“No, no,” I said, cutting her off. “Just 1871 specifically. Smith died sometime around July, give or take a few months in either direction. If you could look for any mention of Smith, a man named Jack, or anything that sounds like grieving.”
Lucrecia let out a breath. “Okay. It may take me a little bit. When do you need this information?”
“ASAP?” I tried, wincing.
“ASAP,” she repeated. “All right. We’re pretty busy here right now, but I appreciate what’s been done to recover our stolen artifact, so I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Will that work?”
“That’s perfect,” I answered. I thanked Lucrecia before hanging up.
We walked into the station after that. A uniformed officer led us back to Tillman’s desk. I took a seat across from the detective, who was simultaneously on the phone and typing at his computer. He glanced at me and motioned to the small diary settled inside a plastic evidence bag. I’d borrowed a pair of cloth gloves from Louise on our way out of the library, and I pulled them on before gently removing the booklet.
Careful with the leather clasp, I slowly opened the diary and began to skim each entry in search of the one where Rogers realized Jack and Smith were the same man. Most of the entries were of no great importance. Rogers talked about the weather a lot, but I guess a man who spent so much time at sea would likely find a great interest in it. He mentioned his mother now and then, as well as a sister, but he seemed to be a bachelor, which admittedly added fuel to the lovers’ fire.
Somewhere in mid-April I’d realized Tillman had gotten off the phone, and he and Jun were speaking, but that’s when I read two words that made my heart race.
Red Lady.
On April 23rd, Rogers recounted his run-in with the vessel,Red Lady, a pirate ship he described asthe likes of which I’ve never seen before. She was beautiful and marvelous, and cut through the choppy waters with every intent of making widows out of my crew’s wives. I’d hardly been a babe out of my mother’s arms when Porter sent pirates to the gallows. And then, like a ghost in the night, here appears the captain I’ve heard whispers of for the last six years. I was deathly afraid.
And yet, just as quickly did the Red Lady appear at our side and her men board us, did her captain call them back. I admit that I saw him! Jack. One-Eyed, the locals say. Huge. Frightening. But I cannot speak as to why he let us live.
Jesus Christ. No wonder Cassidy stole this diary. And the St. Augustine museum had no clue the marvels they had tucked away.No freaking clue!
I turned the page. A few of the dates were left blank before Rogers noted on April 27th that he went to the court to warn them of his meeting with Captain Jack.The locals are fearful of this man and ask I not speak his name, but when I demanded to know what is to be done of such a nuisance, they shy from calling the Navy in. Damn Southerners.
April 28th:I couldn’t sleep and walked down to the wharves. In the dead of night, I swore the Red Lady was docking! Could her captain be here? What man at the docks has been paid off to allow this criminal to set anchor? I was too afraid to stay and watch!
April 29th:Ashamed I abandoned my vigilance at the wharves, I returned in the early hours. It was then I saw what I still cannot explain. This Captain Jack! He disembarked and disappeared into a shanty. But when he emerged, it was my dear Thomas.
Unbelievable. This was an eyewitness account by a very creditable, honest man.
Cassidy was right from the start.Damn it!
I flipped through several more pages, but the last piece of evidence I could find before Rogers went back to his run-of-the-mill entries was on May 5th.
I have recanted. I cannot do the right thing. My heart has been compromised.
Do the right thing? Rogers must have meant he couldn’t report Jack if it meant putting Smith in danger. He couldn’t go through with it and told the courts he must have been mistaken. Because of his heart.
My phone started ringing as I considered how Jun’s theory of lovers was looking more real by the second. “Hello?” I said distractedly.
Static.
I straightened in my chair and looked up, but Tillman—in an act of camaraderie—was talking to Jun about the contents of an open folder in his hands. The two of them were paying me no attention.
“Who is this?” I asked quietly.
More static.
“Smith?” I whispered.
“Aubrey,” his crackly voice said.
I held my breath.
“You’ll be dead too.”
“TILLMAN’S GOINGto request incoming call records from your cell provider,” Jun said. He swung his hand lightly in mine as we walked along Mallory Square at sunset. “That’s why you signed those consent forms—so he can figure out who keeps harassing you.”
