Tales

of

OLD BRIGANDS KEY

Three Short Stories of Suspense

by

Ken Pelham

Copyright 2013 by Ken Pelham

All rights reserved.

Cover Design: Jennifer Pelham

Cover Image Source: Depositphotos, Plrang.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored by any means, other than as allowed through license to the purchaser of the material, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

About These Tales of Old Brigands Key...

Fans of my novel, Brigands Key, have asked, "Where is Brigands Key? Is it really like that?"

Yes, it really is like that. In my head, anyway. Brigands Key is a fictional island on the Florida Gulf Coast, in the region known as the Big Bend, the area where peninsula meets panhandle, where old Florida meets new. The Big Bend is sort of the forgotten region, bypassed by the intensive land development that has overwhelmed so much of the state.

By the time I finished the novel, the place had gotten under my skin. I had populated it with folks with a history of living literally and metaphorically on the edge, and I felt compelled to revisit the island.

With the novel, the short story titled "Double Effect" in my Treacherous Bastards collection, and the three stories contained herein, bits and pieces of the island's dubious past are revealed.

--kp

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Chris Havern, Staff Historian, U.S. Coast Guard, for his assistance with technical details and descriptions of Coast Guard vessels and crewmen during the Prohibition era, valuable background needed for "The Rum War."

Many thanks also to James T. Shirley, a veritable fount of information on shipwreck salvage practices and law, which contributed enormously to "The Wreck of the Edinburgh Kate." James's critique and suggestions on the details lent the story an air of 19th-century authenticity.

And of course, thanks to my family for reading and offering suggestions to make the stories better.

—kp

Table of Contents

The Rum War

The Light Keeper

The Wreck of the Edinburgh Kate

Ah, Demon Rum. My father tells the story of my grandfather's investment in a little bootlegging boat in Depression-era Daytona Beach. Don't get the wrong idea; it's not like Granddaddy—a bricklayer by trade—was Al Capone or something. Times were tough, and he moved the family around trying to find enough work to feed them. Bootlegging was a valued trade, because, frankly, no one quit drinking just because it was illegal. Stupid law.

"The Rum War" delves into the waning days of the Prohibition in tiny Brigands Key, never a place to shy away from doing the dirty work the rest of society demands. A local ne'er do well partners with an outsider of some literary bent to exact an islander's idea of justice.

For those interested in the look and feel of the boats (and the times), the U.S. Coast Guard has marvelous archives at the Coast Guard history website.

—kp

The Rum War

Brigands Key, Florida, February, 1932

Lou Denton eased the heavy black shutter board aside from the window and looked out. He scratched the stubble on his chin, knocked back another drink of Scotch whiskey, and settled in to watch his boat like a hawk from the second floor loft of the warehouse.

Watching his stolen boat.

Each sip burned his gut. He didn't particularly care for the stuff, even though it paid the bills and had gotten more popular than it had been when it was legal. But he needed it tonight. He needed to be on edge and a little drunk to go through with what needed to be done. This was going to be a long hard night, one he might not live through.

They took his damn boat! His boat, his family's boat for fifteen years, now defiled by some desk boys in the Coast Guard.

Goddamn crooks. They stole it, and with it a small fortune in goods.

He took another drink. This needed fixing, and soon. The window would slam shut and then it would be too late, maybe by tomorrow. The boat would be gone and he'd likely be in jail.

The sons of bitches already had Anna in jail. He shook his head. His sister had tried hard to do a good job, but weren't too damn smart, and not near quick enough on her feet to get out of a jam. Kind of lacked the Denton brains and mean streak.

That didn't make him feel no better about it. Worse, if anything. She'd probably go to federal pen for a long time, and it was his fault. He knew she couldn't sneak her way through.

He had to act tonight, but he couldn't pull it off alone

A hand snatched the shutter from his own hand, slammed it shut, and slid a bolt down to lock it in place. "Damn you, Denton," Cleveland Ross said. "This is my joint. You ain't s'pose to open the window any time, much less when the damn Coast Guard is in town. Jesus, you're stupid. Once more and you're gone."

Lou glared at him, and sulked over and took a seat. "Fine. Set me up with another Scotch."

"That'll be a dollar, in advance."

"A dollar! I sold you the damn stuff."

"You wanted whiskey, you should have kept some for yourself. A buck."

* * *

A half-hour later, Lou huddled alone over another drink, smoking his fifth cigarette. The joint had filled. All the rooms upstairs hummed with vice; this room—the biggest, the speakeasy—hummed the loudest. The other three rooms, peopled by ladies entertaining gentlemen, hummed quietly, punctuated by occasional shouts of gusto. Like Brigands Key had any gentlemen in it. Downstairs, all was dark and quiet, a rusted rat-hole warehouse.

Drinks flowed, the piano played, jokes abounded, all by the light of hanging kerosene lamps. A fistfight or two. Lou's friends trickled in and made themselves welcome, Pat Johnson and worthless Jack Rabbit Abbott, but they all stayed well clear of him. When your shadow business dragged you into in the spotlight, thing was, you were pretty much on your own. You didn't expect the others, who committed the same things and worse, to stand up for you. You just didn't. Life had to go on. There were mouths to feed.

But Lou needed help tonight.

So when two strangers entered, Lou fixed a close, studying eye on them. One of them, a tall thin sort, seemed a little too precious for what needed to be done, and fidgeted and glanced like he didn't want to be in the joint.

The other man, now there might be something to him. Weathered like a baseball glove, although he didn't seem old, and built real stocky. A broad dark mustache sprawled across his square head. A little rough around the edges, but not a whole lot. Maybe enough. Seemed a little too smart, but that might be a good thing.

The two men ordered, and two glasses of beer soon appeared on their table.

Lou stubbed out his cigarette and sauntered over. "You gents mind some company?"

The dainty one said, "Well, actually, we were only going to be here a minute or two."

"Settle down, Max," the other said. "Live a little. Sure, mister, pull up a seat." He waved to the bartender. "This beer's on me."

"Obliged," Lou said. "Name's Lou."

"Pleasure, Lou. Call me Ernest."

Lou studied him for a moment. "I seen you two pull a pretty nice boat into the harbor and tie up on the dock this afternoon. What you doin' in Brigands Key? Got business here?"

"Oh heavens no," Max said.

"We're tooling up the Gulf coast," Ernest said. "Up from Key West, just fishing and sightseeing. We might make it to New Orleans. Haven't quite decided yet."

Lou nodded towards the beer glasses. "Ain't you heard alcohol ain't legal in this country?"

"We heard a rumor to that effect." He raised his glass in a toast. "To rumors."

"So you ain't a goody-goody. That's a start. Listen. You want to make thirty dollars each tonight?"

Max smirked. "Oh my. Thirty dollars. I don't think—"

"Shut up, Max," Ernest said. His eyes glinted. "That's a lot of money. What's a man have to do to make thirty bucks in one night?"

"Steal a boat back that's been stole from me."

"Why don't you just call the cops?"

"'Cause it's the cops that stole it. I'm gone to steal it back from them Coast Guard sons of bitches."

"Oh my," Max said. His smirk evaporated. "I don't think—"

"Shut up, Max," Ernest said. "This is becoming a good story. Why don't you go back to the room?"

Max pushed his chair away from the table. "Gladly. I need to arrange enough money cabled to pay your bail tomorrow. Or begin the funeral arrangements." He dropped a dollar on the table and hurried away.

Lou watched him go. "He ain't gone to blow the whistle on us, is he?"

"Max? Hell no. I'm his meal ticket. He's just not particularly fond of adventure."

"Adventure? This ain't no game, mister. Like he said, you might get shot before the night's through."

Ernest leaned back, and seemed to consider that. "Tell me the story so I can see if this is worth sticking my neck out."

"What story? You drink booze, and that's against the law. I reckon damn near everybody is a lawbreaker now. Anyway, you drink it, and I haul it in, mostly from Cuba. I didn't have no trouble with the old Coast Guard Six-Bitters. They was too slow. Now they got them CG-400s, and them sons of bitches haul ass. So my boat, the Pilar, got caught this morning out on the Gulf. I wasn't on her this trip, but my first mate was."

"Pilar. I like that. Your first mate, what's his name?"

"Anna."

Ernest nodded. "Your first mate, you say?"

"It ain't like that. She's my dimwitted sister. Anyhow, they was gone skipper or tow Pilar all the way to Mobile. I know what happens next; they either gone sell her, re-commission her into one of their own, or scuttle her. I aim to not let any of them things happen. It's my goddamn boat."

"I assume you had contraband aboard."

"Don't get fancy, boy. She was full-loaded with whiskey and rum. There ain't nothing can be done about that now. That's a loss, and a big one. I aim to get on board and get my sister out. She ain't going to prison on account of me. You uncomfortable with that?"

"Not unreasonably so. In fact, it smacks of chivalry."

"After they hijacked Pilar and arrested Anna, they'd a gone straight off to Mobile. They figured Pilar was based here out of Brigands Key, and the last thing they wanted was to have to bring her in here, amongst the riffraff. But I had a bit of luck today, maybe first time ever. The CG gunboat had some engine trouble and needed work, and the Pilar wouldn't have held up towing something that big all the way to Alabama. Their mechanic up and got too sick to stand, much less fix an engine. So they was stuck puttin' in here for the night. They already rustled up a new mechanic, Bobby Watson, to fix her in the morning. I got until daybreak. I been watching 'em. They still got Anna down in the hold of Pilar, and one guy keeping an eye on her, and God knows what else. The rest of their crew is on the CG. I count six, all told."

"Lou, this has disaster written all over it. I think I'm in. What's the plan?"

* * *

Lou held back in the shadows, watching first the Pilar and then Ernest. The Pilar was moored alongside the dock, tied fore and aft with heavy lines. The Coast Guard vessel, a seventy-eight footer, rocked gently alongside Pilar's starboard, lashed to her and the dock, pinning her firmly into place. She was going nowhere until that Coast Guard boat was out of the way.

From the north, the beacon of Hammond Lighthouse swung its swift arm of light across the island, each pass brightening the waterfront for an instant.

The day had been overcast, but that cover had blown away and a full moon climbed high in the east. Damn the bad luck; when you want good weather, you get a mess. When you need bad weather, you got a clear beautiful night with moonlight on the water. Too late to worry about that, though.

He'd studied Ernest when the guy had first pulled up the channel. The guy was a college boy, that was plain as day, but had some nails and broken glass in his gut, and pain, too, and knew his way around a boat. Now the guy showed just the opposite, just like they'd planned, like a rich man with a big boat and little sense.

Ernest sauntered down the dock, whistling like some goddamn playboy, and stepped onto the Pauline. Lou had taken note when she first berthed in Brigands Key. Nice looking craft, a sportsman's boat, polished wood and brass and all that rich-man stuff, maybe twenty-eight feet long.

The main dock jutted a hundred yards perpendicular from the inland side of the island, pointed like a middle finger at the mainland. Smaller docks teed out from the main dock, about half of them occupied by the commercial fishing boats. In better times, every last one would be occupied, but the Depression wiped out a slew of them and drove them off to other places. The ones that was able to stay in business, like Lou, was the ones that did a little moonlighting.

Kerosene lanterns bathed a good bit of the dock in a dim orange wash. A couple of CG sentries, carbines slung over their shoulders, stood fore and aft on the deck of their gunboat, which was the meanest-looking vessel on the waterfront. The aft sentry seemed alert, like he was watching Ernest too. The one on the bow sat cross-legged on the deck with a deck of cards, playing solitaire. Lazy son of a bitch.

Ernest fiddled about on the Pauline for a few minutes, trying to look busy, fussing over fishing gear, rustling about in a locker, withdrawing a can. Lou knew what he was up to. Ernest glanced at the CG, and moved aft with the can and a paint brush. He dipped the brush into the paint and leaned out real easy over the transom as if to inspect something, and slopped paint over the name of his boat. He'd already said he was going to take pains to lessen up the chances of being accompliced in Lou's felony. Smart feller. A college boy.

The paint job done, Ernest stowed the brush and can, and unhitched his mooring lines. He went into the pilot house and a moment later, his engines purred and churned up the water behind the boat, and he eased it away from the dock.

Lou looked at his watch. It was four A.M., not an unreasonable time to get seaward for some daybreak fishing. The aft sentry kept an eye on the Pauline as she drew nearer.

Pauline's engines throttled up a bit. Ernest had bumped her up, and the boat gained speed, maybe to six knots. Not what fishermen like to see in a too cozy harbor around the boats that put food on their tables, but exactly what you'd expect from some rich playboy.

The Pauline's engines suddenly died, and Ernest glanced about, looking puzzled and concerned. The boat plowed ahead with momentum now.

Lou smiled. This stupid idea just might work.

The Pauline closed toward the CG now, and Ernest made a show of frantically trying to restart the engines.

The alert sentry leaned closer. "Ahoy," he shouted. "Control your vessel. You're coming too close, too fast." The lazy sentry glanced up, and slowly got to his feet.

"I can't," Ernest called back. "The engines died, just like that. Can't get them up again."

"Shit, man," the sentry called, "you don't need power, just turn the wheel and rudder her away."

Ernest, looking panicky, faked a hard twist of the wheel, and fake-twisted it back again. "I can't get a response!"

The Pauline closed in on the CG.

"Shit!" the sentry cried. "Sound the alarm!"

The lazy bastard aft suddenly was all business, and sprang to a mounted bell and rang it furiously.

"I can't turn," Ernest shouted.

Lou slipped out of the shadows and hurried to the dock. The two men on the CG deck were riveted on the sportsman's boat. It looked to plow straight into the CG.

At the last second, the Pauline edged out of the straight-on collision course and struck a glancing blow. There came a sound of splintering wood. The CG-400 lurched with the jolt. Men shouted, curses flew through the air.

The sailor on the Pilar bolted up and stared at the commotion.

Come on, Lou thought. Get off my livelihood and go help your pals.

The man stayed with his post.

Lou had no choice. He sprinted down the dock.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Ernest glance at him. The Pauline's engine suddenly roared, and the craft drove into the side of the CG, pushing it around. More shouting.

"I can't stop it," Ernest wailed. "Now it's stuck!"

Lou reached his boat and leapt aboard, hurling himself full into the Guardsman. The man went down with a thud, and Lou slugged him as hard as he could in the mouth. The man slumped and rolled, stunned. Lou snatched the man's revolver and threw it overboard.

The sailor was just a kid. A big one, so Lou didn't feel too bad about clobbering him. He'd gotten the drop on the kid out of surprise and maybe a little luck. When the kid came to, Lou knew he'd be manhandled, and at any moment the other sailors were going to see that trouble had commenced aboard their rum war prize. Ernest waved and shouted, a spectacle now, near hysterics, and hurled abusive oaths and threatened each and every sailor who ever wore the Coast Guard uniform with lawsuits that would bankrupt them.

No time to lose.

Lou tried the door on the wheelhouse. Locked. He grasped a fire axe from underneath the gunwale and smashed the lock. Another blow, and he shoved the door in.

Anna bounded out, grinning. "Lou! I knew you'd come!"

"Shut up, girl. You ain't been quiet nine straight seconds of your life, but you better be now." He took her hand and pulled her along. He whispered instructions to her and pushed her out onto the dock. She knelt in the shadows.

He turned and reentered the wheelhouse. He reached underneath his jacket and pulled out a taped bundle of three sticks of dynamite. He wedged it into a locker against the lower hull, took out a match, and lit the fuse.

He ran.

On deck, the sailor stirred and looked dazedly about. Lou punched him again and heaved him up onto the dock. He looked at the commotion on the other boats. Five crewmen swarmed about, screaming at Ernest, who waved and stabbed a finger at them, shouting back. Ernest saw him, turned back to his wheel, and spun it starboard.

A crewman turned and saw Lou, who scrambled onto the dock. The crewman shouted and drew a sidearm. The revolver roared, and Lou felt something sting his foot with fire. Another gunshot, and splinters of wood flew from the dock.

Lou took two steps and collapsed to his knees, the damage to his wrecked foot too great. Pain blossomed with each step, and he marveled at how goddamn important a foot was. And how goddamn much it could hurt.

The shooter took three swift strides closer, until he loomed close over Lou. He steadied himself, and drew careful aim at Lou's face. He'd lost any interest in taking a prisoner. And at that range, he couldn't miss.

"Hey, you son of a bitch," Ernest shouted. He twisted the wheel hard and shoved the throttle.

The shooter hesitated a split-second, and glanced at Ernest. Lou rolled sideways. The gun roared and a hole appeared in the deck of the Pilar. The crewman swore, shook his head, and leveled his weapon again.

The Pauline pulled free of the CG-400 with a lurch and a groan. The crewmen stumbled. The Pauline spun back to port and banged against the end of the dock.

"Now, Anna!" Lou shouted.

They ran toward the Pauline.

The explosion roared behind them. Chunks of fiery debris sprayed about.

They leapt on board the passing boat, and Ernest heeled it hard to starboard and opened the growling engines wide. The Pauline shot away into the channel.

Lou turned to watch. The sailors were scrambling about, one of them firing wildly at them with his revolver. The captain directed this and that, demanding the chase begin.

Pilar rolled onto her side and settled lower. Flames crept up the side of the wheelhouse. Air escaped her with a sigh and she sank still lower. And then she slipped under.

The lines linking her to the CG-400 drew taut, and the vessel heeled over as the weight of the sinking boat pulled it downward. The captain suddenly directed everyone to the new threat and the crewmen feverishly scrambled to unhitch or sever the lines. Too late. The bow of the vessel went low and wedged under the dock with a shriek of metal and a splintering of wood.

The gunboat was stuck.

Gunshots chased the Pauline, and blasts of white foam where bullets struck the water followed them.

* * *

Pauline sped into the darkness of the open Gulf, its running lights dark.

"Where to?" Ernest shouted.

"Hell, I don't know. Veer south, drop us at Cedar Key. We'll hitch a ride out of Florida from there. Reckon we'll work our way down coast and get to Cuba for another boat." He peered down at his foot. Slippery wetness filled his shoe, and blood seeped from it. "Son of a bitch plugged me in the foot! I'm gone have to buy new shoes now."

"Christ, man, you need a doctor."

"I reckon that's so."

"And you scuttled your own vessel! I thought this was a rescue only."

"Hell, what did you think, I could keep out of reach of them Revenuers? They knew the Pilar now, and they got bigger, faster, meaner boats of their own."

"But why . . . ?"

"Principle, son. I put a lot of sweat into that boat, but it weren't no living human being. I got my little sister out, but I'll be damned if I let them sons of bitches commandeer my boat and make it a Revenuer boat. It ain't right. I don't expect you to full understand, but some folks got it made and most folks ain't. Haves and have-nots. I reckon I'm one of them have-nots, and it don't look to ever change." He thought for a moment. "Besides, it weren't a total loss. By now, all them hundreds of bottles of whiskey and rum will be bobbing on the surface of the channel, being picked up by the good folk of the island. That'll be my late Christmas present to 'em, 'cause I sure didn't get them nothing else."

Ernest nodded. "This will make one hell of a story."

"It might, son. But me and Anna's got to start over somewhere else, so don't go using my name in your goddamn book."

"What book?"

"Listen, you ain't as anonymous as you think and I ain't as illiterate as I sound."

Anna spoke up, grinning. Her red hair caught the fire of the sun as dawn broke. "And you ain't as lucky as you think, Lou. You thought it was a lucky bit of engine trouble that brought Pilar into Brigands Key? Ha! The Coast Guard's got top-drawer mechanics."

"So?"

"So, their engines don't run so good when they got a bag of sugar in the carburetors. And their mechanic don't feel so good when he's got half a bottle of castor oil in his food."

"I'll be damned. How'd you manage that?"

"Sailors will do anything to impress a pretty girl. Now you think I'm smart?"

"I think you might turn out to be a pretty fair Denton after all."

"One hell of a story," Ernest said. He opened a small locker in the side of the wheelhouse and withdrew a bottle of rum. "By my reckoning, we just passed the twelve-mile limit. Drink up."

"Well," Lou said, taking the bottle. "Long as it's legal."

"Change is good," they say. I say it's a matter of perspective and when you hear it, a prudent first course of action is to grab hold of your ass and hold on tight. The Germans and Soviets said it when they marched into Warsaw in 1939. I suspect the Poles disagreed. Exactly one year prior to that tragic day, the following story takes place.

Changes in technology always come with growing pains. Some more painful than others, as in this story. Rural electrification was a miracle for folks outside the cities and towns, but would not necessarily have been welcomed by everyone.

—kp

The Light Keeper

Brigands Key, September, 1938

McConklin the light keeper sat up reading all night on the porch of his house, same as every night, poring over a grease-smudged copy of The Sea Wolf. He puffed contentedly on a corncob pipe, and had just refilled and relit it when the lights went off all over Brigands Key, everywhere but his porch.

His porch was bathed in the bright reliable glow of kerosene.

He looked out over the town, feeling just a little smug. Blackness everywhere. He drew his pocket watch. Four AM. Most folks wouldn't even notice, being still in bed. He ran out to the yard, looked up at the dark spire of the lighthouse, and swore a blue streak when he saw that the lantern room was dark.

He ran his fingers through his hair, and shook his head. Only a couple hours until dawn. Maybe it could wait until then.

No. Even a couple hours without a beacon would put men in mortal danger.

He emptied his pipe on the ground, stamped out the ash, and hurried back to the porch. He grabbed the lit lantern and two more unlit ones.

He ran down the driveway to the rotting picket fence, aiming for the new power pole. The electric lines came across the channel along the old wood bridge on stinking creosote poles that dotted the town. The nearest pole was just inside his fence, near the shed that housed the transformer. The other transformers around town all hung on poles, but the town bosses figured the lighthouse important enough to warrant protection for its transformer.

As he headed toward the shed, there was a flicker, another, and then the lights of the town blinked back on. He turned his attention back up to the lantern room high above.

Still dark.

He swore loudly. Ever' building in town except the most important one had got its power back.

He rattled open the tin door of the shed, spooking Mary Shelley, the broke-down gray cat, from atop a crate of equipment parts. Stupid cat, didn't know how dangerous living inside a transformer house might be. Mary Shelley rewarded him with a hiss and a swipe. He retaliated with a kick and knocked the wide-eyed thing aside. "Git, you worthless animal!"

He hung the lantern on a hook and tweaked it brighter, sweeping aside the darkness of the little shack. The transformer itself gleamed metallically, like the silver the electric boys said it was.

He stared at the goddamn thing, his pulse quickening, his face flushing with a sudden hot resentment. Thirty-two years he'd tended the light on kerosene, and never a stop in service. Seven months on electric, and down she goes. A perfect record, shot all to hell.

"That's progress," the electric boys had claimed, a thousand times. Maybe they were right. Electric didn't stink and smoke like kerosene, and didn't have to be refilled daily.

Better most nights, but not tonight. Tonight the electric boys had failed miserably and the Hammond Lighthouse had lost its beacon for the first time since it went on in 1872. The first time that ships out in that shallow uncertain sea were searching the horizon without success for the old Hammond beacon, relying on it to keep them from running aground or sinking.

McConklin swore out loud. He'd warned them.

The thing about electricity was, it was fancy enough to fool everyone with convenience. Sure, it was convenient. But it was like holding a tiger by the tail.

Kerosene had done a workman's job, but them new boys argued that kerosene was the danger, not electric. Kerosene would burn the place down one day. That was laughable; there weren't nothing in Hammond Lighthouse that could catch fire. It was all concrete and steel.

Get on with it, he told himself. Don't think about how they ruined it and how they're going to somehow hang your ass for it.

He thought back to the one lousy day of training they'd shoved him through as they'd strung the wires and hung the contraptions. His son Roy had gone through the same training with him. It seemed like the only time the kid had ever gotten truly worked up by anything.

Roy.

He hadn't seen his son for six months, but that wasn't his fault. McConklin had always figured Roy would inherit the light keeper's job once McConklin retired, but the kid left for Galveston and said he'd never be back.

McConklin had gotten his hopes up. Penny Merriwether claimed she'd seen Roy at an inn in Perry just two days ago. She must have been mistaken; if Roy had come that close, he'd have come all the way home. Wouldn't he?

He and Roy didn't see eye to eye. The boy had once been the quiet one but turned since his older brother, Tom, had died nine years ago. Tom ran around, drinking and chasing girls, even married ones, and McConklin had tried to put a stop to it, clamping down on both boys. The boys' mother had run off and left him to raise them alone. He wouldn't spoil them the way she did.

Tom had stayed out late one night too many. Not a word, just came home late and went straight upstairs. He should've apologized. Everything would have been fine if he had. McConklin shook his head, remembering the blows at the top of the stairs, the long slow tumble, and Tom laying motionless at the bottom, his face turned an impossible direction, and little Roy coming out of his room to see Tom's broken twisted body, and blinking through tears at his father.

It was an accident, McConklin reassured himself. It was. Chief Toomey agreed, so it must have been.

But Roy blamed his old man, and grew into a sulkier, more venomous hellion than Tom had ever been, sniping, ignoring, resisting at every turn. But never fighting, not like Tom. Roy's way was worse, and he got worse, and McConklin had to rein him in.

And just as it had that one night with Tom, the demon come over McConklin again one night, and in an alcoholic haze he had beaten the unresisting Roy bloody and senseless, somehow stopping short of killing him.

The closeness to murder shocked even himself and he swore off the bottle for a time.

The boy said nothing to nobody. Just an explanation that he'd fallen in the lighthouse. But the whispers began about town. Chief Toomey gave him a hard threatening look and watched him real close after that.

Then came the rural electrification. Roosevelt bought a lot of votes with that nonsense, and poor folks in Brigands Key weren't no different than poor folks in the Tennessee Valley. A boon to the economy, the local Babbitts claimed. Course, their jobs weren't threatened by it. McConklin's was. He'd gone from pillar of the community to unnecessary relic almost overnight.

At least he was important tonight.

After his one day of training Roy got full of ideas and said that electrification was the best thing that ever happened, and went off to study it for six more weeks in Charlotte and came back with a fancy certificate. Not enough to call himself an engineer or anything, but enough to make a dollar or two. He even got some WPA work, stringing wires, hanging transformers, charging lines. Got the hometown hero treatment the day they threw the switch and the lights came on all over Brigands Key. They bought him steak dinners and drinks. Everybody fell for the convenience. And when Tallahassee said the lighthouse kerosene lamp was coming out and an electric lamp going in, McConklin could see the writing on the wall.

It wasn't over yet. Roosevelt was banging his war drum, scaring people into thinking that Hitler was up to no good and Nanking was an omen of things to come, and insider talk was that FDR was going to nationalize all the lighthouses and turn 'em over to the goddamn Coast Guard.

What then? McConklin saw no way them military boys would let him keep his job.

He eyed the transformer housing. Where was Roy and all his training now?

Mary Shelley meowed and watched him curiously.

"Shut up." McConklin said.

For his six weeks of training, Roy knew bunches of diagrams and whatnot. McConklin had gotten the six-hour training, and that seemed like plenty. He knew the shutoffs, the shunts, the routine maintenance, which said basically, "call an expert." That was an insult to a man who'd kept the beacon on without fail for three decades.

The transformer was a hulk of steel, bolted to a concrete floor. McConklin held up his light, inspecting it. In his training, they'd hauled out one that had blown, a blackened, smelly wreck. This one was as slick as the day it was installed. Not a whiff of burned wires and insulation. He looked at the row of arrestors, three glass mushrooms attached to a beam alongside the transformer. Pretty little things, kind of like miniatures of the Fresnel lens up top in the lighthouse. They were supposed to protect the transformer from power surges, like if lightning struck the lines somewhere. They'd explode if that happened, but they were intact and shiny.

So the town lights were on, the arrestors looked good, and the transformer, too. That meant the problem was in the line between the transformer and the lantern room.

This electric stuff wasn't so danged hard.

He checked the conduit out from the transformer, and went outside the shed. He followed the conduit to the base of the lighthouse, where it disappeared into a hole that'd been drilled just for this purpose. Chest-high above it was another steel housing box, the shutoff for the lighthouse. He opened the door with a squeak, checked it, and shoved the heavy switch lever to the off position. If the power came back, he'd be safe.

He went to the lighthouse door, unlocked it, pulled it open with a metal groan. He held up his lantern and located the conduit again on the inside. He began ascending the spiral ladder, holding aloft the lamp and checking the conduit as best he could.

Minutes later, huffing just a bit, he reached the lantern room. The conduit and cable running up the lighthouse shaft had been intact the whole way, as far as he could tell.

The beautiful old Fresnel lens, the finest in all the Southeast, sat there motionless, useless. Since the upgrade, he couldn't even manually add a lamp to it.

He opened the outer glass door to the encircling catwalk and stepped through. He hung his lighted kerosene lamp on the railing and fixed it there with a few twists of baling wire. He lit the two remaining lamps and attached them similarly to the railing, spaced equidistantly around the catwalk. He turned the wicks bright as they would go, and studied them for a moment. They were pitiful excuses for a beacon, but they'd have to do until power came back on.

He leaned gently against the glass panes and stared out to sea, watching for boats. He figured that was all he could do. If there weren't no electricity, there weren't nothing else for it.

His thoughts returned to Roy, and that damn girl that lured him away. What was her name? Melissa? Little pie-faced Melissa. A life wrecker, that one, like his own wife, Georgette, had been. Georgette had left them all, left the boys when they were little, on account of the fights and the discipline.

You couldn't warn a boy about a girl when his pecker was doing all the thinking. When Melissa tried to talk Roy into leaving, McConklin got after her and told the little conniver to stay away, to mind her own business, to sink her claws into someone as trashy as herself. She left in tears, and told Roy all about it, tarting up the facts. She left town, which was what he'd hoped, but with an unplanned side effect; Roy left a week later.

McConklin reentered the lantern room and studied the cable to the beacon lamp. It occurred to him that the wiring from the distribution line to the transformer to here were all fine. So the problem hid in here.

The rain that had come tonight came in with a little bit of touchiness. There had been lightning strikes off over the Gulf. So most likely lightning had struck the lighthouse and knocked out the equipment.

But the tower was equipped with lightning rods to take care of that, and there had been no thunderclap. One that close to his house would have made him jump out of his skin.

Something else was wrong.

He spotted it.

At the junction of the cable to the electric motor, a second wire had been spliced in, skillfully hidden under the main cable. It ran just a few inches over the steel floor and was attached in a dark corner.

Awareness dawned in him.

The whole room was steel, and wet with rain. If the power came back on... but it couldn't. He'd thrown the shutoff to be safe.

Unless...

He heard a hiss and a crackle. His hand, gripping the rail, burned like fire, and the muscles in it squeezed tight. A shot of electricity blasted him, and his heart clenched like a fist. He couldn't release his grip.

His mind fought for consciousness as the current surged through him.

He shook violently. Vaguely, he smelled flesh and hair burning.

A last thought flickered. Roy had wired the lighthouse. Roy... kid wasn't so hopeless after all...

* * *

Chief Toomey thumbed a notepad and poked around and asked questions, hoping to sound like he understood the technical jargon. Two or three locals tried to convince him the light keeper's death wasn't no accident. Stupid island hicks. He knew better, even if he didn't know how electricity got stuffed into wires and what made it move. He knew people and motives. Killers don't go around killing with wires when bullets are so much more reliable.

Oswald Denton, the town drunk—one of them, anyway—was particularly insistent, or deluded. He lived in a wine bottle, but swore a blue streak that he'd seen a man that night fiddling around with the switch at the base of the lighthouse. That was goddamn silly. Who'd be out in the rain fiddling with wires? Nah, it had to have been a lightning strike. Besides, Toomey pointed out, who in the whole county even had the smarts to rewire a building to kill? Electricity was new, and not unlike magic. You'd need a goddamn magician.

A week later, an electric boy moseyed over to the island to investigate the wiring and render his professional opinion. He said it was all up to snuff. Nobody had tampered with anything.

Oswald Denton had the gumption to claim he'd seen the mystery man again, fiddling around in the dark, fiddling with the switch, and climbing the lighthouse to fiddle around in the lantern room. "Changing things back the way they was," Denton claimed. "Don't you see, it's the perfect murder. You kill a man with something nobody understands. Folks understand guns and knives, but got no idea what electricity is and how it gets inside their house." Denton grumbled and belched and wandered off to Bill's Tavern.

Stupid old drunk.

Toomey closed the case. Mary Shelley purred and rubbed his leg. He ignored her but she followed him home anyway and basked in the electric warmth of his house. That was progress.

A stormy sea. A ship runs aground, a frenzied group of salvagers rushes to plunder it. But what if the ship transports not wealth from England, but horror?

The ghastly crimes of Jack the Ripper still haunt the Western psyche, more than a century after the horrific slayings in Whitechapel. The murders were never solved, the killer never caught, yet the reign of terror suddenly ended. Why? Might he have fled? And fled to his homeland?

—kp

The Wreck of the Edinburgh Kate

Brigands Key, January, 1890

Deputy John Fells Sanborn watched Emma's economical, sure movements as she ladled bean soup into his bowl, avoiding eye contact. He wrestled with what he wanted to say, and how best to say it. He couldn't seem to find words that would be gentle.

The fireplace blazed, keeping out the winter chill. Outside, a slow cold rain, the remnant of the storm of the previous day, settled in and showed no intention of leaving.

Sanborn dipped his spoon and ate the soup slowly and deliberately, delaying the unhappy conversation. Emma settled into her own chair, unfolded her napkin, and placed it into her lap. She glanced up at him, and glanced away again.

They ate in silence for long minutes. At last, he said, "The storm has just about blown itself out now. I should be back on the water fishing in the morning after I make my rounds."

"How is Percy doing?"

"He's about healed. He came back onto the boat on Monday."

"That's good. I'm so sorry he lost the fingers."

"He is lucky. The infection took swiftly, and he could have lost the whole arm."

"I don't call that 'luck.' Oh, John, it's not worth it. Do you think the sheriff might increase upon your wages, as he said?"

No, it's not worth it, he thought. "It's as I've told you, I'm a caretaker at best here. If the fishermen profit, the tax coffers fill. If not, the sheriff guards his budget jealously and allocates it across the county according to the jurisdictions' collections. The fish are scarce this year; therefore so are salary increases. And if the fish were plentiful, these scoundrels wouldn't report it."

"It's not like Massachusetts."

"We're not in Massachusetts."

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant. The roof leaks. The parlor window is broken. The fuel oil is low. I'll take care of them and then it'll be something else we cannot afford."

"Oh, John, it's not that way at all. I don't miss Boston. I love our home here."

It pleases me that you love it so, he thought. He wished he felt the same. Two years here, and he still felt like a stranger. His stipend as a part-time deputy-sheriff barely covered anything, and despite his working alongside them on the fishing boats in order to make a living wage, the locals roundly despised him as a Yankee interloper.

He thought of his letter of introduction and inquiry to the Chief of Police in Boston. Emma had no knowledge of it. The response would be due any day now, and most likely would contain an offer of employment. And he had decided to take it. Alone. A new start was what he needed, unencumbered.

A new life.

He pushed his soup away and rose from the table. Without a word he moved into the parlor and took a seat at the piano. He rubbed his hands, stretched his fingers, and began playing Moonlight Sonata. The music pushed down his anger, if just for a little while.

He imagined his future, and the island's future. The town teetered on the brink of dissolution, the victim of a dying fishing ground, troubled by four straight years of red tide, and a hurricane that had swept aside miles of oyster beds. Fishing held little allure for him even in the best of times, and these were far from the best of times.

He was respected in town by a few as a man of culture and fortitude, but never as an authority figure nor as a working man. He dwelt outside that circle, and would remain outside until he left or died.

Leaving seemed the easier of the two.

Leaving alone.

He glanced up. Emma stood in the parlor doorway. He wasn't sure, but he thought her eyes glistened. He looked back to the piano keys. Perhaps this was the time to tell her.

A sharp rap came at the front door. Emma hurried to answer it. Sanborn remained seated, glad for the interruption.

A moment later, Emma returned, followed by Percy McVee. He was dripping wet. He removed his hat and held it against his chest. His left hand, missing two fingers, was hidden in a heavy leather glove. Sanborn was grateful that he couldn't see it.

"Deputy John, there's a ship on the Gulf, run aground in the flats. Some men have already put out boats for a look."

"Are they behaving themselves?"

"They got a look in their eyes I don't like."

"And the sea?"

"It's dying; waves won't swamp us if we go careful."

"And the ship? Is she signaling?"

"That's the thing. Sergei's been watching through a spyglass from atop the lighthouse. Hasn't seen a thing move on her, but she's more'n three mile out. We think she's abandoned."

"Damnation! Do the others know this?"

McVee nodded. "That's why they're in a hurry. They smell a big payday."

"Very well, then. Let's get moving."

"My boys are getting the skiff ready. Soon as you get your hat—and your gun—we can go."

Sanborn pulled on his coat and boots, and buckled his gun-belt. He looked for his cap beside the door, but it was missing.

Emma stood at the door, holding Sanborn's cap. She extended it to him. "Please be careful, John."

He took the cap from her and moved past.

* * *

McVee's young sons, Robert Lee and Jeb Stuart, had readied the skiff, having piled in gaffs, ropes, and oars, and rigged the small mainsail and jib. Sanborn thanked them and tossed each a penny. McVee scowled at the boys for accepting the money, but Sanborn knew the man was pleased.

He stepped warily onto the boat, and McVee piled in after him and shoved the boat away from the dock, the boys leading with lines and giving them a boost. McVee leaned into a pair of oars, his powerful shoulders and arms pulling the wooden boat out from the dock, while Sanborn manned the tiller. Once clear of the moored fishing fleet, McVee looked inquiringly at him. He nodded, and McVee settled the oars inside the gunwale with a clatter, and raised the mainsail. The breeze fluffed the canvas and the boat shot out into the channel. Sanborn tacked the small boat starboard to port and back again, zigzagging expertly through the narrow channel, wherein most sailors, and protocol, demanded that the boats be oared clear of the island before going under sail.

They did not have time for niceties.

Three skiffs had already cleared the north end of the island, passing the great tower of Hammond Lighthouse, and moved onto the choppy Gulf of Mexico. Each was overcrowded, slowing them considerably, but the men aboard them strained mightily at oars, propelling the boats ahead into the waves with great determination.

Sanborn glanced up at the lighthouse. Before its construction, ships ran aground on a frequent basis, spurring the salvage "industry" on Brigands Key. The plunder reached frightful proportion in those days, but the tower and its great beacon had become the savior of mariners, and ships no longer ran aground in the shallows about the island, and that source of easy wealth had vanished. But the stories and the lust still ran in these men's veins. The unlikely wreckage today had brought it bubbling to the surface.

Their skiff glided across the water, angling into the waves, swinging far to starboard of the trailing boat.

Out to sea, like a ghost in the mist of the rain, the ship rested unmoving in the shallow flats, heeled fifteen degrees off vertical.

Sanborn tacked to port and they caught and shot past the trailing boat before they were even detected.

Guy Fawcett, manning the tiller, shook his fist. "Damn you, John Sanborn! Do not interfere with this enterprise. That ship is three and a quarter mile offshore, outside the territorial limit, and damn sure outside your jurisdiction. The law is on our side."

"Three miles, sir! A line determined by a cannon shot. I indeed know the law. A shipwreck is fair game to salvagers, with the permission of the crew. I presume you intend to secure that."

Fawcett said nothing.

"I thought not," Sanborn continued. "Well then consider this; the crew is bound by duty to protect the vessel from plunder. They will fire upon you, and with my blessing."

"I reckon they would. But we don't think there's a soul alive on that ship."

The skiff slid past them, and caught and passed the other two boats. The crewmen had heard every word of the exchange, and offered a few oaths of their own, and lapsed and glared at Sanborn in silence. He acknowledged each in turn as he slipped past.

* * *

The stricken ship was a topsail schooner, and a shambles of one. The tattered sails flapped gray and listless in the dying breeze. The foremast was broken midway up and the upper portion hung down at an angle, tangled in rigging. John Sanborn judged her more than ninety feet bow to stern, twenty-some-odd beam to beam. He hailed loudly as the little skiff pulled alongside. Only a ghostly silence came in answer. He shouted again, and again received not the slightest call in answer. He piloted the skiff expertly aft of the schooner, and rounded the stern. Painted handsomely in red and gold was the vessel's name, Edinburgh Kate. She had no armaments; clearly a merchant vessel; ideal pickings for the scoundrels of Brigands Key.

And nary a soul in sight.

Sanborn tacked back across the wind and came about, still calling out.

He glanced at the salvagers, closing in steadily. He wasn't sure how to prevent the plunder of the schooner, except to board her in haste and find the captain, or whomever might be in charge, and beseech him to forbid the ransacking of his ship. At best, it might gather time.

Time for what? The captain's prohibition would render any breech a federal crime, and quite probably boost it into the realm of piracy, punishable by hanging.

A thought struck him; if a looting took place, the guilty could not have witnesses. He had placed himself and McVee in an untenable position. Had he ensured their deaths?

With his free hand, he reached down and felt his revolver.

"I'm bringing us alongside, Percy," he said. "Amidships starboard. Make ready."

"Aye." McVee lifted a long rope and grapple and stood in the boat, legs spread and bent. He hefted the steel hook.

Sanborn tilled the boat close and eased it into the hull of the Kate with the slightest bump. McVee swung the hook once in a circle and let it fly. The hook clattered over the gunwale, adjacent to the gangway. McVee drew the line tight, tested it, and nodded to Sanborn.

"Stay with the skiff," Sanborn said. He turned and looked up to the gunwale. "Ahoy the ship! Permission to board?"

Silence.

He gripped the rope and scrambled up, hand over hand, pulled himself to the gangway and threw a leg over it, and drew himself onto the sloping deck.

He looked about, listening intently, ready for anything.

Debris lay scattered about, tangled in uncontained lines and netting. Black mold and filth streaked the deck. A few small barrels and boxes lay wedged here and there, their sides stove in.

Dread grew in him. The ship was not merely abandoned. It appeared to have been unmanned for a great many days, possibly weeks or even months, and the relentless sea, the rains, the beating sun, the salt, had taken their toll.

A large swell rolled in, rocking the ship gently. The Edinburgh Kate seemed to breathe in and out as the roller passed. A white object moved and clattered in a far corner, its shape and appearance registering immediate recognition in him. He moved closer.

A human skull lay there, its dark eye sockets staring. The jaw was missing. He picked it up and stared into it.

He heard a clatter upon the deck behind him. He turned. Guy Fawcett's face appeared in the gangway, his perpetual scowl glinting with something else, something hungry and excited. Fawcett scanned the deck and fixed upon Sanborn.

Sanborn held the skull up.

The man's scowl melted, and his eyes widened. He clambered onto the deck, his eyes still upon Sanborn and the skull.

Sanborn returned the skull to its resting place. He withdrew his revolver and checked the chamber, reassuring himself it was fully loaded.

"You plan on using that on me?" Fawcett growled. It was perhaps the first time Sanborn had ever heard the man speak in something less than a shout.

"That had not been my intention, Mr. Fawcett. Should it have been?" He turned toward Fawcett, the pistol cradled in both hands, not exactly pointing it at the man, and not exactly not. He returned the gun to his holster, and stooped to find another bone. A femur, he believed. He looked at it closely, and wiped grime from it. "God in Heaven," he murmured.

Fawcett drew near. "Let's hear it, man. What has got you?"

Sanborn held up the bone. "Look closely."

Fawcett leaned closer, reached out tentatively, and withdrew his hand.

"It's scratched," Sanborn said.

Fawcett shrugged.

"Butchered," Sanborn added.

"Lord a Mighty." Fawcett drew his gun and waved it loosely around in a semicircle.

"Easy, fellow."

"Easy? This here's a ghost ship, all right, but ghosts don't butcher men."

More men had clambered aboard. All told, there were now seven men aboard, with three more staying behind with the small fleet.

Sanborn showed them the bones. "You men despise me, that much is certain. So be it. However, it serves us best to work as one mind on this ship. Something is horribly wrong. If the ship is indeed abandoned, you have a legitimate lien on the vessel and all property, and Blackwall Rules govern your share. I shall take no share. A schooner this size was probably crewed by not more than ten. If the vessel has crew yet alive, you shall respect their ownership, and claim only that just portion meted out by a court of the United States. In fact, if we find men alive, they may well be grievously ill and contagious, and you may wish to depart swiftly and unladen. Agreed?"

Fawcett appraised him at length, scratching his whiskered neck. He glanced at the femur, and let his eyes roam the ship. "I reckon you're right, Sanborn. Don't expect this truce to continue onshore, though."

Sanborn nodded. "I don't. As the only man with any legal authority in this group, naturally I will command our endeavor."

Fawcett glared, but slowly nodded. "You lead, until we determine she's abandoned. At that very moment, you step down. Us boys will take it from there."

"Very well." Sanborn looked about. "We start at the bow, work our way on deck to the stern. Then we'll go below deck. Check everything; if bones are found, call out, but respect them. Do not mix them. We want to afford these poor devils proper burials as best we can."

Sanborn led the group to the bow. They fanned out and picked their way down the length of the ship. Within moments, another skeleton had been discovered.

The skeleton was not cohesive, its pieces scattered about and wedged into the corners of the port bulwark. The larger bones—the femur, the tibia, the fibula, the ribs—had all been broken in multiple places.

To his horror, the truth of the ship dawned on Sanborn.

He summoned the others and led toward the forward hatch. He paused at the hatch, collected himself, and lifted the door. He expected the smell of death to strike him full, but instead there was only an unpleasant miasma of mold, rot, mustiness, and filth.

"Hello in the hold," he called. "Is anyone there?"

There was no response but the creaking of the ship.

"Well then." He returned to the starboard bulwark and had Percy fetch him up two oil lanterns, and a handful of candles. He handed one lantern to Fawcett, who accepted it with a grunt of acknowledgment, if not gratitude. He kept one for himself, and distributed the candles among the rest. He opened his tinder box and struck a match to one candle, and passed it among the group until all were lit.

Sanborn raised his lantern and descended the stairs into the dark, dripping hold.

Within, all was a confusion of debris. Immediately, Sanborn found the fourth and fifth skeletons.

Amid the clutter, an item of orderliness caught his eye. A stack of clothes, folded neatly, sat underneath the stairs, and bound together with twine. Sanborn stooped to inspect the clothes; despite the neat, almost fussy folds, the clothes were grimy. Typical of a seaman's clothes, infrequently washed.

He realized that none of the skeletons they'd found had even a tatter of clothing amid the bones. Each had been stripped.

He led the group deeper into the hold, searching first the fore rooms, the sick bay and crew's mess, and working their way slowly aft.

Two more skeletons awaited in the midshipmen's berth, again with the cut marks of butchery.

At last, they reached the captain's cabin. Sanborn pushed open the door.

More disarray. Another skeleton lay in a dark wet corner.

The skeleton slowly turned to face him.

* * *

Sanborn realized with a shock that the man was not a skeleton, but a flesh and blood creature, albeit more bone than flesh and blood, and more dead than alive. His eyes and face were sunken, his skin drawn like parchment over his skull. His lips had nearly vanished, shriveled into thin black crusts. His body was frightfully emaciated, his bones showing pointedly through taut skin, devoid of fat and muscle. Bones and skin.

In its nightmarish extreme of starvation, the man's body had consumed itself in a desperate struggle to stay alive.

Fawcett crept into the room. "Lord a Mighty," he whispered. "Lord a Mighty."

The shrunken man's jaw moved weakly. No discernible words issued; rather, a release of air.

Clutched in the man's claw-like fingers was a rib. He pulled the rib closer to himself, as if to jealously protect it from thievery.

"Captain?" Sanborn said softly.

The man's glazed eyes flickered.

"Captain, do not be alarmed. We will help you." Sanborn took a step closer. The man made a crackling sound, a hiss issued from paper lungs. Sanborn stopped, turned to the men behind, and pointed at young William Beckett. "You. Fetch a jug of water from my boat, and a bit of bread also."

Beckett hesitated, his eyes fixed upon the living skeleton of a man.

"Now, goddamn you!" Sanborn barked.

Beckett glanced at him, nodded, and hurried away.

Sanborn turned back to the man. "Are there any other survivors?"

The man made no response.

Fawcett edged closer. "Damn this man to hell. He's eaten them. He's eaten them all."

"Don't judge too quick. Cannibalism isn't unknown among mariners adrift."

"Adrift! Look about you, man! This ship's seaworthy." Fawcett withdrew his knife, a great, wicked piece of glinting steel. He advanced. "This man's a monster."

Sanborn seized Fawcett's wrist and turned it hard, and slugged the man in the mouth. He pried the knife free and kicked it skittering into a dark corner.

The emaciated man's eyes followed the knife.

"You'll do as I say, Fawcett," Sanborn said in a low dark voice. He seized Fawcett by the lapels of his coat and shoved him against the bulkhead. "This man has survived a great horror. We shall not judge him, not at this moment. There is time aplenty for judgment later. Do you understand me?"

Fawcett struggled. Blood dripped from his mouth.

"Do you understand me?"

Fawcett ceased his struggles. He did not acknowledge the question.

Sanborn released him. "Good."

Beckett noisily returned, holding up a jug and a small piece of bread.

Sanborn took the water and bread, and approached the emaciated man slowly. He held up the jug. "Drink, friend. You must."

The man's eyes, glassy though they were, glinted with a wild light, and looked away. He turned again to see.

Sanborn reached him and laid a palm upon the top of his head, and brought the jug to his lips. He tipped the jug and the man drank.

Sanborn thought he heard a sound like a sob, but the man could make no tears.

* * *

A bit of wet bread, and more water.

The men tore loose an old door and used it as a litter, and bore the wretch gently up to the deck, and lowered him through the gangway to Percy's boat.

The men searched the ship, fore and aft, above and below decks. There were no other survivors. In all they had found the remains of seven men, so the vessel had been undermanned with a crew of eight. A recipe for bad luck, if not disaster.

Sanborn sat in the officers' mess. About him, men busied themselves removing things of value. Sanborn had given them free rein to do so, with the only restriction that they report each item removed to him, in case a court reached a decision on the just awards due to each, and in particular to the starved captain. It was most likely unnecessary. He doubted the man would survive much longer.

But he did.

* * *

The captain teetered on the edge of death for seven days, slipping in and out of consciousness, and began a slow climb up from the grave's depths. He spoke not a word during those seven days, and indeed the only sounds he made were guttural mumblings, incoherent and disjointed.

Doctor Jameson tended to the man and fretted over him almost hourly.

On the eighth day, Sanborn checked in on him as he always did. The man sat upright, his eyes clear for the first time. His lips were still broken and cracked, and he was gaunt as ever, but color had returned to his cheeks.

"Where am I?" the man said, in a voice like dry wind.

"Brigands Key, sir. On the Gulf Coast of Florida. We removed you from your vessel. You were quite near to death."

The man seemed to consider this. "I... thank you for your kindness, good sir."

The voice was ragged and weak, but the British accent was unmistakable. It was an accent few if any of the townsfolk would have ever heard. Sanborn had heard it many times in Boston."You are most welcome. I had feared that we would never have the opportunity to speak."

"It is indeed fortunate. I suppose that I have been more dead than alive these past days. Are there... any others? Survivors?"

"None but you."

A great sadness seemed to enter the man's face. He sighed, and closed his eyes and was quiet for a time.

Sanborn waited, and asked, "What is your name, sir?"

After a long moment, the man opened his eyes. "Captain Henry Dunham. Of London."

"Mister Dunham, I—"

"Captain Dunham, if you please."

Sanborn held him in his glance. His forefinger tapped lightly on his knee. "Mister Dunham. You have been out of sorts for a spell. During that time, I've made good use of telegraph. Your schooner, it seems, is indeed of British registry, well-known in Boston, and captained by Henry Dunham. However, Dunham is described to me as a small man. Not more than five and one half feet in height. You however, are well over six feet in height. Privation tends to make one grow thinner, not taller, in my experience."

The man sighed. "Very well, you have found my lie. But you must understand the reasoning behind it. In my sorry state, I felt it best to present myself as a man of stature in order to better my chances of attaining aid. I apologize; it was a grievous error in judgment."

"Perhaps you should tell me who you really are."

A pause. "Andrew Millstone. First mate."

"Ah. That much is confirmed, at least in part, by the telegraph. Can you tell me why your accent is British, from an educated background, yet ladled atop an obvious American accent?"

"Ah, a student of linguistics. I am indeed originally from Richmond. I served in Lee's Army of Virginia during the war, as apprentice to a field surgeon. I survived the war and fled to England."

"Why did you, sir?"

"Put yourself in my shoes, although by the fall of Richmond, I had none. I was a lad of just nineteen years, yet already had witnessed the unholy carnage at Antietam, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and Spotsylvania, and had presided over the deaths of however many hundreds I do not know. Can you imagine the parade of death? Do you know how 'sawbones' came to be slang for a doctor? Dismemberment was the prescribed treatment, without anesthetic unless whiskey was at hand. Germ theory was unknown in that time. I spent the war steeped in blood and death, more than a grown man should face, and far more than a boy." Millstone paused, and his eyes focused on something faraway and unknowable. "You can't go through that, and it not tear at your soul. You can't. As soon as the war ended, I got as far from it as I could. I worked my keep on an Atlantic steamer and ended up in London. And I made her my home."

"You must understand, of course, that there will be an inquiry."

"Of course."

"I do not judge you for your survival. But tell me; what became of your ship?"

"A frightful series of events, sir. The Kate is a merchant vessel, of course. We disembarked London for Buenos Aires, loaded with European finery, of which the Argentines cannot get enough. Eleven days out, a ferocious storm took us, rather by surprise. Before we could get the blasted sails reefed, the mainmast had snapped. We had the second functional, and limped along. We counseled Captain Dunham to return to London, but the man was stubborn to a fault, a true British captain. He would not hear of it and insisted upon a delayed arrival in Buenos Aires, whereupon we would refurbish the ship with our earnings. But the fool took us into the horse latitudes, and we were becalmed and adrift for endless days on a slack, still sea, our supplies running short."

A soft rap came at the door. Sanborn looked up to see Emma peer in, and enter with a tray of tea and milk. "I thought perhaps our guest could use this," she said.

Sanborn nodded. "Thank you. Leave it here." He glanced back at Millstone.

A chill struck him.

Millstone stared at Emma, his eyes suddenly alive and burning. He seemed oblivious to the world, as if only two things existed, himself and Emma. Despite his frailty and weakness, he no longer appeared the same man. The victim of numbing tragedy had disappeared, replaced by—what?

Something monstrous and voracious.

And it had spotted prey.

Emma froze in his glance, her eyes widening with terror. She turned quickly away and fled the room.

Millstone continued to stare in her direction, his breath quickening. At last he tore his eyes away.

Sanborn had seen enough. He was trembling with certain, sudden dread. "Sir, you perhaps are still far too weak. No matter; you must leave. Now."

Feeble as the man was, something flashed in his eyes, something dark and furious and unfathomable, something from hell. The man seemed on the edge of an uncontrollable rage. He trembled for long furious seconds.

It passed as quickly as it had appeared.

"I have no desire to remain, yet I shall leave when I am prepared to do so," Millstone said, his voice crackling dry and distant. His gaze drifted to the window and to the waterfront nearby. "I left Whitechapel when I was ready, not when they wished, those arrogant English pigs." He looked suddenly back at Sanborn. His eyes narrowed. "Never you mind," he said. "Perhaps I shall leave now, after all."

Sanborn's mind raced, trying to piece things together. London. Whitechapel. Millstone sailed from the world's greatest city at the close of 1888, just two years before. At the time the great horror that had stalked the city's dark slum suddenly ended.

Could it be?

The men aboard the Kate, all dead. Butchered like livestock, and eaten.

"A first mate is a capable seaman," Sanborn said. "Albeit with great difficulty, he could navigate and sail the damned ship all by himself. He would not be lost and adrift forever."

"Ah, so you presume I had a choice, then? That I could simply sail the stricken Kate confidently into the nearest port?"

"No sir! I presume that your lies exceed your ingenuity. We have already established that you were never the captain. I suspect you indeed were never the first mate, nor any member of the crew. You were in fact a stowaway, completely ignorant of seamanship. The nets of Scotland Yard drew ever closer, and you were in desperate need of escape. The first exit you could find was a vessel outward bound for anywhere. Once discovered, you were threatened with servitude and delivery to the first British colonial jail, perhaps in Bermuda or Jamaica. Rather than submit, you slaughtered the lot of them, and feasted upon their remains to stay alive."

"Clever man. Do you think it wise to be so clever with me?"

"Perhaps not. But I shall see that you are brought to justice." Sanborn eased closer to the door. "Emma! Go quick to the neighbors, fetch as many able men as you can. We cannot let this devil leave."

Emma entered the room, her face lined with worry. She glanced from one to the other. "John, what is the matter?"

Sanborn frantically motioned her away. "Just go and be quick, Emma!"

She darted from the room.

A sudden movement caught his eye. He whirled back to face the man that claimed to be Millstone, but the man was upon him. A butcher knife had appeared in his hand, slashing savagely. Sanborn dodged and reflexively threw an arm up to ward off the blow. The blade sliced through his forearm, laying open his flesh to the bone. Blood sprayed. Sanborn glanced at the wound; it was deep and blood welled up and splashed to the floor in frightful quantity.

Sanborn staggered back and the man, in spite of his extreme frailty, uncannily pressed his attack, as though madness and bloodletting fueled him with inhuman strength.

Sanborn blindly seized the pitcher of water and struck back, smashing the man in the face, shattering the pitcher. The man hissed, a line of blood appearing on his cheek, and threw himself upon Sanborn, his knife rising for a blow. Sanborn saw the blade and shot his hand out, seizing the man's wrist and pulling it laterally across and between the two of them, so that the only course of the next blow would be a weakened backhand. Sanborn struck the man with his free fist, and again, and again.

The man staggered.

Sanborn felt his mind darkening, and dizziness took him. He stumbled to one knee, and dimly realized that he had released the man.

The creature now crept upon him, knife raised and ready, a diseased look in his eyes, a look borne of a wretched, perverse soul.

Blackness like a death shroud drew quickly in from the edges of the world.

* * *

The blackness became gray and then white. Warmth caressed Sanborn's face.

He opened his eyes.

He felt weak and drawn. He looked about; he was in his own bed, covers pulled up. Golden sunlight angled from the window, the sunbeam kissing his face. A cardinal sat chirping on the windowsill.

He was alive.

He drifted off again, and was roused by a click. He opened his eyes again. Emma entered, carrying a tray of tea and soup and bandages.

She saw that he was awake and a smile brighter than the morning sunlight lit her face. "My darling, I nearly lost you." Tears welled in her eyes.

"Where... is he?"

"Shush, darling. There was no time to fetch help, so I ran to the parlor and withdrew your pistol and got back just in time. That monster was poised over you, his knife at your stomach. He stopped and turned to me. I've never seen such a look in the face of a human being in my life. He came at me. I shot him twice, in the shoulder and back. He fell away, swinging wildly with that wicked blade, and bolted for the window and fell through, crashing through the branches of the magnolia. I ran to the window and fired again, but could not get a clear shot through the branches. Mister Fawcett and Mister Beckett arrived but he was gone. A trail of blood led to the waterfront and there it ended."

"He… fell into the channel?"

"We don't know. He's just... gone."

Sanborn sighed and closed his eyes again. He felt himself drifting again, and felt Emma's delicate, loving hands on his face.

"You have a letter from Boston," she said. "Shall I open it for you?"

He was silent for a moment. "No. Toss it in the fire. Emma, my love, let's turn the garden tomorrow, and begin the tomatoes. This will be a wonderful year."

About the Author...

Ken Pelham lives and writes in Maitland, Florida. His thriller, Brigands Key, won first place in the Florida Writers Association's Royal Palm Literary Awards and was published in hardcover in 2012 by Cengage/Five Star Mystery.

The e-book edition of Brigands Key was released in Summer, 2013.

Brigands Key is "... a perfect storm of menace... breathtaking!"

--The Florida Weekly

His follow-up novel, Place of Fear, also a first place winner of the Royal Palm Literary Award, is coming to e-book publication in Fall, 2013.

More short stories by Ken Pelham, available for e-readers on Amazon.com:

Treacherous Bastards: Stories of Suspense, Deceit, and Skullduggery

Three stories, including one about the little island of Brigands Key.

A Double Shot of Fright: Two Tales of Terror

Two chilling short stories guaranteed to cause loss of sleep.

Visit Ken at kenpelham.com for updates on his work, and musings on suspense fiction.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgments

The Rum War

The Light Keeper

The Wreck of the Edinburgh Kate

About the Author...

Other Books