John Locke - Now & Then

Okay, decision time. I had two options: stay or leave. If I hurried, I could still get out the front door before they had time to take up their positions. They weren’t likely to attack me on Main Street in the middle of the day, so I could leave and avoid being attacked, protect Rachel by keeping her safely out of the line of fire, and deal with the gang bangers another time.

That option sounded good except for one thing: if I ran away I wouldn’t learn what they’re hoping to gain. I already knew who sent them (the Mayor) and I knew why (I’d threatened to check out the church). I suspected Libby Vail was being held prisoner in the church, or had been at one time. But I didn’t know who was involved, or why. Usually when an elected official relies on gang bangers, there are drugs involved. But I hadn’t threatened anyone’s drug trade.

I’d mentioned the local economy being boosted by the monthly celebrations honoring Libby Vail. Even The Seaside was thriving now—maybe it was because of me, but maybe I was part of something bigger, and if that was the case, I wanted to know what it was. While the rest of the nation struggled with business closings and high unemployment, St. Alban’s seemed to be growing. Indeed, the whole town seemed to be riding a Kool-Aid high. So this encounter at the diner with the gang bangers wasn’t about drugs. It was about Libby Vail. Were they here to chase me out of town? Beat me up for asking questions? Force me to stay away from the old church records? Kill me in cold blood?

I had to know.

But I was getting tired of waiting.

Chapter 24

IT DIDN’T GO down the way I thought it would.

I figured the two tough guys would overlook the rope, climb in the booth, and start threatening me. While they talked, I’d work my right hand down to the rope around my ankle, get it into my lap, switch hands, loop the rope around the highest part of the base of my table, and, when I stood to leave, I’d pull the rope tight with my left arm to trap them in the booth. By then the switch blade in my right hand would be open and I’d slit their throats before they had time to react. I’d go in the kitchen, avoid the pot head’s attack, and kill him quietly. Then I’d decide whether to kill the kid out front or just make my escape. I’d probably just go, unless he spotted me and tried to stop me.

That was the plan, and I thought it was a good one.

Only like I said, it didn’t go down that way.

I was right in thinking the gang bangers would come in the diner. But I didn’t realize they’d come in the diner with the Sheriff and three deputies, all of whom held shotguns aimed at my face. They fanned out to give themselves a clean shot and limit any damage I might be able to do.

“Keep your hands on the table,” the Sheriff said, “and without moving them from the table, get slowly to your feet.”

I did as he said, and the shotguns moved to within five feet of me.

“He’s got a blade on the seat,” a deputy said.

The Sheriff moved in for a closer look.

“Why’d you tie yourself up?” he said.

The gang bangers and two of the deputies started laughing, the rest of us kept still. The Sheriff got to one knee and slowly reached for my switchblade. Once he had it, he backed away, stood, and tossed a pair of handcuffs on the table.

“Put these on your wrists, but keep your elbows on the table the whole time,” he said.

When I’d done that, he told me to stand and ease my way out of the booth slowly. Then, with the shotguns surrounding me, the Sheriff fitted me with leg cuffs, and secured them to my handcuffs with a chain.

They shuffled me out to a police van and closed the door. The deputy who hadn’t laughed at me in the diner climbed behind the wheel, and the Sheriff rode shotgun.

Literally.

They took me south on A1A, a few miles past Amelia Island Plantation, and turned into the scrub area surrounding a gravel road that had been virtually invisible from the highway. The car slowed and dipped and I noticed a sign that said, “Site of the Little River Crossing, 1684 – 1758.” Just as quickly, the front of the car raised and I guessed we’d crossed the river that used to be there.

No one was talking, but I wanted to plant a seed in their heads. I said, “Killing me might prove harder than you think.”

They remained silent and stared straight ahead as they drove through the thickets and pine knobs. When they got to the base of a huge sand dune, the deputy put the wagon in park and the Sheriff turned around in his seat and looked at me.

“We got a problem,” he said.

“Want to talk it out?” I said.

The Sheriff was a balding man, barrel-chested, powerfully built. He had pale blue eyes and looked like he might have wrestled in college.

“How much do you know about the history of St. Alban’s?” he said.

“Depends on how far back you want to go.”

“Tell me what you think happened here three hundred years ago.”

“Ah,” I said.

Chapter 25

EVERYTHING I KNEW about what happened in St. Alban’s three hundred years ago came from thirty minutes of online research. But it was enough to get me cuffed and shackled and locked in the back of a bullet-proof paddy wagon guarded by two shotgun-wielding law enforcement officers.

“From what I understand,” I said, “Gentleman Jack Hawley, the pirate, used to terrorize these shores in the early 1700’s. He traveled with fifty men, seasoned fighters all, and had a sort of gentleman’s agreement with the town of St. Albans.”

I waited for the Sheriff to acknowledge me. “Go on,” he said.

“Hawley and his men agreed that whenever they came to St. Alban’s, they would confine their activities to the one-block area surrounding the saloon. That area included a blacksmith, a leather shop, a clothing store, three whore houses, two restaurants and a hotel.”

“It did?”

I laughed. “How the hell do I know?”

The deputy laughed. “Sounded like you knew,” he said.

“Why don’t we go outside, sit on one of the sand dunes while I tell the story,” I said, innocently.

“This is fine right here,” the Sheriff said. “Keep talking.”

“It makes sense there’d be whore houses and restaurants and a place to sleep,” the deputy said.

“Percy,” the Sheriff said. “Pipe down and let Creed tell his story.”

Percy nodded. I said, “In return for not looting the town or harassing their womenfolk, the people of St. Alban’s gave Hawley and his men refuge from the Governor of Florida and the British Navy.”

“And then one day,” the Sheriff prodded.

“And then one day the governor of Florida offered a reward: one hundred pounds for the capture of Jack Hawley, and twenty pounds for each of his men. The people of St. Alban’s conspired to capture Hawley and his crew while they were on shore leave and claim the reward. They enlisted the help of some soldiers from Amelia Island, but Hawley somehow learned about the scheme, and quelled the land attack. Then his ship was attacked at sea by the governor’s navy, but Hawley’s crew defeated them as well. After the battle, Hawley pointed his cannons at the town of St. Alban’s and threatened to decimate it”

“Those were our forefathers,” Percy said, and the Sheriff nodded. We all sat quiet for a few minutes, putting ourselves back in time. Finally the Sheriff said, “You know the rest? Why Hawley spared the town?”

“I know the legend,” I said. “A teenager named Abby Winter offered to give herself to Hawley if he agreed to spare the town.”

“Prettiest girl in town,” Percy said.

Sheriff said, “And he took her up on it.”

I said, “Hawley kept his word, and that’s how he got the name Gentleman Jack Hawley.”

Sheriff said, “I think he got the name because of the gentleman’s agreement he had with the town before that incident.”

I said, “Well, whatever.”

The Sheriff said, “The point is, the town carried the guilt of Abby’s sacrifice for the next three hundred years.”

“Three hundred years of bad luck,” Percy added.

“Which brings us to present day,” I said.

“Which is why we’re sitting in the scrub with a major problem,” the Sheriff said. “Any idea what that problem might be?”

“I’ve got a good idea,” I said.

“Thought you might. But let’s hear you say it.”

“I think the people of St. Alban’s decided to change their luck about a year ago.”

“How’s that?” Percy said.

“A girl named Libby Vail happened to mention on TV that she was a direct descendent of Jack Hawley the pirate. Someone in St. Alban’s heard about it, captured her, and a large part of the town is keeping her prisoner somewhere and using her disappearance to boost tourism.”

“Well, that ain’t exactly true,” Percy said. He waited to see if his boss would shush him, but the Sheriff seemed lost in his thoughts. Percy added, “The thing is, the town was cursed. Hawley cursed the town, and it required the blood of his blood to reverse the curse. The tourism thing is just a side benefit.”

“So you would have kidnapped her anyway?”

“Those that did would have.”

“And you support it.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Percy said.

“Is the whole town in on it?”

The sheriff said, “The descendants are. Percy and I are descendants. The other deputies don’t know.”

“What about the gang bangers in the diner?”

“They aren’t our blood.”

“Then why were you working with them?”

Percy laughed. “We aren’t working with them. We were protecting them. From you!”

I looked at the Sheriff. “You know who I am?”

“Ran a check on you.”

“You found me through a police check?”

“Not exactly. When we ran the check a guy named Darwin got in touch.”

I smiled. Darwin is my Homeland Security boss, my facilitator.

The Sheriff continued. “According to Darwin, you could buy this whole town. Or kill it, if you wanted to.”

“And you believe him?”

“Got no reason to believe him, or not to. And don’t care to find out either way.”

“How many of you are descendants?”

The Sheriff and Percy looked at each other. Sheriff said, “What, eighty?”

“Maybe eighty,” Percy said.

“And you’re keeping her in the old church on the corner of Eighth and A1A?”

They looked at each other again. “Told you he knew,” the Sheriff said.

“How do you keep her quiet during the church services,” I said. “Drug her?”

“What? Are you nuts? What kind of man would drug a young woman?”

A guy like me , I thought, since I planned to drug Rachel that very night if I survived.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

The Sheriff shrugged. “Don’t see what difference it makes at this point.”

“I’ve noticed a disproportionate number of people in town are almost insanely happy, including you guys. Why’s that?”

“We’re grateful for Libby’s sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you kidding me? Abby Winter made a sacrifice. Libby Vail was kidnapped. Hell of a difference!”

The Sheriff gave me a curious look. “You think we’re forcing her to stay?”

“Aren’t you?”

Chapter 26

CONVINCED I WASN’T going to kill them, Percy removed my chains. Convinced they were going to remove my chains, I decided not to kill them.

The Sheriff put his shotgun down and said, “Libby’s not our prisoner, but there is a conspiracy of sorts.”