Seizure(62)

My eyes went squinty. “Seriously?”

“See for yourself.” Shelton handed me the page. “Daddy is furious because Mary Brennan was his daughter’s personal servant. He wrote her full name twice.”

“Shelton’s right.” Ben placed another document on the table. “This is an expense report from the Cormac estate in County Cork, Ireland. Dated 1697. It notes that a serving woman named Mary Brennan gave birth to a daughter, Anne.”

“How about that?” Hi joked. “Anne Bonny could be your super-great-grandma. Must be the source of your charm.”

“Very funny.”

But a shiver flashed through me. The yacht club painting. The shared handwriting quirk. Now this. Was it possible? Could I be related to Anne Bonny?

Nonsense.

“There must be a thousand Brennans in North America,” I said.

“How many in Massachusetts?” Hi was flipping through the last papers in the William Cormac box. “Here’s a letter written by Mary Brennan herself. 1707. Never posted, but addressed to a cousin in ‘the colony of Massachusetts Bay.’”

Second chill. This was definitely getting weird.

“That’s it for Big Willy Cormac.” Hi returned the sheet to its container.

“Say hello to Anne Bonny.” Shelton moved to the third cart, then handed Ben a small collection of musty documents. “Enjoy!”

“Not much to see.” Ben placed the papers on the table. “Let’s examine them one by one.”

“Tory?” Shelton was studying the side of the last document box. “You don’t believe in coincidence, right?”

“No,” I said. “Sharing a surname hardly proves—”

“Not that. Guess who was the last person to review this stuff before us?”

“Enough guessing games,” Ben growled. “Make your point.”

“Check the signature.” Shelton passed me a smeary sign-out card. “None other than your boy, Rodney Brincefield.”

“The old fogey again?” Hi arched one brow. “What gives?”

I shrugged. “He really likes Anne Bonny. No big deal.”

But part of me wondered. Brincefield kept popping up like a whack-a-mole. He seemed harmless, but I’d learned the hard way not to underestimate people.

Was Brincefield involved in our attack?

Shelton interrupted my thoughts. “You guys were talking about Massachusetts a minute ago, right?”

Nods.

“I never mentioned it before,” Shelton said, “but my pirate book includes a rumor that Bonny fled north.”

“When?” Ben asked.

“After her trial in Jamaica. One theory holds that Bonny sailed to Massachusetts Bay Colony and settled in New England. Nothing more specific than that.”

This time the chill ran both my arms and legs. Things were getting freakier and freakier. I felt like I was being punked.

Sudden pang. Mom would’ve loved the intrigue.

I shoved the painful thought aside.

“But that’s wrong,” Hi countered. “Bonny was transferred to Charles Town.”

“Maybe she fled north after escaping Half-Moon Battery,” Shelton suggested. “I’m just telling you what’s in the book.”

“Can we please get through this last set?” Ben said. “I’m losing steam here.”

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.