by Matthew Rief
“But you think he wasn’t?” Pete said, raising his eyebrows.
“Right,” Frank said. “I think Taylor used him. You see, this Graham character was a highly educated gentleman who was being sent from England to Jamaica. His trade was civil engineering, and he was sent to help deal with issues Port Royal was having with flooding.”
I listened carefully, trying to follow his trail of logic and see where he was going with it.
“So then I read even more,” Frank said. “It turns out, Graham was the leader of an entire team of engineers, and each and every one of those men were never seen again after the mutiny incident.”
The table went quiet. The only sound to be heard was the soft flapping of the waves against the hull and a few passing seagulls.
“What are you saying, Frank?” I asked. “What does this have to do with the wreck?”
Frank smiled. “Not the wreck, but the treasure.”
“I thought the treasure was supposed to be on the ship,” Jack said.
“That’s what we thought,” Frank said. “But why do you think we haven’t found a single doubloon? Surely, if the treasure had been on the Crescent when she sank, we would have found something by now. I mean, we’ve found everything else.” Frank shook his head. “No. Captain John Shadow was smarter than that. I’m confident that he hid the treasure.”
Ange smiled. “You mean he buried it?”
“That’s right,” Frank said. “Like a true Golden Age pirate.”
I nodded. “And these engineers, you think Shadow used them to help bury the treasure?”
“Eventually, after years of pillaging, yes,” Frank said. “And I think they did a hell of a good job with it, and that’s why the treasure has yet to be found.”
The table went quiet for a moment as we each went over the theory in our mind.
“So, how do we find the treasure, then?” Jack asked. “I’m guessing this Graham guy didn’t leave an X marks the spot kind of thing.”
Frank leaned back against the cushioned seat and looked out over the water surrounding us.
“Well,” Frank said, “Shadow was notorious for sailing where most seafaring men feared to go, especially the shallow waters of the Florida Keys. He captained a schooner with a shallow draft and had the tenacity to pull off what few pirates could.” He paused a moment as he took another sip, cleared his throat, and added, “If I were to guess, I’d say it’s close by. He could have even buried it on one of the main islands of the Keys, and it’s been sitting here all these years, waiting to be discovered.”
EIGHTEEN
We spent the rest of the evening letting Frank’s words and theories as to the whereabouts of the treasure sink in while taking intermittent dives and using the mailbox to wash away more of the ocean floor. The idea that Shadow’s treasure wouldn’t be with his ship had never crossed my mind, and now that I was thinking about it, I was surprised that it hadn’t. In the years he was active, Shadow had raided many ships and accumulated a massive treasure. The idea of him being willing and able to keep it all on board at all times was ludicrous.
We’d spent almost two weeks searching the area in Florida Bay. And while we’d all felt like we were just a few more searches away from the treasure, it now appeared as though we’d been mistaken all along.
The new questions on the table were puzzling all of us: where would Shadow hide his treasure? And how had he utilized the engineers aboard the Crescent?
We mulled over those questions in our minds while cruising back to Conch Harbor Marina, long after the sun had been extinguished by the horizon.
The morning after Frank had enlightened us with his extensive research, Ange and I had breakfast on the Baia, then decided to head into town. We wanted to walk around, maybe do a little shopping, and get our mind off Shadow and his treasure. I’ve found that sometimes the best way to think through a problem is to forget about it entirely. For me, this usually involves doing a completely unrelated activity like playing chess or going to a gun range, but Ange wanted to check out a few of the local stores and restock the Baia.
As we walked down the dock towards the waterfront, I spotted Gus Henderson standing outside the marina office alongside Ben Kincaid. Gus is the owner of the marina, which had been passed down to him from his father and his father’s father before that. He was average height, with tanned skin and a few extra pounds along the waistline, and was wearing his usual ballcap and sunglasses. He was watching Ben as he worked on one of the two Sea-Doo jet skis floating beside the dock.
When we reached the shore and walked in front of them, Gus called me over.
“Good to see you guys. Gus, it’s weird seeing you out of your hole,” I said, referring to his office, where he usually sat sprawled out over a massive blue beanbag chair in front of his television.
“Just doing my rounds,” he said with a smile.
“It’s good to see you, Ben,” Ange said.
“Yeah,” I added. “I tried messaging you. Charles said you had to go up to Miami.”
Ben nodded. “They wanted my statement from the jailbreak.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe I allowed those scumbags to get past me.”
“No one blames you,” I said. “They had you outnumbered and caught everyone off guard. I’m just glad to see you going right back to your usual activities.”
“Well, those assholes are gonna have to try harder than that if they’re gonna keep me down,” he said confidently. Then, glancing at Ange, he added, “You guys had any more trouble out on the water?”
“No,” Ange said. “We haven’t even seen anything suspicious for over a week.”
Ben grinned, then motioned to me. “I think you might have scared them off.”
“I hope so,” I said. “You guys taking these out?” I motioned to the two jet skis.
Ben laughed. “Gus on a jet ski? I don’t think anyone will ever see that again.”
Ange and I both looked at Gus, who showed signs of slight embarrassment.
“Come on, that was years ago,” he said, defending himself. “And that dock came out of nowhere. But the kid’s right. I’ve sworn off jet skis.”
Ben turned to Ange and me. “Well, looks like I got a vacant ride if you’re both looking for a little adrenaline boost.”
I smiled as I looked over his 2008 Sea-Doo RXP jet skis. They were heavily upgraded and I’d gone out on the water with him a few times, sometimes reaching speeds in excess of fifty knots.
Ange nudged my shoulder. “You go ahead,” she said.
I tilted my head to look at her. “Are you sure? You love jet skis.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be fine,” she said. “It actually works out, because I was wanting to check out this nearby spa anyway. You guys enjoy your bro date.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Since when do you go to spas?”
“You know what, Dodge?” she said with a playful grin. “I think a good old sparring session is long overdue. Maybe that’ll put you and your comments back in their place.”
I laughed. “Enjoy the spa, beautiful. I’m gonna whoop this guy in a race.”
Ange blew me a kiss, then waved as she flip-flopped down the dock, heading towards downtown.
“Hey, you cheated last time,” Ben said.
I patted Ben on the back, then knelt down beside him.
“Need any help with this?” I asked, watching as he leaned back into the bowels of one of the jet skis’ 215-hp engines.
Ben shook his head, then leaned out of the engine and tightened the seat back on.
“All finished,” he said. He rose to his feet, looked out over the water and added, “Let’s get out there. The strong ocean breeze is calling my name.”
I climbed aboard the other jet ski, then Gus stepped over to untie the lines.
“Don’t forget these,” Gus said, handing us each a black lifejacket. “Accidents happen.”
Ben chuckled as I thanked him. I inserted the key and fired up the engine, my adrenaline rushi
ng as I gripped the handle and throttle. After waving to Gus, we cruised slowly out of the marina, avoiding a few sailboats as they glided by and relishing the calm before the storm.
“Alright,” Ben said as we were just about to reach the end of the no-wake zone. “Around Fleming and east. The first one to pass through the Inner Narrows of the Snipes wins.”
I nodded. The Inner Narrows was a channel dredged through the seafloor roughly fifteen miles from the marina. When he said go, I leaned forward, held on, and forced my right wrist all the way back, firing up the engine in a powerful roar that accelerated me up over fifty knots in a matter of seconds.
Ben and I stayed side by side as we weaved in and out of the scattered islands of the Lower Keys, passing by them in a blur. There was a slight breeze coming in from the east that created a few small whitecaps, causing our jet skis to occasionally bounce up out of the water.
As we raced past Florida Keys Community College and Raccoon Key, a large yacht cruised out from the waterway between Boca Chica and Stock Island. With the wind blowing ferociously into our faces, we glanced at each other and then smiled, both having the same idea.
Instead of passing around the bow of the yacht, we both shifted our course and hit its large wake full speed. Side by side, we soared high into the air. With my left hand firmly clutching the throttle, I raised my right high over my head and let out a loud yell before splashing back down into the tropical water.
In the final homestretch of the race, Ben and I stayed side by side. I could see the Inner Narrows just beyond the small Duck Key. Seeing Ben begin to veer left, I knew that this was my chance to pull ahead. Duck Key has a narrow channel cutting right through its heart. The only problem is that the water is shallow, and Ben and I both knew that the tide was going out. But I wasn’t about to lose a second race in two days.
As we approached closer, I moved alongside Ben, making it look like I too was cruising around the obstacle. But at the last second, I changed course, picked up speed, and flew straight for the middle of the island.
“Are you crazy?” Ben shouted over the roar of both our engines.
For a split second, I reminded myself that this wasn’t my jet ski, but I shook it off, confident that I could make it through without damaging it. I forced the engine to give everything it had, pushing it to its limits and topping out at just under sixty knots.
Skirting across the surface, I managed to time the bounces out of the water and fly right over the shallow areas. My heart raced as I glanced down at the water ahead of me, able to see clearly the distinct underwater formations just inches beneath the surface. With one final bounce, I cleared the channel and reached the relatively deeper water beyond.
Ben finally came into view behind me, having circumvented the island. He was cruising as fast as he could, but he was too late. I had far too great of a lead, and I cruised coolly through the Inner Narrows for a relaxed and happy victory.
Ben motored up beside me, shaking his head.
“Alright, you won,” he said, clapping sarcastically. “But if you damaged that hull, it’s on you.”
I laughed. “Not a scratch.”
We continued and cruised slowly through the mangrove-infested Five Mile Creek and then headed south under US-1 and into Lower Sugarloaf Sound. As we were about to enter Sugarloaf Creek and pass by Sammy’s Landing into the Atlantic, we spotted a worn-down wharf with a large metal warehouse that looked like it had been abandoned for years. Ben shifted his course slightly, heading towards a few low-floating pilings along the wharf.
“Used to be Adam’s oyster company,” Ben said. “My dad worked here years ago, before it closed down.”
He continued and hit the throttles slightly, cruising his jet ski right up against a portion of the wharf that was broken and angled down into the water. I followed, pulling right up alongside him.
“Why did it close?” I asked, scanning the old establishment, which was covered in vines, rot, and rust.
“Damn oysters just aren’t as plentiful as they used to be,” he said. “Too much competition and pollution in the water. I guess it was only a matter of time.”
Suddenly, Ben killed his jet ski’s engine, swung his leg over, and stepped onto the old wood.
“I come here sometimes for target practice,” he said, tying his jet ski to a support beam. “You got your Sig, right?”
I grinned and pulled up the right side of my shirt, revealing my piece holstered under my waistband. “Always,” I said as I killed the engine and stepped alongside him. “You shoot here?” I shook my head, then looked around. “Nobody gives you any trouble?”
He shrugged. “Well, I usually use a silencer,” he said. “But, no. No one’s complained yet.”
After tying off my jet ski beside his, I followed Ben along the old wharf, the sensible portion of my brain confident that each step would result in the loud cracking of wood followed by me splashing into the water below. But Ben wasn’t kidding when he said that he knew the place well. He seemed to know exactly where you could and couldn’t step, and I followed him until we reached the shade of the rusted metal structure.
It was low tide, and as we moved away from the open water and its cool breeze, we could smell it. A combination of mud, dead marine life, and rotted wood filled our nostrils as we moved into a wide-open space flanked by shattered windows and littered with assorted machinery left in place by a company that had fallen to shambles.
“Over here,” Ben said, motioning to the other side of the room.
He walked along the outer wall, then reached down and grabbed a plastic crate filled with glass bottles. He moved to a nearby windowsill, and one by one, he steadied the bottles on the narrow flat surface.
“You somehow managed to win the race by the skin of your teeth,” he said with a grin. “So give me the chance to redeem myself.”
I laughed for a few seconds, then realized that he was serious.
“You’re not beating me in a shooting match,” I stated confidently. Then, before he could reply, I added, “Okay. How about this: you shoot from thirty feet with both hands, and I’ll shoot from sixty feet with only my left hand.”
“You’re really that confident, huh?” he said, jokingly.
“Look, there’s not a lot of things that I consider absolutes. But my ability to shoot a gun is one of them.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in the air. “Have it your way.”
I nodded. “Alright. You’re up, Deputy.”
He took a few steps forward, facing off at the row of empty glass Coca-Cola, Sprite, and Dr Pepper bottles. Bending his knees, he got into an athletic stance and hovered his right hand over the hand grip of his holstered Glock 17.
“Shooter stand by,” I said, then looked down at my watch. “Open fire!”
Just as the words came out of my mouth, he gripped his Glock, slid it out smoothly, and raised it chest height with both hands. He clicked the safety, then fired off round after round, shattering the bottles as he went. He hit four in a row, then wasted a shot on the fifth before finishing them off.
“Six seconds,” I said as the loud gunshots dissipated over the quiet air.
The smell of gunpowder took over as he switched on the safety and holstered his weapon. He moved towards the window and placed six more glass bottles on the sill, lined up right where the previous ones had been. As Ben moved to the side, I took position roughly twice as far away as he’d stood, then unholstered my Sig and slid it into my waistband on the left side.
Shooting one-handed is more difficult than with two. Using two hands allows the shooter to stabilize the weapon more easily during a recoil and prepare for successive shots. I’m also right-handed, so I’m less accurate with my left.
Ben told me to stand by, and I took my stance, bending my knees slightly and facing the window with good posture. I narrowed my gaze on the first bottle on the left, a Pepsi bottle with most of its blue label faded away.
When Ben announced that
he’d started the time, I snatched my Sig, raised it, and fired off the first round in the blink of an eye. The Pepsi bottle shattered, and as I moved on to the next, I felt an unusual tingling pain crawl up the top of my right leg. In the heat of the moment, I spent a few seconds blowing away the remaining bottles. When I came to the final one, I felt a sharp pinch coming from my right leg, and my body spasmed and hunched over.
What the fuck is happening? I thought as my vision began to blur, and I looked down at my leg for answers. The pain had traveled fast, a strange numbing pain that took over my motor functions. With watery eyes, I focused on my right thigh and saw it—a tranquilizer dart sticking through my cargo shorts and deep into my skin, its contents emptied.
I felt a surge of adrenaline take over my weakening body. I reached for the dart with my right hand, ripped it loose and threw it onto the old wood floor. I brought my Sig up and clasped it with both hands as I scanned the room as best as I could through blurry, watery eyes.
“Ben!” I shouted, wondering if he’d been hit as well as I struggled to turn around.
My mind raced as I looked for any movement in the old building, looked for any sign of Ben. But I couldn’t see anything. I could barely make out the walls and the floor beneath my feet as I stumbled, my body giving up and forcing me with every passing second to drift closer and closer to unconsciousness.
Suddenly, I felt a surge of pain explode across my face, followed by a powerful blow that knocked my Sig out of my hands. I lurched sideways, almost falling to the floor. Keeping myself balanced as best as I could, I swung a sidekick through the air toward my unknown assailant that I couldn’t even see. Feeling only air, I prepared to make another attempt but was struck again. This time the blow came from behind, knocking the air from my lungs as I collapsed forward, my left shoulder slamming into the floor.