She greeted him on his arrival at the Sundown offices with a disapproving stare. “Hello, Max.”

“He wasn’t the right guy for the P—38,” he said.

Her eyes drifted shut. “Our business is to restore and sell airplanes. Not find homes for them.”

“He was a jerk,” Max said. “No good comes from that kind of money.”

“Yeah, right. Max, the world is full of jerks. If you’re not going to sell to them, we are going to eliminate most of the population.”

“The male population,” said Max.

“You said it; I didn’t.”

Max picked up his mail. “I was up on the border last night.”

“Really?” she said. “Doing what?”

“I’m not sure. Tom Lasker dug up a yacht on his farm.”

“I saw it on TV,” she said. “That’s Lasker’s place? I didn’t realize that.”

“It is. I spent the night up there.” Max drew a chair over beside her and sat down. “I need your help, Stell.” He opened his briefcase. “Ginny gave me some pictures.” He handed over six nine-by-twelve glossies.

“It’s in pretty good condition,” she said, “for something that was buried.”

“You noticed that, huh? Okay, look, what I’d like you to do is find out who made the damned thing. There’s no ID on it of any kind. Fax these around. Try the manufacturers, boat dealers, importers. And the Coast Guard. Somebody’ll be able to tell us something.”

“Why do we care?” she asked.

“Because we’re snoops. Because your boss would like to know what the hell’s going on. Okay?”

“Sure. When do you want it?”

“Forthwith. Let me know what you find out.” He went into his office and tried to call Morley Clark at Moorhead State.

“Professor Clark is in class,” said his recorded voice. “Please feel free to leave a message at the beep.”

“This is Max Collingwood. Morley, I’m going to fax you some photos. They’re of a yacht, and there’s a piece of writing on the hull. If you can identify the language, or better yet get a translation, I’d be grateful.”

Everett Crandall came out personally to usher Lasker into his office. “I saw your boat the other day, Tom. You’re a lucky man, looks like to me.” Ev was more or less permanently rumpled—both he and his clothes.

“That’s why I’m here,” said Lasker.

“What’s going on? Whose boat is it?”

“Don’t know.”

“Come on, Tom. You must have some idea.”

Ev’s office was packed with old law books, framed certificates, and photos, most of which had been taken during his tenure as county prosecutor. Prominently displayed on his desk was a picture of Ev and Senator Byron Glass at last year’s Fourth of July celebration.

Lasker sat down. “Ev,” he said, “I’ve got a prospective buyer.”

“For the boat?”

“Yes. Is it mine to sell?”

Ev nodded, but his dark eyes said no. He took off his glasses, wiping them with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Hard to say,” he said.

“It’s on my property. That should make it mine, right?”

Ev’s hands were in his lap. He looked down at them. “Tom, if I left my RV over at your place, would it be yours?”

“No. But this was buried.”

“Yeah.” Ev considered that. “If I chose to hide my family silver by burying it out back of your house, would it be yours?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “I don’t guess it would.”

“Have you heard from anyone? I mean, has anybody put in a claim for the boat?”

“No. Nobody.”

“Have you exhausted reasonable means to establish ownership?”

“Is that my responsibility?”

“Who else’s? Listen, for all we know it could be stolen. The thieves hid it in your ground. For whatever reason. In that case, it would belong to the original owner.” Ev was a careful man, a model of caution. He took pride in not committing to a view until all the facts were in. Which meant, of course, that he was never quite on board. Or in opposition. “The question here, as I see it, is one of intent. Was the property abandoned? If so, then I think your claim to ownership would be valid. And I believe that claim would be substantiated in court, if need be. If someone challenged it.”

“Who would challenge it?”

“Oh, hard to say. A relative might claim the owner was not competent when he, or she, abandoned the boat. Burying it might constitute a sound argument in that direction.”

“So how do I establish ownership?”

“Let me research it, Tom. Meantime, it would help if we could find out how it came to be where it was.”

5

Antiquities are remnants of history which have casually escaped the shipwrecks of time.

—Francis Bacon, The Advancement of Learning, II

Stell pursued her mission for three days. No one could identify a manufacturer. There were two more or less similar models of yachts, but nothing identical. Max asked her to keep at it.

Morley Clark had no idea whatever about the symbols on the hull. In fact, Max found it impossible to convince him he was serious. “These characters,” Clark told Max, “are not part of any language of any industrialized society.” There were eleven of them, presumably the name of the craft. They were cursive, rendering it difficult to be sure of the exact shape of an individual character. Max recognized an O but nothing else.

They were sitting in Clark’s office on the campus of Moorhead State. Outside, the sun was shining, and the temperature was a balmy forty degrees. “That can’t be right, Morley,” he said. “You must have missed something.”

Clark smiled tolerantly. He was lanky, broad-shouldered, athletic. A softball nut. “I agree, Max. But I can’t see where. Maybe the data banks aren’t as complete as they’re supposed to be. But as a practical matter, I think we have damned near everything. Your stuff won’t make a match. Well, a couple of the symbols do. One’s Hindustani, another’s Cyrillic. Which means it’s pure coincidence. You put a few lines and loops together and you have to come up with something.” He looked down at the photo on his desk. “Max, it’s a joke.”

Max thanked Clark and drove back to Chellis Field wondering who was the joker and who the jokee. He was by turns mystified and irritated. It had to be some kind of gang thing. Had to be.

He was up on I—29 when Stell reached him on his cellular phone. “You got a call from Colson Laboratories. Can you take it?”

Already? It was only two days. “Okay,” he said. “Put them through.”

“Roger. And Max?”

“Yes?”

“They sound excited.”

The phone clicked. “Mr. Collingwood?” A woman’s voice. And Stell was right: She sounded as if she’d just run up two flights of stairs.

“Yes, this is Max Collingwood. Can I help you?”

“My name’s Cannon. I’m calling for Colson Labs. About the samples you left the other day.”

“Okay.”

“I assume you’re not at your office now?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Max. “What have you got?”

“Can I meet you there?” she asked.

She was black, slender, in her mid-thirties. Her business card indicated she was a lab director for Colson. Good smile, high cheekbones, and an aura of barely-suppressed excitement. She wore a navy blue business suit and carried a leather briefcase. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Collingwood,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m April Cannon.”

Max took her coat. “I didn’t expect results quite so soon.”

Her smile implied there was a secret between them. She sat down, keeping the briefcase on her lap, and looked at him sharply. “I’ll admit we don’t usually do home delivery, Mr. Collingwood,” she said. “But you and I both know you’ve got something very unusual here.”

Max nodded as if that was all very true.

Her eyes cut into him. “Where did you get it?”

Max wondered briefly whether he should keep the source quiet. But what the hell, it’d been on TV. “It was buried up on the border.”

“The boat? The one they found on the farm?”

Max nodded.

“The boat. I’ll be damned.” Her eyes lost their focus. “May I see it?” she asked.