Tales of Old Brigands Key (3 page)

Awareness
dawned in him.

The
whole room was steel, and wet with rain. If the power came back on... but it
couldn't. He'd thrown the shutoff to be safe.

Unless...

He
heard a hiss and a crackle. His hand, gripping the rail, burned like fire, and the
muscles in it squeezed tight. A shot of electricity blasted him, and his heart
clenched like a fist. He couldn't release his grip.

His
mind fought for consciousness as the current surged through him.

He
shook violently. Vaguely, he smelled flesh and hair burning.

A
last thought flickered. Roy had wired the lighthouse. Roy... kid wasn't so
hopeless after all...

*
* *

Chief
Toomey thumbed a notepad and poked around and asked questions, hoping to sound
like he understood the technical jargon. Two or three locals tried to convince
him the light keeper's death wasn't no accident. Stupid island hicks. He knew
better, even if he didn't know how electricity got stuffed into wires and what
made it move. He knew people and motives. Killers don't go around killing with
wires when bullets are so much more reliable.

Oswald
Denton, the town drunk—one of them, anyway—was particularly insistent, or
deluded. He lived in a wine bottle, but swore a blue streak that he'd seen a
man that night fiddling around with the switch at the base of the lighthouse.
That was goddamn silly. Who'd be out in the rain fiddling with wires? Nah, it
had to have been a lightning strike. Besides, Toomey pointed out, who in the
whole county even had the smarts to rewire a building to kill? Electricity was
new, and not unlike magic. You'd need a goddamn magician.

A
week later, an electric boy moseyed over to the island to investigate the
wiring and render his professional opinion. He said it was all up to snuff.
Nobody had tampered with anything.

Oswald
Denton had the gumption to claim he'd seen the mystery man again, fiddling
around in the dark, fiddling with the switch, and climbing the lighthouse to
fiddle around in the lantern room. "Changing things back the way they
was," Denton claimed. "Don't you see, it's the perfect
murder.
You kill a man with something nobody understands.
Folks understand guns and knives, but got no idea what electricity is and how
it gets inside their house." Denton grumbled and belched and wandered off
to Bill's Tavern.

Stupid
old drunk.

Toomey
closed the case. Mary Shelley purred and rubbed his leg. He ignored her but she
followed him home anyway and basked in the electric warmth of his house. That
was progress.

A stormy sea. A ship runs aground, a
frenzied group of
salvagers
rushes to plunder it. But
what if the ship transports not wealth from England, but horror?

The ghastly crimes of Jack the Ripper
still haunt the Western psyche, more than a century after the horrific slayings
in Whitechapel. The murders were never solved, the killer never caught, yet the
reign of terror suddenly ended. Why? Might he have fled? And fled to his
homeland?

—
kp

Brigands Key, January, 1890

D
eputy John Fells
Sanborn watched Emma's economical, sure movements as she ladled bean soup into
his bowl, avoiding eye contact. He wrestled with what he wanted to say, and how
best to say it. He couldn't seem to find words that would be gentle.

The
fireplace blazed, keeping out the winter chill. Outside, a slow cold rain, the
remnant of the storm of the previous day, settled in and showed no intention of
leaving.

Sanborn
dipped his spoon and ate the soup slowly and deliberately, delaying the unhappy
conversation. Emma settled into her own chair, unfolded her napkin, and placed
it into her lap. She glanced up at him, and glanced away again.

They
ate in silence for long minutes. At last, he said, "The storm has just
about blown itself out now. I should be back on the water fishing in the
morning after I make my rounds."

"How
is Percy doing?"

"He's
about healed. He came back onto the boat on Monday."

"That's
good. I'm so sorry he lost the fingers."

"He
is lucky. The infection took swiftly, and he could have lost the whole
arm."

"I
don't call that 'luck.' Oh, John, it's not worth it. Do you think the sheriff
might increase upon your wages, as he said?"

No,
it's
not
worth it, he thought. "It's as I've told you, I'm a
caretaker at best here. If the fishermen profit, the tax coffers fill. If not,
the sheriff guards his budget jealously and allocates it across the county
according to the jurisdictions' collections. The fish are scarce this year;
therefore so are salary increases. And if the fish were plentiful, these
scoundrels wouldn't report it."

"It's
not like Massachusetts."

"We're
not
in
Massachusetts."

"I
didn't mean—"

"I
know what you meant. The roof leaks. The parlor window is broken. The fuel oil
is low. I'll take care of them and then it'll be something else we cannot
afford."

"Oh,
John, it's not that way at all. I don't miss Boston. I love our home
here."

It
pleases me that you love it so,
he thought. He wished he felt the same.
Two years here, and he still felt like a stranger. His stipend as a part-time
deputy-sheriff barely covered anything, and despite his working alongside them
on the fishing boats in order to make a living wage, the locals roundly
despised him as a Yankee interloper.

He
thought of his letter of introduction and inquiry to the Chief of Police in Boston.
Emma had no knowledge of it. The response would be due any day now, and most
likely would contain an offer of employment. And he had decided to take it.
Alone. A new start was what he needed, unencumbered.

A
new life.

He
pushed his soup away and rose from the table. Without a word he moved into the
parlor and took a seat at the piano. He rubbed his hands, stretched his
fingers, and began playing
Moonlight Sonata
. The music pushed down his
anger, if just for a little while.

He
imagined his future, and the island's future. The town teetered on the brink of
dissolution, the victim of a dying fishing ground, troubled by four straight
years of red tide, and a hurricane that had swept aside miles of oyster beds.
Fishing held little allure for him even in the best of times, and these were
far from the best of times.

He
was respected in town by a few as a man of culture and fortitude, but never as
an authority figure nor as a working man. He dwelt outside that circle, and
would remain outside until he left or died.

Leaving
seemed the easier of the two.

Leaving
alone.

He
glanced up. Emma stood in the parlor doorway. He wasn't sure, but he thought
her eyes glistened. He looked back to the piano keys. Perhaps this was the time
to tell her.

A
sharp rap came at the front door. Emma hurried to answer it. Sanborn remained
seated, glad for the interruption.

A
moment later, Emma returned, followed by Percy
McVee
.
He was dripping wet. He removed his hat and held it against his chest. His left
hand, missing two fingers, was hidden in a heavy leather glove. Sanborn was
grateful that he couldn't see it.

"Deputy
John, there's a ship on the Gulf, run aground in the flats. Some men have
already put out boats for a look."

"Are
they behaving themselves?"

"They
got a look in their eyes I don't like."

"And
the sea?"

"It's
dying; waves won't swamp us if we go careful."

"And
the ship? Is she signaling?"

"That's
the thing. Sergei's been watching through a spyglass from atop the lighthouse.
Hasn't seen a thing move on her, but she's
more'n
three mile out. We think she's abandoned."

"Damnation!
Do the others know this?"

McVee
nodded.
"That's why they're in a hurry. They smell a big payday."

"Very
well, then. Let's get moving."

"My
boys are getting the skiff ready. Soon as you get your hat—and your gun—we can
go."

Sanborn
pulled on his coat and boots, and buckled his gun-belt. He looked for his cap
beside the door, but it was missing.

Emma
stood at the door, holding Sanborn's cap. She extended it to him. "Please
be careful, John."

He
took the cap from her and moved past.

*
* *

McVee's
young sons,
Robert Lee and Jeb Stuart, had readied the skiff, having piled in gaffs, ropes,
and oars, and rigged the small mainsail and jib. Sanborn thanked them and
tossed each a penny.
McVee
scowled at the boys for
accepting the money, but Sanborn knew the man was pleased.

He
stepped warily onto the boat, and
McVee
piled in
after him and shoved the boat away from the dock, the boys leading with lines
and giving them a boost.
McVee
leaned into a pair of
oars, his powerful shoulders and arms pulling the wooden boat out from the
dock, while Sanborn manned the tiller. Once clear of the moored fishing fleet,
McVee
looked inquiringly at him. He nodded, and
McVee
settled the oars inside the gunwale with a clatter, and
raised the mainsail. The breeze fluffed the canvas and the boat shot out into
the channel. Sanborn tacked the small boat starboard to port and back again,
zigzagging expertly through the narrow channel, wherein most sailors, and
protocol, demanded that the boats be oared clear of the island before going
under sail.

They
did not have time for niceties.

Three
skiffs had already cleared the north end of the island, passing the great tower
of Hammond Lighthouse, and moved onto the choppy Gulf of Mexico. Each was
overcrowded, slowing them considerably, but the men aboard them strained
mightily at oars, propelling the boats ahead into the waves with great
determination.

Sanborn
glanced up at the lighthouse. Before its construction, ships ran aground on a
frequent basis, spurring the salvage "industry" on Brigands Key. The
plunder reached frightful proportion in those days, but the tower and its great
beacon had become the savior of mariners, and ships no longer ran aground in
the shallows about the island, and that source of easy wealth had vanished. But
the stories and the lust still ran in these men's veins. The unlikely wreckage
today had brought it bubbling to the surface.

Their
skiff glided across the water, angling into the waves, swinging far to
starboard of the trailing boat.

Out
to sea, like a ghost in the mist of the rain, the ship rested unmoving in the
shallow flats, heeled fifteen degrees off vertical.

Sanborn
tacked to port and they caught and shot past the trailing boat before they were
even detected.

Guy
Fawcett, manning the tiller, shook his fist. "Damn you, John Sanborn! Do
not interfere with this enterprise. That ship is three and a quarter mile
offshore, outside the territorial limit, and damn sure outside your
jurisdiction. The law is on our side."

"Three
miles, sir! A line determined by a cannon shot. I indeed know the law. A
shipwreck is fair game to salvagers,
with
the permission of the crew. I
presume you intend to secure that."

Fawcett
said nothing.

"I
thought not," Sanborn continued. "Well then consider this; the crew
is bound by duty to protect the vessel from plunder. They will fire upon you,
and with my blessing."

"I
reckon they would. But we don't think there's a soul alive on that ship."

The
skiff slid past them, and caught and passed the other two boats. The crewmen
had heard every word of the exchange, and offered a few oaths of their own, and
lapsed and glared at Sanborn in silence. He acknowledged each in turn as he
slipped past.

*
* *

The
stricken ship was a topsail schooner, and a shambles of one. The tattered sails
flapped gray and listless in the dying breeze. The foremast was broken midway
up and the upper portion hung down at an angle, tangled in rigging. John
Sanborn judged her more than ninety feet bow to stern, twenty-some-odd beam to
beam. He hailed loudly as the little skiff pulled alongside. Only a ghostly
silence came in answer. He shouted again, and again received not the slightest
call in answer. He piloted the skiff expertly aft of the schooner, and rounded
the stern. Painted handsomely in red and gold was the vessel's name,
Edinburgh
Kate
. She had no armaments; clearly a merchant vessel; ideal pickings for
the scoundrels of Brigands Key.

And
nary a soul in sight.

Sanborn
tacked back across the wind and came about, still calling out.

He
glanced at the salvagers, closing in steadily. He wasn't sure how to prevent
the plunder of the schooner, except to board her in haste and find the captain,
or whomever might be in charge, and beseech him to forbid the ransacking of his
ship. At best, it might gather time.

Time
for what? The captain's prohibition would render any breech a federal crime,
and quite probably boost it into the realm of piracy, punishable by hanging.

A
thought struck him; if a looting took place, the guilty could not have
witnesses. He had placed himself and
McVee
in an
untenable position. Had he ensured their deaths?

With
his free hand, he reached down and felt his revolver.

"I'm
bringing us alongside, Percy," he said. "Amidships starboard. Make
ready."

"Aye."
McVee
lifted a long rope and grapple and stood in the
boat, legs spread and bent. He hefted the steel hook.

Sanborn
tilled the boat close and eased it into the hull of the
Kate
with the
slightest bump.
McVee
swung the hook once in a circle
and let it fly. The hook clattered over the gunwale, adjacent to the gangway.
McVee
drew the line tight, tested it, and nodded to
Sanborn.

"Stay
with the skiff," Sanborn said. He turned and looked up to the gunwale.
"Ahoy the ship! Permission to board?"

Silence.

He
gripped the rope and scrambled up, hand over hand, pulled himself to the
gangway and threw a leg over it, and drew himself onto the sloping deck.

He
looked about, listening intently, ready for anything.

Debris
lay scattered about, tangled in uncontained lines and netting. Black mold and
filth streaked the deck. A few small barrels and boxes lay wedged here and
there, their sides stove in.

Dread
grew in him. The ship was not merely abandoned. It appeared to have been
unmanned for a great many days, possibly weeks or even months, and the
relentless sea, the rains, the beating sun, the salt, had taken their toll.

A
large swell rolled in, rocking the ship gently. The
Edinburgh Kate
seemed to breathe in and out as the roller passed. A white object moved and
clattered in a far corner, its shape and appearance registering immediate
recognition in him. He moved closer.

A
human skull lay there, its dark eye sockets staring. The jaw was missing. He
picked it up and stared into it.

He
heard a clatter upon the deck behind him. He turned. Guy Fawcett's face
appeared in the gangway, his perpetual scowl glinting with something else,
something hungry and excited. Fawcett scanned the deck and fixed upon Sanborn.

Sanborn
held the skull up.

The
man's scowl melted, and his eyes widened. He clambered onto the deck, his eyes
still upon Sanborn and the skull.

Sanborn
returned the skull to its resting place. He withdrew his revolver and checked
the chamber, reassuring himself it was fully loaded.

"You
plan on using that on me?" Fawcett growled. It was perhaps the first time
Sanborn had ever heard the man speak in something less than a shout.