THE DEAD MAN dangled, arms outstretched, jaws wide, as though frozen by the horror of his fate.

Iron talons pierced his chest front and back. The guy hadn’t stood a chance.

Never forget. Pirates are merciless.

It took a few moments to calm ourselves.

“Poor bastard,” Hi said. “Dodged the first three traps, but not this nightmare.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Ben warned. “We don’t know if it’s safe.”

“How long?”

I knew what Shelton was asking, but had no answer. Though the body was mummified, it was clear that the man’s death hadn’t been recent.

“Not centuries,” I said. “The clothes are modern, and haven’t completely rotted. The skin has gone leathery. No animals or insects down here, and the cool temperatures would’ve helped with preservation.”

“Check for a wallet?” Hi suggested.

No one moved.

Fine.

Stepping forward, I delicately poked through the man’s pockets. Jacket. Shirt. Pants.

“Nothing. He’s not carrying any personal items.”

“What’s below him?” Ben asked.

Lying beneath the body was a grimy canvas sack. Upending it, I shook out the contents. Canteen. Rotting Archie comic. Wax paper wrapping something that might once have been food. And a polished stone disk the size of a hamburger.

The disk was an inch thick, with four holes running vertically and three more crossing its face. A tiny triangle protruded from the center.

“What the hell?” Shelton sounded puzzled.

“No idea.” I shoved the thing in my backpack. “No ID on the body, either.”

As I stood, my elbow accidentally grazed a shriveled leg. The body shifted, then one black boot dropped to the earth.

I danced back, heart pounding.

Nothing happened. My pulse returned to a normal pace.

The boot set a bell dinging inside my skull. Curious, I dropped to examine the desiccated foot. The bell dinged louder as I peeled off the sock.

The boys sounded their disgust. Ignoring them, I prodded the hard, leathery skin. Traced the ankle with one finger.

“I know who this is!” I said.

“Not a chance,” Ben scoffed.

“See how this foot angles medially at the ankle? There’s inversion at the subtalar joint, adduction at the talonavicular joint, and ankle joint equinus.”

Blank stares.

“Maybe try English?” Hi suggested.

“Clubfoot! A common, correctable birth defect. But this person never had treatment or surgery.” I tossed the boot to Hi. “Notice the sole. It was custom made to reduce pressure on the ankle.”

“Okay, clubfoot,” Shelton said. “But how does that tell you who this guy is?”

“Because I know of a missing clubfooted man who obsessed over Anne Bonny. This must be Jonathan Brincefield.”

“Who?” Three voices.

“Remember the old man from our ghost tour?” I told them about my chat with Rodney Brincefield at the yacht club. “He said his brother Jonathan disappeared while searching for Bonny’s treasure. That was sometime in the forties.”

“So this stiff is Brincefield’s brother?” Hi asked. “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“Not to mention that geezer being on our tour in the first place,” Shelton said.

“Maybe he followed me.” I didn’t really think so.

“Unreal.” Hi leaned against the wall. “You attract weirdos like—”

Click.

Ben yanked Hi sideways as spikes snapped from the walls, slamming into the sides of Jonathan Brincefield’s rib cage.

Hi panted like a greyhound. Once again, only Ben’s reflexes had saved him.

“Please stop doing that!” Ben barked.

“Please keep doing that!” Hi warbled.

Smashed segments of the cadaver’s upper body littered the tunnel. The legs and pelvis remained intact, now fastened in place by two pairs of pincers.

“Let’s keep moving,” I said. “We’re running out of time.”

“You guys hear that?” Shelton’s voice was hushed.

Everyone went rigid. I closed my eyes and listened, hypersonic ears on max. Heard nothing.

Shelton broke the silence. “Thought I heard shifting, or crunching. Like movement.”

“The trap probably dislodged some dirt,” Ben said. “It must be centuries old.”

“Could be.” Shelton glanced back the way we’d come.

“Keep moving,” I repeated, picking up the lantern. “We’ve got to be close.”

“Stay alert,” Ben said. “I don’t want some douche finding our bodies sixty years from now.”

I seconded that.

More careful than ever, we picked our way forward.