The luster of the small community had abruptly lost its appeal for Fawn. The contentment of living on the island, a feeling she had come to relish over the last few months, had evaporated into despair.
Fawn spoke to Ralston Saturday morning. He offered the obligatory words of comfort. Afterward, Fawn had gone into a perpetual shell for the next day and a half, not once working on the draft of the magazine article, which had energized her just days before. Through Sunday night, Fawn remained in the house watching television or reading. Occasionally, she would cry at the memory of Elizabeth and for the profound impact the woman’s heinous death had had on Mike.
She prayed to god the killer would be caught quickly and justice served.
Fawn woke early on Monday morning feeling doleful. It was Labor Day. Elizabeth was to be buried at the Bosque Bello Cemetery at 1:00 p.m. Funeral arrangements were being handled by an elderly couple, friends of Elizabeth who lived at the southern end of the island. Mike was to arrive on a flight and pick up Fawn before noon. After the funeral, Mike would catch a return flight to Connecticut, missing only one day of training. Ralston had offered to attend, to show his respects, even though he had never met the woman.
By 9:40, Fawn was dressed and ready to go, hours before Mike would arrive to get her. She sat on the edge of her bed thinking of the afternoon ahead of her: the green foldout tent perched over the grave, the casket mounted on runners, people bowing their heads in reverence at the minister’s spoken words, the quietness of the solemn grounds. God, she hated funerals. She had been to too many lately. It had been four months since the memorial service for her father in a cemetery not far away. It felt like yesterday.
The thought of her father drew fresh emotions and an unexpected outburst of tears.
That is when it happened. In a way, it was like an out-of-body experience. She knelt beside the bed and reached underneath, pulling out her father’s cigar box. Inside, she knew, were her father’s prized possessions that had prompted his treasure hunt, partially alienating him from his family for so many years.
Fawn sat back on the bed with the box in her lap. For a long moment she stared at the wooden container with Cuesta-Rey International emblazoned on the lid. She thought back to how the cigar box had only been discovered once her father’s boat was hauled to Mike’s house. Tucked away in a compartment, her father had obviously felt the need to hide it. But why? Was it his paranoia running rampant, or was there truly a concern that the box should be kept secretive? Hard to say with her father. He could be rational and irrational at the same time.
Fawn continued to stare at the cigar box in her lap, and a feeling of calm washed over her. Maybe it was due to the emotions she had spent on Elizabeth or a perceived chance to come to terms finally with her father’s death. Whatever it was, she no longer felt resistance to open the box.
Suddenly, she knew with absolute certainty what her greatest fear had been all along. It was not what was in the box that scared her. It was the unknown; something that might throw more negative light on her father. She had not wanted to know; could not deal with any additional burden. She wanted so desperately to love the man but was morbidly afraid of anything that might further tip her emotional scale against him. By keeping a blind eye to the contents of his cigar box, she absolved herself from whatever truths lay within.
Now, ironically, she could not imagine one tangible thing inside the cigar box that could cause her any further harm.
With an overwhelming sense of victory, she unlatched the lid and threw it open.
For a moment, she stared at the contents inside unblinking. An unrecognizable smell arose. It was not unpleasant; vaguely resembling the incongruous mixture of the ocean, dust, and cologne.
The first thing Fawn saw was a piece of light-green felt folded multiple times. Next to the felt, a worn sheet of paper was folded once. Beside that was a large compass, and a strange-looking key was nestled on the other side.
She realized she had been unconsciously holding her breath. She released a long stream of air then focused her attention on the ornate key. It was made of brass with the letters “MH” embossed near the head. It appeared quite aged, yet pristine, and unlike any key she had ever seen before. It brought back vague memories of her father mentioning a key about a year ago.
Taking the key out of the box, Fawn examined it briefly. Then she lifted the folded felt and placed it on the bedspread next to the key.
She removed the compass next and carefully laid it beside the other objects on the bed. It was the same compass her father had allowed Fawn to play with as a small child.
All that remained in the box was the frail sheet of paper, folded in half. It was brown with age. Fawn lifted it, carefully grasping the top edges, and pulled the paper apart. A musty smell surged; a familiar scent from another time, another place, as if her past had leapt into the present.
Inside, the page was filled with neat, precise writing:
Three are wall. Florida Keys failed off west coast. Valuable shipment lost. No Spanish or pirates. Crewmember Simpkins involved. He took right key. Storm coming.
Another in light by Spanish. From lower starboard of first hole, three down. Then two right. Another with Spanish – Gonzalez over hearth.
Zaile not going home in its large, iron box. Neither am i. Tell Judith I love her.
September 1820
Captain Wiiimoon - US Navy
She had read it before; even knew of the dubious source where her father had obtained it. She momentarily glanced at the tightly folded felt to her side with the identical text, written as a mirror image. To say the manner in which he had come by the information was farfetched was a monumental understatement. Fawn still had serious doubts as to its authenticity. Her father had believed so deeply, and it was this conviction that had driven him on his hunt.
It had been a long time since she had actually studied the writing. She again looked at the sheet, and the words on the paper seemed to come to life. Maybe, she realized for the first time, she was reading the text wanting to believe her father’s pursuit had not been simply a fanatical chase.
Fawn recalled that her father had focused on three pieces of the text: “Valuable shipment lost”, “key”—he argued that three keys were implied—and “Zaile.”
Her father’s research verified Zaile was the name of a ship, a Spanish Galleon, built around 1800. He had found documented records that the ship traveled between Spain and Florida but no evidence it had ever ferried treasure. Then there was the troubling use of the word. “Zaile not going home in its large, iron box.” If the text was referring to a ship, the sentence made no sense. How could a galleon go home in its large, iron box?
Fawn shook her head. “This is ridiculous,” she said aloud, picking up the contents and returning them to the cigar box. She was about to close the box when she noticed several dark maroon splotches on the inside of the lid. Between the stains were two sets of numbers. Next to the numbers were badly scribbled words: “hold junk.”
She paused, stared at the numbers—two digits, a dash, then three digits. They meant nothing to her. She brought the box closer to examine the dark smudges.
Only then did she realize it was her father’s blood.
CHAPTER 19
Mike was late and did not reach Fawn’s house until after noon. It was not the homecoming Fawn had hoped for. Mike’s mood was somber, and it was painfully obvious he was still reeling from Elizabeth Courtland’s demise. His demeanor was cordial, but his words were short and measured. Then, as if things were not bad enough, Fawn realized she needed to find a tampon before they left. She was a full seven days ahead of schedule, probably jumpstarted by her recent stress.
The ride to the Bosque Bello Cemetery at the northern end of the island was a ten-minute drive from Fawn’s house, yet the unusual silence that prevailed between her and Mike made the distance seem like forever. The
Labor Day beach traffic did not help.
“I finally did it. I opened the box,” Fawn said, breaking the stillness. It was not something she had planned to bring up now, but she was anxious to hear Mike speak.
“What was inside?” he droned in a response loaded with apathy.
His tone caught Fawn by surprise. He knew her struggle with her father’s passing; knew the exasperation that she fought with every time she had tried to open the cigar box. And yet his words had dripped with indifference.
Realizing he was probably upset about Elizabeth’s death and that her own hormones were probably causing her to overreact, Fawn took a deep breath to calm. “Pretty much what I expected. Only I didn’t expect to find this…” She removed the key from her pocketbook and offered it to Mike. Mike examined it closely as they sat at a red light. “MH” he read with curiosity. “This was in the cigar box?”
Fawn nodded.
“What does it go to?” Mike asked.
“No idea,” Fawn replied, encouraged he was finally showing interest.
Mike continued. “Looks old…but in pretty good shape.”
“I thought the same thing. He must have believed it was connected to the treasure.”
Mike quietly turned the key in his hand. The light turned green, and he tossed the key carelessly back to Fawn before accelerating and turning right on Centre Street. It landed in her lap. “I’m with you. It was just a fool’s chase,” he said staring straight ahead.
“What?” she snapped.
Mike glanced at Fawn then turned back to the road. “I’m just saying I agree with you. You always said your father was probably on a fool’s chase.”
“No, I said wild goose hunt.” She could feel her emotions rising.
“Same thing,” Mike returned, shrugging his shoulders.
More silence. Fawn struggled to suppress anger, born of some unknown origin. “The key obviously goes to something. Father was no idiot. He wouldn’t have put it in the cigar box if he didn’t feel it was important.”
“I’m not saying it’s not,” Mike defended himself, “but wasn’t it you who doubted his hunt for treasure?”
“I may not have always understood what drove the man, but I never called it a fool’s chase,” she shot back.
“Okay, okay,” Mike relented. “Jesus Christ, I stand corrected. Can we please drop it?”
Fawn glared at Mike.
“Look, I have to admit the key is interesting,” he said rubbing his cheek ruefully. “Why don’t you let me have it? After the funeral, I’ll take you home, then drop by my house and secure it in the safe before leaving for the airport. Maybe someday we’ll discover its true value. Who knows, maybe it’s worth something on eBay.” Mike offered Fawn a disarming smile. It was a radical change from the previous non-expression.
She returned a forced grin. Mike’s attempt to placate her had been weak, but at least he had tried.
Slowly, she handed Mike the key, and he deposited it into his jacket pocket. Fawn considered telling Mike the story Elizabeth Courtland had shared with her of Sarah Courtland and Osceola’s illegitimate child, Coyle, but circumstances did not feel right. Mike’s mood was too distant. She feared it might upset him. Mike was behaving differently; bothersome to say the least. She had never seen him like this. Fawn knew that sorrow could alter people. Some become strong, while others wither in its wake. Mike seemed to be vacillating between emotions, which left him aggressive one minute, withdrawn the next. Underlying all this, Fawn got the sense that he was hiding something from her.
They pulled into the Bosque Bello Cemetery where the entry sign told of its establishment in 1798. There was an intriguing disparity between the flat ground markers to the left side of the grounds, and the raised, opulent tombstones on the right, as if the two sides were delineated by financial stature. Fawn knew, in fact, newer tombstones in Florida were regularly laid flush to the ground in order to prevent destruction from hurricanes.
They drove to the back of the cemetery where the ground was not as level. The paved road turned to dirt and there was a line of parked cars. Headstones appeared worn and weather-beaten. In some cases, family plots were outlined with bricks or cement borders. Most were cracked and in need of repair. Aged oak and cedar trees draped with Spanish moss canvassed the area, providing pockets of relief from the glaring sun. Farther back, at the end of the rising tombstones, the land sloped downward, angling toward the bordering woods.
A short distance away, beyond the last marker, the top of a green tent became visible. Patrons were hidden from view somewhere below. Elizabeth Courtland was to be buried in the ravine at the edge of the cemetery, just before the line of trees that braced the thick woods. It seemed as if the woman was being isolated, ostracized from the other graves; hidden in a deserted area, as if her demise was somehow devalued.
She and Mike threaded their way through tombstones, nearing the downward slope, as other markers below—although sparse—came into view. Underneath the green tent, a gray-haired man in a black robe wearing a purple sash stood near a podium talking to an older couple. Four or five other people stood just off the temporary carpet, while several more sat in folding chairs. The casket of dull silver was elevated before them.
Mike stopped at the top of the rise, staring down at the small ensemble of people and the makeshift structure. Fawn paused, waiting for him. Mike reached into his pocket, removed a handkerchief and dabbed his nose. She took his hand without a word, and the two carefully stepped down.
The service was brief. Elizabeth was interred next to a marker for her brother, Terrence. Fawn recalled Elizabeth saying he had died in 2001, but only in reading the inscription on the tombstone did she discover he was killed in the 9/11 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. The marker was a memorial, as his body, like so many others who lost their lives that day, was never recovered.
During the service, Mike left his sunglasses on, but Fawn had noticed traces of tears sliding down his cheeks, which he quickly wiped away. Her own demeanor had been subdued. She had cried so much over the weekend; it was as if she had little else to give.
“I didn’t realize Elizabeth’s brother was killed in the 9/11 attacks,” Fawn commented on the drive back. Mike’s disposition remained glum, but she craved conversation to split the silence.
“Yeah,” Mike sniffed quietly, “Terrence had called Elizabeth that very morning from his office in the North Tower. Then he spoke with her a second time after the plane hit.”
“From inside the building?” Fawn asked.
“He was several floors above where the first plane struck,” Mike said, focused ahead as he drove. “Terrence called on his cell to let her know he was trapped, and he wasn’t getting out. The phone went dead the moment the building collapsed.”
“How tragic,” Fawn whispered. “He was younger than Elizabeth, right?”
“Yes,” Mike responded with a hint of irritation.
“Were you close to him…like you were to Elizabeth?”
“No, he was six years older than me.” His voice grew firm.
“But Elizabeth was older…13 years older,” Fawn commented.
“Is this a freaking interview? Why are you asking me all this?” Mike suddenly spewed in indignation.
Fawn folded her arms defiantly. “What in the hell is the matter with you? I understand you’re sad about Elizabeth’s passing, but this is me, Mike. Fawn. I’m the woman you’re about to marry, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t lose your temper with me when I ask a few simple questions.”
Mike removed his sunglasses and looked at Fawn. His eyes were blood red. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” He acquiesced. Then he reached over and took Fawn’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Terrence wasn’t around much. For some time, he lived with an aunt and uncle in New Jersey.”
Mike’s response prompted a flurry of questions, but his er
ratic behavior had given her pause, so she decided to hold off. Whether it was Elizabeth’s funeral, or something else troubling him, she had no desire to incite Mike’s wrath any further.
Back at the house, they said their good-byes, and he departed. She watched Mike drive away, feeling strangely disconnected from him. Mike had always been so open, so easy to talk to. She was certain something else was troubling him; something he was keeping a secret. This lack of sharing, of trust, was disconcerting.
For the first time, she wondered about her future with Mike Roberson.
CHAPTER 20
It was nearly dusk before Fawn reached Ralston on his cell phone. He apologized for missing the funeral. He had made a previous commitment to help a fellow student who was struggling with class work.
“Was it a female student per chance?” Fawn asked with a tease as she paced about the living room.
“No,” Ralston responded flatly.
“Oh, I just thought that maybe you…”
“Ms. Cortez…Fawn…I’m gay. I thought you knew.”
His response caught Fawn off guard, and she stopped in her tracks. “No…I…I didn’t, but it certainly doesn’t matter to me.”
Ralston laughed. “I never hide it, but it’s always interesting to hear people’s reactions, like when you found out I speak perfect English.” Ralston’s tone turned serious. “So how are you doing?”
Fawn described the simple funeral that she and Mike had attended. She did not mention the ornate key as that would have resulted in a lengthy conversation about her father, and she was not in the mood. Nor did she tell him about Mike’s borderline belligerence at times that afternoon. Her fiancé’s attitude had weighed heavily on her mind, but it was a personal burden that did not concern Ralston. Instead, Fawn guided their conversation back to the serial killer.
“So what do you think?” Ralston asked. “I’m a rational guy, but could there be a curse?”
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