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Authors: Kathy Reichs

BOOK: Seizure
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Short was wearing white linen gloves and carrying a small bundle. Noting the photocopy, he frowned.
“What’s this? A
reproduction
? You said the articles were originals.”
“We don’t have the second document,” Hi lied. “We had to print it off the net.”
Short peered over the rim of his spectacles.
“I don’t work with copies.” Curt. “Fine points can be missed. I won’t be able to authenticate.”
“We only need to establish the
letter’s
authenticity,” Hi said. “Not the copy. We brought that solely as a handwriting sample.”
We were pretty confident the map was real. After all, we’d stolen it from the Charleston Museum ourselves.
Short’s eyes narrowed. I worried he suspected deception.
Careful. This guy is sharp.
“Very well.” Short slipped a jeweler’s loupe from his bundle. “I may require more details in a moment. For now, please have a seat in the gallery. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve reached a conclusion.”
We scurried to the pews as Short began poring over Bonny’s letter, nose inches from the parchment. For a full twenty minutes he ignored us completely.
A case of the yawns circulated. My mind was drifting when Short’s voice snapped me back to attention.
“Please return to the table.” Short scrutinized us, fingers steepled. “Where did you get this letter?”
“A pawnshop,” I replied. On this point, why not be honest?
“A
pawnshop
?” Short looked offended. “Are you having fun with me?”
“No, sir. The letter was in a box of pirate junk at a store in North Charleston.”
“This correspondence is signed by Anne Bonny.” Short’s eyes gleamed. “Do you know who she was?”
Nods.
“I believe the document to be authentic,” Short said. “If so, this is an
extraordinary
find! To think where this letter has been, how it made its way to you.”
My stomach did a backflip. If the letters were genuine, the clues might be too!
“Bonny writes that she’s imprisoned in a Charles Town dungeon,” Short went on. “That fact has never been proven before. Remarkable!”
“We know,” Ben said.
“Why were you rooting through pirate paraphernalia in a North Charleston pawn—” Short changed gears. “These lines you photocopied. What are they from?”
“Something we found online.” Back to lying. “Her diary, I think.”
“You are
certain
Anne Bonny wrote this?”
“The, uh, website said so.”
“Because if that verse
was
written by Anne Bonny, then the letter is almost assuredly genuine.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“The penmanship.” Short adopted a lecturing tone. “A person’s handwriting is as unique as his or her fingerprints. Experts such as I can compare features on different samples to match or exclude a suspected author, even if that author tries to disguise his or her hand.”
“So Bonny wrote both?” Hi asked.
“Let me clarify,” Short said. “These items were penned by the same hand. The letter is signed, ‘Anne Bonny.’ You’ve assured me the verse was written by Ms. Bonny as well.”
“The letter’s
not
a fake?” Ben’s shock was obvious.
“If it’s fake, it’s a masterpiece. The paper, ink, and style are all appropriate for the era. Without scientific testing, I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but I’m reasonably confident the letter is authentic.”
“Can you explain how you determined that the handwriting matches?” I asked.
“Very well.” Short pointed to the letter’s first page. “Antiquated cursive, typical of the early seventeenth century. That is clear right off. I compared individual letters—and
connections
of letters—to those in the copy. There were notable similarities.”
“Do you need the exact same words?” Hi asked.
“That’s helpful, but not required. Examining single letters, letter groupings, or even mere capitalization works almost as easily.”
“Here.” Short scribbled on a notepad, then handed it to me. “Write this sentence.”
I did. Read the words aloud.
“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”
“That inane little sentence uses every letter in the English alphabet,” he explained. “It’s the perfect control.”
“Control?”
“For comparison. For example, if the police can persuade a suspect to write those words, I can compare them to, say, a ransom note, or a shopping list. If the same person wrote both, I’ll know.”
“That’s what I did today.” He turned to the documents. “First, I examined vowels such as
o
,
a
, and
e
.” Checked whether the loops are open or closed. See how the letter
o
has a minor swirl at the top in both writing samples?”
“Yes,” I said. “Neat.”
“Next, I compared characters like
f
,
b
, and
l
, which extend upward. Conversely, letters such as
p
and
q
extend downward.”
“Sounds difficult,” Hi said.
Short looked pleased. “Sometimes other features are more informative, such as whether the author points or rounds off letters like
s
,
n
, or
m
. I also gauge the
slant
of the writing.”
“And the letter and poem match?” I wanted to be perfectly clear on this point.
“Absolutely,” Short said. “Look at the capital
L
, both here in
Lady
, and here, with
Last
. The author uses a rare formulation.”
“You mean the large circle at the apex?”
“Precisely. And, even more oddly, the author combines
t
and
h
when grouped together, as with the word
the
. To me, that might as well be DNA.”
“Hey Tor.” Hi was holding
my
writing sample. “You’ve got the same quirk.”
“Huh?”
Short laid my sentence beside Bonny’s poem and letter. “Well, Miss. How about that.”
Hi was right. I’d never noticed before, but I combined
th
into a single character, almost like a Chinese symbol.
“That’s a strange idiosyncrasy to share.” Short looked at me oddly. “Normally, I’d consider such a peculiarity a fairly strong identifier.”
“That’s why I never write anything longhand,” I joked. “Too hard.”
“No one does anymore.” Short
tsk
ed in disapproval. “Cursive is a dying art. But. That aside.” His voice grew serious. “This letter is a historic treasure. We need to validate it scientifically, then discuss preservation.”
“And we will,” I hedged. “But for now, we’ll hang on to it.”
Short scowled. “Young lady, I have no intention of interfering with your ownership of this document. You can sell it for whatever you like. But we need to assure its safety until—”
“Dr. Short, you misunderstand. I don’t plan to hawk the letter on eBay. But we need it for the time being. Sorry.”
“Very well.” Cold. “Please wait.”
Lips tight, Short disappeared through the same doorway as before.
“Why are you pissing him off?” Hi whispered.
“We have to keep the letter. It might help us locate the treasure.”
Short returned with a notebook-sized metal case.
“At least use this container for transport.” Without asking for permission, he inserted the letter. “Take
extreme
care when handling these pages. They are irreplaceable.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
“You can thank me by returning the letter undamaged.”
“We will,” Hi promised.
“Then be off. I have work.”
Needing no urging, we headed for the exit.
Sudden thought. I hit the brakes. Turned.
“One last thing, Dr. Short.”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever heard of something called Half-Moon Battery?”
Short hesitated. “Why?”
“I’m curious about the original Charles Town dungeons.”
Short seemed to debate with himself. Then, “In 1771, the Exchange Building was constructed on the site of an older fortification known as Half-Moon Battery. A decade later, during the Revolution, the British converted the cellars into the Provost Dungeon. Seems Charleston’s darkest cells have always occupied the same space.”
“Thanks!”
Short watched us hustle from the chamber.
“Did you hear?” I practically skipped. “The Provost Dungeon was built on the ruins of Half-Moon Battery. Bonny’s original cell may still exist!”
“That’s the right area,” Shelton said. “The Exchange Building is on lower East Bay Street.”
“Why do we care about the dungeon?” Ben asked. “Aren’t we looking for some kind of tunnel?”
“Mary Read’s letter,” I reminded him. “Read said the ‘recent earthen works’ were close to Bonny’s cell. ‘Earthen works’ must refer to the tunnels depicted on the treasure map. I think the pirates used those tunnels to break Bonny out of Half-Moon Battery.”
“
If
they broke her out,” Shelton said. “We don’t know for sure that Bonny was rescued. She could’ve been hanged.”
“She must’ve escaped! Otherwise, there’d be a record of her execution.”
Data bytes coalesced in my brain. “We just learned that Half-Moon Battery—the place Bonny was held—was located close to the East Bay docks,” I said. “That confirms we’re looking in the right place!”
“Stop.” Hi literally quit walking. “Let’s spell it out.”
We circled up on a street corner, one of our habits.
“Fact one,” I said. “Anne Bonny drew a treasure map, which hints that her fortune was buried in downtown Charles Town, somewhere close to the East Bay docks.”
“Some
huge
leaps there,” Ben said, “but go on.”
“Fact two,” Shelton said. “We found letters between Anne Bonny and Mary Read stating that Bonny was transferred to Half-Moon Battery, a Charles Town dungeon.”
Hi picked up the thread. “Fact three: Read’s letter hints at a possible breakout attempt. Fact four: the letter also suggests that the treasure tunnels lie close to Bonny’s dungeon at Half-Moon Battery.”
“Fact five,” Shelton added. “The dungeon was close to the docks.”
“Which leads to my deduction,” I said. “Because the treasure tunnels were close to Bonny’s prison cell, they might’ve factored into her rescue.”
We all paused to digest.
“Flash forward fifty years,” Hi said suddenly. “The Exchange Building is constructed over the remains of Half-Moon Battery. Its cellars are later converted into the new Provost Dungeon.”
“Okay,” Ben said. “Let’s assume the map’s treasure tunnels are somewhere near where the Provost Dungeon is today. What next?”
“We get inside,” I said. “Poke around.”
“And how do we do that?” Ben asked.
We shouted the answer as one.
“Ghost tour!”
CHAPTER 23
I
upended a bulging Hefty bag and disgorged the contents.
Crumpled clothes tumbled to the paving stones. My fifth heap so far. Once again, I began sorting mismatched garments into smaller piles.
Friday morning. Seven a.m. Saint Michael’s on Broad Street.
My cotillion group was providing manpower for a winter clothing drive, and I’d been tasked with organizing donated articles. A mountain of black plastic bags loomed on my right, proof that parishioners had heeded the call.
Community service is fundamental to the debutante system, providing cover for the excess and redefining snobbery as “charitable work.” We participated in at least one major project per month.
Not that I’m complaining. Charity is the upside to an otherwise vapid tradition. Helping the less fortunate is the only part of cotillion I actually enjoyed.
I tossed a musty flannel shirt onto a stack, nose wrinkling at the smells of sweat and moldy tobacco.
Okay, maybe not “
enjoyed.
” More like
“appreciated
.”
While my hands worked on autopilot, my head moved ahead to the evening. We Virals would be taking the Fletchers’ ghost tour that night. Since it was the weekend, Kit had relented and given me a pass until ten o’clock.
I’d almost forgotten to show up this morning. Yesterday’s craziness had driven the cotillion event from my mind. Whitney remembered, however, and had texted a reminder thirty minutes before I was due.
Which explained my current look: an Outward Bound T-shirt, running shorts, sandals, greasy ponytail, and a double layer of Lady Speed Stick.
I’d volunteered to work outside. Alone. No one had objected.
Saint Michael’s is the oldest church in Charleston. Its famous spire rose two hundred feet behind me, gleaming white, an eight-foot iron weathervane crowning its apex.
The courtyard was pleasantly cool. White brick buildings formed the sides, shading a grassy enclosure bordered by a trestle-covered cobblestone walk. In the center, flagstones paved a circular space set with four curved benches, each now serving as one of my garment sections.

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