Sacrifice of Buntings by Christine Goff Page B

treasures are you talking about?” Dwight asked, craning forward to get a better look at Becker.
    “He must mean he found some interesting birds,” Saxby said.
    “Indeed we did.”
    We?
    Fancy chuckled. “What did you think, Dwight? That he meant he’d found one of your lost swamp treasures?”
    Dwight glared at his mother, and Dwayne bopped him on the backside of his head.
    “Are there really lost swamp treasures?” Katie asked.
    Fancy leaned forward, her shirt dropping open to reveal more cleavage. “Of course. Take my great-great-great-great-grandmother Aponi Carter, for example. Aponi was a Seminole princess, the daughter of a war chief. According to family history, her father was murdered during the Second Seminole War, and Aponi escaped into the northern swamp, bringing with her a family treasure. Some say it was a gift to her ancestors from a Spanish conquistador. Others say it’s part of ’Caesar’s Treasure,’ the booty of a pirate who came ashore near her ancestral home.”
    The crowd had stilled. Even Katie had stopped rubbing her belly, and the neighboring tables were listening. Fancy played to the audience. “When she died, Aponi took the treasure to her grave. Her husband, honoring her wishes, constructed a burial mound deep in the swamp. On his deathbed, he confided in his sons the treasure’s whereabouts, but due to his failing memory or the changing face of the swamp, the treasure was never found.” Fancy’s voice dipped, like someone telling a ghost story around a campfire. Rachel felt shivers creep along her arms, and everyone else had leaned in close.
    “You say there are other stories?” Lark asked.
    “Hundreds,” said Fancy, sitting back in her seat. Crossing her legs, she flipped her sandal with pink-frosted toes. “The swamp has always been a favorite place for thieves and killers. Runaway slaves brought treasures off the plantations. Planes full of drugs have gone down and never been found. Hell, in the early 1900s, there was this bank robbery in Jacksonville where the robbers netted—”
    “Excuse me,” interrupted Becker. “But most of us are more interested in the birds.”
    Several people nodded their heads. Several others looked disappointed. Sonja rolled her eyes.
    “That’s why we’re all here, after all,” he continued.
    Did Rachel detect a slur in his voice? Earlier he had banged down several drinks, and now he seemed agitated.
    “You want to talk birds,” Saxby said. “Let’s talk birds. I went out to the Okefenokee Swamp myself, yesterday, and discovered a red-cockaded woodpecker on the nest.”
    “Which warrants some consideration when deciding the trade,” Wolcott said. “Certainly the red-cockaded woodpecker is more endangered by forestation practices than the painted bunting is by development on Hyde Island.”
    Rachel cocked her head. Based on the spin, Victor Wolcott must be pro-trade.
    “I would agree with that,” Kearns said, speaking up for the first time. “The swamp acreage is prime habitat for a number of species. And as the state has indicated, they will purchase an additional fifty acres of dry land access for building a new welcome center and parking lot. The entire acreage will remain in a natural state. It’s enough to make a difference. A big difference.”
    “How many groups of red-cockaded woodpeckers do you have in the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge?” Dorothy asked, looking at Saxby.
    Lark leaned sideways and whispered in Rachel’s ear. “It takes anywhere from one hundred to five hundred acres of pine forest to support a group of red-cockaded woodpeckers.”
    “Twenty-nine at last count.”
    “But won’t the swamp acreage stay in its natural state regardless of the trade?” Rachel asked. Knowing what she did about swampland, she found it hard to believe it was in great demand.
    “That’s one of the reasons we approached the Authority,” said Nevin. “We’ve been contacted by a company with a special interest in