by Mark Romang
His mood sour, Damien tried the door. It swung open and he entered the carriage house. Someone had left a light on, and it only took a second for him to realize he’d stepped into an art studio. Marvelous paintings adorned the walls. Other paintings in various stages of completion sat on easels. And all the paintings depicted a religious scene from the Bible.
Damien gazed at the paintings, transfixed by their astounding beauty. He wasn’t much of an art lover, but even he could see these works belonged in a museum or gallery. But the more he gawked at the paintings the more unsettled he became. The spiritual nature of the paintings convicted him, made him feel guilty for what he intended to do, and guilty for what he’d already done.
Damien felt anger rise up within him. He snarled and lashed out at the painting nearest him, knocking it from its easel. The canvas depicted a vengeful Joab stabbing Abner. The painting clattered to the floor. Damien stepped on the canvas, grinding his heel through it, destroying it.
His fisted hands shaking, he moved toward a large freestanding cabinet. He yanked open the cabinet and perused the art supplies. He didn’t know for sure what he was looking for, perhaps another iron chest like Arcadias found on the beach. But to his dismay, there were only paintbrushes, varnish cans, palettes, and paint tubes in the cabinet. Damien slammed shut the cabinet.
And that’s when he heard it; a thunderous bark from somewhere in the carriage house, followed by nails clicking noisily on the floor. And then the dog came into his view.
Damien swallowed hard. The dog looked like a St. Bernard, only pure black. The word Newfoundland entered Damien’s mind. The dog skidded to a halt about eight feet away. The giant canine sniffed at the destroyed canvas and then looked up at Damien and barked several times.
Damien calmly pulled out his Taurus side arm from his windbreaker. He pulled the slide back. The black beast bared its fangs and growled. The ominous rumble made the hair on Damien’s neck stand up. And then the dog took two rapid steps and sprang into the air, lunging for him.
Damien leveled the Taurus and pulled the trigger. And the dog yelped in pain.
Chapter 15
Prostrate in the moist dirt, and covered with mud and cobwebs, Arcadias wriggled forward another six inches. He operated in the crawlspace under the house, searching the ground with his handheld scanners. It was painstaking work, but a necessary chore. Finding history often requires patience, as well as a willingness to get dirty.
Arcadias knew the treasure could very well be hiding in the ground under the plantation house. Rutherford Whitcomb likely built the house not knowing Lafitte’s treasure cache hid somewhere on the grounds.
Although this is what Arcadias hoped for, a nagging thought tormented him. What if Rutherford accidently discovered the treasure and then spent it all? Arcadias banished the thought. It’s here. I can feel it, he told himself.
Arcadias heard a rustling sound and froze. He determined which direction the sound came from and turned his head. He flinched when his headlamp cast 344 lumens onto an opossum, and not just one opossum, but several—an opossum family.
Arcadias shuddered at the sight of their glowing eyes, the sounds of their scaly tails sliding across the mud a few feet away. Hideous creatures, he thought. Arcadias picked up a mud clod and flung it toward the opossums. “Get! Get away! Shoo!”
The parent opossum reared up on its hind legs and hissed at him, but then turned and skittered off toward the other end of the crawlspace, babies in tow.
Relieved, Arcadias continued to scan the earth. And as he scanned, he mulled over his escape plan.
He still had roughly ten-thousand in cash left over from the gold he’d liquidated from the iron chest he’d found on Grand Isle beach. Once he discovered the big stash, he would divvy it up with his brother and their girlfriends. He would then quickly alter his appearance by shaving his head. And then he would work his way alone down to Mexico using his cash and a false identity he’d cobbled together over the past three days. He had in mind Costa Rica as his final destination.
The scanner in his right hand detected something and started beeping. Arcadias hurriedly pulled his pinpointer out from a pocket on his cargo jeans. He waved the pinpointer over the area until he found the exact place where the metal object lay. And then he started to dig.
After burrowing down about six inches he found a long, skinny cylinder. He brushed off the dirt and examined it closely. It looked like a ramrod from a flintlock rifle. Since the house was built before the Civil War, Arcadias speculated the ramrod might very well have come from a British or American soldier fighting during the War of 1812. He further surmised that the soldier died while reloading his weapon. Why else would he leave behind such a valuable object?
Arcadias imagined what it must have been like on that day; men and boys fighting for their lives, muskets and cannons firing. The bloody carnage would’ve been horrific.
The ramrod was an interesting discovery he would normally find thrilling. But a ramrod wasn’t a chest full of gold. So he tossed the ramrod aside and moved on.
He’d barely covered another foot of ground when his two-way radio squawked. He heard Damien’s voice pierce the static. And his brother sounded fearful. Arcadias pulled out his radio.
“Arcadias, can you hear me. We have a problem, copy?”
Arcadias pressed the talk button. “I hear you, Damien. What is happening? What is the problem?”
“I searched the carriage house and was attacked by a dog. The dog was huge. I had to shoot it.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No, I only wounded it. It ran off.”
“You have to find the dog and finish it off. We can’t allow it to run to a neighbor’s house. Have Colette help you? Do you copy, Damien?”
“I copy. We’ll find the dog. You find the treasure.”
Chapter 16
“I think I removed enough bricks. We should both be able to get through the hole,” Rafter said, eyeing his work.
“I’ll take your word for it, Jon. I’ve never climbed up a chimney before.”
Rafter turned and faced his wife. “You wait here. I’ll go first and see if I can get the grate off.”
No way! Bobby asked Rose to wait for him. And evidently Bobby never came back, because Rose never got married.”
Rafter grinned. “I’m not going off to war, Annie. I will come back for you. I promise.”
“If you don’t come back in fifteen minutes I’m coming up there.”
“Okay, fair enough. While I’m gone can you look around for some rope?”
“What do you need the rope for?”
“I’m going to tie one end around a railing of the widow’s walk. We’ll rappel down to the ground,” Rafter explained.
“Do you think the widow’s walk will hold our weight?”
Rafter nodded. “I rebuilt it. Don’t you remember? There’s all new wood in it. It took me forever. I about roasted to death refurbishing it.”
Annie shook her head. “We’ve rebuilt or replaced almost everything on this house. I can’t remember everything.”
Rafter kissed her. “Wish me luck. Here I go,” he said. He put the small flashlight between his teeth and scooted through the hole on his belly. Once his shoulders and chest cleared the hole he grabbed the closest rung. A thin layer of creosote buildup made the rung a little slippery, but the rung seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight. Rafter gripped the rung and hauled his legs through the hole.
Once inside the chimney, he was surprised by how much room he had to operate. The chimney didn’t narrow once it left the hearth; it remained wide and spacious all the way up.
Rafter shimmied his way up towards the top, hoping and praying he could pop the grate off. The grate stood in the way of their freedom. He had to overcome it. Their lives might depend upon it.
Near the top he could smell fresh air. Aromatic scents from Annie’s flower beds rode the breeze. Without much effort he could imagine the early evening air, cool and clean
and refreshing from the day’s heat. The day had been mostly clear. Stars would be twinkling and lighting up the heavens.
Rafter moved as quickly as he could while still maintaining silence. He didn’t know if the sound of his movements would carry down to the hearth or not. If the Charbonneaus were in the parlor next to the fireplace they could possibly hear him.
Reaching the chimney top, Rafter pulled his screwdriver from a back pocket. He located the bolts affixing the grate to the bricks. He appraised his chances at overcoming the rusted bolts. 60/40, he thought.
Rafter inserted the screwdriver blade into the grate near a bolt and pried upward with as much strength as he could generate with only one hand. The grate moved a quarter inch, but the antique bolt held. Well, maybe this endeavor is a 50/50 proposition.
He moved to a different corner and a different bolt. He moved his head so the flashlight in his mouth would spotlight the bolt, and tried again. Sweat dripped off his nose. Rafter prayed for divine intervention, for supernatural strength. He pried from every angle and direction, but the bolt stubbornly held fast. The stars above his head taunted him. The leaves from nearby magnolia trees rattled in the wind and laughed at his puny effort. I can’t do this in my strength, Lord. I’ll be here all day if you don’t help out.
Not long after he sent up the petition, the bolt seemed to move ever so slightly. Rafter thought he might only be imagining things. But then the bolt started to give way. The grate lifted up a half inch this time.
Encouraged, Rafter switched the screwdriver to his left hand, giving his right hand a break. Thirty more seconds of prying and the bolt relinquished completely.
Rafter jammed the screwdriver under the grate, wedging it fast. He then inserted his fingers through the grate and pushed the bolt out with his hand. He heard the liberated bolt roll down the slate roof.
One down and five more to go, he thought. Maybe this crazy escape plan isn’t so crazy.
Chapter 17
A half mile down the levee road, Ned and Cora Hoxley sat in their living room—Ned in his well-worn recliner, and Cora in her wheelchair.
Despite the arthritis in her hands, Cora crocheted a baby afghan. Blue yarn trailed down the side of her wheelchair. Great-grandchild number seven would arrive in four months, and Cora wanted to finish the afghan in time for the new arrival.
Every now and again Cora glanced over at her husband. Ned dozed peacefully in his recliner. She shook her head. Ned slept just as much as their pet cat. But I suppose it’s normal for an eighty-nine-year-old man to sleep a lot, she thought.
Cora tilted her head. She thought she’d heard something, and it sounded from outside and on the stoop. Even though arthritis crippled her mobility, she still possessed excellent hearing. Cora set her crocheting project to the side and wheeled herself over to the door.
She reached up and flipped on an outside light. She then opened the door and saw Rosie; the neighbor’s dog lying on the stoop near the door. The Newfoundland looked up at her and whined. Cora frowned. Rosie often came over to their house to get treats from Ned. But tonight something didn’t look right about the big dog.
And then she saw blood pooling on the stoop near the dog’s left flank.
Cora backed up her wheelchair as fast as her arthritic hands would allow. She turned the chair and wheeled it up to Ned. She placed a hand on his knee and shook it as best as she could. “Ned, wake up! Something is wrong with Rosie.”
Underneath bushy eyebrows, Ned’s muddy brown eyes popped open. “What… what did you say, dear?”
“Rosie is here, and she’s hurt. She’s bleeding all over the stoop.”
Still groggy with sleep, Ned asked, “Rosie the dog?”
Cora sighed. “Yes, Ned. Jon and Annie’s dog is hurt and lying on our stoop. She’s bleeding,” Cora said loudly to compensate for Ned’s cheap and inefficient hearing aids.
Ned stood up, swayed in place for a second, and then tottered over to the door. He opened the screen door and stepped out. Cora rolled up to the door behind him. “It’s her left flank that’s hurt.”
Ned sat down on the stoop beside Rosie. He stroked the dog. “How’s my girl? Cora says you’re hurt.” Ned moved his hand through the dog’s long black fur and down to her left flank. His hand came away bloody. “Yes, you’re all dinged up, Rosie. How did you manage to hurt yourself?”
“Ned, I thought I heard gunfire near the Rafters’ house,” Cora said.
“Jon or Annie would never shoot Rosie. They love this dog.”
“Well, I wouldn’t think they would shoot her. I’m just saying what I heard.”
Ned found the source of the bleeding and examined it the best he could. “I don’t see or feel an entry or exit hole. That’s good. If she was shot the bullet only grazed her.” Ned looked up at Cora. “Can you fetch me an old towel and our first aid kit?”
Cora nodded and rolled back into the living room and down the hall to the linen closet. She grabbed one of their more raggedy towels, as well as the first aid kit. She then rolled back toward the front door to Ned and Rosie. “Here you go, hon.”
Ned took the towel and first aid kit from her. He placed the towel on the wound and applied direct pressure. Rosie flinched but allowed him to treat her. She half-heartedly wagged her tail.
“You think she’s going to make it? She’s lost a lot of blood.”
Ned didn’t answer. He lifted the towel and examined the wound. He smiled cautiously. “The bleeding is slowing down already. I think she’ll be okay,” he said after a bit.
“I’m going to go call Jon and Annie and tell them we have their dog,” Cora said.
“Good idea. I’m going to put some antibiotic cream on the wound, and then bandage her up.”
Cora wheeled herself back into the living room and picked up the phone. She carefully pushed the buttons for Jon and Annie’s number and placed the handset to her ear. She heard the phone on the other side ring. But after the tenth unanswered ring she hung up. Cora rejoined Ned. “I can’t get anyone to answer the phone.”
“I guess I’ll have to drive up there. Maybe I can roust someone.”
“We still haven’t eaten supper, Ned. And you’ll need to take your medications.”
“Oh, fiddle. I don’t need all those medications. I’m eighty-nine-years old. Why not let nature take its course?”
“Because I don’t want to be a widow in a wheelchair, that’s why.”
Ned stood up, faster this time. He didn’t wobble. “It won’t take me long, Cora. I’ll be gone at the most for thirty minutes. And then I’ll come back and we’ll eat and I’ll take my insulin shot and those confounded pills.”
Cora sighed. “Okay. But please don’t tarry. I know how you like to shoot the breeze with Jon.”
Ned bent down and kissed his wife of sixty-two years. “I’ll be right back, dear. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.”
****
Nighttime insects chirped and buzzed all around Damien and Colette as they scanned the ground for a blood trail. Using headlamps and flashlights, they searched the big field to the west of the house. Their feet crunched old pecan husks as they walked.
“I thought we were supposed to be looking for doubloons, not dog blood,” Colette grumbled.
“And I thought I explained it to you. We need to finish the dog before it makes it to a neighbor’s house. We might be discovered if it does.”
“I think you and I should leave now and never look back. We’re not going to find any treasure. And I don’t want to go to prison. And I know you don’t want to go to prison either.”
Damien stopped so abruptly that Colette bumped into him. “No matter whether we find the gold or not, we’re going to be fugitives. And we need money to live on.”
“But the longer we keep looking, the less likely we’ll be able to get away,” Colette argued. “I say the heck with Arcadias and his fool’s gold. We should just take off now. Fake our deaths and take our chances.”
“It’s not fo
ol’s gold, Colette. I’ve seen the box of doubloons and pieces of eight that Arcadias found on the beach. I also saw the note in the box that stated this spot hid the rest of the loot. The treasure is real.” Damien looked at his girlfriend. He hated how she was usually right about things, like now. But every once in a while her brain came up with stuff he never would’ve thought of. “I sort of like your idea about faking our deaths. How do you propose we do it?”
“It wouldn’t be that hard. We go back to your place and get your boat, take it out on a lake or the Mississippi River like we’re going catfishing at night. We anchor the boat and then swim to shore and walk away. I’ll leave my purse in your truck so the authorities will know I was with you.”
Damien scratched his head. “And what if we drown? The Mississippi has dangerous currents.”
“We’ll wear life jackets, dope. And the currents will make our deaths look plausible. Plus, when our bodies aren’t found they’ll assume the currents washed us away. We’ll leave some empty liquor bottles in the boat to make it look like we were drinking.”
“I only have two-hundred dollars in cash on me. That won’t get us far. We should hold out another hour or two and see if the treasure turns up before we do anything like you’re suggesting,” Damien said.
“Okay, but the longer we wait the less time we’ll have to fake our deaths.”
Damien whirled around and faced the house. “Did you hear something?”
Colette shook her head. “The only thing I hear is noisy bugs.”
“I heard something back at the house: a clattering noise, like metal against metal.”
“It’s probably just Arcadias exiting the crawlspace.”
