“Collateral damage,” Lynch finally said, relaxing into his seat. “Take us back to the farm. And use the back route around the edge of town.”
THIRTY-THREE
We woke the next morning at the crack of dawn. While Ange whipped up some breakfast, I played fetch with Atticus. Rearing back a tennis ball, I tossed it far out over the bow and smiled as our happy Lab bounded off the swim platform, splashed into the water, and swam like mad.
Back when I’d first gotten him, I used to fake him out, pretending to toss it and laughing as he jumped into the water, only to turn around moments later and realize his mistake. But two-year-old Atty was wiser and his paws never left the ground until the ball was in the air.
As my arm warmed up, I gradually increased the distance. After five minutes of playtime, Ange appeared from the saloon, holding two glasses of freshly blended smoothie.
“We’ve got more bacon in there,” I said.
“Bacon takes too long. I dreamed of that metal detector hit all night.”
Once Atticus was at least somewhat tired out, I sprayed him down with the freshwater hose. He shook drops of water all over the place, then I patted him down with a towel. After filling his food bowl, I stepped back topside and joined Ange at the dinette. The sun was just starting to peek over Old Rhodes Key.
“You think they’re up yet?” Ange said, motioning toward the Calypso.
It was anchored down just thirty yards from us. I was just about to say that I doubted it when Jack stepped out in nothing but a pair of boardshorts. He yawned, then smiled and waved when he saw us.
“I guess we’re not the only ones excited about this hit,” Ange said.
I nodded. Whatever we’d found, it’d somehow managed to get Jack out of bed before the sun, which was nothing short of a miracle for our beach bum friend who never wore a watch.
We finished our smoothies, then grabbed our things as Jack and Pete motored over on the skiff.
“All aboard,” Pete said enthusiastically.
After cracking the windows and locking up, I stepped on first, carrying a black hard case.
“What’s with the sea scooter?” Jack said, motioning toward the case.
“Ange had a brilliant idea regarding what to do about the clouds-of-sediment situation,” I explained.
Pete nodded in approval as he found a good spot for it on the small boat. “Use the prop to wash it away,” he said. “You were born for this kind of thing, Mrs. Dodge.”
She beamed as she climbed aboard.
Many years earlier, the Florida Keys treasure-hunting legend Mel Fisher had utilized a similar tactic. While salvaging the Spanish galleon Atocha off the Marquesas Keys, he’d created a device called a “mailbox.” The basic function was to redirect prop wash from a boat’s propeller to the seafloor to wash away sand from shipwrecks. Ange’s idea was a similar stroke of genius and made me wonder for the thousandth time why such a smart, athletic, and beautiful woman had settled for me.
Jack accelerated us through the mangroves and back into the lagoon. Since we already had a hit to investigate, we’d all decided to come. We reasoned it was fine to leave the boats alone for an hour at least, and we didn’t expect it to take much longer to dig up whatever was getting our metal detectors excited with our shovels.
Once across the lagoon, Jack and I hopped out to minimize the draft of the skiff as we sloshed the final hundred yards to our destination. After tying us off to a thick branch, I offered a hand to help Ange down.
She accepted and quipped, “What a gentleman.”
We trudged over to the spot where we’d been digging the previous day. Other than the hole filling itself in a little due to the current and gravity, the area looked just as it had when we’d left it.
Pete grabbed his metal detector, then bounded over. He scanned the coil over the hole for a fraction of a second before a beep blurted out from the tiny speaker.
“You didn’t believe us?” Ange said.
He chuckled. “Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”
Eager to figure out what was causing our detectors to be so chatty, we went right to work. Jack and I started on shovel duty, stomping the blades through the sediment and hauling out piles of muck to be cast aside.
Ange powered up the sea scooter and spun the propeller at half speed, holding on tight and bracing herself so she wouldn’t fall backward as prop wash cleared the haze. The high-end devices were powerful enough to drag someone through the water at up to seven knots. We’d put them to good use over the years, once even during a search and rescue mission where we’d been forced to sneak our way into Havana Harbor.
Jack and I shoveled pile after pile from the hole. But every time we took dirt and sand out, more seemed to just slide back in and take its place. The normal-sized shovels helped, but it was still arduous, backbreaking work.
“Gives you a new appreciation for the laborers who built the overseas railroad,” Pete said. “Much of the work was done by hand. And back then, bug spray wasn’t readily available.”
When Ange looked tired from holding the sea scooter in position, Pete took over. Even with his hook of a right hand, he managed to keep it in place, never letting the unfortunate loss hold him back.
After an hour, we’d made it two feet down. We took a break, guzzling down water from the cooler and splashing off in the lagoon. The sun was just over the mangrove barrier, and with barely a cloud in the sky, it beat down on us unobstructed.
“We’re just
