doubloons. “You punks should know that by now.”

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.