Pirate (Fargo Adventures 8)

“Very good.”

When she left, Bree said, “What if they’re still out there? I’m not even sure I want to go home.”

Remi gave her a sympathetic smile. “You can stay at our place in La Jolla until this is all over.”

“Trust me,” Sam said. “That house is a fortress. You’ll be safe there.”

Bree shook her head. “I can’t possibly impose—”

“You won’t be,” Remi replied. “Between you and Selma, we may very well get to the bottom of this mystery. Speaking of, Larayne was saying you knew more about the history of this book . . . ?”

“A bit. I know that Uncle Gerald bought it during an estate sale from a distant cousin on my father’s side. The so-called family history that was guarded by the male line of the Marshal family since the time of King John.” She gave a cynical laugh. “Of course, that can’t possibly be true because the book was written in the late seventeen hundreds. And, really, a book on pirates and privateers being passed down from generation to generation?”

“Unless,” Remi asked Bree, “the value had something to do with this key everyone seems so interested in?”

“Even that is historically questionable. After all, the key is to the maps in the book, maps that are related to pirates and privateers who came several centuries after King John. So you see, I don’t know how that could help much.”

Remi smiled at her. “An interesting history nonetheless.”

“You both have been so nice to me. After everything that’s happened—” She stopped, tried to smile, then broke down in tears.

Remi waved at Sam to vacate his seat. Sliding out, she walked over to Bree, put her arms around the girl, then drew her from the table. “Maybe you’d like to wash up, then lie down for a bit? A good nap might be just the thing. There’s plenty of time to go over this later.”

Bree nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Remi walked the young woman to their sleeping quarters at the back of the plane, then returned a few minutes later. “Poor thing,” she said to Sam. “I feel horrible about what happened.”

“She has a right to be upset. Imagine losing your uncle, then being kidnapped like that.”

“She’s safe now and that’s what counts.” Remi lifted her glass, about to take a sip, then stopped, eyeing Sam. “So when did you say this week of rest and relaxation was going to start?”

“Remi, why ruin a perfectly good moment? It’s not every day we get to sip twenty-five-year-old scotch while parked on a tarmac in North Carolina.”

“Not trying to ruin it at all.” She sipped her drink, enjoying the moment. It was one of the things she loved about Sam. Being able to laugh in the face of adversity. “Just wondering if I should block out more time on my calendar.”

“Day after tomorrow, then.”

“Not tomorrow?” she asked.

“We have a lot to do before we even get to Oak Island. Never mind that once we get there—assuming Bree understood her cousin’s intoxicated ramblings—there’s bound to be two or three angry mobsters who want to use us for target practice.”

“We did get trip insurance, didn’t we?”

“I knew there was something I forgot,” he said, snapping his fingers.

“What do you think about this Charles Avery character?”

He eyed his glass of scotch, swirling the liquid, thinking about everything they’d been through these last few days. Clearly, the man was dangerous, with no regard for human life. Of course, one had to look at all the facts, not just make opinions based on a few events. “Timing is everything, isn’t it?”

“My thoughts exactly. He suddenly finds out he’s not going to be able to acquire this book and then the robbery and kidnapping occur?”

Sam drained his glass, then reached for a pad of paper and a pen at the side of the table. “I’ll add his name to Selma’s research list. It might be a good time to find out not only who this Charles Avery is but what’s his interest in the map book.”

Eleven

Charles Avery examined the list of assets of his newest possible acquisition. Salvaging ran in his blood, and when he couldn’t be involved in the stealing of rare and valuable treasures, he whetted his appetite by searching for companies on the brink of bankruptcy. He’d buy them for a pittance, rip them apart, parcel out the remains, and make a tidy profit. Granted, there were a lot of casualties in the form of jobless employees when he finished, but collateral damage was the price one paid to succeed, he thought, turning the page, as his CFO sat across the desk from him waiting for his input.

The numbers satisfied him and he closed the folder. “Has anyone else shown an interest?”