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“Ah, these. Madagascar truffles. Finest in the world.”
“Never heard of them,” Remi replied.
“Most of them get sold to Japan. A thousand dollars a pound.”
Sam said, “Looks like you’ve got a few thousand dollars sitting beside your boots.”
“Give or take.”
“How do you find them?” asked Remi.
“Smell, location, animal tracks. After ten years, it’s more a feeling than anything else.”
“Ten years? Not out here the whole time, I hope.”
The Kid chuckled. “No. Truffle season’s only five weeks long. The other forty-seven weeks I’ve got a little place on the beach near Andevoranto. Do a little fishing, a little diving, a little hiking, and a lot of staring at sunsets.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“It is indeed, madam. What’s not wonderful, however, is the nice collection of scratches there.”
Sam and Remi glanced at the red crisscrosses on their arms and legs. The man reached into an old canvas backpack leaning against the log, rummaged around, and came out with an unmarked glass tube. He tossed it across to Remi.
“Local recipe,” the Kid said. “Works miracles. Just don’t ask what’s in it.”
Sam and Remi dabbed the greenish, foul-smelling ointment on their scratches. Immediately the sting disappeared. Sam said, “Smells a lot like animal urine and—”
The Kid smiled. “I told you not to ask.” He poured them each a cup of coffee from the soot-burnished percolator sitting at the edge of the fire. “So if you don’t mind me asking, what’re you folks doing out here?”
“We’re looking for a spot that may or may not exist,” Sam replied.
“Ah, the siren song of lost lands. As it happens, imaginary places are one of my specialties.”
Sam reached into the side pocket of his pack, withdrew the Moreau map, and handed it across. The Kid studied it for thirty seconds, then handed it back. “Good news, bad news. Pick your poison.”
“Bad news,” Remi replied.
“You’re about eighty years too late. That area of the Pangalanes was swallowed up after an earthquake in 1932.”
“And the good news?”
“It’s dry land now. And I can probably get you to within a few yards of the spot you seek.”
THEY FINISHED THEIR COFFEE, then the Kid kicked dirt over his fire and packed his gear, and the three of them set out with the Kid in the lead, Remi in the middle, and Sam trailing. The Kid required neither machete nor compass as he headed northeast, following trails that at first glance seemed like nothing more than gaps in the foliage. Despite his years, he moved at a steady, economical pace that told Sam and Remi their guide had spent more of his life out-of-doors than in.
After forty minutes of walking in companionable silence, the Kid called over his shoulder, “This place you’re looking for . . . What’s so special about it?”
Remi glanced back at Sam with a questioning look on her face. Sam gave it a moment’s thought, then replied, “You strike me as an honest man, Kid. Am I wrong about that?”
The Kid stopped walking and turned around. He smiled.
“You’re not wrong. I’ve kept more confidences than steps I’ve taken.”
Sam held his gaze for a few moments, then nodded. “Lead on, and we’ll tell you a story.”
The Kid turned around and started walking again.
Sam said, “Have you ever heard of the CSS Shenandoah?”
