Page 95 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

“Witt…” Dr. Blaylock warned.

“Calm down, it was just a joke.”

“Let’s talk about the plan for the next week,” I suggested, keeping a close eye on Cole as I spread sea-salted butter onto fresh rosemary bread. “We’re not actually going to set foot on Skeleton Cay, are we?”

Dr. Blaylock shook his head as he finished chewing a mouthful. “No, no, the waters around the island are too dangerous for us to land.”

“Wasn’t it a prison isle? How did the prisoners get there?”

“As I understand it, there’s a natural harbour on the south side of the island, but few captains knew the way in and out through the submerged rocks. They say just getting there was a near death sentence.”

“And it’s haunted,” Clint chimed in.

“You believe in ghosts?”

“Bart said that when he sailed close, he could hear the sounds of the dead screaming.”

Dr. Blaylock chuckled. “I’m not sure I believe that. It was probably a bird, or the wind whistling through the rocks, but one thing is certain—nobody who’s set foot on the island in recent times has come back alive.”

“So peoplehavebeen there?”

“Well, they’ve tried. Usually tourists and often under the influence of alcohol. That’s one reason the San Gallician government brought in the new law to stop unqualified captains from renting boats. Nobody wanted to head out to that part of the sea to search for the missing. Officers were threatening to quit the coastguard agency, and their superiors brushed the investigations under the carpet.”

“A couple of YouTubers decided to sail there two years ago,” Clint said. “They filmed the island from a distance for their channel, and nobody ever saw them again.”

“Not even their bodies?”

“No, but the coastguard found their yacht floating not too far from here, deserted.”

“It was called thePrincess Celeste,” Jon added. “Like theMary Celeste, right? You wouldn’t catch me sailing near a haunted island in a boat namedCeleste. I heard the YouTubers were nominated for a Darwin Award.”

“Why would someone even go to that island?” Witt asked. “What’s left there? A bunch of skeletons and theremains of a prison. If there was any pirate loot, it’s long gone. The people who ran the prison had years to take it.”

“Good,” Dr. Blaylock said. “The last thing this nation needs is more ill-informed fools digging holes. Look at Treasure Atoll—rumours have persisted for decades, even though nothing of any significance has ever been found. And then there was that idiot on Twitbook. Claimed he found gold coins in the sand, and then every other idiot with a social media account came to join him in digging up the beach.”

“Turned out the coins were fake and the asshole put them there himself,” Cole explained.

“And it happened in turtle nesting season. They were digging upeggs. The hawksbill population around Treasure Atoll hasn’t recovered and might never do so. If any treasure does still exist, it should be left exactly where it is.”

Jon disagreed. “Isn’t that kind of a waste?”

“The world doesn’t need more jewels. Mankind needs to wake up and realise the planet doesn’t revolve around us.”

“What about gold? It’s used in electronics and medicine as well as jewellery.”

“I’d argue that a turtle needs its nesting ground more than a teenager needs a new iPhone, and thankfully, the San Gallician government agrees with me. After the gold coin debacle, they wrote a law that doubled the prison sentence for illegal treasure hunting and ensured any trove found automatically becomes the property of the nation, with just a small finder’s fee given to the person who discovered it. It’s good to see somebody is taking conservation seriously.”

“It’s all lip service,” Cole said as he got up to fetch the next course from the oven, where it had been keeping warm. “The laws are in place, but there aren’t enough cops to enforce them. Burglaries are up, the drug problem onIlha Grande is out of control, and thank goodness the murder rate is low because detective work is a myth. The police chief just goes for the easy wins.”

“Like the gold-coin guy?” I asked. “Didn’t he get sentenced to work for Habitat for Humanity or whatever it’s called here?”

The story had popped up when I googled San Gallicano during the layover at Miami International. If I recalled correctly, the jackass had tried to turn his “ordeal” into a BuzzHub reality show, only for the judge to confiscate his phone.

Cole chuckled as he clattered about in the galley. “Oh, yeah, his case got assigned to Judge Morgan. That man’s a legend. Rather than tossing convicts in jail, he dreams up punishments that fit their crimes. He said if the guy was so attached to his shovel, then he could make himself useful and dig foundations for new homes.”

“How is that even legal?” Witt muttered as Cole set a platter of crab-crusted snapper with chargrilled broccoli and sweetcorn fritters in front of us.

“Because this is San Gallicano, where judges have leeway in sentencing, and they’re also elected. Judge Morgan wins by a landslide every time.”

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