by Matthew Rief
Pete nodded. “Lot of truth in that. Though the passion’s not as overwhelming as it once was. I like to keep balance as well as I can. Plus, some new friends moved down here in the last few years who stumble into trouble and treasure a great deal more than most. I like to tag along on their adventures from time to time.”
“Feel like tagging along on another one of mine?”
They fell silent for a moment. Walt’s tone had shifted, and Pete narrowed his gaze as he looked over his old friend. The two had first met back in the seventies. Eighteen years old and fresh out of high school, Pete hadn’t had the slightest clue what he wanted to do with his life, but he knew that he loved the ocean, and growing up in the islands meant he’d had a childhood and adolescence full of diving, fishing, and boating. But it was his knowledge of boat engines that had caught Walt’s attention.
In his late twenties, Walt had already established himself as one of the most proficient treasure hunters in the Keys, having discovered a chest of Spanish gold and purchased his own fifty-foot salvage vessel. For fifteen years, Pete had worked alongside him, and the two had eventually become partners in their endeavors before parting ways in ’89. Pete had opened his restaurant and focused more on business and fishing, while Walt had moved on to bigger and more lucrative treasure-hunting projects.
“It’s been many years, Wally,” Pete said. “But I’d know that look a mile away.” He paused a moment, took another sip, then added, “What are you looking for now?”
Walt smiled. He and his old friend had always been straight and to the point with each other. No beating around any bushes. No wasted time.
“The Florentine Diamond,” he said flatly.
They both paused a moment. Walt wanted his words to sink in.
After a few seconds of silence, Pete laughed, shook his head, and looked out the only window at the ever-darkening sky.
“Not this again,” he said. When he saw Walt’s face turn stone serious, he added, “You’ve been going on about that lost diamond for years. We’ve tried, again and again. Countless people have tried looking for it. The trail’s dry, brother. That diamond’s long gone. Hell, it was probably cut down to smaller diamonds and sold off years ago.”
Walt leaned back into his chair and took another enjoyable sip of the aged pirate beverage.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe it’s been right under our noses all this time.” He grabbed his backpack and unzipped the main compartment. “What if Hastings was telling the truth?”
“That guy was old and out of his mind.”
“There was never any way of knowing for sure because the compass was lost. Without the clue Hastings etched into the back, no one could ever expect to find the diamond unless by dumb luck. But what if I told you I knew where it was?”
Pete fell quiet. “Please tell me you’ve got it in that bag of yours.”
Walt reached into the bag and pulled out a leather-bound journal. Rising from the couch, he strode over toward Pete and set it on the desk. Leafing through to a bookmarked page, he turned it around and handed it to Pete. The handwriting was small, elegant, and covered all the pages, front and back.
“Read this part,” Walt said, pointing to a few lines of text.
Pete grabbed his glasses from the desk and slid the temples over his ears.
“In the uproarious chaos just before Haycraft ordered us to stop on Windley, the dark outline of two men in suits appeared,” Pete read aloud. “They struggled for dear life, trying to climb into the swinging open door, and vanished into the torrential storm as quickly as they’d appeared, swept over the bridge into the storm’s relentless jaws.”
Pete looked over at Walt, who was huddled beside him.
“Who wrote this?” Pete said, closing the journal on one of his fingers and flipping it over.
There was a stamp on the back that read: Property of the Henry Flagler Museum.
“Walt, you stole this?”
Walt shot his old friend a sly smile. “I prefer the word borrowed. Besides, those Boy Scouts that run that place don’t know what they’re looking at.” He grabbed the journal and flipped to the back of the cover. “Look here, it belonged to G.R. Branch. He was a trainmaster for the FEC. Branch was sent with engine 447 the night of the Labor Day Hurricane. The train was sent down from Miami to save the people in the Matecumbes.”
Pete paused a moment. He didn’t get where his old friend was going with this, but it looked suspiciously like another one of his famous wild goose chases.
“Nearly five hundred souls perished that evening,” Pete said solemnly. “Men. Women. Children. Mother Nature doesn’t prioritize life as we do.” He paused a moment, took in a deep breath, and sighed. “Looks like these two poor guys were struggling to survive with the others.”
“But answer me this,” Walt said. “Why would these guys be wearing suits? It was September in the Keys. Eighty degrees. No AC for hundreds of miles. If they’d been laborers or locals they wouldn’t have been wearing suits. Also, if the series of events in this journal is accurate, they would have been chugging over the Snake Creek Bridge at the time. No, these two were on the train when it left Miami.”
“Railroad workers, maybe?”
Walt shook his head.
“That’s the thing,” Walt said. “These two guys weren’t supposed to be there.” When Pete looked confused, Walt continued, “Caleb O’Reilly and Douglas McCabe disappeared that night. Both men were collectors and the owners of a small antique shop in Miami. Neither man had any known reason for being in the islands. Their families both stated that they had no knowledge or explanation as to why they would be there, but McCabe’s body was found washed ashore in the Crane Keys two days after the storm. O’Reilly’s body was never found, but neither were hundreds of other corpses after that fateful night.”
Pete raised a hand and shook his head.
“Back up a minute,” he said. “I don’t see the connection between these two and the diamond.”
“I did a little research on McCabe. Apparently, he was obsessed with rare stones. A lifelong collector like him would’ve known the legend of the diamond and Hastings’s story. My theory is he stumbled upon the compass somehow and took off first thing for the islands.”
“Into the eye of the worst hurricane in American history?”
“You know as well as I do that the news underestimated it. I think the term used was ‘tropical anomaly.’ But given that Branch didn’t recognize either of them, I’m guessing they snuck aboard.”
Pete paused, finished off his rum, and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“So, let me get this straight,” Pete said. “You think that this compass is somewhere on the seafloor under the old train line?”
Walt shook his head, grabbing his glass and downing the remaining fluid.
“I don’t think, I know, brother.” He leaned over the desk and stared fiercely into Pete’s eyes. “And I’m going to find it, one way or another. Then I’m gonna track down the diamond.” He looked down at the desk, grabbed a gold doubloon in a plastic case, and plopped back down into the couch. “But I need your help.”
“What do you need?”
“A boat and all the necessary equipment.”
“You came all the way back home with nothing but that pack?” Pete said, raising his eyebrows.
“Which is why I’m willing to go in fifty-fifty,” Walt said. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the coral patch with you. I’ve fallen on some hard times, and I got nothing. So here’s the deal: I help find the diamond, you supply the equipment, and we both get filthy rich.”
Pete thought it over for a moment.
“And then you start acting your age,” Pete replied. “Maybe buy a house and dig in your roots. We’re not the same young, wild-eyed kids we once were.”
Walt stood up and refilled both of their glasses.
“Maybe not. But I’m up for one more adventure.”
Pete nodded. “Searching for a small compass in
the ocean. I think I’d rather look for a needle in a whole barn of haystacks.”
Walt smiled. Pete hadn’t said yes yet, but he knew he’d successfully captured his old friend’s interest.
“If there are two idiots who can do it, it’s us,” Walt said with a laugh, grabbing his glass and raising it. Pete thought for a moment while looking off into space.
“Come on, old friend,” Walt said. “Once you catch the treasure bug,” he added, raising the glass slowly.
Pete looked up at him, smiled, and grabbed his glass as well.
“It never goes away,” he said, clanking their glasses together. “Alright. Let’s go find ourselves a diamond.”
FOUR
They spent two hours catching up, telling stories, and discussing where they’d start their search. Mia brought them a few plates of freshly grilled grouper and sweet potato fries, which they ate in the office.
“We’re gonna need some young help if we’re gonna pull this off,” Pete said. “And I know just the people.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Jack Rubio, for starters.”
“Ruby! How’s that kid doing these days?”
“Not a kid anymore,” Pete said. “Owns the family diving and fishing charter business now. There’s also a guy who just moved here a few years ago. Logan Dodge. He and his wife would be perfect for something like this, trust me.”
“You’re telling me they’re landlubbers? What are a couple of—”
“They found that doubloon in your hands,” Pete said. “Came from a Spanish galleon wreck over at Neptune’s Table. The ship that carried the Aztec treasure.”
“Shit, I read about that.”
Walt’s pocket suddenly vibrated. He reached in, pulled out a flip phone, and looked at the small LCD screen before silencing it.
“I’ll give Logan a call in the morning and we’ll meet up with him,” Pete said.
Walt’s expression had shifted noticeably. He looked uncomfortable as he nodded, then grabbed his bag and stood up.
“You got a place to stay?” Pete said. After a short hesitation, he added, “You’d have better luck finding that compass tonight than a vacant room. Fantasy Fest packs the island tighter than a can of sardines. The spare room in my house is yours if you want it.”
Walt thanked him, and they both stepped out of the office.
Pete motioned toward the large sliding glass door. “Got live music playing all week. Logan and his wife, Angelina, were out here earlier. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
“They left an hour ago,” Mia said as she appeared up the stairs, balancing two trays of food. “But I’ve got a few seats at the bar if you two want to come out and enjoy the music.”
“I’ll be right out,” Walt said. “I just need to step out for a sec and make a call.”
Pete nodded and brought him in for another big hug.
“Good to have you back, brother,” Pete said.
“It’s good to be back.”
Pete pulled the sliding door open for Mia, then waved to Walt as he headed back down the stairs. Once through the throng of happy and intoxicated patrons, he headed out the front door and back down the steps to the shell driveway. Walt passed by a trio of smokers standing near a patch of grass to the left. He moved to the other side of the lot and looked around to make sure he was out of earshot. Seeing that he was in the clear, he grabbed his phone and called the most recent number in the phone’s history.
After one ring, a low voice came over the line.
“Where the fuck are you, Grissom?” the angry guy on the other end said.
“There’s been a change in plans,” Walt said, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible. “The Phoenician wreck was found, but I’ve got a beat on another prize. One even more valu—”
“Shut the hell up, you stupid old American. I did not ask what you are doing. I asked where the fuck are you?”
Walt sighed. “I’m off Malta. We’ve got the ship and we’re sending divers down twenty-four seven. Your money will be paid back soon. I promise.”
“Wrong answer,” the man replied, then went quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what kind of financiers you’re used to dealing with, but we will not tolerate liars.”
Walt’s eyes grew wide suddenly. He’d heard the man’s angry voice clearly, but his words weren’t coming from the phone. They were coming from right behind him.
The line went dead in an instant. Walt heard the crackling of shoes against the seashell driveway at his back. Before he could turn around, he felt something hard press between his shoulder blades. It was the barrel of a Beretta Px4 Storm.
The man had appeared from the shadows like a ghostly apparition. He was tall and lean. He was dressed in dark blue slacks and a black polo shirt. Two more men appeared from the darkness beside him as he dug the barrel of his handgun harder into Walt’s back.
“What the—”
“Shut the fuck up, old man,” the guy with the gun said.
His trigger finger began to press, then he looked around and saw groups of people making their way up and down along the busy well-lit sidewalks. There wasn’t anyone within fifty feet of them, but he preferred to do his dirty work far from the eyes and ears of the general public.
He peered across Mangrove Street, eyeing a dark alleyway between a scooter rental pavilion and a fishing tackle shop. Both places were closed, and he even saw a few dumpsters they could use to conceal their violent work.
“Move it, old-timer,” he barked. “Across the street. To that alley.”
He motioned with his handgun.
The man kept his piece hidden from the lively passersby on the street as they led Walt across. When they reached the back of the ill-lit alley, he shoved Walt against a concrete wall behind a smelly dumpster.
“You should have never fucked with us,” he barked. “Now, you’ll find out what we do to people who double-cross us.”
He slammed the grip of his handgun into the side of Walt’s face, sending his head jerking sideways violently. Saliva sprayed out, and he grunted as his body lurched downward and he caught himself on the asphalt. The three goons took turns, laying into the old man with a series of kicks and punches until he was struggling on his knees.
Blood dripped out from his mouth. His body hurt so bad he could barely move. He was sure this was it. They were going to kill him, to end his life right there in that dark alley.
When Walt felt he was nearing the end of what he could bear, the men stopped suddenly.
The leader of the group wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled his cellphone out of his front pocket. He quickly dialed a number, then caught his breath and knelt down beside Walt.
“Doesn’t feel so good, does it, old-timer?”
The phone rang twice before a woman’s voice came over the line.
“We got him, boss,” the kneeling man said. He paused a moment, listening, then added, “No, he’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.”
He listened a moment longer, then brought the phone away from his ear slightly and leaned over Walt as he struggled for breath.
“Boss wants to know if you have any last words?”
He waited for less than a second. When he heard nothing but Walt’s gasps, he brought the phone back in close.
“Looks like the liar’s speechless for once.”
He listened, nodded, then was about to raise his weapon and put an end to the whole thing when Walt managed to get out a few desperate words.
“Stop,” he said, his voice shaky. “I… I can repay double.”
The man hovering over him grinned sadistically and shook his head.
“It’s too late for that, American. You—”
“Tell your boss,” Walt continued. He managed to lift his head and stared fiercely into the man’s eyes. “I can repay double. Tell her I know where the Florentine Diamond is.”
The man paused a moment. He took in a deep breath, then sighed. Tracking down the old man hadn’t been easy, and
he’d been looking forward to ending his life and flying back to his homeland as soon as possible. But he relayed the message to his boss.
For nearly thirty seconds, he waited impatiently, playing with his Beretta and occasionally aiming it at Walt. Finally, his boss replied.
He listened for a few seconds, then his eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth.
“Understood,” was all he said, then he hung up the phone.
He slid it back into his pocket, then looked up at the night sky.
“You sly dog,” he said. “Looks like you’ve managed to delay your death for a few more days.” He grunted and rolled his eyes. “No matter. You’ll fail, and I’ll kill you with this gun when you do.” He grabbed Walt by his bloody shirt collar and forced him up. Staring into his eyes, the man added, “You’ve got three days. Seventy-two hours. If you don’t deliver us the diamond within that time, your ass is done. And if you think this beating was bad, wait until you see what I’m gonna do to you then.”
He let go suddenly, letting Walt fall back to the concrete. Rising to his feet, he joined the other two guys and took a few steps back toward Mangrove Street.
Looking back over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t think for a second that I’m letting you out of my sight. We’ll be right here, watching your every move. Make a run for it again, I beg you. Nothing would make me happier than beating you to a pulp and filling your empty skull with lead.”
The three men vanished, leaving Walt alone with nothing but his throbbing pain and racing thoughts. After a minute, he managed to force his body up onto one knee. He’d always been strong, but the beating he’d just taken would incapacitate most men in their prime. And he was many years removed from his prime.
He thought about what the man had said, running his words over in his mind.
Some of the best treasure hunters in the world have been looking for that diamond for nearly a hundred years, he thought.
If he was going to save his skin, he’d have to find it in less than seventy-two hours. A daunting, nearly impossible task. And he was so banged up and battered that his assailants were long gone before he summoned the strength to struggle to his feet.