Seizure(27)

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?”





THE 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.