Spartan Gold Read Free Page B

ghost.
    “Remi, what was that poem . . . the one about Cannon?” Sam called. Remi had a near-photographic memory for details, both obscure and pertinent.
    She thought for a moment, then recited:
    “Hush your mouth
Go to sleep
Old Patty Ridenour take you back deep
Got a gang of seven
Taking slave and free
Riding day and night
On her coal-black steed.”
    “That’s it,” Sam replied.
    Around them the exposed roots of the cypress trees jutted from the water like disembodied talons of some great winged dinosaur. The previous week a storm had blown across the peninsula, leaving behind mounds of branches like hastily constructed beaver dams. Overhead, the canopy was alive with a symphony of squawks and buzzes and fluttering wings. Occasionally Sam, a part-time bird-watcher, would isolate a trilling and announce the bird’s name to Remi, who would humor him with a smile and a “That’s very nice.”
    Sam found the exercise helped his “by ear” piano playing, something he’d picked up from his mother. For her part, Remi had a nice touch with the violin, which she put to good use during their frequent impromptu duets.
    Despite his engineering background, Sam was an intuitive, right-brain thinker, while Remi, a Boston College-trained anthropologist /historian, was firmly grounded in logical, left-brain thinking. While the dichotomy made them a balanced, loving pair, it also led to vigorous debates, ranging in topic from what had started the English Reformation to which actor made the best James Bond to how to best play Vivaldi’s concerto Summer. Most often the debates ended in laughter and an ongoing but good-natured disagreement.
    Bent at the waist, Sam probed underwater with his fingers, sliding along the wood until he touched something metal . . . something with a U-shaped hasp and a square body.
    A padlock, he thought, visions of an ancient barnacle-encrusted hasp swirling through his mind. “Got something,” he announced.
    Remi turned toward him, muddy arms hanging by her sides.
    “Hah!” Sam pulled it from the water. As the mud slid off and plopped back into the water, he saw the glint of rust and silver, then some raised letters. . . .
    M-A-S-T-E-R L-O-C-K.
    “Well?” Remi said, her voice tinged with skepticism. She was used to Sam’s sometimes premature excitement.
    “I’ve found, my dear, a vintage Master padlock, circa 1970,” he replied, then hefted from the water the piece of wood it had been attached to. “Along with what looks like an old gatepost.” He dropped it back into the water and then straightened up with a groan.
    Remi smiled at him. “My intrepid treasure hunter. Well, it’s more than I’ve found.”
    Sam looked at his watch, a Timex Expedition he wore only on expeditions. “Six o’clock,” he said. “Shall we call it a day?”
    Remi ran her cupped hand down her opposite forearm, shedding a layer of goop, and gave him a broad smile. “Thought you’d never ask.”

    They gathered their packs and hiked the half mile back to their skiff, which they’d tied to a grounded cypress stump. Sam cast off and pushed the boat into deeper water, wading up to his waist, while Remi yanked the engine’s starter cord. The motor growled to life and Sam climbed in.
    She turned the bow into the channel and throttled up. The nearest town and their base of operations was Snow Hill, three miles up the Pocomoke River. The B&B they’d chosen had a surprisingly decent wine cellar and a crab bisque that had put Remi in culinary heaven at the previous night’s supper.
    They motored along in silence, lulled by the soft gurgle of the motor and gazing at the overhanging canopy. Suddenly Sam turned in his seat, looking to the right.
    “Remi, slow down.”
    She throttled back. “What is it?”
    He grabbed a pair of binoculars from his pack and raised them to his eyes. Fifty yards away on the bank there was a gap in the foliage—another hidden inlet among the dozens they’d already seen. The