Now and then dc-1 Page 10

  “How so?”

  “Lot of fire ants in that area, as I guess you know. It’s right near the spot where that young man nearly died from fire ant bites.”

  “You know anything about him?” I said.

  “He’s not from around here, is all I know. That, and the fact he got roasted in your fire pit.”

  “I heard he’s going to be okay,” I said.

  “I heard the same thing.”

  “Mayor Bradford-”

  “Please,” he said. “If we’re finally getting to it, you might as well call me Carl.”

  “Okay then, Carl.”

  He shifted in his chair. “What can I do for you, Donovan?”

  “You can tell me about Libby Vail.”

  He didn’t flinch. I know because I was watching to see if he would. Instead, he smiled and said, “Well, I don’t know much more than what you’re likely to have heard. Libby was a Liberal Arts major at Penn State,” he said. “Her roommate told the police that Libby had planned to come here to research her roots.”

  “She thought she was descended from pirates.”

  “Gentleman Jack Hawley,” he said.

  I nodded. “You folks have a monthly celebration in Libby’s honor. People come from all over the world.”

  “They do,” he said.

  “It’s good for business.”

  “As it turns out, it is. But that’s not the only reason we celebrate Libby’s life. We do it to keep her memory alive. The whole town has sort of adopted her.”

  “I guess most young people want to leave small towns like St. Alban’s,” I said. “But Libby wanted to come here.”

  “Well, I don’t imagine she was planning to settle down here or anything.”

  “I didn’t get to see the Pirate Parade yesterday,” I said, “but I saw the pictures in the paper this morning.”

  “Sorry you missed it,” he said. “It’s quite an event.”

  “I was particularly interested in the picture of the pirate ship float,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “That’s Hawley’s ship, right?”

  He rubbed his face with his right hand and yawned. “Sorry,” he said. “Long weekend, too much grog.”

  He winked.

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, they’ve had that float forever,” he said. “It’s supposed to be The Fortress, Jack Hawley’s ship. Why do you ask?”

  “In the news photo, on the bridge of the boat, there’s a pretty young woman standing next to the pirate.”

  Mayor Bradford raised an eyebrow. “She’s quite a looker,” he said. Then he added, “But so is your Rachel.”

  “I’m quite happy with Rachel,” I said. “What I was wondering about is the significance of the girl on the pirate ship. From what I’ve read about pirates, they didn’t often allow women on board their ships.”

  For the first time since I’d entered his office, Mayor Bradford’s face registered concern. He bit the top corner of his lip. “I don’t believe there’s any historical significance to it,” he said. “I think they’re just using the float as an excuse to show off the prettiest girl in Fernandina Beach.”

  “Really? Because I think it might be more than that.”

  He cocked his head to one side and squinted at me, and as he did so, his face drew into itself and grew as stern as it could without imploding. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is you’re reading into that picture from the newspaper.”

  “I’ve been doing some online research on Jack Hawley, and there’s a story, a legend that supposedly happened exactly three hundred years ago.”

  Mayor Bradford’s eyes darted around the room. He looked beyond me, to the open doorway as if searching for an escape route. “A legend,” he said.

  “Carl,” I said. “Look at me.”

  He did.

  I said, “You’ve lived here all your life. You have to know what I’m talking about.”

  He paused a moment before speaking. “If you’re referring to Abby Winter saving the town, I think that was just a story from a dime novel written back in the 1800’s.”

  “The story I read didn’t say anything about a dime novel. But it’s a fascinating story either way.”

  “Maybe you should re-write it.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  We sat there in silence. After a moment Carl clapped his hands and stood. “If that’s it, I guess I better get going. I gave Milly the afternoon off and was about to close the office when you came in. I’m meeting the Mayor of Fernandina for a little surf casting.” He pulled his bike off the bike hook and leaned it against his desk.

  I stood and we shook hands again. I turned and walked to the doorway and paused.

  “Was there something else?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think Libby Vail believed she was related to Jack Hawley through Abby Winter.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  “Maybe, but it would explain why she wanted to come to St. Alban’s to research her lineage.”

  “It’s been done,” he blurted. Seeing my expression he realized he’d said more than he meant to. He hastily added, “What I mean is, back when Libby Vail went missing, that old story came out, the one about Abby Winter and Jack Hawley, and they did a whole search of Libby’s lineage at the library.”

  “And?”

  “And they couldn’t find any connection, or any evidence that those things ever happened. It’s just an ancient pirate’s tale. Hawley never threatened to destroy the town, and Abby never offered herself up as a sacrifice. Hell, the whole thing’s downright silly, if you think about it long enough.”

  “Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I haven’t thought about it long enough.”

  Something flickered in Carl Bradford’s eyes. He wasn’t quite angry, but he was getting there. “What’s your interest in all this?” he snapped.

  “I’m thinking about resurrecting the old legend and turning it into a promotional event for The Seaside guests.”

  His look of great skepticism changed to a derisive sneer. “I sincerely doubt that,” he said, fairly spitting the words.

  “And I doubt your account of Abby Winter and Jack Hawley.”

  His jaw pulsed. Mayor Bradford was getting worked up, so I shrugged the rope off my shoulder and worked it in my hands a minute. He watched me do that, and it seemed to settle him down. He took a deep breath and said, “I told you about the search at the library.”

  “You did.”

  “It was quite exhaustive.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “I wouldn’t expect the library records to go back that far.”

  Mayor Bradford looked exasperated. “Then why are you bringing this up?”

  “Because I think there’s a better place to search for old records.”

  “You do.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “The old churches around town.”

  He paused a long time before saying, “Any in particular?”

  “Maybe I’ll start with the one on 8th and A1A.”

  Chapter 23

  I LEFT A very jittery Mayor Bradford and headed across the courtyard, where I expected to find Rachel sitting in our rental car. I circled the entire building, and noticed a dozen empty parking spaces, but couldn’t spot Rachel or the car in any of them. I pressed a key on my cell phone. Rachel answered with a whisper. “I can’t talk right now.”

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m done with the mayor. Your car’s not here.”

  “I had to run an errand. I’ll be there soon.”

  “An errand?”

  “A girly thing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “So where are you? And why are you whispering?”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Find a diner on M
ain Street near the court house and grab a cup of coffee. I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes and we can do the pirate thing together.”

  Rachel was right in thinking there’d be a diner near the court house. The one I entered a half block away was nearly empty when I got there. That seemed reasonable, since most of the downtown workers would want to be back at their jobs by one o’clock. I checked my watch: 1:35pm. Rachel had said she’d be back “in a few minutes,” but she’d invoked the dreaded “girly thing,” which meant she was operating on Rachel time.

  I picked out a corner booth that overlooked Main Street and pulled a menu from behind the old fashioned sugar shaker. Opening it, my eyes went straight to the Shoo Fly Pie, which, being a pie of Pennsylvania origin, I planned to order in Libby Vail’s honor.

  The few customers who were still in the diner were paying their checks, so I expected the waitress would be along to take my order soon. In all probability, the pie I’d be served in St. Alban’s would have crumbs mixed into the filling and topping, which is the southern version. And that would be no problem, since that’s the one I prefer.

  Only I didn’t get my pie.

  By the time the last customer left, the waitress and cook were gone as well.

  And I was alone in the diner.

  Two minutes later I saw them: the gangster wannabes from the car that first night, when Rachel and I were headed back to The Seaside after our fight. I’d seen one of them, to be precise, but I knew the others would be hiding nearby. Finding myself in this situation, out of the blue, told me that Mayor Bradford was not only in on it, he was trying to protect it.

  I put the menu back in its original spot, unraveled my rope, and walked to the next booth and tied one end to the metal post that held the table in place. Then I threaded the rope around the outside of the booth and kept it tucked against the floor. I reclaimed my seat and tied the other end to my right ankle. When they came for me I’d maintain eye contact, and keep my hands on the table. Entering the booth, they’d be studying my face or hands and weren’t likely to notice the rope. Now all that was left to do was remove my switchblade from my boot, tuck it under my right knee, and wait for the dance to start.

  There’s a rhythm to these things, and I don’t care if you’re in Waco, LA, South Jersey or St. Alban’s, it all goes down pretty much the same way. There are always two goons, tough guys. One comes at you from the front, the other hides in the kitchen or bathroom. The first goon forces you into the kitchen or bathroom so his buddy can hit you over the head as you enter, or pin your arms behind you while the first guy roughs you up. If there are three of them, one keeps watch while the others do their thing.

  In this case there’d be four goons, though the pot head driver and the kid with the piece-of-shit pistol were basically worthless. The guy riding shotgun would have some enforcement experience, and the dead-eyed guy in the back, the leader, would be dangerous. These two would provide the muscle. Working in my favor was the fact that I’d already disrespected them to their faces. They knew I wasn’t afraid of them, so that would give them pause. Since I was either crazy or dangerous, they’d want to work up some courage before making their move. The two tough guys would come to my table and sit across from me while the others guarded the entrance and exit. We’d chat a minute at my booth while they made threats and showed me how tough they were. They’d pretend it was just a warning, but when I tried to get up from the table, they’d attack. They’d come at me savagely, inside the restaurant, because the place was deserted and my ability to move around would be hampered by the close quarters.

  They had no reason to know I prefer fighting in close quarters.

  On the other hand, this type of situation could go south in a hurry if I became distracted, and there was one unknown, one random element of the equation that could turn the whole encounter upside down.

  Rachel.

  Rachel was out there somewhere. She’d claimed to be on her way, but I suspected that whatever she was up to, it was going to be a while before she showed up. I hoped I was right, because these guys were moving so slow I was starting to get annoyed.

  Okay, decision time. I had two options: stay or leave. If I hurried, I could still get out the front door before they had time to take up their positions. They weren’t likely to attack me on Main Street in the middle of the day, so I could leave and avoid being attacked, protect Rachel by keeping her safely out of the line of fire, and deal with the gang bangers another time.

  That option sounded good except for one thing: if I ran away I wouldn’t learn what they’re hoping to gain. I already knew who sent them (the Mayor) and I knew why (I’d threatened to check out the church). I suspected Libby Vail was being held prisoner in the church, or had been at one time. But I didn’t know who was involved, or why. Usually when an elected official relies on gang bangers, there are drugs involved. But I hadn’t threatened anyone’s drug trade.

  I’d mentioned the local economy being boosted by the monthly celebrations honoring Libby Vail. Even The Seaside was thriving now-maybe it was because of me, but maybe I was part of something bigger, and if that was the case, I wanted to know what it was. While the rest of the nation struggled with business closings and high unemployment, St. Alban’s seemed to be growing. Indeed, the whole town seemed to be riding a Kool-Aid high. So this encounter at the diner with the gang bangers wasn’t about drugs. It was about Libby Vail. Were they here to chase me out of town? Beat me up for asking questions? Force me to stay away from the old church records? Kill me in cold blood?

  I had to know.

  But I was getting tired of waiting.

  Chapter 24

  IT DIDN’T GO down the way I thought it would.

  I figured the two tough guys would overlook the rope, climb in the booth, and start threatening me. While they talked, I’d work my right hand down to the rope around my ankle, get it into my lap, switch hands, loop the rope around the highest part of the base of my table, and, when I stood to leave, I’d pull the rope tight with my left arm to trap them in the booth. By then the switch blade in my right hand would be open and I’d slit their throats before they had time to react. I’d go in the kitchen, avoid the pot head’s attack, and kill him quietly. Then I’d decide whether to kill the kid out front or just make my escape. I’d probably just go, unless he spotted me and tried to stop me.

  That was the plan, and I thought it was a good one.

  Only like I said, it didn’t go down that way.

  I was right in thinking the gang bangers would come in the diner. But I didn’t realize they’d come in the diner with the Sheriff and three deputies, all of whom held shotguns aimed at my face. They fanned out to give themselves a clean shot and limit any damage I might be able to do.

  “Keep your hands on the table,” the Sheriff said, “and without moving them from the table, get slowly to your feet.”

  I did as he said, and the shotguns moved to within five feet of me.

  “He’s got a blade on the seat,” a deputy said.

  The Sheriff moved in for a closer look.

  “Why’d you tie yourself up?” he said.

  The gang bangers and two of the deputies started laughing, the rest of us kept still. The Sheriff got to one knee and slowly reached for my switchblade. Once he had it, he backed away, stood, and tossed a pair of handcuffs on the table.

  “Put these on your wrists, but keep your elbows on the table the whole time,” he said.

  When I’d done that, he told me to stand and ease my way out of the booth slowly. Then, with the shotguns surrounding me, the Sheriff fitted me with leg cuffs, and secured them to my handcuffs with a chain.

  They shuffled me out to a police van and closed the door. The deputy who hadn’t laughed at me in the diner climbed behind the wheel, and the Sheriff rode shotgun.

  Literally.

  They took me south on A1A, a few miles past Amelia Island Plantation, and turned into the scrub area surrounding a gravel road that had been virtually
invisible from the highway. The car slowed and dipped and I noticed a sign that said, “Site of the Little River Crossing, 1684 – 1758.” Just as quickly, the front of the car raised and I guessed we’d crossed the river that used to be there.

  No one was talking, but I wanted to plant a seed in their heads. I said, “Killing me might prove harder than you think.”

  They remained silent and stared straight ahead as they drove through the thickets and pine knobs. When they got to the base of a huge sand dune, the deputy put the wagon in park and the Sheriff turned around in his seat and looked at me.

  “We got a problem,” he said.

  “Want to talk it out?” I said.

  The Sheriff was a balding man, barrel-chested, powerfully built. He had pale blue eyes and looked like he might have wrestled in college.

  “How much do you know about the history of St. Alban’s?” he said.

  “Depends on how far back you want to go.”

  “Tell me what you think happened here three hundred years ago.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  Chapter 25

  EVERYTHING I KNEW about what happened in St. Alban’s three hundred years ago came from thirty minutes of online research. But it was enough to get me cuffed and shackled and locked in the back of a bullet-proof paddy wagon guarded by two shotgun-wielding law enforcement officers.

  “From what I understand,” I said, “Gentleman Jack Hawley, the pirate, used to terrorize these shores in the early 1700’s. He traveled with fifty men, seasoned fighters all, and had a sort of gentleman’s agreement with the town of St. Albans.”

  I waited for the Sheriff to acknowledge me. “Go on,” he said.

  “Hawley and his men agreed that whenever they came to St. Alban’s, they would confine their activities to the one-block area surrounding the saloon. That area included a blacksmith, a leather shop, a clothing store, three whore houses, two restaurants and a hotel.”

  “It did?”

  I laughed. “How the hell do I know?”

  The deputy laughed. “Sounded like you knew,” he said.

  “Why don’t we go outside, sit on one of the sand dunes while I tell the story,” I said, innocently.