Writing All Wrongs (17 page)

His words hung in the air for a long moment.

Millay nodded and said, “We’ll call if we find anything.”

As soon as Millay and Harris had gone, Olivia turned to Laurel. “You should go too—be with your family. I know you also have an article to file. I’d rather you write about Jenna and Charles than anyone else.”

“They’re both going to be okay. Charles is going to pull through. You’ll see.” Her eyes wet with tears, Laurel hugged Olivia and then walked briskly away.

An hour later, a female doctor appeared in the waiting room.

“Are you with Charles Wade?” she asked.

Olivia got to her feet. “I’m his daughter,” she answered.

Rawlings put his hand on the small of her back, steadying her.

“Your father’s abdominal wall was penetrated, and an area of his intestines sustained injury. We were able to successfully clean and suture the wound, and he’s being taken to the post-op recovery room. He lost a great deal of blood, and whenever a patient sustains an abdominal penetrating trauma, we need to be on guard against infection.” She paused to make sure Olivia was following along.

“What comes next?” Olivia asked.

“An abdominal CT scan. This is to be certain that there weren’t what we call occult injuries. These are injuries that are not apparent during initial presentation. I didn’t see this type of injury when I was operating, so the scan is more of a precaution. We’ll run several tests on your father over the next few hours. Because of the seriousness of his injury, I’m keeping him in the ICU.”

Despite the amount of detail the doctor had given her, Olivia was still unclear as to her father’s condition. “May I see him?”

“Later tonight, maybe,” the doctor said and then offered a reassuring smile. “Your father obviously takes good care of himself. That made my job easier. If all goes well over the next twenty-four hours, we can hope for a full recovery.”

Olivia finally let go of the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you. And what about Jenna? She came in the same time as my father.”

Rawlings briefly explained their relationship to Jenna.

“She’s stable,” the doctor replied. “We’re expecting her to make a full recovery.”

With her messages delivered, the doctor handed Olivia
off to a nurse, who supplied her with phone numbers for the ICU desk and a piece of paper outlining visiting hours and rules.

Olivia slipped the paper into her handbag and turned to Rawlings. “I should feed and walk Haviland while Charles is in the recovery room. It’ll take me a while to get home and back here again.”

“He would have liked how you called him your father,” Rawlings said. “You should do that again when he wakes up.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his badge wallet. “I need to get an update on Mr. Allen’s condition. After that, I’ll probably head into the station. I’ll keep checking in with you, okay?”

Olivia put her arms around Rawlings and sighed. From the moment she’d seen Charles on the floor, she’d been holding herself as tightly as a fist, but now she dared to let go a little. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against Rawlings’s shoulder. Together, they spent a quiet minute listening to the waiting room music, the hum of the fluorescent ceiling lights, and the echo of rubber-soled shoes in the hallway.

Eventually, Rawlings pulled away and placed his car keys in Olivia’s open palm. “You’ll need these,” he said, kissing her lightly. “Talk to you soon.”

She watched him approach the nurses’ station, opening his badge wallet as he walked. Though part of her wanted to stay and hear what had become of Boyd Allen, she most longed to be with Haviland. Just thinking of him waiting for her at the kitchen door had her quickening her pace.

She planned to feed him and then force herself to eat a little dinner. Afterward, she and Haviland would go down to the beach. Olivia wanted the salt-laced air to whip her hair and to sink her feet in the damp sand. She needed to hear the rush of the breaking waves and for the water to run over her hands, washing her clean.

*   *   *

The sky was lit by an enormous moon. It hung low on the horizon and was as gleaming white as a restaurant dinner plate. Olivia remembered how her mother used to look up different moon names in the
Farmer’s Almanac
, so after feeding Haviland, she pulled her own copy off the cookbook shelf and flipped to the section on moons.

“The full moon in October, which rises one month after the Harvest Moon, was called the Hunter’s Moon by certain American Indian tribes,” she read over the sound of Haviland’s gulping. “This was when the leaves were falling and the game was fattened. It was the time to hunt and fill storehouses for the winter. This moon was also known as the Travel Moon.” She paused to stare at the next line. “And the Dying Moon.”

Unwittingly, memories from Palmetto Island, from the felled doe to Leigh’s lifeless body spread out on the beach like a starfish, flooded her mind. And her thoughts were already overwhelmed by traumatic imagery from the bookstore. Slamming the almanac shut, Olivia pulled on a coat and took Haviland outside.

She brought her phone along, hoping that Harris would send a text saying that he’d solved the riddle of the cup, and tried to focus on Haviland.

Her poodle raced along the waterline, releasing some of his pent-up energy in short bursts of speed. He barked at shadows, snapped at eddies of wind-blown sand, and then doubled back to Olivia. He’d let her pet him once or twice before leaping away again, glancing playfully over his shoulder as he ran.

He darted past the lighthouse, his ears flattened. Sand shot out from under his paws, and his black body nearly merged with the night.

Olivia, whose attention was divided between her poodle and the moon’s reflection on the water, grew calmer. The empty stretch of beach and the endless, gentle rolling of the ocean made her feel like she could breathe again.

She walked briskly to the Point, a jetty that stuck out into the water. This jetty lacked the unsettling atmosphere of Cape Fear. She thought of the toy pirate coin she’d found before Leigh’s death and wondered what message the ocean had been trying to send her in the coin with the snarling face.

After gazing over the water for several minutes, Olivia shouted for Haviland and turned back toward home. She was approaching the lighthouse when she saw a glint of moonlight on metal in the dunes. She veered to the right, confused by the bulky shape peeking out from behind the base of the lighthouse. Suddenly, there was a flash of red, and Olivia realized that the moon was reflecting off a taillight.

“A car,” she murmured. For half a second, she wondered why someone would park on the sand, but then, another thought quickly replaced the first.

Emmett’s car.

She could see the outline more clearly now. It was definitely a silver SUV.

“Haviland. To me!” Olivia ordered. Fear made her voice high and shrill.

Sensing her mood, Haviland was instantly alert. His body tensed and he sniffed the air in search of the threat.

Olivia pulled out her phone and called Rawlings. When her call went straight to voice mail, she left a hurried message and then dialed Harris’s number.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Harris said excitedly. “I think I found the mystery cup.”

“Harris,” she whispered. “I’m at the lighthouse. Emmett’s car is here.”

There was a brief hesitation as Harris took this in. “Don’t get close, Olivia,” he pleaded. “Go home and call the chief.”

“I tried to reach Rawlings, but he didn’t answer, so I’m calling you.”

“Millay and I are heading over. She’ll drive while I get in touch with Cook. Is Haviland with you?”

Olivia reached out to touch her poodle. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been grateful to have him by her side, and this was certainly one of them. “He’s here. We’ll meet you at my house.”

After putting the phone back in her pocket, Olivia stood still and listened. Other than the wind rustling through the sea oats and the sound of the waves, there were no other noises.

Moving closer to Emmett’s SUV, Olivia watched Haviland carefully for signs of alarm, but he appeared completely at ease.

Olivia peeked through the passenger window and saw the keys dangling from the ignition. She also saw that the passenger door hadn’t been closed all the way. Carefully stepping away from the car, she used the flashlight mode on her phone to shine a light on the sand. There was a line of footprints heading from the passenger side toward the lighthouse.

“George,” Olivia whispered, stooping to examine one of the prints. It was elongated, as though the elderly man had staggered through the sand.

“Stay close,” Olivia told Haviland.

Her fear had dissipated. Instead, she felt a hollowness in the center of her chest. Someone had attempted to kill Jenna and Charles today. Leigh Whitlow was already dead. The unsuspecting woman had been lulled outside in the middle of the night to be drowned in the cold water. And Olivia had the sensation that there would be more death before the night was through.

The closer she got to the lighthouse, the stronger that feeling became.

Haviland began to growl. It started as a low rumble deep in his throat, and his gait became tentative. As Olivia coaxed
him forward, his growl grew louder and his lips peeled back, revealing his teeth.

A figure rested against the base of the lighthouse. The dark shadow of a man sitting in the sand, his legs stretched out before him, his head slumped over his chest.

“Shhh,” Olivia murmured to Haviland. Her hands were shaking, and the tremble began to move up her arms.

“George?” she whispered, directing the phone’s flashlight beam on the man.

She let the light touch him for only a moment before turning it off.

“George,” she repeated mournfully.

She didn’t need to get any closer to know that George Allen was dead.

Olivia sank to her knees and let an inexplicable wave of sorrow wash over her. This man, who’d been overlooked by the world for more than ninety years, had met his end on a distant beach. This man, who’d been a stranger to her until recently, had reminded her so much of the old lighthouse keeper she’d known as a child. This man, who’d had no one but his son to keep his company for most of his life, had died in an unfamiliar place. Alone.

Olivia knew that she should have been relieved to find George dead. After all, he was somehow involved in the ghost story reenactments. He was likely an accessory to murder. And yet, against all logic, she grieved for him.

Tears slipped down her cheeks and dropped to the sand. She let them fall unchecked, gazing at George through her blurred vision. Haviland whined and licked her hand. She pulled him to her and made soothing noises.

After several minutes, she dried her eyes and stared at the ocean. She wondered how George had gotten to the lighthouse and how long he’d been here. Olivia hadn’t taken a walk on the beach yesterday, so George could have been waiting out here for over a day.

The thought sickened Olivia.

She guessed that George had come to this place to die. Because it had a lighthouse. And because Boyd was out of time. George and Boyd had made their plans to go after Silas. Boyd had hidden in the bookstore, and somehow, George had driven the car to the lighthouse. Both men had decided that they would never return to Palmetto Island.

You were both dying
, Olivia thought sadly.

“Your island isn’t too far away. It’s there, just to the South,” Olivia told George in the soft voice of a mother soothing a child woken from sleep by a nightmare. “The same ocean surrounds its shores. The same tides pull the water on and off the beaches. Your home—your snug cottage with the photographs of your wife and of Boyd when he was a little boy—is right below that beautiful moon. See it? It’s also called the Hunter’s Moon. And the Travel Moon.” She glanced over to where George Allen sat. In farewell, she whispered, “I hope you found your way
back.”

I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.

—R
ALPH
E
LLISON

O
livia walked home without looking back.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table with Millay and Harris, she wondered how it could be only eight o’clock when it felt like midnight.

“I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before,” Harris was saying. “We should have known better.”

Olivia rubbed her tired eyes. “Known what?”

Harris folded his hands and looked at her. “You grew up here. What’s the single most popular ghost story told in these parts?”

Without hesitating, Olivia answered, “The legend of Blackbeard’s ghost. It’s mainly because Ocracoke Island is just across the Pamlico Sound. Not only that, but Blackbeard also lived near the town of Bath. You’ve read Rawlings’s manuscript. His whole story is about the missing treasure supposedly hidden somewhere along the banks of the Neuse River. But what’s the connection between Blackbeard, Silas, and my father?”

“I’m sure this is a familiar tale, but Blackbeard’s final battle occurred off the coast of Ocracoke. Virginia’s governor, Spotswood, wanted Blackbeard dead. The famous pirate was chased, his ship was fired upon, and, after a fierce battle, his crew was eventually overpowered. Blackbeard fought several men at once and suffered a terrible wound—a slash in the side of his neck.”

“Like Jenna,” Olivia murmured, her stomach turning in disgust.

Harris nodded reluctantly. “I hate to go into this when everything’s so fresh, but we have no choice.”

“Go on,” she prompted.

“When he finally died, Blackbeard had been shot and cut multiple times. His death becomes a ghost story the moment the victorious lieutenant chops off Blackbeard’s head and hangs it from the bowsprit of his ship.”

Olivia made a gesture of impatience. “Yeah, yeah, and Blackbeard is still out there searching for his missing head.”

“That’s the part the kids like to focus on,” Millay said. “But there’s a lesser known legend about Blackbeard’s missing head. This one is just as gruesome, but much more intriguing.”

“According to several historical documents, Blackbeard’s head was exposed to the ravages of weather for so long that the jawbone was lost,” Harris said. “Not only was it displayed on the ship’s bowsprit, but Governor Spotswood also hung it from the town gates as a trophy. Later, the head was supposedly dipped in silver and fashioned into a drinking vessel.” Harris stood up, grabbed a bowl from Olivia’s cupboard, and returned to the table. “Imagine a skull inside this ceramic shell. Without the jawbone, you’d have depressions here and here for the eye sockets. If you held it by the sides with each hand, you’d have a—”

“Cup,” Olivia finished for him.

Millay pointed at the bowl as though it was the actual
artifact. “The men who wrote about seeing this cup or having actually drunk from it weren’t novelists. They didn’t embellish. They were lawyers and government officials. But their description of this cup was very similar. They all used the words ‘silver,’ ‘vessel,’ ‘skull-shaped,’ and they mentioned the phrase engraved on the cup’s rim.”

“‘Death to Spotswood,’” Harris said. “Variations of the spelling occur, but the most common is death spelled, ‘D-E-T-H,’ and Spotswood’s name with an
e
added to the end.”

Millay opened Harris’s laptop and turned it so the screen faced Olivia. “Men have been searching for this cup throughout this century. The last credible sighting occurred in the 1920s during a meeting of William and Mary College fraternity members, which took place at one of Blackbeard’s former haunts. Since that time, the cup was purportedly sold to a private collector, but it was X-rayed and proved to be a fake. Other cups have shown up at auction and were donated to museums. None of them has been the genuine article.”

“Forty years ago, a misshapen cup of unknown origin was stolen from a small maritime museum in the town of—wait for it—Ocean Isle Beach. It had never been put on display and had been cataloged as originating from the estate of John Spotswood. John was Governor Spotswood’s son. The same Governor Spotswood who hung Blackbeard’s skull on his wall.”

Olivia’s fatigue ebbed a fraction. “Ocean Isle. That’s where Silas grew up.”

“This whole Blackbeard’s cup thing is like the old shell game,” Millay said. “You have three shells, and a ball is hidden under one shell. Someone mixes up the shells as fast as they can and you just have to keep your eye on the shell you think the ball’s hidden under, but your guess is never correct. It’s like someone practiced the art of misdirection in order to keep the real cup for themselves. And Harris and I think that person was Silas Black.”

Confused, Olivia stared at the image on the computer screen. It was a black-and-white engraving of Blackbeard’s head, bound with nautical rope and hanging from the bowsprit. The pirate’s famous dark beard had been partially shorn, as had his long locks of black hair. His eyes appeared to be squinting, and his mouth yawned to the side in anguish, astonishment, or both.

“So let’s say Silas stole this rare artifact,” Olivia said. “Why would a theft that occurred decades ago suddenly compel the Allens to commit acts of violence? Because Silas showed up on their island? How would they even know that Silas had taken the cup? I had a clear impression that neither man left the island if they could help it. Their world was very small.”

Harris pulled the computer toward him and began to type. “I don’t think they had a clue about the cup. But Vernon Sherrill did. He was the curator at the museum when the cup was stolen.”

He pivoted the laptop again, showing Olivia a newspaper article describing the disappearance of the artifact from the museum’s storage area. The piece ended with the voluntary retirement of the curator, a Mr. Vernon Sherrill.

“I’ll be damned,” Olivia whispered.

“Vernon is also a graduate of William and Mary College,” Millay added. “And we dug up a number of rumors speculating that the skull cup was being used in fraternity rituals. Bonding ceremonies and crap like that. A couple of sources stated that drinking from the cup served as a reminder of what happens when one disregards the law, while others claim that the inscription—‘Death to Spotswood’—warns of what befalls those who stand against the men of William and Mary. Way back when, Spotswood and the president of William and Mary were adversaries.” She shrugged. “Either way, the cup has always been the stuff of legends. There are no photos of it. No X-rays. No official
documents. If it ever existed, there’s no proof. So either the cup has always been with this fraternity, or the one those boys have been drinking from for decades is a fake and the real deal somehow ended up at a small museum in Ocean Isle, North Carolina. Until Silas Black stole it, that is.”

She fell silent, allowing Olivia to absorb the bizarre details.

“Leigh Whitlow is dead. Jenna is recovering from a serious wound. Charles is in the Intensive Care Unit. Over a cup that may or may not have been fashioned from Blackbeard’s skull? Come on.” Olivia’s voice betrayed her disbelief. “I love this state. I treasure its history, but I can’t—”

Her cell phone rang. Seeing Rawlings’s name on the screen, she scooped the phone off the table and answered it.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “I couldn’t pick up earlier because I was talking to Mr. Allen’s neurologist. Boyd will never leave this hospital. He has brain cancer. A tumor, and it’s very advanced. Cook just reached me. He told me about George. Are you all right?”

Olivia held out a finger to her friends, signaling that she’d be back in a minute and walked into the living room. Standing in front of the large windows overlooking the ocean, she said, “I know that George was twisted inside. I know that now. And yet I’m sad for him. I don’t like that he spent his whole life being invisible. I don’t like that he was dispensable. No one should matter so little.”

“He mattered to Boyd,” Rawlings said.

“That’s true,” Olivia said. “And what did Boyd get in exchange? He got trapped. George whispered to him about the island’s history, about its stories, until that cursed place was all Boyd knew. He had no friends. No lovers. No family other than his father. He became as invisible as George. The only thing that mattered to him was pleasing his father. And championing his home.”

“It’s interesting that you should use that word,” Rawlings
said. “‘Championing.’ Boyd has been telling the nurses that the island speaks to him. That only he can hear its voice.”

Olivia looked at the ocean, following the flash of the lighthouse beam as it pierced the darkness. “Is he crazy?”

“I suspect the whispers have come from his father, but the neurologist says the voices Boyd Allen hears are most likely the result of the tumor. It’s possible he’s had hallucinations too. Especially at this advanced stage. It’s clear that Mr. Allen has suffered multiple seizures over the past few weeks, and his vision is impaired.” Rawlings hesitated. “I believe he mistook Jenna for Silas because she was standing near a cardboard cutout of Mr. Black sent to Through the Wardrobe by his publisher. Both Charles and Jenna had opted not to use the display as it seemed over-the-top, and Jenna had decided to move it to the recycling bin. In the dim light, Mr. Allen thought he was actually attacking Mr. Black. He thinks he’s accomplished his task and can die in peace. Unfortunately for your father, he just happened to be in the way when Mr. Allen sprang from his hiding place.”

A fresh surge of anger coursed through Olivia’s body. “So let me get this straight. Boyd either murdered his own father or left him on a beach to die, after which he spent the night in a storeroom so he could attack Silas with what? A pirate’s cutlass?”

“Yes. We have the weapon in evidence. And Cook isn’t certain yet, but the ME thinks George Allen died from carbon monoxide poisoning. It looks like Boyd ran a hose from the exhaust pipe back into the SUV. Once his father was gone, he carried him to the lighthouse.”

Again, Olivia was almost too furious to speak, but if she wanted justice, she had to control her rage. “Where did Boyd get the cutlass? Did Vernon Sherrill give it to him? The same way he procured the white dress?”

Rawlings grunted in confusion. “I’m not following you.”

Olivia returned to the kitchen. “Harris found a
connection between Silas, a missing pirate artifact that happens to be a cup, and Vernon Sherrill. Here, I’ll let Harris explain everything. I’m still trying to work through some things in my head, and I need a minute.”

After passing the phone to Harris, Olivia waved Millay into the living room. The two women collapsed onto a sofa and stared at the cold hearth.

“Do you mind if I make a fire?” Millay asked and went to kneel before the fireplace.

Olivia almost smiled. “There isn’t much to do. They’re gas logs. Do you see that switch at the base?”

Millay pressed the button. There was a hum, a whoosh of air, and then the flames sprang into life. Millay stayed on the floor, her eyes fixed on the bluish flames in the heart of the fire.

“What if Boyd and George Allen were just pawns?” she asked quietly. “They’re simple men who led simple lives. Everything that happened has been complicated.”

“My thoughts have headed in that direction too,” Olivia said. “Vernon as puppet master. I remember when I first saw him and Silas together at the museum on Palmetto Island. At first, Silas acted chummy because he wanted to borrow artifacts for his show, but Vernon was openly unfriendly from the get-go. He wasn’t nice to Amy either. He clearly disapproved of her association with Silas.”

Millay turned away from the fire. “But why would losing his job all those years ago incite Sherrill into committing murder now? He was hired to curate another small coastal maritime museum almost immediately after his
voluntary
retirement from the Ocean Isle Museum. I’m sure he was embarrassed and angry, but to re-create those ghost stories? That took tons of planning. And energy.”

“It speaks of obsession,” Olivia agreed. “I think Vernon has been comparing himself to Silas for longer than we can imagine. For instance, Vernon is also an author. His book
has probably sold in the hundreds while Silas’s titles have sold millions. Silas is rich and famous and has legions of fans. If he stole that cup, forcing Vernon to step down from his position, he instigated Vernon’s cycle of invisibility. I believe that’s the common thread between Vernon and the Allens. The curator, the lighthouse keeper, and the boatman. At one time, they were useful, vital members of society. And then, through no choice of their own, they were forced to retire or their positions were phased out.”

“As the years passed, only visitors came to Palmetto Island,” Millay said. “There was no community. That’s something Vernon lost when he left Ocean Isle Beach. He had status in that town. The article Harris found mentions how respected Vernon was among the community members. I guess being the curator of the Palmetto museum didn’t open doors for him in Riverport. The museum is fairly decrepit.”

Haviland padded into the room and stretched out on the rug. He yawned and then eyed Millay expectantly. With a smile, she scratched him on the neck and belly and then abruptly stopped, her fingers caught in his black hair.