In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time: the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.
Thomas Carlyle
ePub
A4Chapter 59
“G
ET A GRIP, Victoria. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”Coop cocked an ear.
“Not you, big guy.” I scratched his snout. “Mommy’s upset that everyone threw in the towel.”
Maybe the boys were right. What else could we do?
There were no more riddles or poems. No treasure map to follow.
The task was complete. We’d navigated Bonny’s trail of clues and successfully dug up her prize. Five feet from me, a pirate chest rested against the wall.
Totally empty.
So why couldn’t I let it go? Why was I convinced the treasure was still out there?
Intuition? Instinct?
Or was it something less pleasant? Delusion. Denial of reality. Avoidance of a hard truth.
Screw that.
I wasn’t quitting until I had no choice. Loggerhead was counting on me.
Save the psychology for someone who cares.
Who knows? Anne Bonny might be my long-lost ancestor. Her treasure might belong to me by birthright.
No backing down yet. Not while I had bullets left to fire.
Palming tears from my cheeks, I scooted over to the chest. It was all I had left to work with.
My fingers traced the trunk’s grime-crusted exterior. The frame was still solid, even after three centuries underground.
The lid seemed flawless in design and construction. Bringing my eyes close, I scanned where its lip met the box frame. Unmarred. No divots, cracks, or gouges.
Conclusion: the chest had never been forced open.
Until we popped the padlock, the contents were undisturbed.
What did that mean?
“Two possibilities,” I said aloud. “One, the chest was buried empty. Two, the chest was buried containing treasure, dug up later, and then reburied empty.”
Neither scenario made sense. Why conceal an empty chest? Why protect it with elaborate riddles and traps? What purpose would that serve?
I couldn’t imagine anything less rational than spending time and energy to entomb a vacant trunk six feet underground.
Unless it was a double-cross.
What if someone swiped the booty at the last possible moment?
I frowned. If that’s what happened, Bonny’s treasure was long gone.
My mind shifted to the second theory, which had its own problems.
If someone dug up the treasure, why bother reburying the chest? Why not take the money and run?
Maybe the treasure was relocated for greater security.
Bonny was plainly obsessed with safety measures. She’d already moved her loot once.
My pulse cranked up a notch. If the treasure was moved, and the chest reburied in the original hiding place, there was only one reason.
“So someone else could follow! That means leaving clues!”
Coop looked up at the sound of my voice, went back to chewing his tennis ball.
Excited, I examined the chest with a more critical eye. Rubbed my hands over every inch of its outer surface. Still found nothing.
Opening the lid, I began tapping the wooden slats comprising the frame, hoping an answer would reveal itself. None did.
Then I noticed something.
One corner of the chest held a small mound of debris. Dust. Sand. Dry vegetation. In our dejection, we hadn’t bothered to inspect it.
I scooped a handful and probed gently. Three pebbles emerged from the dirt. Small, round, and uniform in size and color, the objects seemed somehow out of place.
Setting the stones aside, I scooped another handful. This mix contained a number of strange dried leaves. I’d never seen anything like them before.
I thought back to the beach surrounding the dig site. The sand had been littered with seashells and the occasional dead branch, but there’d been no plants growing nearby. And we hadn’t opened the chest until safely aboard Sewee.
My excitement buzzed to a new level. The leaves and pebbles weren’t introduced during our dig. They must’ve been inside the chest all along.
The remaining dirt held nothing of interest.
I sat staring at the two small piles.
Leaves. Pebbles.
Were these the clues I was seeking?
“Am I nuts, Coop?”
The wolfdog offered no answer to that.
It was a wild hunch that things weren’t finished. Only a fanatic would look at a handful of rubbish and see puzzle pieces.
“Then color me crazy,” I whispered.
Moving quickly, I tackled Cooper and rubbed noogies on his forehead. He responded by gnawing my arm.
“I may be losing it, dog breath, but we are not done yet!”
