Where Pirates Came To Die

A breath of wind slithered through the ruins and tumbled across his weathered face as he pressed the shard of limestone down the dry ashlar wall, leaving a new etched tally mark. It was a dimly lit chamber inside what was once the world's most notorious pirate prison. For him, it was a sanctuary, a place of refuge. 

Once the web developer for Shackelford Inc. in a city of skyscrapers, eclectic culture, and ultramodern technology, Tom Malone scanned his Neanderthal calendar. Two hundred forty tallies made up the wall; some were circled, and only he knew why. 

Gone were the titles of husband, employee, and neighbor. Given his isolated surroundings, the term castaway was more appropriate. A life filled with country club galas, company retreats, and exotic travel was lost. Survival had replaced living. 

Tom buttoned his slightly torn flannel shirt and grabbed his coat. 

He exited the chamber where the wrought iron door, rusted and bent, hung by a single hinge. He moved down the main corridor and stepped through a hollowed-out gap in the outer wall. The Rook, as it was called, was made up of three layers, undoubtedly to make escape near impossible for even the smartest buccaneer. If the legends were true, the Rook had seen the likes of Edward Davis and even Black Anthony. 

Zipping his coat, he trudged down the path to the beach. This was his routine every day, two laps around the island. The overcast sky produced a gloomy horizon, but that was normal for this time of year, or so he assumed. If the tallies were correct, it should be October. 

The sea was a gray mass of rippling currents. Tom breathed profoundly, absorbing the salty fragrance. The flow of the ambient tide took him back to simpler times when walking on a beach meant hunting for shark teeth, metal detecting for forgotten coins and jewelry, and collecting seashells that made their way into the guest bathroom. Such days seemed as far out of reach as the horizon. 

Suddenly, he spotted tracks. They snaked from the north before turning about just outside the Rook's outer wall. He recognized the tread patterns as those of a Jeep Wrangler. 

Tom followed, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. 

When he reached the familiar bend on the beach, he heard the blast of a horn and dove behind a line of palm trees. Peering through the trunks, he noticed a docked ferry on the beach. A Jeep was climbing the ramp onto the ferry. Personnel in neon-colored jackets moved about the deck. 

Another search party, he thought. 

A mustached man in uniform wearing the same jacket examined an area in the sand. He spoke into his radio before moving further inland. Tom's heart leapt into his throat when he caught sight of the woman following behind. She wore a yellow raincoat, and her arms were folded tightly as the sea breezes pushed ashore. Her curls flailed and whipped no matter what direction she faced. 

She said something to her uniformed companion and advanced toward the tree line. 

"No," Tom muttered before slipping back from the bend. He tried to quicken his pace, but the dry sand absorbed every step. 

Once back in the chamber, he dropped to the floor and focused on slowing his breathing. The acoustics had almost given him away during the initial search months earlier. His heart drummed, and his temporal pulse thumped. 

He caught his face in the mirror fragment by the tally wall. It had belonged to the mirror in the cabin cruiser's bathroom before Tom dismantled the million-dollar yacht upon his arrival. He gazed at the worn face and greying beard. Then, there was the scar—where scolding grease once landed.

"Tom!" came the woman's voice. He pressed against the chamber wall like a spy dodging a spotlight. 

"Mrs. Malone, we've searched the ruins before with no luck." He assumed this was the uniformed man. 

Tom felt his way down the chamber wall and gripped a loose stone. After a few careful tugs, it came out of its place. He reached into the cavity and pulled out the dust-covered Glock. 

"Tom!" 

Squeezing the seasoned grip, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled. His mind traveled to the frost-covered day after his father was buried. Tom opened the gun cabinet and retrieved the pistol his father taught him to shoot with. This will be yours someday, he would say at the range. 

Tom choked back the mist that wanted to erupt from his eyes. None of it matters now; too much has happened. He took another lungful before pursing his lips and blowing out. 

He eyed the tallied wall and totaled the circled marks. Sixteen. He suspected as much, but now he knew. One bullet remained. 

"We need to call off the search." He called out, his voice nearer than before. That meant she was, too. 

"No! He's here. I know it," came her distraught and shaking voice. 

Tom pressed harder to the wall. He hoped the ancient stone could absorb him and conceal any trace of a man desperate to remain in the shadows. 

"Ma'am, the weather is slowing us down, and the city cannot afford a stranded ferry with personnel onboard." 

"Would you stop if it was your-

"-not if it meant putting others in danger!" 

He ran his free hand over the scar. He traced the tight line of skin that ran from beneath his eye to the corner of his mouth. The sting had subsided long ago, but the hurt ran deep. 

"Please," she pleaded, "just let me look in here." 

The man radioed the ferry that he was making a final sweep of the old ruins and that preparations for departure should begin immediately. 

For a moment, all was still.

"Tom!" came the frantic echo. 

He slid his finger over the cold trigger. "Never again will you scar me, Maria," he whispered. 

A single shot rang from the remnants of a place where pirates came to die.