Pirate (Fargo Adventures 8)

“Aye. Came in on a ship one day. But a vicar stopped him with a prayer and holy water. The Devil stamped his foot and left his print in the alley. Or so they say.”

Remi loved old legends. “Let’s go take a look.”

Sam thanked the woman and was about to follow Remi into the alley when the woman said, “Watch out for Black Shuck.”

“Black what?” Sam asked.

“Shuck. The red-eyed Hound from Hell. Comes out after dark, it does. Heard tell it’s here e’en now. With the Devil.” She tottered off, planting her cane with each step, muttering to herself.

Sam glanced back at Remi, who was busy searching the cobblestones for some sign of the Devil’s footprint. The sun, well past its zenith, cast long shadows across part of the cobbled lane, accentuating every lump and bump, making it look as if an entire herd of cloven-hoofed creatures had left their mark.

“See anything?” he asked.

“No.” She took a photo of the alley anyway, and they continued on through, past the buildings, to a bordered walkway between two empty lots, following it until they reached the water at the South Quay. With time to kill, they strolled along the water’s edge until they reached Marriott’s Warehouse, where they stopped for a drink. Sam was always up for a Guinness, and they sat at a table overlooking the Great River Ouse. As the late afternoon turned to evening, a light fog swept in from the river, obscuring their view. When it was nearly time to meet their guide, they returned to the Custom House.

Nigel wasn’t there when they arrived and so they waited out front, the fog thickening as the evening wore on. Sam looked at his watch, saw Nigel was twenty minutes late. He called Selma, who gave him Nigel’s cell phone number. He left a voice mail saying they were waiting at the Custom House. After ten more minutes, he was about to suggest they call it a night when a figure emerged from the mist, walking toward them. Not Nigel.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“We’re waiting for Nigel Ridgeway.”

“Right. He was a bit late on his last tour. He did mention he was meeting someone back here, if that helps.”

“Thanks,” Sam said as the man unlocked the door and let himself into the building.

Remi wrapped her arms close about her. “I hope he gets here soon. It’s getting cold out.”

Sam pulled her close. A few minutes later, the same man stepped out, locking the office door behind him. He nodded at Sam and Remi as he left.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, stopping him. “Do you know which tour he was on last?”

“Pretty sure it was the maritime. That ends on South Quay in front of Marriott’s Warehouse. You might check there. A lot of the tourists stop after for dinner.”

“Thanks.”

“We were just there.”

“Let’s go back and check,” Sam told Remi. “Maybe someone there will know if he actually made it that far.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“We start looking for him.”

By the time they reached the warehouse café, visibility had lessened considerably. The gentle lapping of water on the quay quickened with an approaching boat, invisible in the fog. Diffused auras of light encompassed the street lamps, the glow barely reaching the ground.

They stepped into the café, looking around, but didn’t see Nigel. The hostess who’d seated them earlier smiled. “Forget something?”

“Looking for someone,” Sam said. “Any chance you’re familiar with a tour guide named Nigel Ridgeway?”

“I am, but I haven’t seen him tonight. He did have a tour, though. I seated some of the guests.” She nodded toward a table near the window where two couples sat, drinking wine. Sam thanked her, then took out his cell phone, telling Remi, “I’ll try calling him again.”

“I’ll check with them,” Remi said, walking toward the table.

Sam stepped outside the restaurant and hit redial. The phone rang several times, then someone answered, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Ridgewell?”

“Who—who is this?”