Bayou Pirates Read online

  I laughed nervously. I didn’t like the idea of that one bit.

  “You really think this could get that far?” I asked warily.

  “You don’t?” Mike asked, raising his eyebrows at me as he reached out to collect our glasses, both of which were now empty once again. “You come in here with a tall tale of a voodoo drug turning people into real-life zombies making its way into one of the United States’ major cities, and you don’t think the media would be all over this thing the second they get a whiff of it? You’re more naïve than I thought.”

  Mike went back to the bar to refill our drinks again since his workers were all busy helping other customers just then. More had trickled in as the evening wore on. I looked at Holm.

  “You think we may have bitten off more than we can chew?” I asked him.

  “Always,” he grinned back.

  CHAPTER 8

  I took a cab back home since I’d had so much to drink, bidding farewell to Holm in front of the bar and promising to get another good night’s sleep.

  “We’re going to need you in top shape,” he called after me as the cab drove away. “This thing isn’t over yet!”

  I worried that it wasn’t, for the sake of the people of New Orleans, but I also was filled with a certain amount of excitement for what was to come. As terrifying as our last case had been, it was also exhilarating. I couldn’t wait to get down to NOLA and see what we were working with on the next one.

  By the time I stumbled into my houseboat, I’d completely forgotten Grendel’s journal. After all, with all the talk of zombies and escaped drug kingpins, I had a lot on my mind.

  But there it was, waiting for me on the coffee table in front of the couch where I’d left it the night before, in all its leather-bound glory.

  All of a sudden, I wasn’t quite so tipsy anymore, and I eagerly rushed over to crack it open. Right that moment, as if on cue, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I reluctantly set the journal back down and pulled it out.

  My excitement returned when I saw that it was Tessa.

  “Hello,” I answered. “Tessa? It’s good to hear from you.”

  “Ethan! It’s wonderful to hear your voice again so soon,” she gushed, and my heart warmed as I sunk down onto my couch. “I wanted to let you know that I managed to get someone at the museum on the phone for more than a few seconds this afternoon. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I ran into this amazing rare kind of flower on my shoot today…”

  She proceeded to launch into a long explanation about her workday and everything she’d gotten to shoot for her next big story. I loved listening to her. I could do that all day and probably would if I had the option.

  “Now, you’re definitely going to have to send me that story when it’s finished,” I said when she was done, unable to keep a wide grin off my face. “I’m really going to be looking forward to it now.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to say that,” Tessa said, though I could tell that she was pleased.

  “So, what about the museum?” I asked, running my forefinger along the front of the leather journal. It was soft from age, though not to the point of being frail.

  “Ah, yes,” Tessa said. “I called and called until they couldn’t get away from me anymore without sitting there all day, letting the phone ring and never answering.”

  “I’m sure they liked that,” I said with a chuckle.

  “Oh, they did,” Tessa said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “In fact, I’ve been banned from ever calling again, not that it will stop me.”

  “Oh?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at this. “How did that come about?”

  “Well, I just kept calling and telling them that I needed to talk to whoever was in charge,” she explained. “And then I finally got the manager on the phone because the poor employee or intern or whoever it was I’d been bothering finally had enough. The poor kid was near tears, I think. Then the first thing she did was tell me that if I ever called them again, they’d contact the police for stalking or something.”

  “That seems… excessive,” I mused.

  As funny as it was to picture Tessa doing this all afternoon, it was telling that the museum staff responded so negatively to simple inquiries that she was brought to this kind of last resort and that the museum manager would threaten legal action for such a mundane thing as a few phone calls.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Tessa agreed. “And I didn’t want her to hang up on me. Also, I was beginning to think more than ever that that journal you’ve got didn’t get to you in an official capacity.”

  “Yes, I’m inclined to agree,” I said, rubbing my five-o'clock shadow as I mulled this over. “If they sent it, why would they be so keen on evading our calls? They could just say they sent it to me, and there’s nothing more they can do for us.”

  “Exactly,” Tessa said. “So, right before the manager was going to hang up on me, I blurted out that I just wanted to thank them for sending you the journal, and to ask if we could stop by some time to thank her in person and maybe ask some experts there a few questions.”

  “Let me guess. She didn’t respond all that well to that, either?” I asked.

  “What ever would make you think so?” Tessa asked dryly. “No, no, she didn’t. She just kind of froze, didn’t say anything at all for a few moments. I had to say ‘hello’ a few times to get her attention back.”

  “So, they didn’t send me the journal,” I said flatly.

  I had no idea what to make of this information. If the museum didn’t send it, who did? And why? And perhaps most importantly, how? It had to have been someone with access to the museum’s archives.

  “No, I’d wager that they didn’t,” Tessa said. “She didn’t say much, but she didn’t really need to. She threw down the phone without hanging up and ran to check on the journal. Asked the intern about it. I hope I didn’t get the kid fired.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “I waited for a while, tried to speak a few times, but no one heard me,” she continued. “I didn’t overhear anything else, either. Then someone finally hung up. I tried to call back, but nothing. I sent a few emails to a bunch of different people, but also nothing.”

  “Strange,” I murmured, staring down at the journal again. “Very strange… What about that friend of yours in New York, George? The one who told us about the museum in the first place?”

  “I left a message for him, but I haven’t heard back yet,” Tessa said. “I imagine he’ll get back to me soon. He was almost as excited about this whole thing as you were.”

  It was true. The old man had almost made it a personal mission to get me to the Dragon’s Rogue. If he knew something, there was no doubt he would tell us. And if he didn’t, maybe he could use his own contacts in the industry to help us figure it all out.

  “Good, that’s good,” I muttered, shaking my head. “It’s just so strange. Why would someone send me the journal without permission? And why would they want to keep it from me so badly?”

  “I have the same questions,” Tessa said. “I mean, I would get it if they were just difficult. That’s what we thought it was from the get-go, after all. Museums tend to think artifacts like this are public property, and they’re not always wrong about that. But this makes it seem like there’s more to the story than meets the eye.”

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” I asked, thumbing the pages on the side of the journal absent-mindedly. “Why would they work so hard to keep it from me? It’s all so mysterious. And they almost sound guilty, in a way. Even if there were another reason, they could just use the ‘public property’ excuse pretty easily, couldn’t they?”

  “They could,” Tessa agreed. “And it was working for them until now. The manager sounded genuinely shocked that you had the journal. Speaking of which, have you been able to look through it at all?”

  “No, not yet,” I admitted sheepishly. “It’s been a busy day. Or well, it was, and then I went out fishing with Holm and forgot about the jour
nal.”

  “Oh well, that’s alright,” Tessa laughed. “I’m glad that you guys finally got out on the water. I know he’s always complaining about that. And after the mission you just had, you deserve the break.”

  “Yes, well, I was just about to take a look at it when you called,” I said. “I don’t know when I’ll have another free night if things go our way with the higher-ups and Holm and I get shipped out to New Orleans soon.”

  “I was wondering what was going on with that,” Tessa said, and so I told her all the new news we’d had that day.

  “So, basically, we’ve got a few avenues for pursuing the case without going completely rogue again,” I said when I had finished. “We don’t need another New York situation. Not right now, anyway.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do,” Tessa laughed.

  She knew just as well as I did how sticky that situation had been for MBLIS, having been in the heat of the action herself despite my best efforts to keep her safe.

  “So, I’ll take a look through this thing and get back to you as soon as I find anything,” I promised her. “George seemed pretty certain that once I had the journal, I’d be able to track down the Dragon’s Rogue in short order. I hope he was right.”

  “As do I,” Tessa said. “Just remember that you promised to take me with you when you do find it.”

  “Oh, I could never forget that,” I chuckled, smiling again despite myself.

  Tessa had become one of my favorite people in this world. There was no one else I would have by my side on this journey.

  “There wasn’t a note or anything with the journal?” she asked hopefully. “Maybe that fell out of the package when you opened it or something?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said carefully. “Let me take a look around.”

  I did a thorough run-through of the discarded packaging and the area around where I’d opened the journal. But there was nothing to be found.

  “No,” I said. “Not a thing.”

  “Strange,” Tessa murmured, and I heard her stifle a yawn. “Well, I’d better get going. I have an early shoot tomorrow. But don’t be a stranger, okay, Ethan?”

  “I won’t,” I promised, and she clicked away, leaving me alone with Grendel’s journal.

  I picked it up and began to thumb through it. The words were starting to swim on the page in front of me, and I realized that I was more tired than I’d thought. But I shook my head to clear it and forced myself to stay awake. There was no way I was losing another evening that I could be reading the journal to my own fatigue.

  So, I settled back into the couch and started on the first page. The text was dull enough, detailing the number of people on the ship when Grendel took over and what kind of cargo it was carrying. I kept reading, in case I missed something more interesting.

  Then, about halfway down the page, I ran into something. I doubled back just to make sure I wasn’t mistaken. No, it was exactly what I thought it was. Right where Grendel was about to write something specific about where the ship was headed, the text was scratched out.

  I blinked down at the page and then flipped to the next. The same thing happened about two-thirds of the way down that page, as well. It was the same with the next, and the next, and the next.

  I quickly flipped through the majority of the journal and found that every single time Grendel was about to say something specific about the Dragon’s Rogue’s location, the text was redacted.

  Someone had tampered with the journal.

  CHAPTER 9

  I spent several hours combing through the journal that night and confirmed that my initial suspicions were true; someone had gone through it and stamped out every indication of the Dragon’s Rogue’s whereabouts.

  And what was strange was that it wasn’t just the sections that could lead me to where the old pirate ship was now. It was every section that had anything to do with the whereabouts of the Dragon’s Rogue at any point in time.

  This just didn’t make any sense to me at all. Trying to keep me from knowing where the ship and its treasure was now, I could kind of get. Perhaps someone else was looking for it, after all, but keeping me from knowing anything about where it had ever been, even over a century ago? That was just odd.

  Finally, when my eyelids were so heavy that I didn’t think I could lift them any longer, I set the journal aside and went to bed. But not before I sent Tessa an email detailing what I had found. Maybe she could talk to George or one of his contacts and explain it all to him. Either way, I was going to have to figure out how to deal with this journal situation another time.

  I slept well again, though not for as long. When I changed my bandages in the morning, both on my forehead and shoulder injuries, things looked way better than they had even the day before. I was on the mend.

  When I arrived in the office, Holm was already there, speaking with Diane. He was at his desk while she was standing propped against mine. None of the other agents were there, however.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “Out on assignment,” Diane said, flashing me a smile. “Drug bust over in the Keys. Nothing to do with your case, but Birn and Muñoz were thrilled.”

  “I’m sure they were,” I chuckled, remembering how desperate the other two agents had been for anything to do the previous two days.

  “Your partner was just telling me about your exploits last night,” Diane said, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “Oh?” I asked as I took a seat at my desk, though Diane didn’t move.

  For a moment, I thought she must mean Grendel’s journal, though I hadn’t had the time to tell Holm about any of that.

  “Suggesting reaching out to another agency,” she clarified. “I’m impressed, Ethan. I have to admit, I put it past you to come up with that.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, remembering our conversation with Mike at the Tropical Tango Hut the night before. “Well, if it’s going to help them over there in NOLA, then we have to do it.”

  I had a one-track mind, apparently, and even as we spoke, my mind kept racing back to Grendel’s journal. But I shook my head to bring myself back to reality. We had a case to work. A big one.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Diane said, giving me a small smile. “I already have a call out to the FBI about what we have going on here. Maybe they’ll be able to help move things along for us, though I hate to look to them for help. They’ll be rubbing it in for years, no doubt.”

  I scowled. The other agencies tended to underestimate us. There was a reason so few people even knew what MBLIS was, and it wasn’t because we didn’t do good work. But interagency rivalry meant nothing when there were real lives on the line.

  “What about the hospitals in NOLA?” I asked. “Was your contact with the police department able to get them to run Bonnie and Clyde’s tests?”

  “Just one,” Diane said, her mouth set in a thin line. “And not in any official capacity. George worried about tipping anyone involved with the cartel off.”

  “Tipping them off?” Holm repeated. “What do you mean by that? Does he think the cartel has contacts in the hospitals?”

  “You have to remember, New Orleans is a whole different place,” Diane explained, shaking her head grimly. “They’ve got crime bleeding out of every corner down there, and narcotics is particularly bad. Doctors have access to more drugs than most people. George said it seems like a new doctor every month gets busted.”

  “You’re kidding,” Holm said with a groan. “The people we’re supposed to trust the most.”

  “It always seems to be that way,” I said darkly.

  It was often the most trusted people who ended up taking advantage of their power. Our recent experience with our Senator working with the mafia proved that much.

  “He has a few close contacts in this hospital, though, and they’re running the tests,” Diane said. “We can only hope that if this drug is circulating there, a victim will come into that ER while one of them is working.” />
  “Better than nothing, I guess,” Holm said with a shrug.

  Diane nodded.

  “Every bit counts,” she said. “We’ll get there.”

  “Have you tried our new argument about continuing our investigation of Jake Wallace’s death on the pencil pushers yet?” I asked Diane, looking up at her. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “I was about to go do that before you walked in,” she said, giving me a wry smile. “Though I might wait until I hear back from the FBI, first. That’ll get their attention.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Why don’t we ever have that kind of clout?” Holm asked stubbornly.

  “We’ll get there,” I assured him. “We just have to keep closing cases.”

  “But that’s not why we do this, is it?” Diane asked, raising her eyebrows at us knowingly. She gave us a wink and headed back to her office without giving us a chance to answer.

  I heard her talking on the phone not long after. She must’ve been checking up on the FBI situation, or checking in with George Barrett, because she wasn’t yelling yet.

  “Did you look at that journal at all last night?” Holm asked, waggling his eyebrows at me. “Find a map to the buried treasure?”

  “No,” I said, my shoulders slumping a bit at the memory of the disappointment I’d found in the journal the night before. “And it turns out that the museum didn’t even send it to me. I don’t know who did, but it was on the down-low, whoever it was.”

  “Huh?” Holm asked, his face scrunched up in confusion. “But the journal was in the museum, right? They had the thing.”

  “They did,” I said. “Or at least I think they did. I guess I don’t know for sure, since I never saw it in person there myself. It’s all so strange.”

  “But if they did have it, who else could’ve given it to you?” Holm asked. “Unless someone broke in and stole it from them.”

  “That is the question,” I murmured, considering this possibility. “I don’t know… If it was stolen, they didn’t know about it. Tessa called the museum, and they were shocked that it was gone.”