As they left Hindostan, Eli’s phone buzzed. It was Ray Henson, an old friend from years back. Ray didn’t waste time on small talk.
“Eli, I’ve heard something you need to know. Can you meet me at West Boggs Lake Park? Shelter house by the water. I’ll explain when you get here.”
Eli glanced at Kate and nodded. “We’re on our way.”
They turned north, the river woods giving way to open pasture and the quilt of county roads Eli knew by muscle memory. The late-afternoon light lay low and gold across the fields. Kate watched the fence lines flick by, then said, “Ray wouldn’t pull us off course unless it mattered.”
“He’s not the dramatic type,” Eli said. “If he says it’s urgent, it’s urgent.”
The park was quiet when they rolled in—weekday quiet. A few fishermen’s trucks sat angled near the ramp, and gulls worked the wind over the cove. The shelter house by the shoreline wore its familiar scuffs and initials carved into tabletops.
Ray was at the far end of one picnic table, a thermos by his elbow, cap pulled low. He stood as they approached, smiling just enough to take the edge off his serious expression. They shook hands and sat, the lake stretching out blue and restless behind him.
Before Ray could speak, Eli’s attention snagged on a figure near the other side of the shelter. A man in a dark jacket and baseball cap stood half in shadow, leaning against a post and looking out toward the water. He didn’t glance their way, but something in the set of his shoulders told Eli he wasn’t there to admire the scenery.
Ray poured coffee into three mugs. “Didn’t want to say too much on the phone,” he said. “Something’s stirring, and you two might be walking straight into it.”
He pulled a folded sheet from his jacket. The paper was worn, the creases soft from years of folding. He spread it on the table — a sketched shoreline with a curved edge, a faint pier drawn like an afterthought, and in the margin, a mark shaped like a V with a diagonal slash through it.
Kate leaned in. “You’ve seen this before?”
Ray nodded. “Heard of it. They call it the Fifth Mark. Part of an old story about a robbery down in Kentucky. Four pieces of a map have turned up over the years — the Fifth Mark was always the missing one.”
Eli’s gaze drifted past Ray’s shoulder. The man in the baseball cap was still there, still looking at the lake — but now his head was tilted slightly, as if he was listening without wanting to be noticed.
Ray kept talking, his voice low. “If the rumors are true, the Fifth Mark isn’t just a drawing. It’s the key to tying the other pieces together. And if I’m hearing the right names… one of them is Corbin Voss.”
The name made Kate’s jaw tighten. “You’re saying he’s here?”
“I’m saying he’s close enough to cast a shadow,” Ray replied.
Eli risked one last glance toward the man in the cap. This time, the stranger was gone — vanished between the shelter posts and the trees beyond.
Ray slid a copy of the sketch across the table. “You keep this. But watch your back. If someone else is looking for it, you don’t want them to know you’ve got it.”
The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the wind off the lake ruffling the paper. Somewhere far out on the water, a boat engine growled to life.
“Thanks, Ray,” Eli said finally. “We’ll tread careful.”
But as they walked back to the truck, Eli knew careful might not be enough.
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