I traced my hand over the paper, which was clearly a copy of the original, but was so old and faded it had to have been decades old itself, and then I moved on to the next.
“New York, January 1804.By way of Charleston, we have the following account of damages sustained by a Hurricane which happened the 3rd of August, 1803. At the coast of Florida, a New York ship christened The Esmerelda, Captained by the Grace of God and Jacob Godfrey, drove against the rocks, and all her cargo and crew lost but two: Capt Godfrey and his Quartermaster…”
“Godfrey,” I whispered. Like the name of every road and inn on the island.
Fenn made a noise like a sigh, and I turned toward him.
“Whatisall this?” I asked softly.
“Rafe’s office. He has the most extensive collection of Gulf Coast shipwreck memorabilia in western Florida.”
“Mr. Goodman collects this stuff?”
Fenn shrugged. “Some people collect Pez dispensers.”
“And he keeps this collection in a bunker. On abeach.”
“Why not?” Fenn shrugged again. “It’s his office.”
“They voluntarily work in a windowless bunker?”Good God, these people were monsters.
“Sure. It’s nice and cool, for one thing. And to be fair, building the bunker wasn’t Rafe’s idea, he just took advantage of it when he inherited the property. It was built by the same guy who designed JFK’s bunker over on Peanut Island back in the sixties during the Cold War. They built this thing out of shit tons of metal and concrete, probably sent five billion species of plants or birds spiraling into extinction along the way.” He rolled his eyes. “But they made it watertight and humidity controlled, the perfect place for your loved ones and most important possessions to ride out the end of the world.”
I looked around the room again. “There’s so much stuff in here, you couldn’t fit more than six or seven people unless you were sitting on each other. Four, if they were people your size.”
“Uh-huh. But themapswould survive in climate-controlled comfort, and that’s what’s really important here.”
I ran a finger over the laminated diagram of a sloop hanging on one of the walls. “And he studies these maps and diagrams?” I demanded, turning to look at Fenn. “Is he a historian in his spare time?”
“More like a gambler in his spare time.” He sighed at my frown and settled himself more comfortably against the desk. “If Rafe Goodman has five dollars on his person, he’ll use it to buy into a treasure hunt, sure as an alcoholic will find a drink. But he’s been particularly obsessed with that one. TheEsmerelda.” He nodded toward the clippings I’d been reading.
“Why?”
“For one thing, it happened in our backyard, or pretty close. One night, back in eighteen-oh-something, a storm struck the area. If you ask Rafe—and Jesus, please donotget him started, okay?—there was something weird about the way it hit. It came in from the east, hit during an astronomically high tide,blah blah. A perfect storm. The waves were unbelievable—walls of water more than twenty feet tall, supposedly—and theEsmereldawent down somewhere out there. It’s never been recovered. The only two survivors—Captain Jacob Godfrey and Resolute Goodman—clung to a piece of driftwood and washed up on shore half-drowned and feeling so incredibly lucky that later on, after they were found and rescued, they came back and brought their families to settle. They thought of this island as their fresh start.”
“ResoluteGoodman? As in…”
“As in Rafe Goodman?Ding ding. And that’s another part of Rafe’s obsession. He thinks theEsmereldais his legacy or some shit. But more than that, there’s a legend about a treasure.”
I narrowed my eyes, my attention caught. “The one that went down with the ship.”
Fenn shook his head. “The one thatdidn’t. See, according to the legend, while the ship was being tossed around and the rest of the crew was saying their prayers and getting ready to meet their maker, Resolute Goodman, that crafty fucker, went down into the hold and stuffed bags with gold, then tied them to his waist. That’s him, right there.” He nodded at a print on the opposite wall, and I moved to look at it more closely.
“He doesn’t look much like Rafe,” I said, my eyes roaming over the guy’s muttonchops, trying to find a likeness. “Maybe a little like your cousin, around the eyes.”
“Big Rafe looks like the other side of his family, but believe me, the similarities of personality rundeep.Everyone else on that crew just wanted tolive, but Resolute Goodman wanted to livewell. Sure, that much ballast tied to him should have almost guaranteed he sunk like the ship. Sure, he might’ve lost everything. But no point in living if you’re not always trying to get something for yourself.”
That sounded uncomfortably like what I’d been telling Micah just a few hours ago, and it put my back up. I turned to face Fenn with a frown. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting something that’syours. There’s nothing wrong with wanting financial stability for your family. Or even to find fame and fortune, if that’s your thing.”
“Why am I not surprised to hear you agree with him, Loafers? FYI, I think there’s a lot wrong with it when you risk what you alreadyhaveto get it. Goodman and Godfrey didn’t get the treasure for their families. They didn’t tell a soul about it until after Resolute died and they found his papers, in which he confessed to taking the money from the ship, splitting it with his captain, andhiding it,and provided a bunch ofcluesso fucking obscure that no one has figured it out yet. He died tormented and alone, and left his family with nothing but the land under their feet.”
I swallowed, suddenly, intensely aware of just how small this room was, and just how many inches of steel and sand were poised above me. “I think I’ll wait for Mr. Goodman outside.”
Fenn moved to block me, the bulk of him obscuring my view of the daylight through the door. “Have I touched a nerve, Loafers?”
My heart beat triple time. “Excuse me, I’d like to leave.”
“I think that’s the smartest thing you’ve said.” He stepped toward me. “Leave the bunker. Leave theisland. Make better choices.”
