Avenged in the Keys

But one big question took control of his mind as the realization of what he’d found set in: how had a Confederate belt buckle ended up in that middle-of-nowhere lagoon in the Upper Florida Keys?
Too excited to continue, he wrapped the artifact in a cloth, zipped it into his fanny pack, then climbed back onto his kayak. Wanting to get his find cleaned so that he could examine it properly, he marked the position where he’d found it on a map, then paddled out of the lagoon.
He traveled four miles south to a marina in North Key Largo. It would’ve been difficult for most people, but John kept himself active enough to pull it off without having to stop for breaks. He was in good shape, and his excitement fueled him with energy.
After sliding his kayak out of the water, he loaded it into the back of his old pickup truck and drove south to Key Largo. When he arrived at his simple mobile home in a row of hundreds that looked just like it, he quickly shut off the engine and ran inside with his find.
John lived alone. He had a brother he hadn’t spoken to in over a year and two ex-wives he hadn’t spoken to for much longer than that. The only family he stayed in contact with was his niece who lived in Key West and worked as a journalist for the Keynoter.
He set his find in a fish tank, then used electrolysis to clean off the corrosion. After two hours in the tank, he picked it out and washed it off.
One of the things John loved most about prospecting was posting pictures of his finds on an online treasure hunters’ forum. The place was a haven for adventurers from all over the world. A gathering place for like-minded individuals. They were teachers, doctors, boat captains, and businessmen. Everyday people who shared a love for metal detecting and lost artifacts.
He uploaded two pictures of the newly restored buckle, both front and back shots. Within minutes, comments began pouring in. The members verified that it was of course a Confederate belt buckle. But how said buckle had ended up in the Keys was anyone’s guess. As John had reasoned, the real secret lay in the initials carved into the back. Initials he’d only noticed after cleaning his find.
W.S.
He didn’t know who it was, but he vowed to find out.
After spending the rest of the morning interacting with various interested parties around the world, he chatted with a few locals who wanted to come and see the find for themselves. Always eager to meet new people and talk treasure, John gave them his address and said that he was usually free in the evening.
John also got in contact with his niece in Key West.
Harper loves things like this. Hell, maybe she’ll even write a story about me in the paper.
The afternoon passed by in a blur. John had been so enthralled by his find that, by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he forgot that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He cooked a frozen pizza, then turned on a baseball game. It was Florida’s new and not-so-improved Miami Marlins versus the Yankees. The Bronx Bombers were already up by three in the second inning, but he decided to watch it anyway as he ate piece after piece of hot, cheesy Red Baron.
He swallowed a bite, washed it down with cold beer, then perked up when he heard the doorbell.
That’ll be Harper.
His niece had a passion for telling the stories, both old and new, of the island chain’s inhabitants. He was expecting that she’d be just as intrigued as he was.
Turns out I was right.
He bounded for the door with a big smile on his face, excited to show his niece the history he’d pulled from the sand that morning. But when he pulled open the door, it wasn’t his niece standing in the doorway. It was two men, both with stone cold expressions on their faces.
The man closest to John was well-built, with wide-shoulders and a dark scraggly beard. The guy beside him was middle aged with a round belly and a bald head.
The guy with the beard touched the grip of a handgun shoved into his waistband and said, “May we come in?”
John fumbled backward into the living room as the two guys barged in without another word and slammed the door shut behind them. In his rushed steps, John knocked over his tray of food and nearly fell to the carpet beside the TV.
“Where’s the buckle?” the man with the beard grunted.
John froze, then slid a hand into his front pocket and pulled out the brass trinket. He handed it to the man, who looked it over briefly then pocketed the item.
“Where did you find it?” he growled.
John’s heart pounded, but he forced himself to remain calm and think through the situation as he stepped all the way back into the kitchen.
“Just north of here,” he stammered. “Up in Jones Lagoon.”
“Show me,” the man demanded, pulling out his phone and bringing up a map on the screen.
With shaky hands, John showed the stranger the spot.
“Who else knows?” baldy said, speaking for the first time.
John blinked and shook his head. “No one I… I haven’t told anyone but you.”
The man with the thick beard smiled and slid his handgun free. It was a suppressed Ruger .22. “Good.”
The moment the word left his lips, the stranger’s smile turned sinister and he slowly raised the barrel. John’s jaw fell to the floor. He froze for a fraction of a second, then knew what he had to do. He was too far from the guy to make a break and try to take him down. But he had a pistol of his own stashed away in a