polygraph machine. Several children, their parents watching, enjoyed the self-directed activities.
“This place is popular,” the curator told him.
Cassiopeia, Edwin Davis, and the estate manager had come, too.
He spotted the replicated wheel. Three kids were spinning its tan-colored disks.
“It’s made of resin,” the curator said. “The original is far more fragile. Those disks are carved wood, over two hundred years old, about a quarter inch thick, and crack easily.”
He caught the concern in her voice. “I’m sure the thief is going to be careful.”
At least until he deciphers the message, he silently added.
The kids fled the wheel exhibit heading for something new. Malone walked over and examined the twenty-six disks threaded onto a metal rod. On the edge of each were black letters, separated by black lines.
“Do you have the sequence written down?” the curator asked.
“He doesn’t need it,” Cassiopeia said, adding a smile.
No, he didn’t.
His eidetic brain rattled them off.
GYUOINESCVOQXWJTZPKLDEMFHR
He spun the disks, assembling them in the correct order.
“I knew you’d read the message,” she called out.
He stopped and turned.
She stood in the sun, her face a mask. The nylon bag remained on the asphalt. He realized that her calculating brain had rattled through the options and quickly determined that there was no play left, except to deal with him. Destroying the disks had ensured his safety, since now only he knew the location.
She walked toward him and kept coming, stopping only when she was inches away. “Triple your fee. One-half deposited within the next two hours in the bank of your choice. The remaining part when you deliver the two documents to me intact.”
There was the obvious. “You realize the Commonwealth would pay far more for them.”
“Of course. But, like this morning, you apparently need something only I can provide. That’s why you’re talking with me right now instead a driving away in your new SUV.”
She was right. In order to do as Andrew Jackson directed he required a few items and had no time to procure them himself. “I need a clean passport.”
“And where would you be going?”
Since he doubted he could shield his movements from her anyway, he told her about Paw Island, Nova Scotia, then made clear, “Only you and I know this location. So only you and I can tell someone else.”
“Your way of keeping me honest?”
“If anyone else appears there, whatever I find goes up in flames. And you and the Commonwealth can go to hell.”
“This your way of showing that you’re better than me?”
He shook his head. “It’s just my way.”
She tossed him an understanding grin. “That’s what I like about you, Jonathan. You know exactly what you want. Okay. We’ll do this your way.”
CASSIOPEIA GLANCED OVER COTTON’S SHOULDER AS HE ARRANGED the disks. She and Edwin Davis had never finished their conversation, and there was much still to be said, but it would have to wait. And to think that she’d flown to New York simply to have a romantic weekend. Now she was embroiled in a true sticky wicket. She smiled at the phrase, one her father liked to use. He’d loved cricket, sponsoring several Spanish national teams. Sports had been important to him. Unfortunately, she hadn’t inherited his passion. But this was one sticky wicket, and just as hard crust atop wet soil caused a cricket ball to bounce in any direction, the same was true here. Lots of secrets, egos, and personalities. Not to mention the fact that two of the players were among the best-known people on the planet.
Cotton finished his task and said, “Those five symbols at the end of Jackson’s message are not on these disks. So they must be part of something else.”
He held all twenty-six disks in place and rotated them as a unit.
“There it is,” he said.
She focused on the black letters. One row, all the way across, formed words connected without spaces.
PAWISLANDMAHONEBAYDOMINION
“We need a computer,” Cotton said.
The curator led them to an office off the exhibit room where a desktop waited. Cassiopeia decided to do the honors and typed PAW
The screen filled with sites. She selected one.
Mahone Bay was located at 44°30?N, 64°15?W, just off the coast of Nova Scotia, a respectable body of water that opened to the Atlantic Ocean. Named after the French mahonne, which was a type of boat once used by the locals. Dotted with nearly 400 islands, the most famous of which was Oak Island, where for more than two hundred years treasure hunters had excavated a deep pit into the bedrock, searching to no avail for gold. Paw Island was south of Oak, upon which lay a British fort, long abandoned, once called Dominion.
“Jackson chose his site with care,” Cotton said. “That’s about as out of the way as you can get. But it’s appropriate. That area has long been associated with piracy. It was a haven for pirates in the 18th century.” He faced Davis. “I’m going.”
“I agree. It’s the best thing for Stephanie. We need those pages.”
She already knew what Cotton wanted her to do. “I’ll slow them down through the phone tap. We can feed Hale whatever we like.”
He nodded. “Do it. Wyatt has the wheel and he’ll be headed north, too.”
“I’ll find Stephanie,” she told him.
He turned to the curator. “You said you created that duplicate wheel. Is the fact that it’s an exact duplicate of the original advertised anywhere?”
The woman shook her head. “The manufacturer and I are the only ones who know. I didn’t even tell the estate manager until a little while ago up in the house. It really wasn’t that important.”
But Cassiopeia realized exactly why that fact was critical. “Wyatt thinks he’s the only one who knows.”
Cotton nodded.
“Yep. Which means, for the first time, we’re ahead of the game.”
FIFTY-THREE
