Milton was so surprised, he sprung out of his chair and would have fallen right off the porch (a deadly eighteen-inch plummet!) had Uncle Evan not caught his arm. “Sold?” he cried. “To whom? By whom?”
“That’s a bit tricky to explain,” Uncle Evan said, guiding Milton back to his seat. “There’s a very old, weird law that says the United States will back any claim a citizen makes on an uninhabited island as long as there’s seabird poop there.”
“Bird poop? Are you making this up, Uncle Evan?”
“I’m not,” Uncle Evan said. “Bird poop isn’t exactly valuable these days, but the law still stands and because of it, Dr. Paradis owned this island. It was hers, and she could have left it to whoever she wanted when she died. But she didn’t leave a will behind, and she has no living relatives.”
Milton scooched his chair closer to his uncle. “So who owns the island now?” he asked.
“No one,” Uncle Evan replied. “Which means the future of the island has been in the hands of the courts. It’s such a complicated case that it’s been up in the air since Dr. Paradis’s death. I’ve been petitioning the entire time to have the island designated as a protected wildlife refuge, but there are other interested parties who have been requesting permission to buy the island.” He paused, wearily running a hand over his face. “The courts contacted me a few weeks ago to say they were getting ready to make a decision on the island’s future soon and that if I had any last research findings, now was the time to submit them. So that’s what I’ve been doing pretty much nonstop. That’s why I’ve been so busy.”
“But you don’t think it’ll work?” Milton asked. “You don’t think they’ll listen to you?”
Uncle Evan shrugged. “Six years ago, I was sure I would have found enough new species to convince anyone in the world to protect this island, but that hasn’t happened yet. If I can’t get the courts to give me more time, then they’ll likely allow the government to sell the island to one of those other interested parties, probably the Culebra Company.”
“Who are those scoundrels?” Milton demanded. “A rival research society?”
Uncle Evan shook his head. “No. It’s a real estate development group, and one with an abysmal environmental record no less.”
“But—they can’t—what will they do to—egad!” Milton sputtered.
Then he remembered what he had. Well, actually, what Fig had right now. “What if I could give you some of Dr. Paradis’s notes about the plants and animals she said were here?” he shouted, leaping to his feet again. “Or what if you had an Incredible Symphonic Cicada?”
Uncle Evan had sunk back into his chair. It looked like he had sprung a leak, like he was folding up on himself. “I know Dr. Paradis took extensive field notes—hundreds of pages. She showed me some of them once, but I couldn’t find them when she died. Without physical proof of the species though, the notes have very little value. As for the cicada, we’ve been able to get a few specimens over the years, and they are fascinating, but even a cicada wouldn’t help now. The Culebra Company has invested a lot of money and time and lawyers in trying to get this island, Sea Hawk. The courts are almost certain to side with them.”
Now Milton felt as leak-sprung and deflated as Uncle Evan. He plopped not onto the chair, but onto the boards of the porch. His peacock-feather-hatted head was hung low. Here he had thought this was the Most Seriously, Supremely, Unexpectedly, Astonishingly Spectaculous Summer of All Time, only to find out that he was wrong, wrong, wrong. It was still the Most Totally, Terribly, Horribly, Heinously Rotten Year of All Time. He was 100 percent sure of it.
“It would take something truly spectacular to save the Lone Island now,” Uncle Evan said quietly.
Save the Lone Island—mighty moles and voles! The words launched Milton to his feet. That was what he’d been trying to do ever since he found the field guide! The only thing that had changed was that now he knew what the danger was.
The treasure was still out there.
And the boy formerly known as Milton P. Greene was going to find it. He was going to be bold. He was going to be brave. He was going to be awesome.
He wasn’t going to give up on the Lone Island.
“If something truly spectaculous is what you need,” Milton declared, one finger raised to the sky, “then something truly spectaculous is what I shall find.”
Uncle Evan watched his nephew with such a jumbly mishmash of an expression that Milton couldn’t really tell what he was thinking. “I hope you do,” he said. “Now I think it’s time for bed, Milton.”
“My good man, I go by Sea Hawk now,” Milton reminded him.
“Oh, that’s right,” Uncle Evan said. “I think it’s time for bed, Sea Hawk.”