"You're sure you've seen no trace of the demon?" asked Rodgers.
Giordino shook his head. "Not so much as a scale or a fang."
Shannon scowled in defeat. "Then the myth is simply that. . . a myth."
The treasure that never was," murmured Gunn. He collapsed dejectedly on an old wooden passenger's bench. "It's over," he said slowly. "I'll call the admiral and tell him we're closing down the project."
"Our rivals in the seaplane should be cutting bait and flying off into the sunset too," said Giordino.
"To regroup and try again," said Pitt. "They're not the type to fly away from a billion dollars in treasure."
Gunn looked up at him, surprised. "You've seen them?"
"We waved in passing," answered Pitt without going into detail.
"A great disappointment not to catch Doc's killer," Rodgers said sadly. "I also had high hopes of being the first to photograph the treasures and Huascar's golden chain."
"A washout," murmured Gunn. "A damned washout."
Shannon nodded at Rodgers. "We'd better make arrangements to return to Peru."
Loren sank next to Gunn. "A shame after everyone worked so hard."
Pitt suddenly returned to life, shrugging off the exhaustion and becoming his old cheerful self again. "I can't I speak for the rest of you pitiful purveyors of doom, but I'm going to take a bath, mix myself a tequila on the rocks with lime, grill a steak, get a good night's sleep, and go out in the morning and find that ugly critter guarding the treasure."
They all stared at him as if he had suffered a mental breakdown, all that is except Giordino. He didn't need a third eye to know Pitt was scenting a trail. "You have the look of a born-again Christian. Why the about-face?"
"Do you remember when a NUMA search team found that hundred-and-fifty-year-old steamship that belonged to the Republic of Texas navy?"
"Back in 1987, wasn't it? The ship was the Zavala."
"The same. And do you recall where it was found?"
"Under a parking lot in Galveston."
"Get the picture?"
"I certainly don't," snapped Shannon. "What are you driving at?"
"Whose turn is it to cook dinner?" Pitt inquired, ignoring her.
Gunn raised a hand. "My night in the galley. Why ask?"
"Because, after we've all enjoyed a good meal and a cocktail or two, I'll lay out Dirk's master plan."
"Which island have you selected?" Shannon asked cynically. "Bali Ha'i or Atlantis?"
"There is no island," Pitt answered mysteriously. "No island at all. The treasure that never was, but is, sits on dry land."
An hour and a half later, with Giordino standing at the helm, the old ferry reversed course as her paddlewheels drove her northward back toward San Felipe. While Gunn, assisted by Rodgers, prepared dinner in the ferry's galley, Loren searched for Pitt and finally found him sitting on a folding chair down in the engine room, chatting with the chief engineer as he soaked up the sounds, smells, and motion of the Alhambra's monstrous engines. He wore the expression of a man in the throes of undisguised euphoria.
She carried a small bottle of blanco tequila and a glass of ice as she crept up behind him.
Gordo Padilla smoked the stub of a cigar while wiping a clean cloth over a pair of brass steam gauges.
He wore scuffed cowboy boots, a T-shirt covered with bright illustrations of tropical birds, and a pair of pants cut off at the knees. His sleek, well-oiled hair was as thick as marsh grass, and the brown eyes in his round face wandered over the engines with the same ardor they would display if beholding the full-figured body of a model in a bikini.
Most ship's engineers are thought to be big ebullient men with hairy chests and thick forearms illustrated with colorful tattoos. Padilla was devoid of body hair and tattoos. He looked like an ant crawling on his great walking beam engines. Diminutive, his height and weight would have easily qualified him to ride a racehorse.