Kathy Reichs - Seizure

Totally empty.

So why couldn’t I let it go? Why was I convinced the treasure was still out there?

Intuition? Instinct?

Or was it something less pleasant? Delusion. Denial of reality. Avoidance of a hard truth.

Screw that .

I wasn’t quitting until I had no choice. Loggerhead was counting on me.

Save the psychology for someone who cares.

Who knows? Anne Bonny might be my long-lost ancestor. Her treasure might belong to me by birthright.

No backing down yet. Not while I had bullets left to fire.

Palming tears from my cheeks, I scooted over to the chest. It was all I had left to work with.

My fingers traced the trunk’s grime-crusted exterior. The frame was still solid, even after three centuries underground.

The lid seemed flawless in design and construction. Bringing my eyes close, I scanned where its lip met the box frame. Unmarred. No divots, cracks, or gouges.

Conclusion: the chest had never been forced open.

Until we popped the padlock, the contents were undisturbed.

What did that mean?

“Two possibilities,” I said aloud. “One, the chest was buried empty. Two, the chest was buried containing treasure, dug up later, and then reburied empty.”

Neither scenario made sense. Why conceal an empty chest? Why protect it with elaborate riddles and traps? What purpose would that serve?

I couldn’t imagine anything less rational than spending time and energy to entomb a vacant trunk six feet underground.

Unless it was a double-cross .

What if someone swiped the booty at the last possible moment?

I frowned. If that’s what happened, Bonny’s treasure was long gone.

My mind shifted to the second theory, which had its own problems.

If someone dug up the treasure, why bother reburying the chest? Why not take the money and run?

Maybe the treasure was relocated for greater security .

Bonny was plainly obsessed with safety measures. She’d already moved her loot once.

My pulse cranked up a notch. If the treasure was moved, and the chest reburied in the original hiding place, there was only one reason.

“So someone else could follow! That means leaving clues!”

Coop looked up at the sound of my voice, went back to chewing his tennis ball.

Excited, I examined the chest with a more critical eye. Rubbed my hands over every inch of its outer surface. Still found nothing.

Opening the lid, I began tapping the wooden slats comprising the frame, hoping an answer would reveal itself. None did.

Then I noticed something.

One corner of the chest held a small mound of debris. Dust. Sand. Dry vegetation. In our dejection, we hadn’t bothered to inspect it.

I scooped a handful and probed gently. Three pebbles emerged from the dirt. Small, round, and uniform in size and color, the objects seemed somehow out of place.

Setting the stones aside, I scooped another handful. This mix contained a number of strange dried leaves. I’d never seen anything like them before.

I thought back to the beach surrounding the dig site. The sand had been littered with seashells and the occasional dead branch, but there’d been no plants growing nearby. And we hadn’t opened the chest until safely aboard Sewee .

My excitement buzzed to a new level. The leaves and pebbles weren’t introduced during our dig. They must’ve been inside the chest all along.

The remaining dirt held nothing of interest.

I sat staring at the two small piles.

Leaves. Pebbles.

Were these the clues I was seeking?

“Am I nuts, Coop?”

The wolfdog offered no answer to that.

It was a wild hunch that things weren’t finished. Only a fanatic would look at a handful of rubbish and see puzzle pieces.

“Then color me crazy,” I whispered.

Moving quickly, I tackled Cooper and rubbed noogies on his forehead. He responded by gnawing my arm.

“I may be losing it, dog breath, but we are not done yet!”

“JUST HEAR ME out!” I shouted.

At my request, we’d reassembled in Shelton’s garage. His father’s workshop was the best place to examine my finds.

The Allies at Normandy hadn’t encountered such determined resistance.

“I don’t wanna!” Shelton whined. “You’ll start talking, and pretty soon we’ll all start nodding, and then the next thing you know, I’m hang gliding off the Eiffel Tower at midnight, being chased by ninja vampires. No deal!”

Ben smacked the back of Shelton’s head.

“Inside that crazy rant is a kernel of truth.” Hi folded his arms. “We found the trunk, Tory. It’s a dead end.”

“But think,” I urged. “Why bury an empty chest, unless you’re sending a message to whoever finds it later?”

“The message was received.” Ben displayed his middle finger. “Ha ha. You lose.”

“Maybe, but the lid was undamaged, meaning whoever removed the contents had access to the key. I think Bonny relocated the treasure again and left clues for someone to follow.”

“Who?” Shelton, voice skeptical.

“Mary Read.”

His hands flew up. “She was DEAD!”

“Maybe Bonny DIDN’T KNOW!” I shouted back.

“Enough!” Ben glared at each of us in turn. “Tory’s the reason we found the chest. Let’s hear what she has to say. We owe her that much.”

Shelton rolled his eyes. Hi screwed his mouth sideways, but said nothing.

Ben jabbed a finger at me. “But no promises, Brennan. I’m not wild about chasing pipe dreams, and we almost got killed doing it. Twice.”

“This is how it starts,” Shelton muttered. “We’re doomed.”

“Thank you,” I said primly. Inside, I was grinning like a well-fed cat.

Shelton was right, of course. Once I got them listening, their curiosity always won out. It’s what I loved best about them.

“Now.” I cracked my knuckles. “There are two things we need to examine …”

We regrouped an hour later.

“Let’s start with the chest,” I said. “Ben and I went over every board, slat, and nail. There’s nothing inside, or on the surface. There are no hidden compartments. There is no text of any kind.”

Ben nodded in agreement. “The trunk itself is a dead end.”

“So that leaves the contents.” I gestured to Hi. “Tell us about the vegetation.”

“You’re not going to believe this.” Hi had a bemused expression on his face. “I can identify this plant.”

“No joke?” He was right. I couldn’t believe it.

“Seriously. It’s such a wildly uncommon specimen that, frankly, it was easy. My books were all over it, and I confirmed the ID online.”

“Fantastic. Spill.”

Hi placed the leaves on the worktable.

“These are the leaves of Dionaea muscipula , commonly known as Venus flytraps. I can’t believe they lasted that long underground. They must’ve been predried, and the chest airtight. Talk about craftsmanship.”

“How can you be sure?” Ben asked.

“I checked under my microscope.” Hi pointed to a red-brown husk on the table. “The leaf blade is divided into two parts: a flat, heart-shaped stalk, then a pair of terminal lobes hinged at midrib, forming the trap. Stiff hairlike protrusions called cilia fringe the edges.” He shrugged. “That was all I needed. Not much can be confused with a Venus flytrap. A monkey could’ve nailed it.”

“Gotta love a plant that eats bugs,” Shelton quipped.

“Flytraps are awesome.” Hi made a V with his hands. “Their leaves are like small mouths that snap shut when a fly enters. Inside the mouth, tiny sensors distinguish between living prey and other things, like raindrops. If a bug taps two sensors in a row, or the same one twice, boom!” His fingertips snapped together. “The jaws close, trapping the insect inside. Then the plant digests at its leisure.”