Not long after he sent up the petition, the bolt seemed to move ever so slightly. Rafter thought he might only be imagining things. But then the bolt started to give way. The grate lifted up a half inch this time.

Encouraged, Rafter switched the screwdriver to his left hand, giving his right hand a break. Thirty more seconds of prying and the bolt relinquished completely.

Rafter jammed the screwdriver under the grate, wedging it fast. He then inserted his fingers through the grate and pushed the bolt out with his hand. He heard the liberated bolt roll down the slate roof.

One down and five more to go, he thought. Maybe this crazy escape plan isn’t so crazy.

Chapter 17

A half mile down the levee road, Ned and Cora Hoxley sat in their living room—Ned in his well-worn recliner, and Cora in her wheelchair.

Despite the arthritis in her hands, Cora crocheted a baby afghan. Blue yarn trailed down the side of her wheelchair. Great-grandchild number seven would arrive in four months, and Cora wanted to finish the afghan in time for the new arrival.

Every now and again Cora glanced over at her husband. Ned dozed peacefully in his recliner. She shook her head. Ned slept just as much as their pet cat. But I suppose it’s normal for an eighty-nine-year-old man to sleep a lot, she thought.

Cora tilted her head. She thought she’d heard something, and it sounded from outside and on the stoop. Even though arthritis crippled her mobility, she still possessed excellent hearing. Cora set her crocheting project to the side and wheeled herself over to the door.

She reached up and flipped on an outside light. She then opened the door and saw Rosie; the neighbor’s dog lying on the stoop near the door. The Newfoundland looked up at her and whined. Cora frowned. Rosie often came over to their house to get treats from Ned. But tonight something didn’t look right about the big dog.

And then she saw blood pooling on the stoop near the dog’s left flank.

Cora backed up her wheelchair as fast as her arthritic hands would allow. She turned the chair and wheeled it up to Ned. She placed a hand on his knee and shook it as best as she could. “Ned, wake up! Something is wrong with Rosie.”

Underneath bushy eyebrows, Ned’s muddy brown eyes popped open. “What… what did you say, dear?”

“Rosie is here, and she’s hurt. She’s bleeding all over the stoop.”

Still groggy with sleep, Ned asked, “Rosie the dog?”

Cora sighed. “Yes, Ned. Jon and Annie’s dog is hurt and lying on our stoop. She’s bleeding,” Cora said loudly to compensate for Ned’s cheap and inefficient hearing aids.

Ned stood up, swayed in place for a second, and then tottered over to the door. He opened the screen door and stepped out. Cora rolled up to the door behind him. “It’s her left flank that’s hurt.”

Ned sat down on the stoop beside Rosie. He stroked the dog. “How’s my girl? Cora says you’re hurt.” Ned moved his hand through the dog’s long black fur and down to her left flank. His hand came away bloody. “Yes, you’re all dinged up, Rosie. How did you manage to hurt yourself?”

“Ned, I thought I heard gunfire near the Rafters’ house,” Cora said.

“Jon or Annie would never shoot Rosie. They love this dog.”

“Well, I wouldn’t think they would shoot her. I’m just saying what I heard.”

Ned found the source of the bleeding and examined it the best he could. “I don’t see or feel an entry or exit hole. That’s good. If she was shot the bullet only grazed her.” Ned looked up at Cora. “Can you fetch me an old towel and our first aid kit?”

Cora nodded and rolled back into the living room and down the hall to the linen closet. She grabbed one of their more raggedy towels, as well as the first aid kit. She then rolled back toward the front door to Ned and Rosie. “Here you go, hon.”

Ned took the towel and first aid kit from her. He placed the towel on the wound and applied direct pressure. Rosie flinched but allowed him to treat her. She half-heartedly wagged her tail.

“You think she’s going to make it? She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Ned didn’t answer. He lifted the towel and examined the wound. He smiled cautiously. “The bleeding is slowing down already. I think she’ll be okay,” he said after a bit.

“I’m going to go call Jon and Annie and tell them we have their dog,” Cora said.

“Good idea. I’m going to put some antibiotic cream on the wound, and then bandage her up.”

Cora wheeled herself back into the living room and picked up the phone. She carefully pushed the buttons for Jon and Annie’s number and placed the handset to her ear. She heard the phone on the other side ring. But after the tenth unanswered ring she hung up. Cora rejoined Ned. “I can’t get anyone to answer the phone.”

“I guess I’ll have to drive up there. Maybe I can roust someone.”

“We still haven’t eaten supper, Ned. And you’ll need to take your medications.”

“Oh, fiddle. I don’t need all those medications. I’m eighty-nine-years old. Why not let nature take its course?”

“Because I don’t want to be a widow in a wheelchair, that’s why.”

Ned stood up, faster this time. He didn’t wobble. “It won’t take me long, Cora. I’ll be gone at the most for thirty minutes. And then I’ll come back and we’ll eat and I’ll take my insulin shot and those confounded pills.”

Cora sighed. “Okay. But please don’t tarry. I know how you like to shoot the breeze with Jon.”

Ned bent down and kissed his wife of sixty-two years. “I’ll be right back, dear. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.”

****

Nighttime insects chirped and buzzed all around Damien and Colette as they scanned the ground for a blood trail. Using headlamps and flashlights, they searched the big field to the west of the house. Their feet crunched old pecan husks as they walked.

“I thought we were supposed to be looking for doubloons, not dog blood,” Colette grumbled.

“And I thought I explained it to you. We need to finish the dog before it makes it to a neighbor’s house. We might be discovered if it does.”

“I think you and I should leave now and never look back. We’re not going to find any treasure. And I don’t want to go to prison. And I know you don’t want to go to prison either.”

Damien stopped so abruptly that Colette bumped into him. “No matter whether we find the gold or not, we’re going to be fugitives. And we need money to live on.”

“But the longer we keep looking, the less likely we’ll be able to get away,” Colette argued. “I say the heck with Arcadias and his fool’s gold. We should just take off now. Fake our deaths and take our chances.”

“It’s not fool’s gold, Colette. I’ve seen the box of doubloons and pieces of eight that Arcadias found on the beach. I also saw the note in the box that stated this spot hid the rest of the loot. The treasure is real.” Damien looked at his girlfriend. He hated how she was usually right about things, like now. But every once in a while her brain came up with stuff he never would’ve thought of. “I sort of like your idea about faking our deaths. How do you propose we do it?”

“It wouldn’t be that hard. We go back to your place and get your boat, take it out on a lake or the Mississippi River like we’re going catfishing at night. We anchor the boat and then swim to shore and walk away. I’ll leave my purse in your truck so the authorities will know I was with you.”

Damien scratched his head. “And what if we drown? The Mississippi has dangerous currents.”

“We’ll wear life jackets, dope. And the currents will make our deaths look plausible. Plus, when our bodies aren’t found they’ll assume the currents washed us away. We’ll leave some empty liquor bottles in the boat to make it look like we were drinking.”