The Treasure Box (The Grace Series Book 2)

by Mark Romang

  Nixon shook his head. “That doesn’t explain the odd answer about his parents. I told him his parents are worried sick about him. And he told me to tell them he was sorry,” Nixon said. The hostage negotiator looked at Laskey. “You said Rafter’s parents are dead, that they died in a house fire shortly after Rafter graduated from high school and went off to college.”

  Laskey nodded. He grinned at Sheriff Tubbs. “So how about it, Sheriff, do you still think the dark river flowing through Jon Rafter’s heart is overflowing its banks?”

  “I stand corrected, Newton. You were right. But we can only hope Rafter doesn’t take the law into his own hands as he’s prone to do, that his gallantry doesn’t sabotage this operation.”

  “I’m sure Jon will only do that as a last resort. He strikes me as an intelligent person.”

  “But just because we’ve ruled out Jon as a suspect, we still haven’t determined who the hostage taker is,” Tubbs pointed out

  “But at least we’ve narrowed it down to three people: Arcadias, his brother Damien, and the lawyer. I think we can rule out the old man,” Laskey said.

  Roy Nixon looked at his watch. “We’ll know soon enough. Two hostages will walk out the house in a little over three minutes. We can just ask them who the hostage taker is.”

  Chapter 47

  Arcadias grimaced. The conversation with the negotiator gnawed at him. He’d performed badly, allowed himself to be played. If the ongoing conversation was a chess match, he’d just bungled his way into checkmate.

  Standing in a hallway that separated the parlor and dining room from the kitchen, Arcadias fumed over his blunder. Roy Nixon deftly probed him for information without him even realizing it until it was too late. It was embarrassing how easily Nixon outflanked him. Arcadias wondered now if he’d squandered his only advantage, and if the lawmen outside had figured out he wasn’t really Jon Rafter.

  Throughout his life he’d used his superior intellect to his advantage. It had never failed him until now.

  Arcadias suddenly wound up and threw the cordless phone down the hallway. It bounced off the wall and burst into pieces on the hardwood floor. His chest pounding, he glared at the shattered phone for several seconds, and was struck by the similarities the phone and his life shared. I guess I won’t be talking to Roy again soon.

  He stalked into the parlor and headed for Colette, who lay sleeping on a sofa, her wounded arm propped on a pillow, the arrow still wedged in her arm and sticking straight up. Soft moans occasionally escaped her graying lips.

  Arcadias squatted down and gently shook her. She briefly roused and looked at him dully, then went back to sleep. Arcadias moved his mouth up to her ear and whispered, “Colette, listen to me. I’m going to release you and the old man. You have to convince the lawmen outside that Jon Rafter is to blame for all this. Tell them Rafter has lost his mind and turned violent. Tell them he shot you with a longbow when you tried to protect his wife. Tell them he also shot the cop.

  “This is your only chance to walk away from this. You have to sound convincing, Colette. We’re all counting on you. Ned will dispute everything you say. You have to convince the sheriff otherwise. Tell him that Ned is senile. He has dementia. He imagines things. Tell the sheriff that.” Arcadias gently grabbed her arm. “Okay, up you go.”

  Colette gingerly sat up and grabbed her injured arm with her other hand. Arcadias helped her stand up. He looked over at Iris. “Untie Ned’s feet. He and Colette are going outside.”

  “What about me? Can I go?”

  Arcadias shook his head. A curl from his wavy brown mop slapped against his forehead. He forced a smile onto his face. “I still need you, Iris. You’re invaluable help I can’t do without.”

  Arcadias escorted Colette over to the front door and stopped. He waited for Iris to bring Ned over. His heart thumped crazily in his chest. The tension in the house was palpable, but paled in comparison to the pressure wrapping his mind tighter and tighter with each passing minute. He didn’t know what would happen when the door opened. But he couldn’t go back on his promise to Nixon. He wanted to keep the SWAT team outside and standing around, guns dangling at their sides.

  Ned Hoxley shuffled over. Iris shadowed him from behind. Ned stopped and looked at him, his gaze as intense as an owl scanning a forest floor for prey. “Quit looking for it, Arcadias. You’re never going to find it,” Hoxley said. “It’s not supposed to be found. And it’s better that way.”

  “Enjoy your freedom, Ned. I hope to never see you again.”

  “I hold the same sentiment. But I plan to attend your trial, and if I live long enough, your execution. That day will be a bright and sunny day for Louisiana.”

  Arcadias stepped aside, out of the line of fire. He watched Ned wrap an arm around Colette and open the door. And then he watched the mismatched pair walk out the door and onto the gallery. Arcadias quickly shut the door and locked it.

  He sidestepped the King Saul mural and returned to the parlor. And just as he stepped into the room his two-way radio went off. He heard Damien mutter something excitedly, but couldn’t make it out. Arcadias hit the talk button. “Is everything okay, Damien? Where are you?”

  “I’m fine, brother. I’m in the attic, and I think I’ve found the treasure. Come quick.”

  “I’ll be right there, Damien.”

  Arcadias looked at Iris. “You’re doing great, Iris. Continue guarding the prisoners. I’ll be in the attic. Call me on the radio if something happens.” Without speaking another word, he fled the parlor, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 48

  “Hostages coming out!” a deputy peering through binoculars shouted. “One man and one woman, both hostages appear feeble.”

  Newton Laskey stood shoulder to shoulder with his two agents near the end of the driveway and watched the hostages leave the house. The woman hostage for sure needed medical attention, and perhaps the old man would require first aid as well. An ambulance waited at the end of the driveway to take the infirmed to the nearest hospital.

  Laskey turned his head and observed two EMTs pull a gurney out the back of the ambulance. They each slung a medic bag over a shoulder and pushed the gurney up closer to the throng of observing lawmen. The deputies parted and allowed the EMTs through.

  “Hold up, gentlemen,” Lester Tubbs said to the EMTs. “We would like a quick word with the hostages before you take them away or treat them.”

  The EMTs nodded their heads anxiously, but didn’t protest.

  The release of the two hostages was a step in the right direction, but Laskey knew the standoff would only last for as long as the SWAT leader could maintain his patience. Even now Kyle Brock talked to his team, instructing them and giving them orders. Laskey guessed Brock wanted under-the-door cameras inserted into the house now.

  Two SWAT team members rushed up to the hostages and assisted them, escorting them safely back to the EMTs. Lester Tubbs confronted Ned Hoxley and Colette Williams. “You folks obviously need medical attention, but can one of you give us a quick explanation of what’s going on in the house?”

  Colette nodded her head weakly. “We were here for a romantic getaway—Damien and me, and Arcadias and his girlfriend, Iris. But then Jon Rafter and his wife started fighting. The fighting got way out of hand. I tried to intervene. Rafter then disappears and returns with a bow and arrow and shoots me with it. And then a cop shows up and Rafter shoots him with a side arm.”

  Ned Hoxley snorted. “That is not what happened at all, Sheriff. She’s one of them. They’re treasure hunters. And as unbelievable as this may sound, they’re looking for Jean Lafitte treasure. They think it’s in the house somewhere. Arcadias Charbonneau is the ring leader. He’s the hostage taker. Jon and Annie Rafter are tied up in the parlor as we speak.”

  “Please, Sheriff, don’t listen to Ned. He means well but he has dementia. Jon Rafter is who you need to focus on. He’s a dangerous man. Look at this arrow in my arm. That’s all the proof you need,”
Colette said, her voice as weak as a day old kitten.

  “Hogwash! I may have numerous health issues, but dementia isn’t one of them. Colette is lying to save her skin. I’ve known Jon Rafter for a long time. He’s a saint walking around on this earth. Even now he’s reasoning with Arcadias, trying to calm him down so he doesn’t harm anyone. Arcadias is the one who gunned down the cop. He’s who you need to focus on,” Ned countered.

  “A deputy will complete a report at the hospital. You both can give your full account of the crime at the emergency room,” Tubbs said firmly.

  “I’m okay, Sheriff. You can talk to me at my house down the road. I’m a little late taking my insulin. But that’s no big deal. I’ve been late before. I just adjust the dosage. Besides, my wife will be worried sick,” Ned said.

  Tubbs turned to one of the EMTs. “Can you examine Ned here?”

  “We need to take Colette to the hospital. She needs surgery at once. But if you want to examine Ned here, I suggest you have another ambulance meet you here or at his house.”

  Tubbs nodded. And then the EMTs went to work immediately on Colette, placing her on the gurney. They performed a few vital signs checks and then loaded her into the ambulance. The doors to the emergency vehicle slammed shut. Seconds later, Laskey watched the ambulance speed off down the road, sirens blaring.

  It was then Laskey noticed a news vehicle pulling up. The two U.S. Marshals on the scene intercepted the reporters before they could even get out of their vehicle. Laskey was glad the marshals were here. They were here only because Jon and Annie were in WITSEC—the Witness Security Program, or more commonly known as the Federal Witness Protection Program. And like a mother bear protecting her cubs, the marshals charged over to ensure their witnesses’ anonymity didn’t get exposed to the world.

  “What do you think is going to happen now, Newt?”

  Laskey faced Kevin Brubaker. He didn’t quite know how to answer his agent’s query. “I’m not sure, Kevin. I guess further negotiations will determine what happens.” Laskey walked over to Roy Nixon and tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but the next time you talk to the hostage taker I’d continue to address him as Jon Rafter. Let him think we’re buying his story.”

  Nixon, a short, middle-aged man nodded. “Yeah, if I call him on it he may become agitated and do something rash. We don’t want that.”

  Sheriff Tubbs drifted over. He looked at Nixon. “When are you calling the house again? Lieutenant Brock needs a distraction. His boys are getting set to implant the cameras.”

  “I’ll call in a few minutes. I thought I’d give the hostage taker a few minutes to come down off his adrenaline rush. Releasing Ned and Colette sent his emotions into overdrive. And now that he sees nothing bad has happened to him, he should relax a bit and become more agreeable.”

  Tubbs pressed Nixon for more specifics. “So maybe in five minutes you’ll make the call?”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. In five minutes we’ll start the dialogue all over again.”

  Chapter 49

  Arcadias pulled open the attic door and stepped inside. He hadn’t yet explored the attic and didn’t know what to expect. He sneezed several times as he looked around at all the junk stored chaotically, some of it covered with sheets, and all of it dust-covered.

  But then as his eyes accustomed to the dim lighting he realized the items weren’t junk at all, but well-preserved antiques. Everywhere he looked he saw items from yesteryear. The attic was an antique lover’s dream come true, a disorganized museum longing to be cataloged and organized.

  Arcadias stepped carefully around the items. “Damien, where are you?”

  “I’m over here, brother.”

  Arcadias turned his head in the direction he heard Damien’s voice. “I still can’t see you. What are you next to?”

  “I’m behind a roll-top desk.”

  Arcadias scanned the cluttered room for a few seconds until he spotted the desk tucked in a corner, a sheet hiding most of it. He moved in that direction, bypassing an open wardrobe filled with vintage dresses. And then he saw the top of Damien’s head near the floor.

  Arcadias skirted around an ornate Victorian headboard leaning up against the desk and found Damien on his hands and knees and looking intently at a locked wooden crate.

  Damien looked up at him. His LED headlamp shone right into Arcadias’s eyes. Arcadias shielded his eyes, and then squatted down next to his younger brother. Nearly blind from Damien’s headlamp, he struggled to make out the crate.

  But then the spots gradually faded and the twinkling stars disappeared altogether. He directed his gaze onto the wooden crate. Disappointment stabbed at his heart almost immediately. “It’s antique looking but not old enough to belong in the nineteenth century. Plus, I don’t see any Spanish writing or carvings on it.”

  “But don’t you think whoever initially found the treasure would’ve transferred it into something less obvious? That’s what I would’ve done.”

  Arcadias shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible they might have done that. It makes sense in a way. So how did you find it?”

  Damien shrugged. “I sort of stumbled over it. In a way I feel like the treasure drew me to it. Look, I feel good about this, Arcadias. This crate might just hold what we’re looking for. A pity we won’t be able to keep it.”

  Arcadias ignored Damien’s last comment. And despite his misgivings about the crate’s appearance, his chest pounded. However long the odds, perhaps they really had found Lafitte treasure. “I guess there’s only one way to find out if we’ve located it. We have to open it. Have you found the key to the lock as well?”

  Damien shook his head and held up his Dewalt saw. “I don’t need a key. I can use the reciprocating saw to cut through the shackle. For that matter, I can just cut the whole lid off.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Start cutting the lock.”

  “I can’t.”

  Arcadias frowned. “You just said you could cut open the crate with the saw.”

  “I need an extension cord for the saw. The only receptacle is way over there,” Damien said, pointing to a receptacle mounted to a stud about twenty feet away.

  “We should be able to find an extension cord somewhere in one of the upstairs bedrooms.”

  Damien nodded. His dark eyes flashed. “We need to hurry then.”

  “I agree. We don’t have much time. You scour the west bedrooms and I’ll look in the east ones,” Arcadias said.

  ****

  While Arcadias and Damien hunted for extension cords, two SWAT team officers crept toward the plantation house, one toward the front door and one to the back door. Already wearing black Kevlar body armor and black tactical helmets, the two officers blended into the night as easily as black cats slinking in a dark alley.

  SWAT officer 1 reached the front steps and stealthily ascended them. He reached the door and knelt down on his knees. Pulling a small pack off his back, the officer pulled a UDC—under the door camera—from out of his pack. He slid the thin insertion tongue containing the camera under the door. He quickly looked at his viewing hub and adjusted the insertion tongue, which resembled a spade, slightly to the left in order to view a larger area. A high resolution black and white image of the foyer, hallway, and staircase appeared on the hub. SWAT officer 1 spoke quietly into his boom mic. “Camera 1 is into place and recording images.”

  Swat officer 2 knelt by the backdoor and performed the same operation as his cohort. He slid the UDC under the back door and adjusted the insertion tongue camera until the entire kitchen, including the pantry came into view on the viewing hub. SWAT officer 2 spoke quietly into the boom mic attached to his Motorola headset. “Camera 2 is in place and recording images,” he said, echoing his cohort.

  Chapter 50

  Still unable to find an extension cord, Arcadias left the Rose room and entered the landing. Lifelike artwork surrounded him on every side. Jon Rafter had obviously spent mo
nths and years painting on the landing walls, and his artistry took one’s breath away. But Arcadias didn’t have time to view the master artwork or interpret it. He had a greater purpose in mind.

  Arcadias walked past a mural depicting the prodigal son returning home to his jubilant father, and was about to enter another bedroom when a grinning Damien exited a bedroom door and joined him on the landing, an extension cord dangling from his left hand.

  “Let’s do it, Arcadias. Let’s open this crate,” Damien said, his raspy voice filled with determination.

  Arcadias allowed himself a tiny smile. “Our destiny awaits us, Damien. It’s time to claim what’s been given us.” Arcadias led the way and entered the attic first. He zigzagged his way through the antiques until he reached the crate. A lump formed in his throat, and he knelt down on his knees almost reverently.

  Damien plugged the extension cord into the receptacle and joined him. He then plugged the reciprocating saw into the extension cord, took a deep breath, and placed the saw blade against the lock’s shackle. He smiled at Arcadias briefly, and then pushed in on the trigger button.

  The saw growled as the blade cut at the shackle in a push and pull motion. The lock wildly flopped around in response to the saw blade. Damien quickly shut off the saw. He looked at Arcadias. “I think we’d be better served if I just cut the lid off. It’s going to take forever to cut through the lock.”

  “I see what you mean. Go ahead, I’m not stopping you.”

  Damien placed the saw blade at one corner of the crate’s lid and started the saw once more. The Dewalt chewed up the old wood like a beaver gnawing at a dead tree. Sawdust billowed into the air and soon coated both Charbonneau brothers.

  Damien continued to guide the whirring blade, and after a minute or so stopped the saw. He set down the power tool. He looked at his brother. “Do you want to do the honors?”