He booted up a projector that displayed the title page of his PowerPoint: “Shifting Coasts: How the Oceans Shape Our World.”
He began by showing images of coastlines taken over the years.
“Our coasts are shaped by storms, tides, currents, wind, and tectonic movements. The shorelines and beaches you see today are vastly different from the ones our ancestors saw even a hundred years ago, especially in places like the Keys, where the elevation is low.”
He was eloquent and articulate. He gave off a strong Indiana Jones vibe and spoke with a passion that caused all eyes and ears to give him full attention.
Near the meat of the lecture, he mentioned a program model he and his colleagues had developed that allowed them not only to show what shorelines once looked like at different periods, using historical data of weather and ocean patterns, but also to predict what they could look like in the future.
When he finished, he even received a short round of applause before opening up the floor to questions. The offer had barely left his lips when Scarlett’s hand snapped into the air.
The professor smiled, caught off guard by her enthusiasm.
“You look pretty young to be in college,” he said, stepping to the edge of the stage and focusing his eyes. “Or maybe I’m just getting old.”
“Why, thank you,” Scarlett replied, standing and giving a curt bow. “I was wondering, Professor, could you use your model to discover the locations of lost items near the shore?”
Ashwood paused for a moment, then nodded. “The program could certainly help. Depending on the size and weight, of course. And depending on the location and how long the items have been lost. But, yes, with a margin for error, of course, I believe it could. What kinds of objects are you looking for?”
“Gold bars,” Scarlett stated.
That caused a few chuckles from surrounding students. But Ashwood didn’t laugh. He narrowed his gaze, intrigued.
“This is why I love coming to the Keys,” he said, giving a smile that put his white teeth on full display. “Not a lot of lost treasure talk in the Pacific Northwest. I’m guessing we’re talking about gold bars here in the islands someplace?”
“The Upper Keys,” Scarlett said. “That’s as specific as I can be.” She winked.
Ashwood grinned. “To answer your question, yes. I believe I could give you a pretty accurate present location, but I’d have to know where they were originally located, of course.”
Scarlett and Isaac sat through the rest of the Q and A. When he finished and most of the students made for the door, Scarlett led Isaac up onto the stage. Ashwood was sliding his laptop into a leather shoulder bag when they approached.
“Ah, if it isn’t the treasure hunter,” he said. “I thought you might have a few more questions.”
“You’re friends with Professor Murchison, right?” Scarlett said.
He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve met a few times, yes,” he said with a laugh.
Scarlett had already done her homework. She’d emailed the renowned professor of history and archeology the previous day. Frank Murchison was good friends with her parents and a great man. And Scarlett needed to know if she could trust Ashwood. Frank had told her that she could, that there were few men in the world that he trusted more.
“Well, Professor, my question wasn’t hypothetical,” Scarlett said. She glanced over her shoulder. Drama students were filing into the auditorium and onto the stage, preparing for their rehearsal. “Is there any way we could talk somewhere more private? I really think you can help us.”
He finished packing up his stuff, then slid his bag over his shoulder. “You certainly don’t lack confidence, do you? All right, you have me sufficiently intrigued. Follow me.”
He led them out of the auditorium, across the campus, and into the Lockwood School of Diving building. Heading upstairs, he stopped in front of the door to Professor Murchison’s office. Frank was away on an expedition, but that didn’t matter. Ashwood slid a key into the lock, opened the door, then flicked on the lights and motioned them inside.
“You’ve met a few times?” Isaac said.
Ashwood smiled. “Maybe more than a few.”
Murchison’s office was big, nearly a thousand square feet. The room they walked into had a huge oak desk, a table and chairs and was lined with bookshelves and artifacts. An adjoining room had a workbench, glass tanks where Frank cleaned his numerous finds, and various archeological equipment.
Ashwood pulled out a NOAA chart from a cardboard tube, unrolled it on the table, then pinned it down with marble coasters. It was the Upper Keys, from Card Sound up to the middle of Biscayne Bay.
“All right,” he said. “Now where are these gold bars?”
“Well, according to our sources,” Scarlett said, leaning over the chart and stabbing a finger, “here, in Jones Lagoon.”
Ashwood pulled a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and inspected the area. Pulling out his laptop, he brought up Google Maps.
“Low-lying islands, covered in mangroves, and sheltered by the outlying reefs,” he said to himself. “It’s a fascinating area because it’s mostly untouched by man. Not uncommon in the Keys, as most of the seventeen hundred islands that make up the archipelago are uninhabited. But the islands of Islandia are some of the largest untouched islands in the Keys, and they’re also barrier islands, with shores facing the Straits and the open Atlantic, and shores facing Biscayne Bay.”
He pulled up his coastline analysis program. “And approximately when would these bars have been dropped into the water?” he asked.
“1862,” Scarlett said.
“During the Civil War. Interesting.”
“The bars were taken by the Key West Avengers,” Isaac said. “A ragtag group of Key Westers who’d joined up with the Confederates. They took the bars from Fort Taylor in the middle of the night, then threw them overboard when they ran into Union ships.”
Ashwood paused, thinking over his words. “How do you know where they dropped the bars?”
“Well, an artifact from one of the Avengers was recovered recently in Jones Lagoon,” Isaac said. “A Confederate belt buckle.”
Ashwood rubbed his chin, then performed a quick online search. “Like this?” he said, pointing to an image on the screen of an oval-shaped buckle with CS in the middle.
“Yeah, that’s what it looked like,” Scarlett said.
Ashwood performed a few more searches.
“The Jones Lagoon we see today is vastly different than the one of 1862. In fact, early maps of the region show that the lagoon was once a bay, not fully enclosed. As you two know from my presentation, coastlines, if left to their own devices, are constantly changing. Molded by waves, tides, wind, and storms.”
Ashwood fell silent for a minute, thinking everything over and reading pages on his laptop.
“The buckle would’ve been made of brass,” he finally said. “Though more dense than most rocks, brass has less than half the density of gold.”
“So gold is heavier?” Scarlett asked.
“A cubic centimeter of gold would have over twice as much mass as the same volume of brass. And if we’re talking about gold bars, then we’re dealing with objects of significant mass. If this brass buckle and the bars were dropped into the water at the same place and time, we could expect the buckle to have been moved to a much greater degree than the gold bars.”
“Makes sense,” Isaac said.
Ashwood punched in a few numbers, then let his program run through a simulation. After a few seconds, his eyes focused and he bobbed his chin.
“Based on this model, the time frame, and what we know about the properties of the objects in question, I’d say that the bars and buckle would’ve originally been dropped in this area.” He pointed at the screen and shifted over, allowing the others to see. “And today, based on modern charts, I’d say that the bars would be somewhere around here.”
He pointed to a spot on the eastern side of the lagoon, near
the mangrove shoreline.
“That’s almost half a mile from where the buckle was found,” Scarlett said.
Then she fell silent, thinking about the white supremacists who’d murdered John Ridley. They’ve been searching in the wrong place, she thought.
They thanked Professor Ashwood for taking the time to help them.
“A friend of Frank’s is a friend of mine,” he said. “Plus, I love things like this. Just do me a favor and send me a few pictures of the gold when you find it.” He smiled and added, “Just watch out for pirates. They still exist, you know. Just not in sloops and schooners, or with parrots and eye patches.”
He printed out his findings, put them in a folder, and gave them to Scarlett so that she could have a hard copy of where to look for the bars. Then he shook their hands and told them to shoot him an email if they had any more questions. Leaving him in the office, Scarlett and Isaac headed down the stairs and out of the building, striding into the hot afternoon sun.
“Jackpot!” Scarlett exclaimed. She jumped for joy like a senior who’d just aced their finals. She hugged Isaac, squeezing tight and nearly lifting the skinny kid off his feet. “You’re a genius, Rube.”
She finally let go of him and the two made their way across campus.
“This was fun, but I’ve got another class,” Isaac said. “You can hang out in the library, though. Maybe do a little more research on your side project.”
As the words left his lips, Scarlett’s phone buzzed to life in her pocket. She slid it out and saw that she’d received a message.
“Crap!” she said, not realizing how late it was. “I just got a text from my dad. He’s at the high school to pick me up.”
“Logan’s gonna fume when he finds out you skipped class,” Isaac said.
Scarlett held up the folder Ashwood had given her and grinned. “I think he’ll get over it.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I sat in the driver’s seat of my black Toyota Tacoma in a line of cars beside the curb of the main parking lot of Key West High. Ange and I had returned to town half an hour earlier. We’d tied off to our slip at Conch Harbor, tidied up the boat, and caught up with Jack for a few minutes before hopping into our truck and driving across town to pick up Scarlett.
Ange and I watched through the windshield as happy high schoolers flooded out from their classrooms, relishing their freedom. But none of them were our high schooler. We gave her five minutes, but when we were one of the few remaining idling vehicles, I shot her a quick text.
“Always amazes me how ecstatic they are,” Ange said.
Though I was approaching my twentieth high school reunion, I could still remember that feeling. After sitting hour after hour at a hard plastic desk all day, the ringing of the final bell always sounded sweeter than the best symphony to my eager ears.
When Scarlett replied, I let out a long sigh.
“What?” Ange said. “She join a club or something?”
“Not exactly,” I said, putting the truck in gear and driving out of the lot.
I handed her my phone so she could read the message. She just laughed and shook her head.
“Aww, our girl’s first time skipping school. I don’t know whether to be angry or choke up.”
She laughed it off, but I didn’t share in her humorous response. Scarlett had only been in school for a little over a month. I was happy that she’d been enjoying it, but I was going to make sure that she understood that skipping wouldn’t be tolerated.
“Why do you think she’d be at the college?” Ange said, reading the message again. “I can’t imagine that’s a popular ditch destination. Especially in a place like Key West.”
I shrugged, then drove us onto US-1, heading east toward Stock Island.
Ange handed me back my phone, then chuckled to herself. “Well, let’s look at the bright side,” Ange said. “At least she didn’t skip to go hang out with some boy. I mean, she was at a school.”
As we drove into the college parking lot, I pulled up to the curb in the roundabout and spotted Scarlett on the sidewalk. She had her backpack on and stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker when she spotted us, a broad smile plastered across her face. Standing beside her was Jack’s nephew, Isaac.
“You were saying something about her not being with a boy?” I said.
Ange chuckled. “Isaac? You’re kidding, right?”
Scarlett hopped into the backseat. I leaned back and slid my sunglasses down to give her a disapproving dad look. I’d only been a parent for a few months, so it wasn’t perfected, but it was better than nothing.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Scarlett said. “But I have a good reason for missing class.”
Isaac stepped over and leaned in through the back door before Scarlett had a chance to shut it.
“This was all me, Logan,” he said. “I asked her to come. We watched a presentation and… well, I’ll let Scarlett explain.”
“I admire the chivalry, Isaac,” I said. But I was certain that our rambunctious daughter was the mastermind behind whatever they were up to. “You need a ride?”
He explained how he had another class and had his car. We told him we’d see him later, then I gassed us out of the lot.
“So, you said something about a good reason, Scar?” Ange said.
She beamed and leaned between the two front seats. Her smile faded a little when I told her to sit back and buckle her seat belt.
She told us all about a presentation she and Isaac had listened to. How the professor from the University of Washington had been so smart, so informative, and so dreamy. Like prince charming with a PhD.
“You’re not helping your case, Scar,” I said.
Then she got into the meat of it, explaining how the professor had taught them about shifting coastlines, and how objects move with the landscape over time.
“Objects like gold bars and brass belt buckles,” she said triumphantly.
Before Ange or I could say anything, she zipped open her backpack, pulled out a folder, and set it on Ange’s lap.
“Those printouts show the actual location of the gold bars in relation to the buckle,” Scarlett proclaimed. “And it’s all based on science.” She said the word science with nerdy emphasis.
Ange fell silent as she leafed through the pages. I caught a few glimpses. They were GPS images of Jones Lagoon and the islands surrounding it. Markings riddled the page, identifying various locations on the map.
“Scar,” Ange gasped, “this is… this is really good stuff.”
Scarlett bowed twice, dramatic and complete with an over the top hand gesture.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, as if she’d just won the Nobel Peace Prize.
I stopped at a red light on the way home, and Ange handed me one of the printouts. The map indicated where John Ridley had found the brass belt buckle. It also showed a dotted trail to a location that was circled as the probable location of the gold bars, had any been dropped at the same place where the buckle had been dropped. Scarlett explained enthusiastically how Professor Ashwood had used a program he’d designed to figure out how Mother Nature had moved the objects over time.
Having searched and recovered a number of lost wrecks and treasures, Ange and I both knew the effects that nature has on artifacts lost beneath the waves. But the research and details given from the professor and his program offered results unlike anything we’d ever seen before.
“According to this,” I said, “the bars should be on the other end of the lagoon. Near the eastern side.”
“Which is the opposite side from where Lynch’s thugs were searching,” Ange said.
“Were searching?” Scarlett said. “So, you two finished them off, then?”
Ange and I exchanged glances.
“Let’s just say they had an accident and their boats flipped,” I said.
The light went green and I turned onto Palmetto Street, heading home. We reached our driveway minutes later. I pulled up alongside Harper’s Bronco co
nvertible and killed the engine.
Scarlett clicked herself free from her seat belt and leaned forward between the front seats.
“So?” she said. “We gonna go and find this gold or what?”
I pushed open the door and stepped out. Placing one hand on the roof, I glanced back at Scarlett.
“All right, I’m impressed,” I said. I picked up the folder and added, “This is great, Scar. You know how much I admire people taking the initiative. But two things: first, you’re going to call your teachers to apologize and get the coursework that you missed. And second, next time, call and ask us before you decide to pull a Ferris Bueller.”
Scarlett nodded, then giggled. “Who’s Ferris Bueller?”
I looked over at Ange, who just raised her hands and shook her head in disbelief.
“Okay, never mind, three things,” I clarified. “Third, we order pizza tonight and watch a movie.”
TWENTY-FIVE
We headed upstairs and met up with Harper, who looked much better than she had when we’d left. She looked relaxed, her eyes brighter and no longer ringed with dark circles. She was happy to learn of our progress against her uncle’s killers in the Upper Keys and thanked us again.
“The members of the Aryan Order aren’t quite all dead and buried yet,” Ange said. “But they’re definitely on the ropes.”
“You’re letting law enforcement take over from here?” Harper said, shooting us both incredulous gazes.
“They’re better equipped to track them down,” I said. “Especially since Jane said that they’re close to closing in on Lynch’s new residence. Once that hammer drops, it should be the final nail in the coffin.”
As we unloaded our stuff from the truck, we noticed that Harper had set up her laptop and notepads on the living room table.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said.
I waved her off. “It’s no problem. I just thought that you were taking some time off.”
“I am, technically,” she said. “But I’m writing up my uncle’s obituary for the next edition of the Keynoter. I want it to be good. He was a great man.”
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