Chapter Eight
An old frame barn sat in the middle of Charles Edwards’ pasture. Until a year or so ago they’d kept horses stabled there. Charles had decided they were more trouble than they were worth since neither of his sons was interested in riding much any more.
Tommy and Billy used the barn as a huge playroom. They had their chemistry sets in one room they called their laboratory. Another room housed a lot of junk: lawn mowers that didn’t work and things like that. Up a ladder there was a loft where hay used to be kept. It was here where Tommy and Billy sat looking out through a cracked second-floor door.
From here they had a clear shot of Vernon Tippington hard at work in the creek bed about a hundred feet away. He had a pickaxe and a shovel and was working his way rock by rock down one side of the creek. From time to time he would stop, pick up something he’d uncovered, then toss it aside. It was hard work and Tippington was sweating profusely. “He’s an old guy,” Billy said. “I hope he doesn’t keel over down there in our creek.”
Tippington worked for an hour without stopping. Finally he sat down and pulled a sandwich and a Coke from a sack. As he ate his lunch, he kept looking at a piece of paper he had pulled from his pocket, then he tried to compare something on the paper with the rocky sides of the creek where he was working.
“I bet that’s a treasure map he keeps looking at,” Tommy said.
Billy eagerly agreed. “He’s looking at it a lot, for sure.”
“He sure is. If that map tells where gold is it’s probably really old. I bet things have changed a lot down there where they built the railroad. I don’t think he’s able to figure out from the map exactly what he’s looking for.”
“Let’s go see if he’ll let us help look.”
The boys scrambled down the ladder from the loft of the barn and ran to the top of the small ravine. They climbed down through the rocks to the creek bed. Tippington had seen them coming – as they got closer the boys noticed the piece of paper was gone.
“Hi, Mr. Tippington,” Billy said. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”
Vernon Tippington was a reclusive man at best and his social skills left much to be desired. “What do you boys want?”
Tommy blurted out, “We’d like to help you look for treasure.” Billy gave him a stern look. He wished Tommy hadn’t said that.
“It’s none of your business what I’m looking for and I don’t need anybody butting in.”
“Can we stay and watch, please?”
“Your father gave me permission to dig here. I’m on your property legally. You boys go on and play. I have work to do.” With that Tippington stood, put his lunch trash in the sack and turned away from the boys. He walked a few feet down the creek bed to the area where he had been searching. He turned around. “Go on now, I said.”
The boys went back to the barn, climbed into the loft and continued to watch Tippington work until Billy’s mother yelled from the house, “Lunch is ready!” They ran home to eat.
The boys were soon tired of watching Vernon Tippington. He was committed, for sure. He worked six or seven hours every day but the boys lasted only a couple. Bored, they soon went back to things more interesting than watching a man move slowly, rock by rock, down both sides of a small ravine. They quit a little early. The morning when Vernon Tippington found what had eluded him for twenty years they were playing across the street.
Charles Edwards found a hundred dollar bill stuck in his mailbox and a note that said two words, “Thanks. Vernon.” He called Tippington over and over but no one ever answered. He drove to his house a couple of times but Vernon was gone.
Although tales of a Mayan expedition to Oklahoma actually were true, Vernon Tippington had surreptitiously whisked away the in situ evidence that would have proved it. Except for Vernon, no other person on earth ever knew for sure that the Maya really were capable of making a four thousand mile round trip journey. He had found their gold but he had taken every bit of it away.
Rumors popped up about Vernon and what he’d found. Some people heard he struck it rich and moved to California. Others heard he dug up buried treasure and bought a house in Mexico. But no one knew because no one in Ada, Oklahoma ever saw Vernon Tippington again.
Chapter Nine
The Monument Club, New York City
Arthur Borland finished his story, telling Brian that Lucky had warned him that the trek up the mountain would be incredibly difficult. “Even if you’re a seasoned climber, it’s crazy up there,” Lucky had said. “The jungle’s so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face and sometimes you can’t walk a foot without having to hack through undergrowth. There’re snakes up there as big around as a human’s torso.”
He told Arthur that once, long ago, he himself climbed five thousand feet to the top of this mountain. He’d seen what might have been evidence of an ancient civilization – stones set in circular formations and a couple of broken rocks that could have been statues – but he never encountered anything that gave him solid proof that the Maya or any other people ever actually occupied this area. All Lucky could advise was, “If you choose to follow after Captain Jack you have an extremely tough climb ahead of you.”
Despite the admonition, Arthur and the two guides headed up the mountain the next morning. They kept to the barely visible existing trail Jack Borland had most likely used until it disappeared among the jungle undergrowth. At that point they began hacking a trail themselves, moving slowly up but going the wrong way. Every difficult slash of the machete blazed a trail in the wrong direction – further and further away from the route Captain Jack had actually taken.
Arthur recalled how difficult things had been. “I spent two weeks in the most inhospitable terrain I have ever encountered. I really began to question my decision to do this, but I felt Father was alive up there somewhere. What drove me further up the mountain was that my father believed in this. He thought the Maya used this formidable jungle to hide their most important secret. That’s why Jack Borland tackled this hellish place.
“Every day got more and more difficult. We would find a narrow path and get excited that we were following Jack’s route. Suddenly the path would disappear and we were back at square one, facing low-hanging vines, insects of every imaginable type and at one point some kind of jungle cat lounging on a branch ten feet above us. I was afraid to touch a tree or bush to steady myself for fear I would discover another new creature just waiting to crawl on my skin. The guides and I tumbled over massive tree roots dozens of times and were physically exhausted every afternoon by the time the torrential rain started. We just pitched our tents and crashed into them, sopping wet and exhausted, barely able to rise for dinner.”
He described the incredible heat and humidity that rose from the floor of the jungle as they ascended step after step, sometimes moving less than two hundred feet in an entire day. Occasionally they felt the prickly sensation that they were being watched. Arthur said he fully expected a Stone Age Indian to step out in front of them. But they saw only wildlife – fantastic colorful birds, snakes ten feet long and monkeys that yelled and spit. They knew any people who might inhabit the jungle knew well how to stay hidden.
“I regret to say that after two weeks we made it to the top and found nothing. No ruins in the trees, no evidence of habitation, not a shred of anything to indicate my father had even come this way. Sadly, we returned the same way we had come up. We just didn’t have the energy to cut a different path down the mountain. We spent one more night at Jaguar’s Call and I told Lucky I was totally unsuccessful. He promised to try and contact me if he heard anything at all about my father. So far, no word.”
Chapter Ten
Brian had really enjoyed hearing Arthur’s story. “I’m captivated by the exploits of your father, but I can’t figure out why you’ve come to me. Is there a place you think I can be of help to you?”
“You may be surprised to learn that we members of the so-called aristocracy don’t a
lways have the money to accompany those noble titles we hold. Many an estate in England has been broken up into small parcels and sold off to a housing developer because the Earl, or the Duke, or the Viscount of this, that or whatever, couldn’t pay the bills to keep the manor house open. The nicest properties usually are deeded to the National Trust and the government keeps them up. Those become tourist sites and although the family doesn’t own the land or the buildings any more, at least they can see that the estates remain well preserved instead of going to rack and ruin.
“I say all that to say this – my father always lived well. He inherited a lot of property from my grandparents but Jack was always off searching for one thing or another. Gold here, buried treasure there, the secret of eternal youth somewhere else. He didn’t earn money – he just spent it. He always hoped to make everything back someday when he hit that one big jackpot. But so far he hasn’t. I live modestly, very much so compared to Captain Jack Borland and the ancestors before him. I paid for the trip to Belize and Guatemala to try to find my father but I frankly can’t afford to do a lot more.”
Arthur told Brian that he hoped Bijan Rarities would be interested in the project for the possible television rights. After all, Brian had participated in the Egyptian production earlier and was planning an Aztec show soon.
“You know, you’ve become archaeology’s equivalent of the Keno brothers on Antiques Roadshow. Yes, you own a famous gallery, but your face is becoming so well known on television that you personally command an audience in that arena. With your notoriety you can pull strings most of us can’t – even me, a member of the British aristocracy! I think you’re the perfect one to find Captain Jack.”
Arthur Borland was right. With Brian’s fortuitous ownership of Bijan Rarities happening so soon after the incredibly popular airing of the Inkharaton tomb discovery in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings, his boyish good looks and comfortable delivery had made him a go-to person for the networks. When Fox, CNN or the rest needed an authority for a sound bite on an ancient discovery, Brian Sadler frequently turned up on the couch next to the news team. He was becoming the public face of the antiquities business as he talked about new digs, exciting discoveries and theories about lost civilizations. He had weighed in on the Mayan doomsday prophecy of 2012, the theories behind the enigmatic statues of Easter Island, and ideas for how two hundred ton stones ended up hundreds of feet high atop Mayan pyramids when that civilization didn’t even have the wheel. People frequently stopped Brian on the sidewalks of New York or London to request an autograph. He thought it was interesting.
Brian thought a moment then said, “OK, I could provide funding for another expedition to Guatemala on the basis of those artifacts you’ve shown me. But my problem now is time. I’ve committed to get the Aztec Commission wrapped up really soon. Most of the work is out of my hands now but final production begins in a few weeks and I’ll be filming segments with the producers. No question I think your father’s adventures are interesting and I know you’re desperate to find him, but I just don’t know if I’m the man for you at this particular time. I just can’t be gone right now.”
Arthur stood. “I don’t want to beg, but I must find my father as quickly as possible. I want to leave the letter and these gold sheets with you. Feel free to authenticate them, study them, ask professionals about them…whatever you wish. Just get back to me. I’m blatantly trying to capture your interest so I can find my father. At the same time, if we can find irrefutable evidence that the Maya traveled far, far away from their homeland – over two thousand miles north into the heartland of America – it will be a sensational story the likes of which we have rarely seen. And that’s exactly what happened. The Spanish didn’t bury this Mayan gold in Oklahoma, Brian. The Maya themselves did.”
His hands shaking, Arthur Borland handed the small box to Brian and extended his hand with a business card. He picked up his valise, turned and walked out.
Chapter Eleven
Brian stepped out onto Madison Avenue and glanced upwards. Between the skyscrapers the sky was dark and ominous but the rain had stopped. It was nearly five pm. Pedestrian traffic was intense as thousands of workers poured out of huge buildings, on the way for a drink or a subway ride home. Madison would be less crowded at the moment than Fifth, Brian figured, so he continued south, Arthur Borland’s box clutched tightly to his chest and his umbrella ready should the skies open up. In the throng of people Brian never noticed the man who had watched him put Captain Jack Borland’s box under his trenchcoat.
At this time of day Brian wouldn’t ordinarily have gone back to the gallery but he had to put the box in a safe place. These gold sheets could be unique and it was crazy to be walking around the streets carrying something so valuable.
At 54th Street Brian turned west and walked to Fifth, then turned and reached the gallery just as his assistant Collette Conning was locking the door.
“One second, Collette!” he called as he approached. “Have you set the alarm?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you planned on returning.”
“Actually I hadn’t but the man I met left me this box and I need to leave it in the vault for tonight.” The alarm on the front door of Bijan Rarities wouldn’t be an issue; it could merely be disarmed. The vault however had a twenty-minute time delay once it was locked.
“I’ll stay and lock up the box if you want to go on home. I have a few things I could get done in an extra half hour. I really have nothing going on this evening anyway except walking my dog now that the rain’s stopped.”
Brian thanked her; that was a big help. He had had a long afternoon and really just wanted to unwind. They unlocked the door and went inside. Collette entered a code on the massive vault door that had once graced the lobby of a bank. Then she set an alarm on her watch to remind her when the door would disarm. “Go on home, Brian,” she said, shooing him out. She locked the front door behind him and walked to her desk.
The rain had cooled things down considerably and a brisk wind was whipping through the concrete canyons of Manhattan. Brian decided to walk to his apartment house on the Upper West Side instead of hailing a cab. This time of day it was quicker to walk than maneuver the busy streets in a taxi anyway, plus walking gave him time to think.
He went up Fifth Avenue to Central Park South then west alongside the Plaza Hotel. On the spur of the moment he decided to stop in at the Oak Bar for a martini. As always, the place was packed this time of day. Brian saw a couple of heads turn his direction as he snaked through tables on his way to the bar. One woman turned and whispered to her husband while pointing surreptitiously at him.
New Yorkers were jaded to celebrity. You could see Ivana Trump on the street, or Jennifer Aniston, or the Mayor. Locals came and went without giving celebrities a second glance. Tourists were different though, and despite a lot of regulars the Oak Bar was also a tourist hot spot. Out-of-towners considered trips to New York extra special if they caught a glimpse of a well-known person. Being both a landmark in itself but also situated in the famous Plaza Hotel, the Oak Bar was a site for people watching that was virtually unparalleled in New York. Brian’s face, although not famous, was familiar to many people who watched shows on Discovery Channel, History or National Geographic.
He signaled the bartender.
“Afternoon, Mr. Sadler. Your usual, sir?”
“Please.”
As Brian removed his trenchcoat the headwaiter appeared and handed Brian a ticket. “I’ll take that for you, Mr. Sadler.”
The service at the Oak Bar was always the best. Brian always thought for the price of the drinks it should be tops. And it was, even for the tourists. He sat down on a barstool and sipped his XO Vodka martini straight up with a twist, enjoying that perfect drink’s first stinging swallow as the smooth liquid went down.
He gazed across the room out the expansive north windows that overlooked Central Park just across the street. He could just see the corner of Fifth Avenue and 59th Stree
t four blocks north of his gallery, and he marveled once again in his mind about where he had been and where he was now. Thanks to Darius Nazir the gallery that had been Nazir’s was now Brian’s, and Brian Sadler, the former stockbroker trainee who had been in trouble with the Feds, was now on top of the world.
He thought about John Spedino, the Mafia chieftain who had played such a role in Brian’s obtaining the Bethlehem Scroll, and how a veiled threat kept Spedino’s name alive in the back of Brian’s mind, even though Spedino was going to be in federal prison for many years to come. He had seen first-hand how dangerous John Spedino was. And he hoped he never saw it again.
Brian nodded as the bartender asked if he wanted another. As he savored his second martini his cell phone vibrated. He saw a short text from Nicole Farber. “Evening, sweetie. Hope your day went well. Still hard at work here in Big D. Big stock fraud case. Reminded me of you! LOL!”
Nicole. He’d never thought he would let a woman get this close to him. In fact, despite her beauty and her brains there had been a time when he wanted her out of his life completely. Now he and the blonde lawyer from Dallas were a couple, even if long distances kept them apart. She had a career to pursue in her city as Brian did in his but they met as often as they could, stealing a weekend here, a week there. Occasionally Nicole joined him on one of his frequent overseas trips. She complained playfully that most men took their girlfriends to Paris or Rome, while Brian took her to the deserts of Egypt, the archaeological sites of Jordan or the mountains of Mexico, in search of ruins or ancient documents or yet another mystery Brian had heard about.
Brian’s interest in archaeology and ancient history dovetailed perfectly with his ownership of Bijan Rarities, a gallery that was ranked in the top three by the small community of collectors and dealers in priceless antiquities. Although Nicole’s interests weren’t strong in these areas she found his exploits interesting at the least, exciting most of the time, and downright scary on occasion. Brian smiled at the thought – he hadn’t expected her to be willing to join him in some of the crazy things he did, but she came along as much as she could, mostly to be with him. And he was glad. He wanted her with him as often as they could arrange it.
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 29
