We microwaved a few bags of popcorn, then settled around the television. After just five minutes, Scarlett was hooked, devouring piece after piece of popcorn while laughing hysterically and keeping her eyes glued on the screen.
Not only is the movie hilarious, but I’d figured that she’d identify with the lead. Like Broderick’s classic character, Scarlett had off-the-charts confidence and an excitement for life that was infectious.
When the movie ended with Principal Rooney taking the humiliating slog to the back of the school bus, Scarlett stood up and animatedly proclaimed that it was her new favorite movie.
Jack chuckled. “There’s hope for your generation after all,” he said.
After the movie, we cleaned up, then headed off to bed. Harper stayed with Scarlett in her room, and Jack and Isaac claimed the couch and an inflatable mattress in the living room. After the long day we’d had, and the broken hours of sleep the night before, Ange and I passed out quick, lulled to sleep by the sound of palm fronds swaying with the breeze just outside our window.
TWENTY-SIX
Deacon Lynch sat on a torn-up blue recliner in the small living room of his single-wide. In his left hand, he held a small glass half-filled with scotch. In his right, he held an open book. It was an old, faded copy of Mein Kampf that had belonged to his father. The pages were tattered, many of the corners folded over, and notes were written in the margins.
Lynch looked away from the page to think about a passage, then took a sip of scotch. Reading had been a favorite escape of his since childhood, and the autobiographical manifesto written by Adolf Hitler was his favorite.
He let the words sink in while trying to think up a solution for his current predicament. Lynch had been fascinated by the story of the Avengers and their lost Confederate treasure for years. He’d spent countless hours on online treasure hunting forums, checking every day and paying special attention to artifacts discovered in the Keys and Biscayne Bay.
After seeing the picture of the Confederate belt buckle on the forum and learning where the artifact had been discovered, he’d realized its importance right away and rallied two of his on-hand troops to make a move. With John Ridley out of the picture, he’d expected the lost Civil War gold to be theirs without much pushback. He and his men were rough, and ruthless. And they were no strangers to lurking under the eyes of the law and breaking rules, then slipping back into obscurity.
But something had gone seriously wrong with his plan. A local had risen up and stepped in their way.
This vigilante must be dealt with and taught a lesson. A brutal and painful lesson.
Lynch’s cellphone was on a coffee table beside him. He’d kept the old flip-style device within arm’s reach at all times over the past twenty-four hours.
Jake must have dealt with him by now.
But he hadn’t heard from his second-in-command since the previous evening. And Lynch had tried calling. Again and again he’d tried. But every time, he got nothing. Not even an attempted connection of a call. No metronomic humming, just silence and then straight to voicemail. Jake’s phone was turned off, and the fact caused Lynch’s heart to pound and a vein to wriggle its way out of his forehead.
He took another sip of scotch.
Twirling the remains of the ice cubes, he was just about to pull the lever for the footrest and stretch to his feet when a buzzing sound perked him up. It was his phone. He set the book in his lap, grabbed his phone, and checked the screen. He was receiving a call, but it wasn’t from Jake.
“Hello?” Lynch said in his gruff voice after flipping it open.
“Deke? It’s Nix. Holy shit, am I glad to hear your voice.”
Lynch let out a long sigh. “What the hell’s going on, Casper?” he barked. “Where’s Jake? And where are you?”
“All hell broke loose at the marina. I had to bolt. Barely made it out of there with my life, and I’m still injured pretty bad.” The man caught his breath. “I stole some supplies, including a charged phone, and managed to find a place on Old Rhodes with a signal.”
“Where’s Jake?” Lynch demanded.
“He’s gone, Deke. Long gone. Happened real early this morning. Around three, I’d guess. I heard gunshots coming from across the islands. It was a few miles off. Automatics, mainly. Sounded like a real shoot-out. Then I heard two loud crashes and that was it.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Not until later on. When the coast looked clear, I motored over. That pontoon boat was wrecked and sunk. So was the utility cabin cruiser. I saw two dead bodies. One was Jake.”
Lynch fumed. The white supremacist leader jerked from his chair and gripped his phone tighter. “Who did it, Casper?”
A short, wide-shouldered man who was barely in his twenties moved down the hall and stopped in front of Lynch. The young man had a shaved head and wore a white T-shirt with a red swastika. He’d heard Lynch from the other room and knew that something was wrong.
“It was that guy from the marina,” Casper said. “The one I warned Jake about. I saw his boat the next day. I watched from the thick brush as he, the Coast Guard, and a local police boat descended on the scene that morning.”
Lynch couldn’t believe it. It was a nightmare, but one that he couldn’t wake up from. What was he going to do? He’d bet it all on finding that damn gold. Now, he had no gold and he’d lost
