“So? Any thoughts?”
Obie continued to study the face of his phone for a moment before answering. She’d sent the pictures of the contents of the safety deposit box to his phone, as well as to Jack, Peter, Bill, Jasmine, and Edie. Not only were they all anxious for an update, but they needed everyone’s input to try to figure out why Charley had felt those contents would be so important.
“First thought,” Obie mused as Jack slowed to take the turn back down Heceta Beach Road, “is that it now seems even more important to keep that appointment at one o’clock.”
“Why?” Mac was startled. “I was thinking we needed to cancel it and concentrate on trying to figure out where those coins came from and who this Nettie person is.”
Obie raised his gaze and looked intently at her. “I agree those are both important lines of inquiry, but pursuing them does not preclude the others. The box contained the Double Eagle exactly like the one in Aleshanee’s pouch. That gold piece, or I should say those gold pieces, seem to be an anomaly in both instances and are, therefore, a link that may be of great importance. This fellow we are meeting may be able to provide us with some information or some clue as to where they come from or why they may be important.”
They swayed with the van as Jack negotiated the winding road leading them toward the beach. “Have you heard from Bill and the others?”
Obie nodded. “Yes. I called them while you were looking at the contents of the safety deposit box to let them know we had found what the key fit. Then I texted them to make sure they had received the pictures.”
“Maybe they ought to show the pictures to Jim and Bob,” Jack said, glancing back at Mac—much to her consternation since he was driving the large vehicle down a narrow, winding road with dense foliage on both sides.
“Watch the road, Jack.” She motioned forward.
“‘Watch the road,’ she says,” Jack grumbled to Obie, who sat in the passenger seat. Obie was absorbed in the image on his phone but looked up in response to the interchange.
Jack motioned with his right hand toward Obie. “The road’s been here for a hundred years. It’ll be here for another hundred years. It ain’t going nowhere.”
“Watch the road, Jack,” Obie grumbled then went back to studying his phone.
Jack shrugged and, much to Mac’s relief, faced forward.
“Jim and Bob had eaten their pancakes and left before I called.” Obie didn’t look up from his screen.
Jack swung the big rig around another turn, and the T-junction that marked the intersection between Heceta Beach Road and Beach Drive came into view.
“Speaking of pancakes,” Jack once again broke the silence and irritatingly broke Mac’s concentration, “is anybody else hungry? In all the excitement, I didn’t get any breakfast.”
Mac felt she didn’t have time to eat. She needed to decipher these clues. She was sure Charley was in trouble, and time was short. Her stomach growled in opposition.
Obie looked up from his phone. “Nobody else has eaten either, except Jim and Bob. The others were too busy ransacking the beach house.” Obie checked his watch. “It’s coming up on eleven o’clock now. Bill suggested we pick them up and then go down to Old Town for some lunch before hitting that appointment. That will give us some time to talk this stuff over”—he held up his phone to indicate that he meant the contents of the safety deposit box—“and maybe brainstorm a little bit, form some strategy.”
Five minutes later, they were turning at the same intersection, this time going inland. Another ten minutes, and they were in the old riverfront portion of Florence. The narrow thoroughfare of Bay Street, which ran parallel to the river, was lined on both sides by restaurants and shops selling T-shirts, hoodies, kites, kitchen implements, leather goods, wind chimes, art, jewelry, ice cream, and just about anything else that might lure a tourist to part with their money. Mac knew, under different circumstances, she would love prowling among the various shops.
Jack found a parking place in a large lot west of the prime tourist area, obviously built to handle the many tourists who wanted to visit the small area. Together they walked along the edge of the marina until they reached Mo’s, a riverfront restaurant that was recommended by Peter, who had eaten there once on a visit several years before.
Mo’s was crowded, but they soon were ushered to a round table in the back corner where they had an excellent view of the river and the famous bridge that spanned the Siuslaw. They avoided any conversation until they had each placed their orders, then Obie looked around the table.
“Well. Any thoughts?”
Jasmine jumped in. “Edie and I have been trying to figure out who this Nettie Sundberg is but without much luck.” She cast an apologetic look toward Mac then continued, “We’ve both been doing Internet searches on our phones.”
“The connections are pretty slow out by the beach, but we managed,” Edie added.
“Anyway, the only references there seem to be of dead people from back East.”
“But we’ve been talking about it too,” Edie jumped in again. “We all know who the Roxy is on the note.”
“And we’re pretty sure the note had nothing to do with girlfriends.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s a relief,” Mac mumbled.
Jasmine reached across the table and placed a hand on top of Mac’s. “That’s not what we mean, dear. We mean we don’t think Charley was making a list of girlfriends then crossing them off as though they no longer made the list.”
“Why do you think that?” Peter asked.
“Yeah. Let’s not discard that theory so easily.” Mac spoke a little louder this time, a forced grin on her face, a part of her making fun of herself, a part of her aching inside.
“Because.” Edie shot her a look that seemed to hold a little impatience, as though chastising her to quit feeling sorry for herself. “The writing on the wall was put there primarily for Mac. It was her name that was the code word for Bob giving her the key, and then it was her name”—here she looked around the table to emphasize her point—“Charley listed to give us access to the safety deposit box.”
Jasmine looked pointedly at Mac. “You don’t do those kinds of things with somebody you’ve crossed off.”
“So what’s that got to do with Nettie Sundberg?” Peter asked.
Jasmine shrugged. “We don’t really know, but since it was her name that was inside the box—not Mac’s, not Roxy’s—I think we have to go on the premise that she has something to do with this whole business and with Charley’s disappearance.”
“Have you checked the local phone book?” Obie asked.
Jasmine shook her head. “Online, yes, but a paper one, no, not yet.”
Obie nodded. “Okay, what about this KGC thing?”
“KFC?” Jack looked up, startled. “What’s Kentucky Fried Chicken got to do with anything?”
“KGC,” Peter replied, slowly. “Not KFC.”
“Kentucky Grilled Chicken?”
Peter drilled Jack with a withering look. “Knights of the Golden Circle.” Then he turned back to face the others around the table. “The Knights of the Golden Circle was an organization created in the South during the Civil War by a fellow named George Bickley. Its purpose was to obtain funds, usually through some form of criminal activity, to finance a new confederate nation. The boundaries of their proposed nation included, of course, several Southern states, parts of northern Mexico, and several Caribbean islands, all within an area described by what they called the Golden Circle. Such ‘luminaries’ as John Wilkes Booth and Jesse James were rumored to be members of that organization. After the war, the KGC,” he shot a glance at Jack, “as it was called, lived on, evolving from a political movement to more of an organized crime syndicate.”
“But a secret organization like this Knights of the Golden Circle, operating here, in Oregon?” Mac bit her lip, still not convinced. “That seems a bit far-fetched.”
Peter shrugged. “They were very active in Northern California after the war. I suppose some could have migrated up here.”
Their food arrived, and for the next few minutes everyone was busy distributing plates to the proper recipients. When all was once again settled and mouths were busy chewing rather than talking, Bill asked, “How about the poem?”
“Poem?” Mac looked around the table and could see various levels of confusion.
“The one on the back of the paper that had the list of ‘not girlfriends’ on it. The one stuck in the checkbook that wasn’t a bank anymore but indicated where the key fit.”
“Okay, Bill,” Peter said. “What about the poem?”
“If you’ve read it, you will recall that every other line recited the same number sequence: one and two and three, four, five.”
“So?”
“Did anybody notice the paper Mac found in the safety deposit box? The one with the name Nettie Sundberg on it?”
The statement was met with confused gazes, no one understanding the sudden change of topic. Bill nodded his head toward their phones, most of which lay on the table top. “Look at the picture.”
Mac was the first to pull up the picture, but her reaction was quickly matched by everyone else around the table. “It’s the same number sequence written under the name,” she whispered, shocked that she hadn’t noticed it before.
Bill raised a fork but then needed to finish chewing and wash down his food with a drink of soda before answering. “I think that pretty well establishes a connection. We just don’t yet know what it is. I’ve been working on that and have a few ideas but still have a ways to go.” He reached into his shirt pocket, extracted the piece of paper, and placed it in the middle of the table where everyone could see it. “I think this is something we’re all going to need to sit down and go over. As you recall, it talks about treasure ships, which could relate to the gold coins we’ve found. Says they’re from somewhere called Hey-they-ta, so we’ll need to figure out what that means. There’s one part about Eagles of the Cagey Sea. I was thinking ocean, but when Peter was telling us about the Knights of the Golden Circle, I thought maybe it’s referring to those gold coins and this organization, the KGC.”
“So how does that help us?” Mac asked.
Bill shook his head and looked at her. “We don’t know. When you’re gathering evidence in any case, there’s a time when you really don’t know how things fit together. In fact, you really don’t want to know yet.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to know?”
“Well, you do want to know, but you need to be careful you don’t start to speculate too soon and then get it wrong. Then it takes you more time in the long run to find the truth. I think we’re at that point where we need to just look at all the clues and trust that, eventually, everything will fall together and make sense.”
“I don’t think we have a lot of time. I think eventually needs to come pretty quick.” Mac sighed.
“I agree, but all we can do is keep putting together clues and hoping for a break. Anyway,” he turned back to face the others at the table, “it talks about bears dying, lions in their caves, devil’s secrets, and keepers of Tlowa’sk.” He swung his head toward Mac.
“Tlowa’sk?” Mac gasped. “That’s the word that’s on the side of Aleshanee’s pouch! I totally missed that when I glanced over the poem.”
Bill nodded. “I thought you probably had. It doesn’t actually say Tlowa’sk.” He placed his finger on the paper. “It says ‘to ask.’ The keepers of to ask. That doesn’t make any sense, but if the writer heard it wrong, Tlowa’sk might make some sense. I may be wrong, but that suggests one more possible connection between Aleshanee and whatever Charley’s got himself into.”
Bill took a bite of his food, another drink, then continued his report. “Near the end of the poem, the subjects seem to change. Early on it’s talking about bears and lions and eagles and such.”
“Oh my!” Jasmine sang, then in response to the confused looks she received, she shrugged. “Wizard of Oz. Lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!”
The ensuing silence was enough admonishment, and she sheepishly grinned and shrugged again as Bill turned away and continued.
“Near the end the poem talks about bricks and pulling them out and down the flue.” Bill swung his head around to gaze forlornly at Jasmine.
“What?”
“I’m waiting for some reference to the three little pigs,” he muttered.
Jasmine grinned innocently. “I would never do such a thing.”
Bill turned his head back toward the others, but Mac could hear Jasmine humming under her breath the familiar tune, “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?”
Bill continued, ignoring the private poke in the ribs from his wife. “Whether that’s talking about tearing up a chimney and throwing the bricks down the fireplace or what, I don’t know, but I suspect that it refers to something significant.”
“How about the numbers?” Obie asked. “Any thoughts on that?”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked, a fork full of food poised halfway to his mouth.
“Well, each line is separated by numbers. The poem would still rhyme without them, yet they are inserted there.”
“And not just numbers,” Jasmine commented, serious this time.
“What do you mean?”
“It says one and two and three, four, five. It maintains the rhythm, the meter, of the rest of the poem, and it’s the same in both the poem and the note.”
“You could jump rope to it,” Edie commented, then her eyes widened. She seemed surprised at her own epiphany.
“That would make it easy to remember,” Obie noted.
Bill gazed thoughtfully around the table. “Keep that in mind, all of you. Something will turn up. There’s a meaning here, or Charley wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of leaving that key or this note in the checkbook that pointed the way to the key.”
Mac tapped her fork on the empty plate as she gazed out the window at the bridge in the distance. “I wish he would have just left a clearly signed note that said something like, ‘Here’s where I am. Come pick me up.’”
“I hope he’s not thinking that same thing right now,” Bill answered.
“Well, boys and girls,” Obie exclaimed, breaking the mood as he pushed back from the table. “We’ve got an appointment to keep. Let’s saddle up.”
***
He grasped Mac by the hand, yet he could feel her slipping away. Their hands were so cold, their fingers wet. He clung with all his might, but his shoulder ached. Then he realized that it was Mac who was secured to the rope, the harness holding her tightly, suspended from the cliff above. Her eyes burned into him with a strange intensity, willing him to hang on, but it was laughter, Roxy’s devil-may-care laughter, that he heard. Suddenly it was he who was dangling in the air, his feet flailing free, his shoulder aching, burning, his fingers cold and wet, and now he was falling. Mac receded, growing smaller as he fell, and he knew he was going to plunge into the cold waters of the chasm.
He jerked awake. He knew immediately that it had been a dream, but he was still cold, his fingers and toes were numb, and his shoulder ached. He forced his eyes open, but all was blackness, and he wondered for a moment if he was still dreaming. He was disoriented and couldn’t remember where he was. He felt hard, cold rock against his back and beneath his body. He shifted his weight to relieve the ache in his shoulder and kicked something with his foot. It clanked and rolled away with a thin, metallic rattle. Now he remembered.
He rolled to his knees, felt the rock face at his side, and pushed his hand forward until he felt the all-too-familiar rusty iron bars of the gate. He patted the floor with his hand and soon found the stone where he expected it to be, the one he had used to try to smash the lock on the gate. He shivered, recognizing the danger of hypothermia. He didn’t dare allow himself to go to sleep again. He grasped the bars of the gate and pulled himself upright. The kerosene of the second lantern had burnt out long ago, but he had continued to pound the metal of the gate in the darkness, simply by feel, until his shoulder and hands had cramped and become too sore. Sometime after that he must have fallen asleep.
He had no idea how long he had slept, and because of the cold and damp and hardness of the rock, he felt little rested. He had only one chance at survival, and that chance was defined by a simple contest between which could outlast the other: his body’s ability to attack the metal gate or the gate’s ability to withstand his onslaught. Well, he would see. He grasped the rock with his right hand, felt in the darkness with his left hand until he found the hasp on which he had been pounding, and swung the rock in the darkness.