by Kathy Reichs
Ben nodded. Then Hi. Finally, Shelton too.
“One way or another, we need to finish this,” I said. “Let’s see if Bonny has any tricks left up her sleeve.”
HI AND SHELTON untied the lines. Ben eased Sewee back from the dock and into open water. “Next stop, Dewees Island.”
I tried to shake off the horrid news about the Fletchers. I’d process my feelings later. Right then, we needed to focus more than ever.
“So what do we know?” I asked.
The boys snapped to attention, no doubt sharing the same mixed feelings.
Hi referred to his omnipresent iPhone. “Dewees is north, between Isle of Palms and Bull Island.”
“Former Sewee country,” Ben added. “My ancestors used to visit Dewees as well as Bull. Its real name is Timicau.”
“I remember we passed it last night,” I said. “Not many lights.”
“Dewees is a very eco-conscious community,” Hi said. “Small, and extremely pricey. The island is one unified design, and ninety-five percent of the land will never be developed.”
Shelton chimed in. “Twelve hundred acres, so it’s less than a third the size of Bull. No bridge, and no cars. The only link is the Aggie Gray ferry running from IOP.”
“That’s twice I’ve heard no cars.” Ben steered into Charleston Harbor, heading north for the Intracoastal Waterway. “How do they get around?”
“Golf carts.” Hi answered. “Private gas-powered vehicles are prohibited. It’s a sleepy place. No restaurants. No grocery stores. No gas stations. Dewees is like a wildlife preserve, except rich people have vacation homes there.”
“Great,” Shelton said sarcastically. “Untarnished natural beauty. That means more swamps, bugs, and giant gators. And we’ve got no idea what we’re looking for.”
I ignored him. Mainly because he was right.
Conversation died, and I sensed the boys’ thoughts returning to the Fletchers. I spoke to keep their attention on the task at hand.
“What else is on the island?”
“Besides private homes? Not much.” Hi rattled off a list. “A small lodge, a firehouse, two public-works buildings, a canoe shelter, an old church, scattered fishing docks. Commercial activity is essentially banned.”
Shelton couldn’t sit still. “You really think somebody killed them?”
Ben gave him a “let it go” look. “So where do I tie up?”
“Wherever,” Hi said. “The whole island is private property, so we’re trespassing regardless.”
Ben forced a smile. “One thing we’re good at.”
We circled the southern edge of Sullivan’s Island and entered The Cove, passing the Claybourne cabin for the third time in two days. Dewees lay several miles up the waterway.
“Guys.” Shelton’s voice sounded tight. “Is that boat following us? It pulled out quickly, right after we passed Chance’s place.”
Three heads whipped around. A hundred yards behind us, a second vessel trailed in our wake.
“Looks like two people,” Hi said. “But I can’t be sure.”
“It’s a summer day in Charleston,” Ben replied. “Dozens of boats must be using the waterway.”
Nonetheless, he increased our speed.
“Easy,” Hi cautioned. “We’re in a ‘no wake’ zone.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Ben glanced back over his shoulder. “Tell me if they keep pace.”
Tense minutes passed. The other vessel failed to fall back.
“Crap.” Ben checked Sewee’s dials. “I’m pushing the limit, but they’re keeping pace. That boat sped up when I did.”
“Doesn’t sound like Beau and Buffy out for a pleasure cruise,” Hi said.
Shelton grabbed for an earlobe.
We passed beneath a bridge and the waterway narrowed. Head-high spartina lined both sides of the channel.
“Hang on.” Ben down-throttled and Sewee kicked forward. “There’s less traffic around here, so I’ll risk a fine.”
We surged forward. The trailing boat grew smaller, gradually disappeared.
“Can we can lose them for good?” I asked.
Ben nodded. “If someone’s following us, they probably think we’re headed for Bull Island again, right?”
“Makes sense,” I said. “This is the same route we took last night.”
“There’s an islet south of Dewees called Big Hill Marsh. I’ll cut through Bowers Creek and hide Sewee behind it. If that boat is headed to Bull, they’ll go right by and never see us.”
We tore up the waterway, splashing illegal wake, eyes peeled for signs of pursuit. Minutes later we reached the northern tip of Isle of Palms.
“That’s the islet.” Ben pointed straight ahead to a low green atoll. Steering hard to starboard, he entered a narrow creek, rounded the tiny landmass, and cut the engine. “Keep quiet.”
For several minutes, we heard nothing but screeching gulls.
Then, the distant buzz of an engine. The noise increased, and for a tense moment seemed right on top of us. But the boat passed and the engine sound receded.
We exchanged nervous smiles.
“No sweat,” Ben said.
“Probably just two dudes going fishing,” Shelton joked.
After a cautious interval, Ben cranked the motor and we rounded Big Hill Marsh. Dewees Island appeared ahead, its dock a fuzzy blur in the afternoon sun.
I shot Ben a thumbs-up.
“Take us in, captain.”
THE MAIN PIER was nearly deserted.
“That’s called The Landing,” Hi said. “It’s where the Aggie Gray docks. She must be out now.”
“Should I pull in?” Ben asked.
Hi nodded. “The Landing has the most slips. Maybe Sewee won’t be noticed.”
Ben selected a space and we quickly secured the boat, acting casual, like we had every right to be there. Wooden planks led up to a quaint covered shelter. A neatly painted sign welcomed us to Dewees Island.
“Nice digs,” Hi said.
He was right. Lowcountry marsh stretched in every direction. Pelicans roosted on weathered pilings, wings stretched, basking in the warm afternoon sun. Cranes fished among the reeds and cattails rose from the still water.
“It’s pretty here,” Ben said. “Even if we strike out, it was worth the trip.”
Just off the dock we passed a fleet of golf carts, neatly lined up, waiting to shuttle supplies purchased off-island by homeowners and renters.
Keys dangled from the ignitions of several.
Hi cocked an eyebrow, but I shook my head. Illegally docking Sewee was one thing, swiping a golf cart was quite another.
Hi sighed theatrically. I ignored him.
We proceeded onto a wide road that appeared to be made of white gravel. The drive was well maintained, and broad enough for two carts to pass.
“The limestone!” I crouched and picked up a piece of the paving material, then pulled one of Bonny’s pebbles from my pocket.
My heart sank.
The crushed limestone composing the road was white, grainy, and very sharp edged. Bonny’s pebble was smooth, solid, and drab gray.
“Maybe limestone dulls with age?” Hi suggested hopefully.
“Maybe.” But the two samples looked nothing alike.
Just ahead was a circular three-story building occupying a small peninsula. Out front, a flagpole flew the Stars and Stripes above the South Carolina state flag.
“That’s the admin building,” Hi said. “It also has an educational center, a few science labs, and a post office. That’s about it for Dewees.”
“So where do we start?” Shelton surveyed our surroundings. “I see two paths.”
Hi accessed a map on his iPhone. “Dewees is basically two strips of developed high ground surrounding a large central lagoon. The rest of the island is undisturbed marsh and swamp.”
He pointed to three o’clock. “That path leads across the tidal marsh to the oceanfront properties. The clubhouse is also down ther
e.”
Hi pointed toward twelve o’clock. “Ahead are the other public buildings, the composting plant, the firehouse, and the old church. They border the lagoon.”
“Where would the flytraps have grown?” Ben asked.
Hi shrugged. “I’d put my money on the lagoon. To lure their prey, flytraps need stagnant conditions, with low wind. The swampier, the better.”
“Then let’s head straight,” I said.
“Goose chase,” Shelton muttered, but set off with us.
We followed the road about another thousand feet. To our left stretched acres of open marshland. To our right lay the pond.
“It’s called Old House Lagoon,” Hi said. “It’s the largest body of water on the island. Plenty of gators in there.”
A small, shallow cove appeared just ahead on the right, an offshoot of the main body of water. Its surface was opaque lime-green, dotted here and there with lily pads. A path skirted the cove, leading to a cluster of live oaks where the inlet joined the lagoon proper. “What’s down there?” I asked.
Hi scrolled on his cell before answering. “That’s Old Church Walk. There’s a tiny chapel tucked in the trees by the lagoon’s edge. There’s also a fishing dock.”
I thought for a moment. “When was the church built?”
Shelton beat Hi to the punch. “Early 1700s. I checked online. It’s the oldest structure on Dewees by two centuries.”
“It was here when Bonny escaped her dungeon?”
Shelton nodded. “It’s a marvel. There was nothing else out here. An Irish monk built it, then spent decades trying to convert the local Sewee. He either gave up or died, no one knows. But the building still stands.”
“We need to see it.” I was getting that feeling. Again.
“A destination!” Hi circled a finger in the air, then pointed downhill. “Onward to ye ancient house of worship!”
With that, he cut off onto the trail.
The church was smaller than I expected. A square bell tower formed the front, fifteen feet tall, broken only by a single wooden door at its center. The rectangular chamber behind had a steep slate roof and two rounded windows on each side.
The entire structure was composed of crumbling stone blocks.
Gray stone blocks.
Limestone blocks.
“Wow.” Hi pointed at my pocket. “Check the sample. That has to be a bingo!”
I approached the nearest wall and pulled out the pebble. The pattern and color matched exactly.
“Identical limestone,” I said. “Beside a perfect lagoon for Venus flytraps.”
“Impossible!” Shelton rubbed the back of his head. “No one is this lucky.”
“Seriously.” Ben sounded uneasy. “Hitting paydirt a third straight time? You’re starting to freak me out.”
“This building was here in Anne Bonny’s time.” I ran my hands over the rough-hewn stone. “Built by an Irish monk. Bonny was Irish herself, and obviously very religious. And limestone was very popular with church architects.”
“I’m officially excited,” Hi announced. “If Saint Limestone here has nothing to do with Bonny’s treasure, it has to be the most painful coincidence of all time.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” I said automatically.
“We know.” Jinx.
“I take it we’re going inside?” Shelton said.
“Absolutely.” I stepped to the door. To my surprise, it swung inward easily.
We entered a small antechamber with ornate stone fountains jutting from the walls. Ahead, an archway opened into the nave.
Two rows of pews flanked a central aisle that led to a simple stone altar. The one-room chapel was obviously still maintained. The floor was cleanly swept, and unlit candles filled brass sconces lining the side walls. In the far right-hand corner, another door exited the rear of the building.
“They must leave this place unlocked for private worship,” I guessed. “Good thing the locals are so trusting.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Ben was staring straight ahead, eyes wide. “Holy crap.”
“Don’t blaspheme in church!” Shelton whispered. “JC lives in this piece. Bad mojo.”
“What is it?” I followed Ben’s sightline to the rear of the chapel. Scanned. It practically leaped out at me.
My heart threw an extra beat. Then three more for good measure.
“Mother of God,” Hi breathed.
At first glance, the stones of the rear wall seemed uniform in pattern. Careful scrutiny showed that was not the case. White rocks imbedded in the gray limestone formed a pattern.
Five feet tall and three feet across.
A Gaelic cross.
Hi slapped his side. “Tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“Tory, you have psychic powers.” Shelton looked thunderstruck. “I will never doubt you about anything. Anywhere. Anytime.”
Ben just stared.
“Check the cross!” Shelton was already moving. “There might be something hidden behind it!”
We attacked the wall. Tapping. Prodding. Banging fists. Digging with fingernails. At one point Hi yelled “Open Sesame!”
No good. The stones were impervious to our assault.
I dropped my head in frustration.
That’s when I saw it.
Like the walls, the chapel floor was paved with limestone blocks. An irregularity was carved into one of the flagstones at the foot of the cross.
Kneeling, I leaned in close.
The stone was scored with two small lines, one short and horizontal, the other long and vertical. Together the lines formed a crude cross.
With the top arm curving ever so slightly right.
“Here here here!” I squealed. “Bonny’s personal cross! The treasure is under this flagstone!”
“How do we lift it?” Hi was bouncing like a pogo stick. “Who brought the explosives?”
“Wait here!” Ben bolted out the front door.
Minutes passed. Hours? I picked at the stone’s corner, knowing it was useless but unable to stop. Shelton paced, hands locked behind his back. Hi drummed his chest, while staring at the floor and humming “I Gotta Feeling.”
“Open up!”
Ben was outside the chapel’s rear door.
Hi raced over and slid back the bolt. Ben entered gripping a crowbar.
“On the way here we passed a utility shed. I’ll return it when we’re done.” Crooked smile. “Unless I’m carrying too many bags of jewels.”
“Get to it!” Shelton squeaked.
Ben wedged the crowbar between the flagstones and pried. Once. Twice. Three times. With a groan, the block inched upward, then fell back into place.
“Get it done, Hercules!” Hi pumped both fists. “You da man!”
Ben planted his feet, jammed the crowbar deeper into the newly created gap, and heaved. The stone rose another few inches, dropped.
Jam. Heave. Drop. Jam. Heave. Drop.
Slowly the block yielded. With one final thrust, Ben lifted the stone’s underside above floor level. We grabbed the lower edge and helped flip it. The block tumbled to the floor with a thunk.
“It’s a hidey-hole!” I yelped.
We’d exposed a hidden compartment roughly a yard in diameter.
A dusty object rested in its center.
Yowza.
I LIFTED OUR find from its hiding place.
A wooden box. Hand carved. And showing lots of years.
A true scientist would’ve used caution before handling a newly discovered relic, but I was too excited for proper protocol. Aunt Tempe would have to forgive me.
The box was smaller than the chest—the size of a tiny microwave—though equally sturdy. Its lid was sealed with wax and secured by a simple latch.
“This is it guys,” Hi gushed. “The end of the road! Payday!” Then a frown creased his face. “If not, I’m going postal. Big time. I can’t handle any more rejection.”
“Just open it,” Shelton said. “Show me the money!
”
“Gentlemen,” I said formally. “May I present you with Anne Bonny’s booty?”
The boys chuckled, eyes riveted on the article in my lap.
I unhooked the latch and tried lifting the lid. The wax held firm.
“Ben.” I held out my hand.
Ben slapped his Swiss Army knife into my palm. Moving gingerly, I walked the blade around the edge of the lid. Bits of wax crumbled to the floor as I sliced through the ancient seal.
I handed the knife back and inhaled deeply, positioned my hands, and applied pressure. The wax gave. The lid rose.
Inside were two items. The first was a black velvet pouch secured by a leather cord. I handed it to Shelton, and he began working on the knot.
The second item was larger and wrapped in canvas.
“Why hasn’t this stuff rotted to dust?” Ben pointed to the canvas. “That fabric has been underground for three hundred years.”
“The hidey-hole was constructed of fitted stone,” I answered, “which shielded the box from bugs, soil, and the elements. The wax seal kept it airtight. Whoever hid this took the long view. These things could’ve lasted another hundred years.”
“This is it.” Hi’s voice quavered with excitement.
Unwinding the canvas halved the bundle’s size and revealed a small oilskin parcel tightly bound by metal wire.
“Booyah!” Shelton had conquered the knot and was emptying the pouch.
Gold coins trickled into his open palm.
The crowd went nuts.
“Gold, baby, gold!” Shelton sang.
Hi tried to high-five Ben, who ignored him and snatched a coin.
“One side has Latin words circling a cross,” he read excitedly. “The other has a crown and shield, with ‘1714’ and ‘Philip V’ stamped around it.”
“Give me a sec.” Shelton was already working his iPhone. A full minute passed, then, “Spanish doubloons! They’re called ‘eight escudos,’ or gold pieces of eight. Probably minted in Mexico.”
“How much are they worth?” Ben danced the coin across his knuckles, flipped, then caught it in midair.
