The scribbles across the yellowed paper wouldn't ever make sense to those without prior knowledge of the madness which had ravaged my uncle's mind before his death.  The man was brilliant -- the kind of genius that is rare, and at times, dangerous. His death was a blessing and a conundrum for me -- his heir.

A plot to defraud a handful of business tycoons, whose combined fortunes equaled the GDP's of a few European countries, was the product of his genius and the reason for his demise. If you wonder if he succeeded or not, I can only say that I wouldn't be standing here gazing at a treasure map to his ill-begotten plunder if he hadn't.

My uncle was a mathematician and I thought his map would have used a series of complex equations to arrive at the GPS coordinates of his pirated booty, but no, it wasn't. He had drawn the map using numbers to form the figures. It was like looking at one of those optical illusions that ask the viewer to ascertain the number of faces they observe. The variation of the viewer's answers illustrated the difficulty of the puzzle.

I rub my eyes as the figures blur after hours of turning the page in multiple directions, hoping to glean some useful information. The frustration builds within me as I clench my fists tightly piercing crescents into my palms with my nails. I refocus on the map and the page of seemingly meaningless numerals. What sort of madness am I participating in? Could this page before me be the schizophrenic ramblings of a man pushed to the edge? Perhaps the treasure doesn't exist?

I shove my uncle's drawing and my notes across the desk and stand stretching my stiffened legs and back. Walking over to the bar cart in the study, I pour two fingers of Irish whiskey and drink it down before pouring another. The wood in the fireplace crackles and pops as the yellow flames dance between the logs circling and writhing as they consume. As I stare at the flames, I can hear my uncle reciting one of his favorite quotes, "The essence of mathematics is not to make simple things complicated but to make complicated things simple."

I know the answers can be found on that sheet of legal paper. The men who murdered my uncle think I may know the secret to the location of their money. I have no doubt that is the only reason I haven't met the same end. The money could help me disappear, but I fear I might have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days.

Maybe the complexity of the design had a simplistic solution. I rushed to the desk and tried not to focus on the numbers but on the shapes created. In one corner of the page, a simple shape like a compass was formed. At the four points, a number that represented a letter and perhaps the puzzle's key.