He jotted the Crime Stoppers number on a napkin and stuck it in his pocket. His disposition improved dramatically over the rest of the evening, even though the Cowboys lost by two touchdowns. He wondered if that loser at the bar the other day had actually bet five thousand dollars on the Cowboys tonight. But it really didn’t matter, the bartender figured. Once he called Crime Stoppers a sports bet would be that guy’s least problem.
Chapter Forty-Six
London/Dallas/Lunenburg, Nova Scotia
In London Brian received updates on Nicole twice a day from her mother, once by phone when Brian awoke and an email around five pm when Nicole’s mother went to bed at eleven in Dallas. She was making steady improvement, had been moved from ICU to a regular hospital room and was staying awake most of each day.
The severe concussion she had suffered was an issue. Her neurologist had performed some tests and spoken with her. As far as he could ascertain, she had no memory of the day of the accident or for several days afterwards. She spoke only single words but her comprehension seemed good. Her physician scheduled a visit with a speech pathologist. He and the neurological team believed she might need to relearn some of her mental functions.
Around two pm Dallas time Brian called Nicole’s room. Her mother answered and Brian asked if she thought Nicole would be able to listen to him. Her mom held the phone to Nicole’s ear and Brian talked slowly to her.
“I miss you, sweetie. I’m coming back to see you in a couple of days. Will you be glad to see me?” Nicole said nothing. She appeared puzzled by the sound of his voice on the phone. Her mother suggested they not try it again for a few days, as it seemed to confuse her.
Brian took the day flight from London to Dallas. Her mother and father went back to their homes in Houston and Fort Worth, respectively, for a much-needed break from the hospital routine. He stayed with her during the day and was heartened by her physical improvement. She seemed to know who he was although she said almost nothing. He talked to her about London, the gallery and what was going on with the Templars project. She looked at him when he talked but he doubted she understood much.
The middle of the next week Nicole’s sister took over duties and Brian made a quick trip to Halifax, Nova Scotia. He wanted to see Oak Island for himself and had researched online to identify its owners. There were two – Brian was most interested in Harold Mulhaney, who owned roughly the eastern half of the island that contained the original Money Pit and various boreholes dug around it over the centuries. Mulhaney bought his land from one of the men who had spent a lifetime searching for clues to the complex set of traps that protected the secrets of the pit. He had agreed to meet Brian but would offer no information whatsoever on the phone, saying merely that he would think about a proposition only when someone took the time and effort to come there in person and talk about it.
Lunenburg, Nova Scotia is nine miles from Oak Island. Brian sat with Harold Mulhaney at an outdoor coffee shop overlooking the bay. Mulhaney had grown up in the area – he was quiet and somber, as many people in the region prefer to be among strangers. He was a portly man in his seventies who slowly tamped, then lit his battered pipe, pulling contentedly on it as they sat on the patio. He let Brian do the talking and occasionally grunted what might have been responses. Brian wanted information but also he wanted to find out whether this reclusive man would let him make yet another attempt to retrieve what was in the Money Pit.
It had taken Brian a full day to get from Dallas to Boston then Halifax by plane. He drove the rest of the way to Lunenburg and spent the night in a pleasant bed and breakfast. When Brian phoned to say he was in town, Mulhaney had grunted an agreement to meet for coffee the next day.
Harold Mulhaney had started the conversation by asking Brian where he was from. That was about the only positive thing from the entire meeting, Brian later recalled. And Mulhaney’s communicative skills hadn’t been out for long.
“I was born in Texas, went to university in Oklahoma and now I live in New York City.” Brian thought the southwestern references might help the man connect with him. But they didn’t.
“New York City, eh? Never been there. Hear it’s a pretty big place. So you’re a city boy, eh?”
Of course Brian was a city boy. He smiled his best grin and said, “Nope. I’m just a country boy from Texas, Mr. Mulhaney.” The old man harrumphed at that, obviously in disbelief.
“So talk, boy. I didn’t plan to spend all day here. Whadda you want?”
Brian talked about himself, his background in the antiquities business and his interest in finding out what was on Oak Island. At one point Brian asked, “I was on a documentary aired by History Channel a month or so ago. Did you happen to see it?”
“Don’t know what that is,” the old man replied. “If it’s some kind of TV show I don’t have one anyway.”
Brian struggled to keep the man’s attention. After ten minutes of listening while he messed with his pipe, the man said, “If you don’t tell me exactly what you think you know about my property you’re outta luck, city boy.”
If this was ever going to work Brian could hold back no longer. He explained about the Templars manuscript and the coded pages. He told Mulhaney he believed the Knights Templars had built the pit in 1497 or 1498 and put something there, something they called the “Most Holy Relics.”
“I’ve been fascinated with the story of Oak Island my whole life,” he said. “I love adventure and I’m fortunate enough to be able to afford to indulge my passion for ancient things. If I were the one who cracked the mystery of Oak Island it’d be an incredible accomplishment. And you as the landowner would obviously profit from whatever I found there.”
Mulhaney said nothing for a couple of minutes. He just looked at Brian while he smoked his pipe, aromatic clouds wafting into the air. Finally he spoke.
“I want ninety percent.”
Brian’s astonishment must have shown on his face. “How much money do you want to contribute to the project?”
“Not a dime,” Mulhaney replied, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. “You’re putting up the money, son.”
“Uh, Mr. Mulhaney, I want to be fair about this…”
“Fair don’t really matter. What matters is what I want. I want ninety percent. We got a deal or not?”
“Well frankly I don’t see how that would work, sir.”
“OK then. Around here we do things a little differently than you guys in the city. Here it’s pretty clear if you’ve got a deal or not. Appears to me we haven’t got one.” He stood, walked to his pickup fifty feet away and drove off, a cloud of dust replacing the pipe smoke that lingered.
That went well, Brian thought sarcastically as he paid for the coffee.
Lunenburg was a beautiful coastal fishing town with very little to do, especially for someone like Brian. Driven by his ambitions, he couldn’t sit and wait for Harold Mulhaney. Frankly he wasn’t sure if the guy was bluffing. He might come back to Brian with another offer and he might not. The man was inscrutable.
Brian gave it two hours then drove his rental car to the seven hundred foot causeway connecting Oak Island to the mainland. It had been built in 1965 by one of the treasure syndicates to make it easier to get equipment to the Money Pit. He parked on the shore, got out and looked across at the enigmatic island, so near yet so elusive. He shot a few pictures with his phone even though none of the famous excavations could be seen from this side of the island.
After a few minutes he heard the sound of a car engine and was surprised to see Mulhaney’s pickup approaching the causeway from the other side. It would have been too much to hope the old man had been watching for him so he put it down to coincidence. Bryan walked over to the road and waited. Mulhaney would have to drive right past him.
The man stopped his pickup and turned off the ignition. His faithful pipe still clenched in his teeth, he said, “Taking in the scenery?”
“It’s beautiful,” Brian replied.
�
�No, it ain’t beautiful. It’s a scraggly little island that people have fought over for hundreds of years. It’s got nothing to say for itself except the secret a bunch of folks think is here. Well, Mr. New York City, I got a deal for you. A take it or leave it deal. No discussions, no negotiating. I’ll take five million US for my half of Oak Island and I get ten percent of the value of anything you find. I’ll even help you find it.” He started the truck, put it in gear and drove away.
When he had arrived in Nova Scotia Brian had no idea how long discussions with Mr. Mulhaney would take. Last night he’d stayed at the Oak Island Inn nearby and paid for two nights. At four pm he sat on the Inn’s patio at the edge of Mahone Bay and emailed Jeffrey Montfort in London. He needed some information on Mulhaney and the librarian was the perfect man to find it.
After a night spent mostly awake thinking about Oak Island, Brian got up around six, checked his phone and saw a response from Jeffrey. He’d look at it soon; first he went to the patio for a morning coffee. It was crisp and cold; the sweater and jeans he wore felt good.
Jeffrey’s online searches had turned up everything Brian needed. Two years ago Harold Watson Mulhaney purchased sixty-five acres of Oak Island, roughly half of it, for US$1.7 million. The half he now owned included the Money Pit and the shoreline of Smith’s Cove, from where many believed water gushed into the pit through elaborate booby-traps constructed when the structure was built.
Online information about the reclusive man came from only one source – his wife’s obituary. The Mulhaneys had lived on a farm near Halifax, fifty miles away. His wife died five years ago; she was the daughter of a wealthy paper baron and apparently left her husband of forty years a significant amount of money. He used some of it to purchase half of Oak Island and built a small cabin there. Nothing else had been written about this man since he moved to the island. There was no indication as to why Mulhaney wanted the important half of Oak Island – the part with the Money Pit. He certainly didn’t seem like a treasure hunter. Just the opposite. He was maybe the most blunt, stolid man Brian had ever encountered.
Brian made a decision. He was going to take the man’s offer, even though it meant a profit for Mulhaney of over three million dollars in only two years. Money wasn’t an issue for Brian; he’d made millions in the time since he took over Bijan Rarities. The thrill of the hunt and the chance to own an enigma still unsolved after centuries intrigued him immensely. He wasn’t about to let this go.
Brian called Harold Mulhaney and agreed to the deal. “Do you want me to get an attorney to draw up a contract?”
“Nope. I’ll write it. No need to spend any more of your hard-earned money. You’re gonna need it for the treasure hunt.” Brian detected a hint of humor in the comment. I haven’t seen that before in Mr. Mulhaney, he thought to himself.
They agreed to meet that afternoon at Mulhaney’s house so Brian could see the property he was paying five million dollars for. They took a half-hour tour in the old man’s pickup. Brian was fascinated to see the boreholes he had read so much about. He knew the whereabouts of the actual Money Pit itself had been obscured over the centuries by the work of others. But he believed ground-penetrating radar could find it.
Back at Mulhaney’s cozy three-room cabin Brian looked over the handwritten contract and surprisingly he felt it would work just fine. He hadn’t expected it to be this easy but it was. Obviously a real estate agent would have to draw the final closing documents and prepare a deed, but Mulhaney had done a decent job of drawing up a contract for the sale of Oak Island’s Money Pit.
The agreement called for a deposit of $100,000, upon payment of which Brian was free to begin work on the Money Pit. They drove across the causeway to town, made a photocopy of the contract at a drugstore and signed both copies. Brian retrieved his checkbook from his backpack and the deal was done.
“The folks who own the other half of the island aren’t as friendly as I am,” Mulhaney told him when they had finished. Another bit of caustic humor, Brian noted. “The road from the causeway is on their land but you have a right of entry through their property to get to yours. Other than that, I’d stay off their side. They don’t like me much and I’m a local. I don’t have a clue how they’ll take to a city boy.”
The agreement allowed Mulhaney to live in his cabin rent-free for six more months. The cabin was far removed from the boreholes themselves so it wasn’t a problem. He’d also offered to help with the project – Brian figured the man might have information he could use and he needed someone on the scene.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Dallas
Back in Dallas, Brian was buoyed by Nicole’s progress. She was released from Baylor Hospital four weeks to the day after her wreck. Her mother enlisted twenty-four hour care at Nicole’s condo. That gave the family a break now and then and ensured someone could care for her every minute, day and night. Her physical improvement was excellent but she still had major problems related to the concussion. Her speech was slowly improving thanks to daily lessons with a professional and a physical therapist came three times a week to help her build back the strength and balance in her hands and legs.
The neurologist had explained that portions of her brain dealing with memory, speech and cognitive skills suffered severe shock from impact. They would likely continue to improve, perhaps even regain a semblance of normalcy, but it would take time. In the meantime she would think, speak and react slowly, remembering some things from the distant and recent past, but forgetting others completely.
The project on Oak Island began in earnest. Brian worked from Nicole’s home office as he had previously done. Harold Mulhaney had proven to be an asset and Brian spoke with him every day. He willingly offered to be Brian’s eyes and ears on the ground. Having a local on site would be very helpful, Brian figured, and Mulhaney freely gave his time in return for his ten percent stake of the spoils.
Within a week a radar crew had been flown in from Portland, Maine. Brian knew the penetrating ability of the radar depended completely on the makeup of the materials in and around the hole. Wood and concrete would be more difficult than water, limestone and dirt. He hoped they could shoot at least 150 feet – most of the tales of the Money Pit put the bottom a little further down from there.
Harold Mulhaney had advised Brian how best to go about the shoot. He took the radar crew first to a hole about 150 feet from the Money Pit. This shaft, called Borehole 10X, was created in 1970 by another Oak Island syndicate, the Triton Alliance. The shaft was created by a rotary drill and then lined with steel casing. Its total depth was about 230 feet. Metal and some wire were retrieved along with, according to some stories, indications of a treasure chest. But no treasure had ever been brought up.
Since the location of Borehole 10X was known, Mulhaney advised Brian to let the crew work this hole first to see how the radar worked at depth. Sadler agreed.
In the hole the crew collected data for later review, then moved southwest to an indented area most locals believed was the Money Pit itself. A few others claimed it was a natural sinkhole and the original pit was lost. Wherever it was, repeated invasions of the shaft over the centuries had collapsed it. Flooding from the booby-traps installed by the builders took a toll as well. Today the area looked like a wide, shallow crater. There was no visible “hole in the ground.”
The crew shot radar at various sites in and around the crater. Finishing up, they told Mulhaney they believed they had gotten more than a hundred feet deep in one of their shots. The crew went home to Maine with a promise to deliver test results in two days.
Harold Mulhaney didn’t have a computer so Brian got the radar test results via email and called the old man. Although Mulhaney seemed dry and rough, Brian could sense his anticipation.
“Let me tell you about Borehole 10X first,” Brian began. “They went down a hundred and eighty feet to bedrock. The radar indicated some type of metal at the bottom, maybe the same metal and wire the Triton Alliance found in 1970. The crew
got a good shot of the entire shaft but found nothing special.”
He continued. “Now let’s talk about the crater where the Money Pit’s supposed to be. They made a total of six shots into the ground, one of which seems to bear out the existence of a deep shaft. The radar worked perfectly for about a hundred feet. They picked up some wood here and there but I’m hoping that was the platforms made of logs that exist every ten feet all the way down. Those platforms should have been mostly demolished over the years of digging but I’m sure parts of them remain. At a hundred feet they ran into wood and possibly metal.”
“Stop right there, Brian. You recall what’s supposed to be at a hundred feet in the Money Pit?” The old man sounded excited.
“Is that where they found some kind of chests?”
“Sure is. In 1849 a syndicate called the Truro Company found oak and metal. They thought it was a chest with a top and a bottom, filled with some kind of metal, maybe jewelry.”
“OK. That’s encouraging because it tells us maybe the crew was shooting the actual Money Pit. So the radar gets weaker after penetrating wood and metal but it hit something at 155 feet that was stone. The shot was so deep and the signal so weak by then that they could go no further, but there does appear to be some kind of stone there. What have you heard about that?”
Harold paused a moment. “Sorry. Had to find a book I needed. Hold on a sec.” Another pause. “OK. The book says at 154 feet a cement vault was found. That was discovered sometime before 1900. That sounds like what your radar men ran into.”
“Maybe so. At least it’s consistent with the old stories. Harold, we need some excavating equipment. Can you round it up and get them started as quickly as possible?” That was the first time Brian had ever called Mulhaney by his first name. He didn’t seem to object – in fact, Mr. Sadler also became Brian from that point forward.
Brian Sadler Archaeology 04 - The Bones in the Pit Page 22
