Coleman joined Serge as they crouched down and peered through the side of the bin.
“It’s a bunch of flies.”
“Cochliomyia hominivorax,” said Serge. “Otherwise known as the dreaded screw worm flies that recently plagued the Florida Keys.”
“Most of them are dead on the bottom.”
“That was inevitable,” said Serge. “But there are enough left to do the trick. They have a twenty-day life cycle under ideal conditions.”
“How did you know that bacon would lure them into the bin?”
“Read it in a medical journal.” Serge ripped open the box of plastic garbage bags. “As I said before, sometimes the best cure is to go low-tech. In the rare cases where screw worms attack humans, doctors use bacon, because the larvae are more attracted to that than human flesh, and the parasites unscrew themselves from their hosts. All completely true: Type ‘bacon therapy’ into any search engine.”
Serge opened one of the trash bags, inflated it with air and fit it over the storage bin. “This is the tricky part. I’ll hold the mouth of the bag in place, and you carefully pop the lid and slide it out from underneath.”
It went off without a hitch, and Serge shook the bin until enough of the flies took flight into the bag. “Coleman, slide the lid back on.”
Serge cinched the mouth of the sack and strolled over to Malcolm.
“Mmmmm?”
“You must be getting pretty confused about now.” Serge carefully fit the bag’s opening over the top of Malcolm’s head. “Coleman! Duct tape!”
“Coming right up.”
Several strips were wrapped around Malcolm’s forehead, sealing the bag in place. “It’s not your fault you don’t know what’s going on. You simply don’t have the scientific background. So I’ll tell you a little story . . .”
He did, explaining all about the gruesome infestation in the Keys, right up to: “. . . And I used a cheese grater to mimic lesions when those little deer have antler fights. That’s pretty much it.”
“Mmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm!”
“Why so glum?” said Serge. “I always give my contestants a bonus round and a chance to survive.”
A tap on his shoulder.
“What is it, Coleman?”
“Uh, hate to mention this, but you didn’t give the seagull guy a bonus round.”
“Of course I did.”
Coleman shook his head.
Serge pondered; then: “Damn! . . . I’ll just have to make it up to Malcolm to balance my karma account . . . Malcolm, did you hear that? Another jerk’s loss is your gain. I’m adjusting the time lock in your favor.” He knelt behind the chair. “What you’re feeling is me refitting your wrist restraints so the lock will free your hands in, say, three days?”
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”
“You’re going to get pretty hungry, but the key is hydration, so I’ll get you some sports bottles and stick the tubes through the tape. Just remember to conserve.” Serge hopped and clapped. “And most important of all, when the time lock opens and the bonus round begins, what do you need to do?”
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”
“That’s right!” Serge said with a widening grin. “Find bacon!”
Chapter 15
Four Years Earlier
A stuffed wahoo stared down from the office wall with glassy eyes.
Captain Crack Nasty tilted his head to consider the fish. Then he considered his career position. That shootout on the high seas the previous night wasn’t exactly tailored for the long game. He glanced at the bottle of Johnnie Walker on his desk and stuck it in a bottom drawer: Last time I make business decisions on that stuff.
Overall, though, Nasty viewed the evening a huge success, even if it was a one-timer. He’d recovered a serious amount of treasure, and he didn’t have to split it with anyone. Then there was that ugly violence. Crack hadn’t known this about himself before. But he liked it.
Now it was just a matter of tweaking his corporate model. Minimize risk. Captain Crack opened another drawer in his desk and pulled out an empty notebook. He turned on his computer. He had decided to do something quite unnatural to him: homework.
He found a number of wreck sites that weren’t exactly inactive. The original salvagers still had valid claims. It was just that they had reached diminishing returns, and the locations were being worked more sporadically. Also, Crack began employing a spotter boat, on the off chance that the claim holders picked the wrong day to come back. He employed more care in selecting his associates, more stable, reliable, less trigger-happy. The bottom line: Take it slow and there could be a long future.
His new crew began doing quite well at five sites from Cape Canaveral to Port Salerno and Hobe Sound, never staying too long, never taking too much at once. Treasure would still be there when they came back, as they did, time after time, until there were only a few items in the bottom of a single dive basket. Then on to the next location.
But there were only so many sites off Florida—even dormant ones—that could produce any decent yield, especially if you had to dart in and out like thieves in the night. That meant even more homework for the good captain. And a funny thing happened. He began to find the research interesting, even enjoyable. The history of maritime trade routes back to the Old World, the life and times of sailors on the galleons, all the unnamed and forgotten hurricanes.
Captain Crack pored over notes he had recently scribbled. Of particular interest was a bit of treasure folklore that didn’t have any foundation in the official records. Which meant virgin territory. He was intrigued at the prospect of his first legitimate find . . .
The sun had just gone down when he was interrupted by a knock on his office door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, yes, come in.”
It was one of his newest hires, a former marijuana bale loader released from Raiford. Went by Corky.
“What’s up?”
“Follow me, Corky.” He led him down the dock, making a mental note to hammer down some of the rusty nails that were popping up. They arrived at a black boat. “Climb in. We got work.”
“Okay.” Corky jumped aboard and looked around. “Where are the other guys?”
“Just us.” Crack untied the bowline from a mooring cleat. “No diving. Only recon to GPS a potential wreck with sonar . . .”
Since there wouldn’t be any violation of a claimed site, there was no need for speed. Crack motored unhurriedly out to sea, sipping coffee and Scotch. He became quite chatty. It was a new development ever since he’d gotten the research bug, and the crew was getting used to it, in a negative way. They rolled their eyes at all the boring knowledge that Crack now spouted. But only behind his back.
“Corky, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been researching. Potentially my first legitimate find. It’s fascinating!”
“Really?” Corky concealed a sigh. “Tell me about it.”
“Our work is inextricably entwined with hurricanes and their storm surges that sent doomed ships down off our coasts.” The captain adjusted his course bearing. “Corky, did you know there was a hurricane in 1928 that had a storm surge unlike any other?”