Treasure Hunters Page 2

  Beck picked it up from there. “Then he said, ‘You folks look like you’re having engine problems. Too bad you’re miles from the nearest mechanic. Just about the only person who might be able to help you out is my beautiful daughter, the pretty girl swimming down there.’ ”

  Storm was biting back her tears.

  So I went ahead and finished her story for her: “ ‘Because,’ Dad said, ‘just for fun, Storm Kidd has memorized the maintenance and repair manuals for just about every seagoing craft there is. Including your floating mansion.’ ”

  “And then you fixed their engines,” said Tommy.

  “Only because Dad asked me to,” said Storm, trying to dry her eyes with her knuckles. “It’s what we ‘beautiful’ daughters do. Okay, Tommy. Your turn.”

  Tommy fumbled with the hat in his hands. “Okay. Um, thanks, Dad, and, uh, thanks, Mom, for, you know… everything.”

  We all nodded. Because that pretty much summed it up.

  Tommy tossed Dad’s hat into the sea.

  And we all stood on the deck, watching it slowly float away.

  CHAPTER 3

  There’s something else you should know about Beck and me: We sometimes erupt into what our parents used to call Twin Tirades.

  Of course, when Mom and Dad first called it that, I didn’t even know what a tirade was.

  So, Mom (our homeschool ELA teacher) made me look it up: “Tirade: a prolonged outburst of bitter, angry words.”

  Basically, there’s lots of shouting and snippy name-calling (the names I come up with are way better than Beck’s—I’m the writer; she’s the artist). And our Twin Tirades aren’t really “prolonged.” In fact, they usually last about sixty seconds and then we’re done. They’re sort of like a summer squall in the Bahamas. Lots of thunder and lightning and then, a minute later, the sky’s completely clear.

  Anyway, Rebecca (I call her that only when I’m mad) and I burst into a Twin Tirade while we were lugging bailing buckets up from the engine room.

  “We need a plan, Bick,” she said, coming to such an abrupt halt in the deckhouse that water sloshed out of both of her buckets.

  “Tommy has a plan,” I said. “We ride the current up to the Caymans. That’s where the treasure is.”

  “I’m talking about the bigger picture, Bickford!” (Yep, she only calls me Bickford when she’s angry, too.)

  “I thought you said we needed a plan, not a picture, Rebecca!”

  “That is what I said. And it has to be the absolute best plan. Not the second-best. The best!”

  “Well, who’s going to decide what’s absolutely best for us?”

  “We are!”

  “And by we,” I said, “do you, by any chance, mean you, Miss Bossypants?”

  “No, you numskull!” Beck’s face was redder than a boiled lobster. “If I meant me, I would have said me, not we.”

  “What about Tommy and Storm?”

  “They’re part of we and us.”

  “No, they’re not. Do the math, Einstein. We’re twins. Not quadruplets.”

  “I mean us us. The whole family.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so?”

  “I already did.”

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Are we cool?”

  “Totally.”

  And, just like that, our Twin Tirade was done.

  Together, we made our way out of the cabin and into the wheelhouse.

  “Tommy?” said Beck.

  “Storm?” I called.

  “We need a plan!” we shouted together.

  Tommy nodded. “Cool. I’m down with that.”

  Storm emptied her bailing bucket over the side and joined us on the poop deck.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked.

  “First, we survive!” I said.

  “Okay,” said Tommy. “How’s that gonna happen?”

  “Easy,” said Beck. “Mom and Dad taught us everything we need to know.”

  Storm nodded, and soon Tommy was nodding, too.

  “We’ll need to start rationing the food and drinking water,” Storm said. “I’ll work up a spreadsheet on the computer.”

  “And I’ll check out the stars tonight,” said Tommy. “Triangulate a little. Make sure this current is taking us where we need to be.”

  The two of them turned to Beck and me. “Then what?” they said together.

  It looked like our big brother and sister were ready for Beck and me to take charge of this barely floating disaster.

  “Well,” I said, “we keep doing what we’ve always done.”

  Tommy arched an eyebrow. “Treasure hunting?”

  “Without Mom and Dad?” said Storm.

  “Why not?” said Beck.

  “It’s our family business,” I said, completing her thought. (Yeah, that’s something else twins do.) “We just need to find Dad’s treasure map for the Cayman dive.”

  “And don’t forget,” said Beck, “we already know how to do everything that needs to be done. We can maintain the ship. We can fish and forage for food.”

  “And Tommy can navigate us anywhere on the seven seas,” I said.

  He nodded as humbly as he could. “True, true.”

  “And, Storm,” said Beck, “you can handle all the computer stuff.”

  “And evaluate potential new treasure sites,” Storm added.

  “I can cut deals with suppliers over the Internet,” said Beck, “once Tommy fixes our satellite dish.”

  “Top of my list,” said Tommy, “soon as we reach port. Satellite dish and a cheeseburger. With fries.”

  “We don’t really need any adults to keep this business afloat,” I added. “Besides, does anybody here really want to give up treasure hunting? Do any of us seriously want to live a boring landlubber life filled with schools, strip malls, and frozen fish sticks?”

  We all shook our heads.

  Beck tossed in a gag-me-now gesture.

  The truth was, none of us could ever be happy on dry land, not after having spent the bulk of our lives adventuring on the high seas. Heck, we’d even met pirates. Real ones. Not the wax kind at Disney World.

  In a way, we Kidd kids were like the wild things in this picture book my dad always read to Beck and me when we were little. The one where an ocean tumbled by with a private boat and a boy named Max sailed off through night and day.

  “We can do this,” said Beck.

  “Definitely,” said Tommy.

  “No doubt,” echoed Storm.

  I stepped forward. “All those in favor of keeping Kidd Family Treasure Hunters Inc. open for business, raise your hand.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The best thing about sunset at sea?

  It’s not the pretty colors. It’s the fact that the freakishly hot fireball in the sky finally stops sizzling you like a strip of extracrispy bacon when it dips down into the ocean. If you squint, you can see steam rising.

  We made it to nightfall, which definitely helped with the heat. Except belowdecks. The cabins down there were like ovens with bunk beds. So, while Tommy manned the wheel up top and Storm went down to the galley to check out what kind of food supplies we had left in the pantry, Beck and I started to hatch our survival plan in the coolest place we could find. We made our way into the cluttered room at the windowed front of the deckhouse—what our boat builders back in Hong Kong called the “lavish grand salon” in their sales brochures.

  With us, it was more like the messy rumpus room. True, the room had, as advertised, “a curved couch, sleek teak paneling, and hardwood cabinetry with a built-in sink.” But the sink had dirty dishes and empty soda bottles in it, the paneled walls were cluttered with a collection of my parents’ favorite treasures (including a conquistador helmet, a rare African tribal mask, a grog jug shaped like a frog, a rusty cannonball from a Confederate gunboat, a bronze clock covere
d with cherubs that probably belonged to King Louis XIV, and, in a glass shadow box, a rusty steak knife from the Titanic).

  There were assorted trinkets, necklaces, and coconut heads suspended from the ceiling. Add a heap of scuba and snorkel gear and assorted socks, shoes, and T-shirts on the floor (the floor is our laundry basket), and our grand salon looked more like a live-in recycling bin.

  “Have we even seen a map for this treasure hunt?” asked Beck.

  “Nope. Dad just said we needed to be in the Caymans.”

  “Then we need to find his map.”

  After about an hour of searching in the junk heap—made even junkier by the tropical storm that had knocked a bunch of stuff off the table, walls, and counters—I hit upon an idea. I turned to Beck with a determined look in my eye.

  (I said “determined,” Beck, not “demented.” You know the look I’m talking about.)

  (That’s better.)

  “We need to look in The Room,” I whispered.

  “We can’t go into The Room,” Beck whispered back. “The Room is locked.”

  “Then we need to find The Key to The Room.”

  Yes, every time any of us talk about The Room or The Key to The Room, it always comes out sounding like we’re talking in capital letters, because The Room is off-limits to All Of Us. It also has a solid steel door with a serious dead bolt—the same kind of lock used on bank vaults. At Fort Knox.

  The Room is where Mom and Dad kept the most secret stuff on the boat. Treasure maps. Retrieval plans. Notes on dealers and middlemen for museums.

  But getting our hands on all that wasn’t my only reason for wanting to break one of our parents’ most important rules by busting into The Room.

  “Beck? If I tell you something, promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”

  “Sorry. Already do.”

  So I went ahead and told her anyway: “I think Dad might be in there. Alive.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  This was not the reaction I’d been looking for.

  “This isn’t a joke, Beck,” I said as we made our way belowdecks and headed toward the bow.

  The Room was in the forward-most section of the hull. We stood in front of The Door staring at The Lock.

  “Maybe Dad went in there during the storm, maybe to secure some extremely important documents or seal a treasure map inside a watertight container, when, all of a sudden, a wave slammed into the side of the boat, knocked something off a shelf, and—BAM!—he got conked on the head, and he’s been knocked out ever since.”

  Beck just looked at me. “Seriously?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Then why didn’t we see him, Bick? Hello? We were standing right here in the hallway, remember? If not, allow me to refresh your memory.” She made a bunch of splash-splash-gurgle-gurgle noises. “We were up to our necks in water, and I don’t remember seeing Dad swim past us so he could sneak into The Room.”

  “You weren’t there the whole time. Maybe he used one of the secret hatches up on deck.”

  Oh, in case I forgot to mention it, The Lost has been customized with all sorts of secret hatches, trapdoors, and hiding places. It helps when you’re hauling treasure in pirate-infested waters to have someplace safe to stow your precious cargo. Beck can’t show you exactly where all these compartments, hollowed-out masts, and secret passageways are, or—duh—they wouldn’t be secret, but this will give you the gist.

  Anyway, once I mentioned my Dad-sneaked-in-through-a-secret-trapdoor-in-the-deck idea, Beck got a look in her eyes, and I knew: It was time for Twin Tirade No. 426.

  “Give it up, Bickford. Dad is dead!”

  “No, he’s not, Rebecca. He’s in The Room.”

  “No. Way.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Yeah. Just like you facing reality someday. It’s possible.”

  “I’ll bet he’s in there, right now, lying on the floor.”

  “He’s dead, Bick.”

  “No, he’ll just look that way.”

  “Because he is!”

  “He’s probably thirsty and hungry, too.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Of course he is! We should make him a sandwich. Maybe bring him a sports drink.”

  “He’s not hungry or thirsty, Bickford, because he’s dead. It’s one of the few advantages of dying: You don’t have to eat or drink or do the dishes.”

  “Rebecca, how can you be so cold and heartless?”

  “How can you be so sentimental?”

  “Easy. I have a heart.”

  “Too bad it’s not pumping blood to your brain, dum-dum.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Spock. We can’t all be superlogical like you.”

  “I’d settle for semilogical.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Cool.”

  Yep. Twenty seconds, and we were done.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Ditto,” said Beck.

  “Is anybody going to apologize to me?” Storm trudged into the hallway from the cabin she shares with Beck. “I was trying to sleep.”

  “I thought you were making a list of our food supplies,” said Beck.

  “It took about two seconds because we have about nada. I decided to take a nap instead. And now thanks to you two, I’m awake. What’re you two doing?”

  “We need to get into The Room,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “To find Dad’s treasure map for the Caymans dive.”

  Storm made a fish-lips face and thought about that for a couple of seconds. “Good idea.” Then, yawning and scratching her butt, she turned around and shuffled back into her cabin.

  “Okay,” I said to Beck, “if you were Dad, where would you hide The Key?”

  Before Beck could answer, Storm trudged back into the hall holding a windup alarm clock. She slammed it against that hardwood paneling I told you about earlier. Glass shattered. Tiny pieces went flying everywhere.

  And a brass key tumbled to the floor.

  CHAPTER 6

  First off, I was totally wrong.

  Dad was not lying unconscious and starving on the floor of The Room. (So, room service, cancel the sandwich and refreshing beverage.)

  The cabin was windowless and dark. So dark, Beck (temporarily) took off her 3-D glasses. But even though we saw nothing but murky shadows, we both knew that The Room was where Mom and Dad kept the treasures of our treasure-hunting enterprise.

  I found a wall sconce and switched it on.

  “Wow,” Beck and I said simultaneously.

  “This is incredible,” I said. In the dim light, I could see that the walls were covered with corkboards. And the corkboards were cluttered with all sorts of pinned-up papers and photographs and maps.

  “There’s the three-hundred-year-old icon we returned to that Orthodox church on Cyprus right before Mom disappeared,” said Beck, pointing to a photograph. “And the thank-you note from the bishop of Neapolis.”

  “These are all the medieval sword hilts and scabbards we salvaged off the coast of England,” I said, working my way through the photographs pegged to the wall on the other side of The Room.

  The cabinets beneath the jumbled bulletin boards had chicken-wire-mesh fronts instead of glass and held all sorts of priceless art, artifacts, and antiquities. Pre-Columbian pottery. Ancient weapons. Chubby Buddhas carved out of jade. A shattered clay jar filled with Venetian silver coins. A brass incense burner shaped like a Hindu goddess.

  There was even a golden, bull-headed mummy’s sarcophagus secured in the corner of The Room, right behind The Door.

  Beck was staring at a map on the wall behind the cabinets.

  “There’s not an inch to spare in here,” said Beck. “So why is this thing taking up half a wall?”

  It was a simple, schoolroom-style pull-down map of North and Central America. There were no chart markings on it. The Cayman Islands were bar
ely visible south of Cuba.

  “And check this out,” I said, pointing to a handwritten list tucked under the glass blotter on top of Mom and Dad’s desk:

  “Big whoop,” said Beck. “That’s a top ten list of the world’s greatest missing treasures. Weren’t you paying attention when Mom taught us about this stuff in geography class?”

  “Uh, yeah. But this isn’t just a list, Beck. It’s a to-do list. This is what Mom and Dad were planning for the future.”

  Beck shrugged. “I guess they were trying to figure out how to pay for four college educations.”

  “Not that any of us would ever be interested in college,” I reminded her.

  “Speak for yourself,” she said. Totally unimpressed with the mind-blowing list I had just uncovered, Beck went back to checking out the wall behind the desk. The half not taken up by the map was filled with photographs and printouts of art—paintings, statues, and pottery. Beck was focused on the paintings.

  “That’s a Renoir,” she said, pointing at one of the paintings. She knows this stuff because whenever we’re in a major port city, she spends all her time in the museums—she’s the family “artiste,” after all. “A Manet. A Monet.”

  “How do you tell those two apart again?”

  “Tiny paint dabs, it’s Monet. Chubby Parisians, Manet.”

  “Right.”

  “That one there is a Degas. Next to it is a Cézanne. And a Gauguin. A Picasso. And a Van Gogh—one that’s been missing for years.”

  “You think Mom and Dad were planning on going after all these?”

  “If they were, they’d have had to steal them. Huh. Maybe that’s why this is up here.” Beck tapped on a black-and-white photograph of a smiling gangster wearing an old-fashioned fedora hat and chomping on a cigar. “To remind us not to hunt down any of these treasures.”

  Next to the mug shot of the mobster was a copy of the Chicago Sunday Tribune from October 18, 1931. The banner headline shouted JURY CONVICTS CAPONE.