“I’ll give you—”
Shelton cut Ben off. “So what’s our next move?”
“Maybe we should research Bonny’s favorite symbol,” I said. “We can’t work the poem yet. Why not try our luck with the cross?”
“We could run an image comparison,” Shelton suggested. “Online.”
“Worth a shot.”
I unfurled the treasure map on the coffee table, snapped a pic of the illustration, then downloaded the image to my laptop.
“Your move.” I stepped aside so Shelton could man the keys.
“I know a website that lets you upload images and search for matches online.” Shelton’s fingers were already flying.
In moments, a grid of crosses filled the screen. Shelton clicked one that linked to an online encyclopedia.
“It’s called a Celtic cross,” Shelton said. “The central ring is the defining feature.”
I nudged Shelton’s shoulder. “My turn to drive.”
“Every time.” Shelton slid right so I could take his spot.
“According to this entry, the Celtic cross was introduced by Saint Patrick while converting the pagan Irish,” I said. “It combines the traditional Christian cross with a circular emblem representing the sun. Some argue it originated from the ancient custom of wreathing a cross after a victorious battle.”
I navigated back to the pictorial grid. “Some of these crosses are tall and skinny, like the one Bonny sketched.”
I eyeballed the results, selected a design closely resembling Bonny’s sketch.
“This is called a high cross.” I clicked the brief description attached to the image. “A favorite of the Irish church, it was used in monuments as far back as the eighth century. Mostly headstones.”
“Ugh.” Hi was reading from his iPhone again. “The Celtic cross is now popular among white supremacy groups. The symbol has actually been banned in Germany.”
“Great job, Germans,” Shelton deadpanned. “Another ancient religious symbol ruined for all time. Shelve this one next to the swastika.”
“The top tine of Bonny’s cross always curves right,” I reminded them. “That must mean something, don’t you think?”
“It’s certainly distinctive,” Shelton said. “May I resume my work, madam?”
I yielded.
“I’ll keep looking.” Shelton was punching keys like mad. “But that might simply be Bonny’s thing.”
Fifteen minutes passed. Shelton ran through search screens faster than I could follow.
Then, “Oh no!” He slapped my laptop shut.
“What?” I asked. “Did you find something?”
“Nope!” Shelton’s left hand rose to his earlobe. “Hey, did anyone get a Mets score? My dad’s a big fan.”
“The Mets?” That didn’t make sense. “What’s going on?”
Shelton refused to meet my eye. “Your computer crashed.”
“No it didn’t. You closed it.”
“Spyware. Malware. I think you’ve got a virus.”
“It’s a Mac.”
His voice dropped to a mumble. “The battery died.”
“Shelton!” I’d had enough. “You’re lying. And you’re tugging your ear.”
“No I’m not.” The hand dropped.
That did it. “Stand aside, Devers.”
“No!” Shelton covered the laptop with both arms. “You’re gonna make a bad decision.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Ben barked. “Get out of the way!”
Shelton started to protest once more, then the fight drained out of him.
“Mistake,” Shelton muttered to Ben as he trudged to my couch. “You should’ve trusted me.”
I opened the screen and reloaded the last page.
And understood in seconds.
“Well?” Hi said. “Why did Shelton go nuts?”
“He located Bonny’s bent cross,” I said. “It’s real.”
“That’s great!” Hi exclaimed.
“No it isn’t,” Shelton moaned.
“Explain,” Ben said.
“A Celtic cross identical to one Anne Bonny liked to sketch was sold at auction fifteen years ago.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Right here in Charleston.”
“Even better,” Hi said. “I’m failing to see the downside.”
“Wait for it.” Shelton.
“Uh-oh.” A frown creased Ben’s brow. “Please tell me I can’t guess the buyer’s name.”
“You most certainly can,” Shelton said. “But now it’s too late.”
Hi’s gaze bounced from Ben to Shelton to me. “Out with it.”
I turned the screen to face him. “The winning bidder was Hollis Claybourne.”
“Oh,” Hi said. Then, “Crap.”
“I told ya’ll.” Shelton shook his head. “You should’ve let me erase the whole flipping hard drive.”
The boys glanced at me, knowing.
I didn’t disappoint.
“It’s time for a visit with Chance.”
KIT’S TEXT MESSAGE sealed the deal.
Behind schedule. Home late. Feed self.
“We’re going today,” I said firmly. “No arguments.”
The other Virals groaned, but fell in line without much fight. Perhaps they were too tired to protest.
“Told you,” Shelton muttered. “Once she found out Hollis bought the cross, our tickets were booked.”
Hi hauled himself from the couch and stretched. “Are we stealing Kit’s 4Runner again?”
“We’re borrowing it,” I amended. “We’ll be back before seven if we hurry.”
I knew where to find Chance. Everyone did. His current address was an open secret.
It’s not every day that Bolton Prep’s most illustrious student is committed to a mental institution.
Psychiatric care facility, I should say. Chance had been a patient at Marsh Point Hospital since the shootout at Claybourne Manor three months earlier.
“Will he agree to see us?” Ben asked.
“Leave that to me.”
Nestled within a tangle of creeks, ponds, and meandering swampland, Wadmalaw Island is one of Charleston’s most bucolic districts. Quiet, pristine, and intensely rural, its acreage is some of the least developed in the Lowcountry.
Winding country roads criss-cross the landscape, which is lined with family farms and roadside produce stands. The local population is sparse: most residents are farmers, fishermen, and employees of America’s only active tea plantation.
With only a single bridge connecting Wadmalaw to the outside world, conditions were perfect for the island’s most discrete tenant.
We drove north to the Maybank Highway, then headed southeast across Johns Island. Minutes later we crossed to Wadmalaw and followed signs toward Rockville. Several miles before the small village, Ben turned right onto a narrow private drive.
“Guardhouse,” he warned. “Dead ahead.”
Three officers sat inside a roadside booth, each wearing a firearm, their attention focused on a small TV. We stopped at the gate and waited.
Finally, a guard peeled his eyes from the screen, emerged, and walked to the driver’s-side window. Bald, paunchy, and well past forty, the guy’s name tag announced him as Officer Mike Brodhag.
“Name?” Bored, and slightly annoyed.
“Tory Brennan,” I answered from the passenger seat.
“ID?”
I handed over my Bolton Prep library card.
Brodhag’s gaze shifted to Hi and Shelton in the backseat before returning to me. Everyone was wearing a Bolton Prep uniform.
“State your business.”
“We represent the Bolton Academy student council,” I said cheerily. “We’re here to present Chance Claybourne with this year’s Human Spirit Award.”
Brodhag appeared unimpressed. “Do you have an appointment with someone on the medical staff?”