“I was thinking about that the other day,” I said. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll stumble upon someone else’s lost treasure. As Pete always says, ‘These islands are good at keeping secrets.’”
We finished the first pass, having followed along a five-hundred-foot line we’d drawn on the chart, then turned around and headed back. Since the mag had a wide swath, we would only need to perform six passes in order to complete the grid. Then, if we got a beep on the receiver, the real fun would begin, digging through a hundred and fifty years of silt and hopefully hitting a chest.
We completed another lap. No dice again. The magnetometer’s receiver hadn’t made a peep since we’d tested whether or not it was working with my dive watch before dropping it in.
“With these shallow waters, this thick seagrass, and these mighty mangrove forests, this place isn’t exactly a treasure hunter’s paradise,” Jack said. “Amazing that Ridley ever had the tenacity to search here.”
“It’s because of its difficulty, I’m sure,” I said. “I imagine that those are the best places to search nowadays. Those difficult spots on the map that everyone else has written off.”
After finishing up all six passes of the grid in under an hour, we decided to do it again. Even the best equipment can make mistakes. After rechecking and recalibrating the towfish, we dropped it back in and let it swim. By the time noon came around, we finished round two with the same outcome. Nothing. Zilch. Not even a wayward soda can. It was like the place had never been touched by man.
Hungry, hot, and somewhat dejected, we pulled the towfish up onto the deck and motored back across the lagoon. After navigating through the short maze of trees, we entered the bay and headed for the Calypso.
Pete was lounging on the main deck. He had a beer in his left hand and a fishing pole held in place by his hook. As we approached, we heard the sound of Jimmy Buffett singing “Growing Older but Not Up” through the outside speakers.
“Good thing we didn’t worry about him,” I said with a laugh.
He looked about as happy as Atticus, who was chewing on a knotted rope beside him.
“You guys find it?” he asked, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.
Jack killed the engine and shook his head. “Either this mag needs maintenance, or that lagoon has less metal than a Neanderthal’s cave.”
I grinned broadly. Jack’s analogies got more creative with every passing year.
“The mag’s fine,” I said. “We tested it. The grid’s clear. We checked it over twice. All things considered, it’s nice to see that the place has remained so pristine over the years.”
“Always seeing the bright side,” Ange said with a chuckle.
Pete tied us off to the stern, then wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his hook.
“I guess it’s back to the drawing board, then,” he said. “Come on inside. I caught and cleaned a nice mangrove snapper, and the filets are ready for the grill.”
Pete had been smart and remembered his pole. And thanks to his wisdom, we had a fresh seafood meal as consolation.
We stepped into the Calypso’s galley and Pete powered on the grill. He already had a row of filets coated with pepper and herbs. When he got the grill good and hot, he sizzled them to blackened perfection.
“You know, part of me is glad that you didn’t get any hits,” Pete said while cooking.
“And why is that?” Ange said, shooting him a puzzled look.
Pete plated the filets along with some potatoes and veggies and brought them over to the dinette.
“Well, that would’ve been too simple,” he explained. “Too easy. This gold deserves better than that. It deserves to require a degree of difficulty. Some good old-fashioned struggle in order to sniff it out.”
“Funny,” Ange said, “I would’ve thought that taking down a group of white supremacists would be struggle enough.”
Pete smiled. “Let’s give it time. Nothing good comes easy. You all are well aware of that.”
While we scarfed down the delicious fish that had been swimming beneath our feet an hour ago, Ange peered over the search grid.
“We need to expand the search area,” she said after swallowing a bite and washing it down with ice water. “Especially here.” She pressed a finger on the shoreline beside the grid we’d followed.
“The water there’s two inches deep for the most part,” Jack said. “We’re not getting a boat there, not even our minimal-draft wonder.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing we brought handheld metal detectors,” Ange retorted.
“There’s also the overhanging spiderweb of branches that will make searching the ins and outs slow going,” I said. “But Ange’s right. It’s either that or we scrap this whole thing. And like Pete said, this gold deserves more effort than that.”
After lunch, we grabbed wetsuits and loaded up the skiff for another go. Seeing Pete’s success with his rod and reel, Jack volunteered to stay behind and take a turn watching the boats.
“You guys have fun,” he said, kicking back in the shade as he tied one of his lucky lures. “Call me if you find anything.”
THIRTY
Casper Nix stumbled out from his dirty brush camp to take a leak. He was hungover after having finished off the last of his beer the previous night. The young man had migrated south from his hiding place near Sands Key two days earlier and had taken up residence in a tent on Old Rhodes Key. There was better fishing there, and the island was bigger, with more places to hide.
He was less than a quarter mile from Porgy Key and the old Jones settlement. All that remained of
