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Authors: Kathy Reichs

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“No one’s found it,” Ben countered. “So the popular theories must be wrong.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Hi replied. “Other than those theories and this map, we’ve got squadoosh.”

Having nothing to add, I kept scouring the map for further clues.

A symbol decorated the lower left corner. I leaned closer to inspect it.

It was a green and silver cross. Tall. Thin. Oddly shaped, with the upper tine curving sharply to the right. A circle ringed the intersection of the vertical and horizontal arms.

The odd little emblem held my eye. I’d never seen anything like it. The cross was beautiful, and drawn with care. But it told me nothing.

“Let’s brainstorm,” I said. “What do we know about Anne Bonny?”

“She was ballsy,” Shelton said. “She liked to disguise herself as a man and slip into Charles Town. Even with a bounty on her head.”

“Women be shoppin’,” Hi said matter-of-factly. “Can’t stop ’em.”

I ignored him. “So Anne would just stroll around downtown? In the open?”

Shelton nodded. “My pirate book says Bonny owned a small boat. She kept it outside the harbor and used it to sneak ashore.”

“A fellow skipper,” Ben said. “I like her more already. What’d she name her vessel?”

“Hold on.” Shelton disappeared into his house, returned shortly with a battered hardback. “Her boat was named
Duck Hawk
.”

Something clicked. “
Duck Hawk
?”

Shelton nodded.

I reread the map’s first line. “Down, down from Lady Peregrine’s roost.”

“I think this sentence tells you where to start.” Excited, I tapped the words. “Directions to the tunnel entrance, or whatever the thick streak on the map is. We should be looking for Lady Peregrine’s roost.”

“Old news,” Hi said. “That’s why people suspected the islands I mentioned. In the early 1700s, both Seabrook and Kiawah had peregrine falcon colonies.”

“Treasure hunters dug beneath every falcon nest in the state,” Ben added. “Found jack squat.”

I ignored them. My mind was connecting dots. “Isn’t ‘duck hawk’ another name for falcon?”

“That’s true.” Shelton pursed his lips in thought. “You think the poem’s talking about her boat? But where would Anne Bonny’s boat go to roost?”

“No.” I held up a hand. “You missed a link. The rhyme mentions a ‘Lady Peregrine.’ That could mean ‘girl falcon.’
The
girl falcon, actually, since the words are capitalized.”

Shelton squinted. “I don’t follow.”

“Anne Bonny named her boat
Duck Hawk
.
She
could be the girl falcon. Anne Bonny might be Lady Peregrine!”

“So we should be looking for Anne Bonny’s roost.” Hi got it.

“Which makes no sense,” said Ben.

“Wait,” I said. “Give me a second to think.”

They did.

“When Bonny snuck into town,” I asked, “where did she park
Duck Hawk
? Didn’t the town watch patrol the docks?”

“Not all of them,” Shelton said. “There must’ve been a few piers she could’ve used to stay under the radar.”

“Can we find out?”

“Sure.” Shelton began flipping pages in his book.

“What are you thinking?” Ben asked.

“Bonny liked to hide in plain sight, right?”

“Right.”

“Why not bury your treasure in plain sight as well?”

Hi’s brow furrowed. “You think she stashed her loot somewhere downtown? Inside old Charles Town? That’s new, I’ll give you that much.”

“So,” Ben said slowly, “you’re saying that ‘Lady Peregrine’s roost’ could describe where Anne Bonny would dock
Duck Hawk
?”

“It’s just a theory.”

“Got it!” Shelton’s finger jabbed a page. “According to the author, Bonny used the docks on East Bay Street. They allowed for a quick getaway if needed.”

“Huh.” Hi rolled back on his heels, examined the ceiling.

“What, Hi?” I hated having to drag things out of him.

“Well . . .” Hi hesitated. “Sea caves.”

Impatient, I almost tapped a foot. “Care to elaborate?”

Hi turned to Shelton. “Does this room get Wi-Fi?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Back in a jiff.”

Hi headed toward his townhouse.

Several minutes passed.

“If he’s making a burrito,” Ben growled, “I’ll pound him.”

“Now, now.” Hi walked in carrying his laptop. “Patience! Dr. Hiram is going to blow your mind.”

“Get on with it,” Shelton grumbled.

“East Bay Street runs along the eastern edge of the peninsula, yes?” Hi adopted a professorial tone. “That shoreline is riddled with sea caves, some leading under the city streets.”

“How would you know that?” Ben. Skeptical.

“Because I do,” Hi said primly. “My uncle’s a city planner, and
I
like maps.”

Hi tapped a few keys, then flipped his laptop around, displaying a geological map of Charleston. The left side of the peninsula was dotted with tiny indentations.

Another mental click. “Oh my.”

Six eyes rolled to me.

“Peregrine falcons nest in sea caves,” I said. “In other words, they
roost
in them.”

“So?” Ben said.

“Anne Bonny would dock
Duck Hawk
near the East Bay sea caves.”

“Ah.” Shelton said. Ben still looked lost.

“Bonny’s falcon-named boat would ‘roost’—” air quotes, “— on East Bay Street.” I let the idea sink in. “We should be looking downtown.”

“Which is why I got my computer,” Hi said. “Watch.”

Whipping out his iPhone, Hi snapped a shot of the treasure map.

“Step one.”

He downloaded the image to his laptop.

“Step two.”

“You’re such a dork,” Shelton snickered.

Hi waggled a finger. “Do not interrupt a master at work. Step three.”

Opening Firefox, Hi pulled up a satellite map of Charleston. Then he double-clicked the treasure-map image and set them side by side.

“I see.” Shelton adjusted his glasses. “I can do better, if you let me.”

“I was wondering how long it’d take you.” Hi stepped aside. “Have at, hack master.”

My gaze flicked between the two. “
I
still don’t have a clue what you’re doing.”

“Hi had a good idea,” Shelton said. “For once. I’m gonna wash out the treasure map image so only the lines remain. Then we can superimpose it over the satellite photo and see if the configuration matches anything.”

Clickity click. “The straight lines on the map. Could they be streets?”

“Nice!” Shelton opened a new browser. “Let’s check them against a map of old Charles Town.”

A million cyber loops later, Shelton had located a city diagram dated 1756.

“Close enough,” he said.

For the next few minutes we looked for corresponding patterns. It was like searching for a needle in a stack of needles.

Finally, Hi spotted a semi-match.

“Check that out!” His voice cracked. “These two straight lines track pretty well over East Bay and Church streets. I think we may have something!”

“That’s straight CSI right there.” Shelton fist-bumped Hi, and both exploded it backward. Tools.

Ben snorted. “There’s no way pirate treasure is buried under East freakin’ Bay Street. That’s the middle of town. It would’ve been discovered decades ago.”

“There’s not much infrastructure underground in that area,” Hi said, “because of the caves. Not even sewer lines.”

“And that’s where the East Bay docks used to be.” Shelton’s voice was suddenly energized. “The ones Bonny used!”

My mind charged ahead, plugging in the pieces. “If our theory’s right, the tunnel entrance should be close to those docks.”

“We need to inspect all the low places,” Hi’s face had reddened with excitement. “Cellars, basements, crypts, anything underground.”

“Can’t we check from the shoreline?” I asked, a bit dubious.

Hi shook his head. “The Battery seawall blocks off the caves. You can’t see anything without scuba gear.”

I snapped my fingers. “I’ve got it.”

Now it was my turn to run home. Twenty steps to the door, straight up the stairs to my bedroom, a bit of pocket rifling, then a dash back down. The roundtrip took less than two minutes.

“Impressive,” Hi said. “But I was carrying hardware.”

“I know how we can get into some downtown basements.” I held out a crumpled flyer. “Anyone up for a ghost tour?”

CHAPTER 16

T
he spirits would have to wait.

Kit axed my proposal the moment I presented it.

“Not a chance,” he said. “You’re still on probation. That means no Wednesday-night trips downtown. Period.”

No matter how much I argued, he wouldn’t budge.

A flurry of texts followed. The other parents were on the same page. We’d have to go another time.

I tried not to sulk. I needed to get back on Kit’s good side. So, Tory the Obedient Daughter spent the afternoon cleaning out her closet, then joined Kit on the couch for some evening network TV.

Yippee.

After circling three times, Coop flopped on his mat. Satisfied that Kit and I were settled, he got down to some serious napping.

I didn’t mention my recent activities. The yacht club. The museum. The pirates of Chuck Town. The last thing I wanted was Kit shining a light on my day-to-day. Each attempt at small talk received a vague, innocuous reply. Eventually he lost interest.

Above all, I didn’t mention Anne Bonny. Until a certain stolen document was returned, I was at risk. Both curators could ID me. The less people thought about pirate treasure, the better.

And there was another reason for my evasiveness: Kit would think I was nuts. Or worse, childish.

Frankly, I might have agreed with him. Buried treasure was the most ridiculous solution imaginable for our problem. But we had nothing else.

A ridiculous plan was better than none.

“
Bones
okay?” Kit slouched, feet propped on the coffee table.

“That’s fine.”

We watched in silence, side by side, occasionally chuckling at some of the jokes. I relaxed. Spending time with Kit wasn’t so bad. I vowed to do it more often.

But then he decided to chat.

“I talked to a guy in Minnesota today.”

“About?”

“A job with the Forest Service. Near Lake Winnibigoshish. Could be fun.”

“Winni-what?”

“In the Chippewa National Forest.” Kit sat forward. “It’s gorgeous, all lakes and woodlands.
Tons
to do. Kayaking. Hiking. Ice fishing and sledding. You could ski every day.”

“I don’t know
how
to ski, Kit.”

“You could take lessons. Or ski cross-country; that’s more popular there anyway. We could live in Cohasset, which isn’t that much—”

“Enough!”

Coop’s head popped up.

Kit flinched.

“God, you just don’t get it!” I knew I was losing it. Couldn’t help myself. “I don’t want to move
anywhere
. I want to stay here!”

“I have to find work, Tory.” Kit spoke carefully. “I don’t want the institute to close any more than you do, but it’s not up to me. And I have to take care of you.”

“Bang-up job so far.”

Unfair. Didn’t care. The words flew out.

“You move me down here, I finally get settled, and then,
boom
, it’s all over? Just like that? And I’m supposed to just nod and accept it?”

“I’m trying to find something you’ll like.”

“That’s crap! Thirty seconds ago you were hard-selling the Great White North. Ice fishing? What a joke.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he shot back. “You tell me.”

“Fix it! Make it so we can stay!”

Kit’s mouth opened, heated words at the ready. But they didn’t come. Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rubbed his face. When he finally spoke, the anger was gone.

“I wish I could, Tory. I really do. But some things are beyond my control.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“No. It’s not. I feel terrible about the prospect of uprooting you again, so soon after . . .” Kit trailed off. Nine months in, yet he was still uncomfortable speaking about my mother. Then, finally, “I don’t know what else to say.”

Coop came over and shoved his snout in my lap. Watery blue eyes met mine. Called me out.

“I know it’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s just . . .”

The words wouldn’t form. I was being selfish and immature, acting like a spoiled child. How could I blame him? But I was still too angry to apologize.

“I’m taking Coop for a walk.”

I crossed the room and grabbed the leash from its peg. Kit didn’t try to stop me.

“Be careful. It’s late.”

Coop scampered to the door, eager at the prospect of a nighttime jaunt. I carried the leash and let him run free.

Outside, the moon was a bright lunar spotlight. A breeze tousled my hair. The air felt warm and moist, but not unpleasantly so.

Walking in the dark, a feeling of shame overwhelmed me. Once again, I’d wrongly blasted Kit. My father. The person who wanted the best for me, and loved me above all others. Why did I use him as a punching bag? What good did it do?

Coop ran ahead down the beach, chasing crabs and the occasional night bird.

My pocket beeped and vibrated. Incoming text.

I almost ignored it, certain Kit was sending a heartfelt request for forgiveness. The last thing I wanted was more guilt.

But curiosity got the best of me.

Digging out my iPhone, I tapped the screen.

Jason Taylor.

Great.

I pulled up the message.

Jason apologized for abandoning me at the yacht club. He’d just heard, felt terrible. Blah blah blah. Could I please write him back?

Delete.