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The boys exchanged looks before Rob cleared his throat. “Well, it was a whole bunch of us, you know? A lot of kids from the sophomore class walk home near there,” he said with a look toward their father. “It really wouldn’t be fair to single any of them out, Dad. The thing is, they closed down school at three and none of us wanted to go sledding again. The snow on Breaker’s Hill is really trashed, you know?”

“You guys want another hot dog?” Dix asked them, and both boys smiled at him, limp with relief.

Rob asked carefully, a potato chip suspended an inch from his mouth, “You’re not pissed, Dad? You’re not going to ground us?”

“Hey, Earth to Dad,” Rafe said, and snapped his fingers toward his father.

“What? Oh sorry, the snow pile. I remember we did the same thing once only it was in Queens, and the beat cop took half a dozen of us down to the precinct house to scare us. My dad tanned my butt. You know, you guys aren’t too old for me to hide.”

Rob said, “We’re too old, Dad, really. Besides, you always say that then never do.” He grinned. “If you really want to teach us a lesson, why don’t you toss us in jail for a night? That would be the ultimate punishment, you know?”

“Punishment as in really cool?” Ruth asked.

Dix rolled his eyes. “You were lucky I was the first one through your little snow fort and flattened it out for everybody else.”

“Bummer,” Rob said around a hot dog loaded with French’s mustard and sweet relish.

“We had our test on Othello today, Dad,” Rafe said. “I think I did really well. I think I knew the answers to all the questions.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dix said. “I’ve told you you have your mother’s brains.”

“Yeah, well,” Rafe continued, “if I get at least a B minus can I take that after-school job at Mr. Fulton’s hardware store?”

Dix’s cell phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. When he returned, he pointed his finger at Rafe. “No part-time job until you have at least a B in biology and a B in English, as we agreed. Not a B minus, a good, solid B. Your report card’s out in three weeks, so you’ve got a goal. And don’t whine about it. Sherlock and Savich have a little boy a lot younger than you guys, and we don’t have to show them what’s in store for them.”

“We’re not that bad, Agent Savich,” Rob said. “Dad just pretends we are.”

Rafe shot his brother a look, then leaned forward, his eyes on his dad’s face. “We heard about you finding that murdered student in Winkel’s Cave. Everyone’s talking about it—first those two guys who tried to kill Ruth on Saturday night, and now this girl. What’s happening, Dad?”

His father said, “Yes, we found a body in Winkel’s Cave. It wasn’t pleasant.”

“You sure are lucky you’ve got FBI special agents here to help you,” Rob said.

“Yeah,” Dix said, his voice dry as a bleached bone, “I’m very lucky.”

“Do you see dead bodies all the time, Agent Savich?” Rob asked.

“Not all the time, no,” Savich said easily. “Actually I do a whole lot of work on a computer, a laptop named MAX. He and I have tracked down a good number of bad guys over the years.”

“As for us,” Sherlock said, “Agent Warnecki and I have noses like bloodhounds. They set us on a trail, and we sniff the bad guys right out.”

“Dad, this is pretty scary,” Rafe said. “What happened to that girl?”

“I’ve got to keep some things close, boys. I don’t want the media to get ahold of everything I’ve got.”

“But—”

Dix shook his head. “I’ve got some questions for Ruth about treasure hunting. Are there clubs, newsletters, that sort of thing?”

She nodded, more to the boys than to their father. “Yes, there’s all of that. Have you guys ever heard of the buried treasure at Snow Hill Farm, about a mile south of the village of New Baltimore, right here in Virginia?”

The boys, who’d been sprawled long and skinny in their chairs, sat up and leaned toward her, Rafe’s chin on his hands. “Silver coins,” she said, “gold ones, too, valued at about sixty thousand dollars.”

“Who buried it?” Rafe wanted to know. “Did you find it?”

“A Scottish pirate named William Kirk buried it