by Jess Rinker
“In our house?” Frankie says. “He must mean the map, don’t you think? There’s nothing in the house that’s worth that much.”
“Maybe there is and we just don’t know it.”
“And what is ‘QAR’? That sounds familiar. Maybe that’s what’s in the house?”
I shrug. Neither of us have answers.
The harbor around Silver Lake seems eerie, with the moon shining off the water, clanging boats, and clanking buoys. I imagine it’s what pirates would hear and see all night long. Small waves come in from way out in the bay and lap up against the barnacle-covered docks, the shadows of gulls perched on the posts with one foot inside their rustled feathers to keep warm. It even smells different at night, a cooler, fresh smell.
All the stores are closed and dark. There’s a couple sitting at the end of one dock with their feet swinging into darkness, and some vacationers here and there, but other than that there’s no one around who knows us. We walk as fast as we can across town toward Peter’s house.
“What if he’s watching?” I ask Frankie.
“Who?”
“Throop,” I say, glancing down the dark, empty streets and way out in the bay where there are a few boat lights slowly moving across the horizon, crisscrossing like planes in the night sky.
“How would he even know we’re out here? Let’s focus on what we need to do,” she says as we reach our cousins’ house. “And not get caught by Uncle Randy.”
We walk around the back of their house, which sits right on the canal so they can take their boats straight to the bay. Uncle Randy’s deep-sea fishing trips run all year round and we’ve gone out with him many times. He and Dad catch sailfish and yellowfin and fight about if the president is doing a good job or not, while we look overboard trying to find dolphins. I’ve tried a couple of times, but fishing is so boring and I hate seeing them flop around on the boat when they get caught. Mostly I like crashing over the waves and looking out and seeing nothing but water, like we’re a million miles from home and headed straight for an open-seas adventure. I love the moment the land disappears and all you can see is blue. Blue above me, blue below.
Frankie yanks my shirt and tilts her head to tell me to move it. We creep along the side of the house. I run into a garbage can, knocking the metal lid to the ground. It sets off a dog barking somewhere down the street and Frankie and I crouch low to the ground waiting for lights or voices or anything that says we’re busted, but nothing happens. We make our way to the back.
Between Peter’s house and the canal there’s a swing set and next to that is the kid-sized metal backhoe Uncle Randy bought Will this summer. We roll Frankie’s board up to it and she puts a foot on it to steady it. Then we try to move the thing.
We try and try and try.
“It’s so heavy!” I groan.
“That’s because it’s screwed to the platform,” Peter says behind us.
Frankie and I freeze.
“Yeah. I’ve been watching you for a while.” Peter stands in a shadow but there’s enough light that I can see his crossed arms and the smirk on his face.
The platform is covered with sand. We didn’t even see the screws.
“Why are you stealing my brother’s toy?” he asks.
“We’re not stealing it,” I say. “Only borrowing it for the night.”
“Still digging in the park?”
Frankie looks at me, unsure. But I nod. Maybe Peter will help, maybe he won’t. But I don’t think he’ll tattle after what he told me.
Peter seems to think about this for a minute. “Okay. I’m coming with you, then.”
“What?” Frankie looks shocked.
“I know what you’re doing and I’ve decided I want in.”
“You didn’t even believe Grandpa,” Frankie says. “Why do you want in?”
“Because maybe there’s some little chance that he was right. You’re certainly convinced.”
“She’s not, actually,” I say. “I just can’t move this thing by myself.”
“You don’t believe it anymore?” Peter asks Frankie.
“I don’t know what I believe.”
“I don’t either but I can help,” Peter says. He’s strong from working with his dad on the boat all the time so I know he’s right, but I’m still not totally certain it’s the best plan.
“You can come. But you have to work hard. You can’t watch and expect to get anything out of it.”
“O-kay.” He looks at me like I’m talking too much. He’s right. Old habits.
“Shake on it,” I say. Despite how much I appreciate him telling me the truth, what if he was right and Grandpa didn’t want him to know? I hope I can truly trust him. If I had my knife, I’d at least make him poke his finger and suffer a bit. Though surely Frankie would stop me.
We shake on it and then he tells us to hang on while he goes to his dad’s shed.
“Do you think Grandpa would be upset about this?” I ask Frankie. “No one else is supposed to know.”
“Peter is a Dare. He’s family. Technically he can be part of the legend too, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” Frankie’s right, but Grandpa didn’t leave him the map. But Grandpa also never said our cousins couldn’t be part of anything we did; the boys just never wanted to be. Or more often their parents wouldn’t let them.
Peter brings back an enormous pair of pliers. After he works off each bolt, the three of us lug the thing onto Frankie’s board and tie it down with a rope. And then we’re off, rolling a miniature backhoe down the street on a skateboard in the moonlight.
I like to think Grandpa is watching from somewhere up in the stars and smiling.
22
Sand Ho!
As soon as we reach the Elbow Tree we get to work. Peter’s eyes are wide when he sees what we’ve done.
“Wow. You have been really busy,” he says.
“Yep.”
He looks around and then at us and sighs a bit. “Not going to be easy.” He sets up right where we ask—under the giant elbow—and begins digging. Frankie and I continue with shovels, pulling the sand out of the way of the digger as quickly as we can. Together the three of us make real progress.
“Cord of three,” I say.
“What?” Peter pauses his digging.
“Something Grandpa used to say.” I look at Frankie, who suddenly looks guilty. “That three was an important number for strength. He meant it for us sisters, but I think it might be true for anyone. Three is a good number.”
If Frankie wants out, she can be out. Peter, Jolene, and I can keep working if nothing comes from tonight. Frankie doesn’t say anything and keeps digging.
An owl hoots.
A couple of hours go by. The moon and stars have disappeared behind the clouds. Even though it’s the middle of the night, the air starts to feel warm and sticky like it might rain soon. Frankie braids her hair to keep it out of her face and I have to keep pushing mine back off my forehead. Sand is all over my skin, like it’s becoming part of me. On top of that, I can’t stop yawning.
“We don’t have to do this all tonight,” Frankie says.
“Yes, we do,” I say. “If I only have you for one last shot, we’re doing it tonight.”
We have to keep repositioning the heavy backhoe so that we can get deeper into the hole, which is a pain, but it definitely digs out more sand in one scoop than we can with a shovel. Still, it’s a lot of digging. Occasional flashes of lightning brighten up the trees around us. There’s no thunder, but the flashes make Peter and Frankie look like skeletons. After what feels like thousands of scoops, Peter rests his head on the handles.
“Why are you stopping?” I ask.
“How long do you plan on doing this?” Peter asks.
“As long as it takes,” I say.
“It could be days,” he says.
“It could be,” I say.
Peter sighs. “Okay, look, you can keep this thing out here for a while. Will never plays on it
anyway, and if my dad even notices I’ll pretend I don’t know anything. But I’m going back to bed.”
“Thanks, Peter,” Frankie says. “We won’t let anything happen to it.”
“Better not. That thing cost my dad like five hundred dollars.” He sort of waves and then disappears down the path. I watch his flashlight bob a little bit between trees and then the woods are dark again.
“Five hundred dollars is nothing compared to what we’re about to find,” I say. “We could buy five hundred of these diggers!”
“That was nice of him to help, though,” Frankie says.
“It was.” I sit down on the backhoe seat and dig the way Peter had been doing. “But he didn’t stick around very long. I thought after what he told me he’d be more into it.”
“He did a lot of work, Savannah. Got us way further than we were. For once maybe he gets it. Or even if he doesn’t, he was nice to help.”
“But he didn’t stick around to actually find anything, so does that mean I still have to give him part of the treasure?”
“You? Don’t you mean ‘we’?”
Grunting, I pull the handles back to pick up sand. “Yes, I mean ‘we.’ At least for tonight. If you quit, then I mean ‘me.’” Controlling the backhoe is a lot harder than I realized. And since I’ve been digging all week, my arms are about done. My muscles burn like the way your mouth feels after you eat a hot pepper. I try again, but I’m useless. My arms shake. I feel like the most worthless pirate ever.
“You’re exhausted. Let me do that,” Frankie says, and gestures for me to get out of the seat. “You pull the sand away as I dig.”
We switch places and continue this process until the hole is so big, we have to slide the digger down inside it and work in circles. This proves to be pretty tricky, but between us we slide it down and get it repositioned so Frankie can work it again. And we keep digging and pushing and moving and piling the sand. I’ve seen enough sand at this point to never go to the beach again. I don’t think I can take any more.
“That’s enough.”
Frankie stops and looks at me. “What?”
“It’s enough. I’m done.” I kick the sand and it sprays everywhere. “There’s nothing here!”
“Savvy, are you okay?”
I’m not okay but I don’t know how to explain it to Frankie. I sink to my knees in the sand. I want to punch it. I want to punch everything. Grandpa made this too hard. Which makes me think either I misunderstood or … he wasn’t right about the treasure.
“Savannah, what’s going on?”
Words aren’t even making sense in my mind. I shake my head. “Nothing’s going on. This is all fake. Just a game. Grandpa wouldn’t have set us up like this! I was wrong.”
Frankie comes over and sits in the sand next to me.
“Go ahead and say it!” I yell at her. Tears run down my sandy cheeks. I try to wipe them away but they don’t stop. “Go ahead and say you told me so! I’m so stupid.”
Frankie leans closer to me. “You are not, Savannah Mae. You are the last person in the world I would call stupid. Why would you even think that?”
“Because I fell for it. I wanted Grandpa’s map to be real. I wanted the treasure to be real. I did so much for him! I skipped school, I lied to Mom and Dad. And there’s nothing here!”
I’m hot inside, like melting, burning hot. So mad at Grandpa for setting me up. So mad at him for trying to make me believe in magic. “He died and left nothing here! He’s a liar.”
“You know that’s not true.” Frankie’s crying now too, but her voice is serious. “He’d never lie to us, not even for a game. I was wrong to think that.”
“What are we going to do, Frankie? We have nothing to save the Queen Mary. We’re going to have to move, and everything Grandpa ever found will go to Throop.”
“We can stop, if you really want to, Savvy.” Frankie wipes her face. “But if there’s anything I know about you, it’s that you never give up. And I mean never. Remember when you were seven and wanted that little wooden ship Grandpa had made?”
“The one in the glass case?” I giggle through my tears because I know the story she’s going to tell.
“Yes. The glass case that you slept next to, on the floor, protesting that you’d never go to sleep until the ship was in your room.”
Laughing and crying at the same time, I look up at the starless sky. I was fascinated by that model and wanted to figure it out, wanted to understand how Grandpa built it, how he carved every little intricate sail and rope and board. “And I fell asleep in Grandpa’s office.”
“And after three nights of that Grandpa finally said you could have it when you turned twelve.”
I smile. “Yeah. I won. I forgot all about that. I’ll be twelve in October. What ever happened to that ship?”
“I don’t know, that’s not the point. But what I do know is that you always win, Savvy. When it’s important to you. I don’t know if there’s a treasure here; I don’t know if we’ve got it right. But I know you can’t quit until you know for sure, or until Mom and Dad drag us away, otherwise you’re going to always wonder.”
“Yeah.” My arms and back ache so bad but Frankie is right. I’ll never stop wondering if I don’t keep trying. And thoughts of Dunmore Throop coming out here and finding the treasure first make me stand up and brush the sand off my legs. If there is something here, he is not getting it. Grandpa clearly went to great lengths to hide whatever it is from him.
“All right. Let’s keep going.”
“Okay.” She gets up and goes back to her post. I get ready to move sand as quickly as possible, but first I look up at my big sister and she’s a strong and beautiful silhouette against faraway lightning in the dark woods. Sometimes she makes me really mad, but I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Thanks, Frankie.”
Frankie waves at me like I’m silly and then pulls the handles back, lifts the sand, dumps the sand. Pulls the handles back, lifts the sand, dumps the sand. Over and over and over. I use both hands to pull as much away as possible to clear the area for her to keep digging. We do this for what feels like forever without even thinking while the lightning flashes on around us. Eventually thunder follows, a slight deep rumble somewhere far away, like it might even be underground.
The digging becomes motions to do over and over and over, memorized like a dance, until suddenly …
Suddenly my fingers feel something other than sand.
“Wait, wait, wait! Stop!” I shout. “There’s something here.”
Frankie jumps down off the seat and joins me. My heart pounds against my ribs as I dig around the object with my fingers. I can’t possibly dig fast enough. There’s a fringe of fabric poking up through the ground. I tug at it, but it’s held fast.
“What do you think it is?” I ask as I scratch around the edges.
“Kind of strange, but it looks like burlap, maybe?” Frankie whispers. She’s very close to me, our sandy arms touching as we both pull at it. The fabric releases a tiny bit, but is still held down too deep. “I’m not sure. Let’s use our hands so we don’t damage anything.”
Gently we scratch around the fabric to get rid of extra sand, carefully excavating the burlap until we have a huge section of it out and can see it has words printed on it. I can hardly breathe. “What is it?”
“Something Costa Rica?” Frankie guesses. “This looks like a coffee sack like Dawn’s mom has at her café, those big burlap bags the beans come in.”
“All we found is trash?” My voice cracks on “trash.” I don’t know if I can take it. “That’s not old! And it’s definitely not treasure! Coffee is disgusting!”
“Calm down. We still have a ways to go, this is only a small section. Keep digging until we can pull it all the way out.”
My shoulders are screaming, my back feels like it’s bent the wrong way, my fingernails are cracked and filled with sand and now we’ve spent all this time digging up someone’s garbage? I want to sc
ream at Frankie for agreeing to do this with me. I want to scream at Grandpa for making this so complicated. Mostly I just want to scream.
But I don’t. I keep digging. Just like Frankie said.
Slowly, slowly, we uncover the burlap bag, gently pulling sections of it out at a time, the sand falling away in clumps, until it’s almost free from the ground. I stand up and hold it for Frankie and me to see: COSTA RICA, 1990, MAGIC BEAN COFFEE printed across the front.
Definitely not treasure.
I feel like I’m going to melt right into the ground. But Frankie’s words keep me going. I tug out the last corner of the bag, which is still anchored in the sand, with my last bit of strength.
There’s something small but very heavy inside.
Definitely not coffee beans.
23
Dead Men Tell No Tales
I turn the bag until I find an opening, and then slide the object out onto the ground. It’s wrapped in more burlap.
“It’s really heavy,” I say as I pick it up and begin to unwrap.
“What is it?” Frankie asks. “Hurry up!” Thunder—closer, louder—seems to echo her.
“I’m trying!” I unwind and unwind until a fat skeleton key and a tiny scroll of paper fall out. “A key?” I show Frankie, confused at what we’ve found.
It looks like it’s made out of gold. She dusts off sand to reveal red and green jewels all around the intricate handle. “It’s so pretty,” she says. “Do you think it’s real?”
“A real key?” I ask. “Like for a real door?”
“No, real gold and whatever these gems are! It looks like it’s worth a lot!”
“I’m still trying to figure out why it’s a key and not a treasure chest,” I say, even though I knew a chest wasn’t likely. Though the key is really cool, I feel like I’ve been tricked. This can’t possibly be Blackbeard’s treasure.
“Maybe it’s a key to a treasure chest,” Frankie whispers. “What’s the little paper?”
I unravel the scroll, which reveals another code. This time there’s no letters, just a ton of dots and dashes. It’s Morse code.
