“The hell you will.” Maddock chuckled. “But I’ll think about it.”
“I guess that’s the best I can hope for.” Bones cocked his head. “Somebody’s coming. Not trying to be quiet about it, though.”
“You and your hearing. I’m going to get a dog whistle just to annoy you.” Still, Maddock reached down and grabbed the drawstring bag where his Walther was hidden.
A shadow appeared in the faint light, resolving into a decidedly feminine shape. As the figure drew closer, he recognized Nomi.
“Found you,” she said. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“A hot chick is never an intrusion,” Bones said. “Grab a chair and a beer.” He handed her a bottle and pointed her to his own empty camp chair on the other side of the fire.
Nomi accepted both gratefully. “Thank you. I’ve been wandering this campground for an hour looking for you. It’s sweaty work.”
“You should have just asked someone where the hot guy and his little white friend were camping,” Bones said.
“I should have, but I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”
Maddock eyed Nomi speculatively. He was still convinced she was hiding something.
“Is this a social call?” he asked. “Because if it is, I can kick Bones’ ass out of here for a couple of hours.” If Bones wanted him to play a parody of a ladies’ man, he could certainly give it a try.
“Not entirely.” Nomi flashed him a sly grin. “I’m actually here on business.”
“Now you’ve got Maddock’s attention,” Bones said. “Dude has no idea how to vacation. I invited him to Vegas and he wanted to know if there were any good museums.”
“I like museums.” Nomi flicked a grin Maddock’s way.
“I see how it is,” Bones grumbled. “So, what’s this business you’ve got?”
When Nomi hesitated, Maddock said, “I assume it has something to do with the dive today?”
She nodded. “I wasn’t honest with you about why I was there. Understand, I didn’t know you at all. Actually, I still don’t know you, but I’ve done some digging and your story checks out. You truly are former SEALs, quite accomplished, in fact. And you’re treasure hunters. And then there are your more eccentric pursuits,” she said to Bones. “The skunk ape? Honestly.”
“No imagination.” Bones winked at her.
Maddock hid his smile behind his bottle of beer. If the woman only knew half of what they’d seen and done.
“In any case,” she went on, “I need to fully explore the passages connected to the spring and I can’t do it alone. Will you help me?”
“What are we looking for?” Maddock asked.
“What’s the pay?” Bones said at the same time.
“Let’s say we’re looking for my inheritance,” she said carefully.
“We’ll need a bit more information than that,” Maddock said. He didn’t like the woman’s cagey style, but he’d been in the treasure hunting game long enough to know that suspicion ran rampant, and with good reason. It was a cutthroat business. Other treasure hunters thought nothing about scooping a find out from under your nose.
Nomi took a deep breath. “Have you heard of Black Caesar?”
Maddock sat up straight. Having been raised by a man who was obsessed with pirates, he had, indeed heard of the former slave turned buccaneer. “I have, but I don’t know a great deal about him.”
“He was Haitian, wasn’t he?” Bones asked.
“You’re thinking of Henri Caesar,” Nomi said. “Some did, in fact, call him ‘Black Caesar,’ but he came along almost a century later. The man of whom I speak was a fearsome pirate who was hanged in 1718.”
Maddock knew the general outline of Black Caesar’s life. A fearsome warrior and charismatic leader during his days in Africa, he was enslaved through an act of deception. On his way across the Atlantic, he befriended one of the crew who later freed Caesar. The two made their escape on a lifeboat and began a life of piracy. Caesar eventually joined forces with the famed Blackbeard aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge, and served among the crew until his execution.
“So, Caesar’s Spring is named after Black Caesar?” he asked.
“Yes. The name survived but the story behind it did not. The Florida Panhandle has not always been the sort of place where a site named for a black man would be something to crow about.”
“And you think he hid treasure here?” Bones asked.
“Treasure and more. That he maintained a headquarters on Caesar’s Rock near Key West is common knowledge, at least among those familiar with pirate lore. But my research indicates he also had an underground headquarters in this area, very close to Caesar’s Spring. I’ve done enough searching to be satisfied that the main entrance has collapsed.”
“What makes you think we can get to it by water?” Maddock asked.
“The few stories I could find all mention a spring-fed pool in the headquarters. One large enough for him to drown his enemies in.”
Maddock nodded, considering. “I don’t know. The bedrock in this area is porous, so it’s not a given that the pool, if it exists, would necessarily be connected to the spring.”
“This land was privately owned until very recently, when the owner passed away,” Nomi said. “The man who owned it was a scuba diving enthusiast in the 1980s. He privately claimed to have found a few gold coins in the spring. I did some checking and he did, in fact own three gold coins from the proper time period.”
“You think a few bits of treasure drifted down the passageway over the centuries,” Maddock said. “I suppose it’s possible. Certainly worth investigating.”
“So I ask again,” Bones said, “what’s the pay?”
“Half of any gold and jewels we find. I keep all artifacts of historical importance, plus any personal effects we might discover. If our search turns up nothing, we’ll find a local bar and drown our sorrows on my dime.”
“What do you say, Maddock?” Bones asked.
“Well, we did come here to do some diving.”
“Works for me.” Bones drained his beer and reached for the cooler. “There’s one thing I don’t like about this.”
“What’s that?” Maddock asked.
“I was really looking forward to heading to the beach and scamming on the college chicks.”
Chapter 4
Agnes Baxter, the widow of the deceased Charles Baxter, lived in a small cottage on a residential street in Glastonbury. It hadn’t taken much searching for Isla to track her down. It had been a simple matter of getting her name from her husband’s obituary, then looking her up in the local directory. Bless old people and their devotion to landlines.
She had decided not to call ahead. It was easier to tell someone “no” over the phone than in person. She’d simply do her best to charm the old woman. Painting on a smile, she rapped twice on the door.
“Who’s there?” a sharp voice called.
“Isla Mulheron,” she replied.
“You’re a heron?” the voice asked. “What foolishness is that?”
“My name is Mulheron.” This time she spoke slower and louder. “I’m here about your husband’s research.”
Silence.
Bloody hell. I’ve made a botch of it already. But then doorknob turned and the door opened a crack.
Rheumy blue eyes, unnaturally magnified by thick eyeglasses, peered up at her. “You say you’re here about Charlie?”
Isla nodded. “I’m a writer for Scottish Adventure magazine. I’m doing a piece about Glastonbury Tor and Arthurian legend. I understand your husband was something of an expert.”
Mrs. Baxter pursed her lips, her owlish gaze seeming to penetrate Isla. “I don’t much care for the Scots. Difficult to understand you people.”