“Sounds about right,” Eric replied. “I can track down the contractor to find out what happened to give him cold feet.”
Murph leaned closer to the webcam. “I’ll hack into his bank again and see what kind of money trouble Ronish had when the deal was announced.”
“I’m nixing both ideas,” the Chairman told them. “Neither really matters because we’re not doing anything with the Treasure Pit.”
Murph and Eric looked like a couple of kids who had their puppy taken away from them.
Juan continued, “We’re here to tell him that we found his brothers’ remains and likely have a journal one of them wrote after the crash.” No one had had time yet to read the condom-wrapped papers. They were still in Cabrillo’s luggage.
“You can’t be serious,” Mark whined. “This could lead to a significant discovery. Pierre Devereaux was one of the most successful privateers in history. His treasure has got to be someplace.”
Max grunted, “Most likely at the bottom of the ocean where his ship sank.”
“Au contraire, mon frère,” Mark countered. “There were survivors when his ship sank in the Caribbean. They had just come from rounding Cape Horn and said they were carrying no cargo. They said Devereaux spent time off our western coast with a handful of men, but when he returned to his ship he was alone.”
“Or it’s all crap to keep the legend alive.”
“Come on, Max, where’s your sense of whimsy?” Eric asked.
Hanley cocked a thick eyebrow at the odd choice of word. “Whimsy?”
“You know what I mean. Didn’t you ever dream of finding pirate treasure when you were a kid?”
“Two tours in ’Nam pretty much crushed any whimsy I might have had.”
“Sorry, fellas,” Juan said with finality. “No pirate treasure for us. We’re just going to deliver the papers and tell Mr. Ronish where his brothers died.”
“All right,” they said in hangdog unison, making Cabrillo smile.
“Let me find a pen to write down his address, and Max and I will get ourselves up to Washington.”
“Don’t forget to bring garlic and a wooden stake,” Eric said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ronish lives outside of Forks. That’s the town where the Twilight books take place.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a series of romantic novels about a teenage girl in love with a vampire.”
“How would I possibly know that?” Cabrillo asked. “And, more telling, why do you?”
Eric looked sheepish while Max roared with laughter.
BECAUSE THERE WAS NO real urgency to reach Forks, Washington, it didn’t take much for Max to convince Cabrillo to enjoy an overnight layover in Vegas. Had he wanted, Juan could have made a nice living as a professional poker player, so he had no problem taking money from the amateurs at the table with him. Hanley didn’t do as well at the craps table, but both agreed it had been a welcome diversion.
In the city of Port Angeles, on the Juan de Fuca Strait, they rented a Ford Explorer for the hour-long drive around the spectacular Olympic Mountains to Forks.
The place was typical small-town America—a cluster of businesses clinging to Route 101 backed by houses in various states of disrepair. Timber was the main industry in the region, and with the market so soft it was clear that Forks was suffering. A number of storefronts were vacant with leasing signs taped to the glass. The few people walking the streets moved with little purpose. Their shoulders were hunched from more than the cold wind blowing off the nearby North Pacific.
The darkening sky was filled with bruised clouds that threatened to open up at any moment.
In the center of town, Max nodded his head at a hotel as they neared. “Should we check in first or head straight to Ronish’s?”
“I don’t know how talkative this guy’s going to be, and I don’t know if the desk in a place like that stays open too late. So let’s check in and then get to his house.”
“Man, this sure ain’t Caesars.”