Read Online Island of Bones by P.J. Parrish - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: P.J. Parrish
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woke it up.”
Bessie picked up the skull and peered into the tiny sockets. “How old they tell you it was?”
“Fifty years.”
“Who told you that?”
“State archeology lab.”
“Bureaucrats,” Bessie mumbled. “They didn’t bother to carbon-date it, did they?”
Louis shook his head. “Police didn’t want to pay for it.”
“I’d guess it’s a lot older ’cuz of the color. But you’re never gonna know for sure unless you carbon it .”
Bessie was using a magnifying glass now to examine the skull. It was quiet except for the groan of the pilings and the lapping of water.
“Pierre said you were an expert on Indians and local history,” Louis said.
“Pierre? Pierre Toussaint?” She glanced up at him. “That old frog still croaking? Tell him he still owes me twenty bucks from when I beat him at pool.”
She set down the skull and went to a shelf. She stood on her tiptoes, running a finger along the books.
“My husband and me ran a ship salvage operation for thirty years before he died,” she said. “I can’t dive anymore ’cuz of my blood pressure. But my memory’s still good. Folks pay me good money for what I can remember.”
Cursing softly, she hauled a stool over, got up on it, and pulled a huge dusty book off the top. Louis was about to run over and help her down when she jumped lightly to the floor.
“I don’t think this skull is from an Indian burial ground,” she said, lugging the book back to the table. “The Calusas weren’t above sacrificing their firstborn to the gods, but they were careful about where they put their dead. And we’ve found most of their burial mounds.”
Louis’s eyes went to the skull and back to Bessie.
“I’m guessing your skull here came from a shipwreck,” she said. “And it being a child, I’m thinking it came from Emanuel Point.”
“That’s a ship?” Louis asked.
“Nope. A place. In 1559, eleven Spanish ships sailed into Pensacola Bay to start a colony under a captain named Don Tristan de Luna. Think of it —- a thousand people, leaving their homes, risking their lives, bringing everything they needed to survive in the wilderness, sixty-one years before the Pilgrims set foot on Plymouth Rock.”
Bessie was still bent over the book. “They brought everything they needed to survive —- slaves, priests, wine, horses. And their children.” She paused. “The colony was wiped out by a hurricane before they even finished unloading the ships.”
Louis shook his head. “Pensacola is way up in the panhandle. That skull couldn’t have come from there.”
“Didn’t say it did. I’m thinking this could be a baby that died at sea.” She turned a page slowly. “My husband, Bill, and me worked the wreck so I got pretty familiar with it. I remember reading about a baby’s funeral held on board before they got to Emanuel Point.”
She pointed to a paragraph. “Yup. I knew it. Right here in the Luna translation, from the manifest. ‘August ten, 1559. Infante Isabella Maria Carreira de los Reyes. Mortis A Seis Mes. Vios Con Dios Preciosa Angelita.’ ”
Louis bent to look at the line in the book under Bessie’s finger. Then he looked at the skull. He had been right. It was very old and very far from its home.
“Isabella,” he said softly.
He felt Bessie’s eye s on him and looked down at her. He could see there were questions in her eyes, things she wanted to ask him. Like why he cared so much about a baby who had died hundreds of years ago. He looked away.
“What you going to do with the skull? ” she asked. “I mean, if you don’t want it, I’d love to —- ”
“No, I’m going to keep it,” Louis said.
She nodded, her eyes locked on his.
Louis put the skull back in its box and closed the flaps.
“Thanks for your help, Mrs. Levy,” he said holding out a hand.
She pulled off her latex gloves, gave him a smile and her hand. It was calloused, with a firm grip. “I could be wrong, you know. This might not be
Bessie picked up the skull and peered into the tiny sockets. “How old they tell you it was?”
“Fifty years.”
“Who told you that?”
“State archeology lab.”
“Bureaucrats,” Bessie mumbled. “They didn’t bother to carbon-date it, did they?”
Louis shook his head. “Police didn’t want to pay for it.”
“I’d guess it’s a lot older ’cuz of the color. But you’re never gonna know for sure unless you carbon it .”
Bessie was using a magnifying glass now to examine the skull. It was quiet except for the groan of the pilings and the lapping of water.
“Pierre said you were an expert on Indians and local history,” Louis said.
“Pierre? Pierre Toussaint?” She glanced up at him. “That old frog still croaking? Tell him he still owes me twenty bucks from when I beat him at pool.”
She set down the skull and went to a shelf. She stood on her tiptoes, running a finger along the books.
“My husband and me ran a ship salvage operation for thirty years before he died,” she said. “I can’t dive anymore ’cuz of my blood pressure. But my memory’s still good. Folks pay me good money for what I can remember.”
Cursing softly, she hauled a stool over, got up on it, and pulled a huge dusty book off the top. Louis was about to run over and help her down when she jumped lightly to the floor.
“I don’t think this skull is from an Indian burial ground,” she said, lugging the book back to the table. “The Calusas weren’t above sacrificing their firstborn to the gods, but they were careful about where they put their dead. And we’ve found most of their burial mounds.”
Louis’s eyes went to the skull and back to Bessie.
“I’m guessing your skull here came from a shipwreck,” she said. “And it being a child, I’m thinking it came from Emanuel Point.”
“That’s a ship?” Louis asked.
“Nope. A place. In 1559, eleven Spanish ships sailed into Pensacola Bay to start a colony under a captain named Don Tristan de Luna. Think of it —- a thousand people, leaving their homes, risking their lives, bringing everything they needed to survive in the wilderness, sixty-one years before the Pilgrims set foot on Plymouth Rock.”
Bessie was still bent over the book. “They brought everything they needed to survive —- slaves, priests, wine, horses. And their children.” She paused. “The colony was wiped out by a hurricane before they even finished unloading the ships.”
Louis shook his head. “Pensacola is way up in the panhandle. That skull couldn’t have come from there.”
“Didn’t say it did. I’m thinking this could be a baby that died at sea.” She turned a page slowly. “My husband, Bill, and me worked the wreck so I got pretty familiar with it. I remember reading about a baby’s funeral held on board before they got to Emanuel Point.”
She pointed to a paragraph. “Yup. I knew it. Right here in the Luna translation, from the manifest. ‘August ten, 1559. Infante Isabella Maria Carreira de los Reyes. Mortis A Seis Mes. Vios Con Dios Preciosa Angelita.’ ”
Louis bent to look at the line in the book under Bessie’s finger. Then he looked at the skull. He had been right. It was very old and very far from its home.
“Isabella,” he said softly.
He felt Bessie’s eye s on him and looked down at her. He could see there were questions in her eyes, things she wanted to ask him. Like why he cared so much about a baby who had died hundreds of years ago. He looked away.
“What you going to do with the skull? ” she asked. “I mean, if you don’t want it, I’d love to —- ”
“No, I’m going to keep it,” Louis said.
She nodded, her eyes locked on his.
Louis put the skull back in its box and closed the flaps.
“Thanks for your help, Mrs. Levy,” he said holding out a hand.
She pulled off her latex gloves, gave him a smile and her hand. It was calloused, with a firm grip. “I could be wrong, you know. This might not be
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