Seizure(25)

We hurried down the hall, trying to look natural.

My flare raged like a caged animal, barely in check. Was it adrenaline? Or was the virus wreaking havoc inside me? My steps quickened.

“Sunglasses,” I whisper-barked.

Four sets of shades went on. Screw how we’d look to anyone inside.

Luck was with us. We encountered no one. No guards. No gawking tourists. No Sallie manning the desk by the doors.

“Almost there,” I hissed.

Like theatergoers leaving a movie, we strolled into the fading afternoon light. Rounded a corner. Cool as cucumbers. Casual as Friday.

I’m not sure who broke first, but my money’s on Shelton.

We ran. It started slow, then spread like wildfire. A light trot became a full-on sprint. Pent-up energy surged through my muscles as I tore down the sidewalk.

SNUP.

We didn’t slow until we reached the dock, breathless, our flares extinguished. Together we flopped to the wooden planks.

“I had a future once.” Hi’s color was an alarming scarlet. “College. Ph.D. Nobel Prize. World’s Sexiest Man.” He waved one hand aimlessly. “Now I’m just a thief. A good one, at least. Thank God.”

“And a dog-boy.” Shelton used his shirt to wipe sweat from his glasses. “Don’t forget that.”

“Right. Genetic freak. Can’t leave that off the list.”

Ben popped both their heads. “Dorks.”


I ignored them. One thought ricocheted through my mind.

We have the map. We have the map. We have the map.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but today was progress.

Right?

Toward the west, the sun was sliding into the murky orange depths of the inland marshes. Lights were flickering on. Around us, insects were beginning their evening symphony.

Peaceful. Quiet. Calm made whole.

Baby steps. Keep moving forward.

Tomorrow we’d take my reckless scheme to the next level.

Somehow, make it work.

We had to.

We had no other choice.





I DIDN’T UNROLL the map that evening.

Too wiped out. After the day’s drama, treasure hunting went on hold. I conked out minutes after unlocking my front door.

We gathered the next morning in Shelton’s garage. Nelson Devers, LIRI’s tech director, had converted the small space into a computer repair station. Metal shelves lined the walls, jammed with plastic containers full of bolts, screws, circuit boards, and other mechanical bits. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. A large drafting table, the primary workspace, occupied the center of the floor.

“Time to work.” Switching on a handheld magnifier, I unfurled our stolen prize.

The treasure map was weathered and cracked, but well preserved. The paper had dulled to the color of Dijon mustard, and smelled of dust, must, and age.

Faded script flowed across the document’s top and bottom. At center, intersecting lines formed a vague image of some sort.

“Huh.” Hi scratched his chubby chin. “Hmmm.”

“What the frick?” I’d expected mountains, valleys, maybe a shoreline or rock formation. Some identifiable feature. Instead, I was seeing a confounding muddle of straight and squiggly lines, surrounded by a simple black border.

“Who drew this?” Shelton complained. “Monet? Picasso?”

“Three vertical lines, and seven or eight horizontal.” I frowned. “Then you’ve got this thick streak running from top to bottom, beneath the jumble.”

There was no recognizable topography or geography. Not even a directional indicator. The sketch looked like a child’s drawing, or superimposed games of tic-tac-toe.

“That’s a map?” Ben scowled. “Looks like a scribble of random lines.”

“Underwhelming,” I admitted.

“Focus on the writing,” Hi said. “The words might explain the drawing.”

A two-line stanza crossed the top of the map in bold, graceful calligraphy. Focusing the magnifier, I read aloud:

Down, down from Lady Peregrine’s roost,

Begin thy winding to the dark chamber’s sluice.

“A riddle?” I couldn’t believe it. “Seriously?”

The cryptic verse shed no light on the chicken-scratch design.

“Read the bottom,” Hi said. “Maybe the poem makes sense in combination.”

I ran the lens over the second verse. Same aggressive handwriting. New unfathomable message:

Spin Savior’s Loop in chasm’s open niche,

Choose thy faithful servant to release correct bridge.

“Not very helpful.” A classic Hi understatement.

“Is that supposed to rhyme?” Shelton sounded unimpressed.

He got no answer.

I searched, but found no more writing.

No wonder museum security was lax, I thought. Without context, the map was useless.

“This could be a diagram of underground tunnels,” I said, gesturing at the mishmash in the center, “or possibly caves.”

“Maybe a coastline?” Hi ventured. “But it doesn’t say what island.”

“That mess could be anything,” Shelton muttered. “We don’t even know this is an island.”

“All the rumors point to an island.” Hi yanked a wad of folded papers from the back pocket of his shorts. “I spent hours online. Seabrook. Johns. Fripp. Some fishermen think the references point to Kiawah. But everyone agrees—Bonny buried her treasure on a barrier isle.”