by DJ Dalasta
A light breeze from the East carried with it the fresh scent of the ocean. It floated through his open window, filling the small office. Rock never tired of that smell. Freedom, some called it, discovery was the term he preferred. It was at these times that he pitied the thousands of desk jockeys that inhaled re-circulated air, ceaselessly pumped through their containers. He never understood why, but cubicle dwelling seemed to be a popular lifestyle.
Rock leaned back, intertwining his fingers and resting his head in the web. He slowly closed his eyes. They returned from Guatemala a few days back and he was still catching up on sleep. Wallace was extremely pleased with their effort, noting the recent find netted far more intact pieces than usual. The well-preserved artifacts would no doubt shed another sliver of light on the Mayan culture. Rock also reigned in a rather large bonus for the success and with nothing pressing his attention he’d wait and see what the world delivered in the coming weeks. On the rare case nothing presented itself, he’d create his own project and delve into one of the many mysteries the Caribbean had to offer.
Sayla was ruffling around in the back, sorting his makeshift collection of old books, maps and legends. In all, he didn’t know what might be lurking in the dusty crates, but she seemed fascinated by them. Every now and then she’d bring something out to show him, holding it up as though it were some fanciful prize she had won. Of course Rock himself had never made sense of most of the things back there simply because there wasn’t enough information to come to any relevant conclusions. But he’d let her dig away. Her eyes may pick out something his missed. It pleased him to finally have things getting organized.
“This is amazing,” Sayla stepped in from the back room, dusting off an old 19th century publication. “Is this an original?”
“Probably,” he replied.
“You don’t even have it covered. Look, the glue is almost flaked away and the pages are crumbling. This will be completely worthless in another year.”
“There’s a whole slew of them back there, somewhere,” he replied. He remembered coming across the dusty yellow books in the attic of an old friend’s house back in Philadelphia. They weren’t even his. They had been there when he moved in. Rock paid a small sum of money for them, but forgot about even owning the pieces until now.
“Have you ever thought about selling these on e-bay?”
“And giving snobby collectors something else to brag about owning for a day before it becomes old hat and they need to buy something else. I’d rather keep it dusty in that box than play that game.”
“Sorry I asked. I’ll at least brush it off for you and put it in one of your airtight crates. Something you should have done when you first got it.” She disappeared once again, slipping into the back room.
Rock rose from his chair and took a few steps outside. He could see the ocean stretching to meet the horizon just above the two rows of buildings between him and the beach. The land sloped enough to let the deep blue peek over the tops to where he stood. He felt isolated, which wasn’t a bad thing, the two spaces on either side of his office were up for lease and the parking lot was empty, save for his car and Sayla’s motorcycle, a red Suzuki GSF1200 Bandit. Rock didn’t know much about bikes, never cared to learn, though Sayla promised to teach him if he’d buy a cheap model for practice.
The phone rang in the office. He heard Sayla running to get it and then trip and fall over something, cursing as she gained her feet. He peeked inside to see her rubbing her shin, grinning in frustration.
“I missed it,” she said.
“What do I pay you for,” he said through a smile. She stuck out her tongue. “Who was it,” he asked.
Sayla checked the caller log, “your ex,” she said.
“Oh, well then I won’t hold it against you for missing it.”
“I think she’s nice, every time I talk to her, she’s very nice.”
“Anna?”
“Yes.”
“How often do you talk to her?”
“Once in awhile, she’ll call me.” Rock gave a look of confusion. He had no idea they talked. Sayla’s cell phone began to ring.
“That better not be her,” he said.
Sayla looked at her phone and smiled. She answered it, “hey Anna. He’s right here, you wanna talk to him.” She held the phone up for him to take. The pink plastic cover made him feel somewhat feminine.
“Hi Anna,” he answered.
“Hi Rock,” her voice was higher than normal. She was excited about something. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, and yourself?”
“Good,” she stopped. He knew her well enough from their marriage of six years to know she really wanted to tell him something.
“So how long have you been keeping tabs on me through my apprentice?”
“Not long, a couple of months, she’s quite sweet. I’ll bet she’s a pretty little thing too.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
“What do you want Anna?”
“I’ve been contracted by the Delega Group to dig up Oak Island, care to help?”
“Excuse me.” Rock’s throat immediately felt dry. It’d been a dream of his to excavate Oak Island and Anna knew it. The fact that nobody could figure out how to get at what was buried made his fingers tingle. The few facts available were incomplete and he wanted to know the real story. “Do you have access to everything,” he asked.
“I do, they purchased the rights from Nova Scotia and kicked out all the squatters,” she was gloating now.
“What do you need me for?”
“I’m going to need some fresh ideas and with a little pushing from Nate, you came to mind.”
“Well, that’s very thoughtful of both of you, and tell Nate hi for me, but I’m going to have to decline.”
“Because you’d be working for me?”
“Pretty much, I don’t mix well with someone giving me orders, and you excel in that department.”
“Well, if you reconsider, you have my number. I’m starting in a couple of days.”
“I do,” he said. “Remember though, if you get stuck and want to offer me full course to pursue what I want, when I want, and still pay me, you have my number.” He smiled at Sayla.
“Fat chance of that Rock,” Anna replied.
“I’ll be expecting your call,” he said. Anna hung up and he quickly flipped the phone back to Sayla.
She caught it and shook her head at him. “I can’t believe you turned that down.” she said “You’ve even told me about your obsession with Oak Island.”
“Follow me,” Rock grabbed her arm. He briskly walked through the office and into the back room where boxes upon boxes were stacked against the walls allowing very little area to move. He decisively walked towards a back corner and kicked open a small file cabinet. He pulled out a black folder bursting with pages and shoved it into Sayla’s arms. He reached back in and took out another one and stacked it on the top. “This is my unorganized research involving Oak Island, theories, ideas, facts. Everything I know about it. I need you to go through it, learn it, organize it and bring it back to me when it’s done.”
“I’m confused.”
“No, you’re not,” he patted her on the shoulder. “You know me well enough to know that I know that at some point we’ll be getting a call that will bring us to Nova Scotia. She’ll want to know what I think when she can’t come up with any way to raise what’s buried.”
“What if she does?”
Rock laughed. “She may in time, but she’s impatient. When her first few attempts fail, she’ll call.”
“But if you can help now, we’re just wasting time.”
Rock shook his head. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. I’m going to tell this to you once, and it’s something that has served me well. Never take the ham sandwich without the bread, if you can’t hold things together
, it’s gonna get messy”
“Did you just make that up?”
“No, I read it in a negotiating magazine.”
“Ok.” Sayla rolled her eyes. She shuffled the folders to a more comfortable position in her arms and walked away from him. “I’ll get right on this,” she said on her way out.
Rock had done months worth of research on Oak Island, almost a decade ago. At the present, he didn’t know what was going on with the site. It could be relegated to tours, on hiatus while raising funds to try another dig, or even abandoned. He needed an update. He told Sayla to lock up when she finished and then he jogged out the door.
The drive to Green Library at the FIU campus was further than what he wanted to go but it was the largest information center in the area, making it the best place to start.
He arrived in good time and stepped inside, shuddering at the fluorescent lighting and smooth, clean lines. He much preferred the ruggedness and variety of nature. This felt uncomfortable. It was, however, a place he was always able to concentrate. Inside these walls, there wasn’t much else to do.
The history of the Oak Island site was fascinating as were the numerous attempts to pull the treasure from the ground. It all supposedly started back in the late 18th century when a young kid, Daniel McGinnis, found an old tackle block hung from an Oak tree on the island. Underneath it, a depression in the ground marked a likely spot where the earth had been disturbed and moved and settled back again. He and two of his friends worked the spot but gave up after they discovered the elaborate workings and traps associated with the site. From there, the legend grew, including a theory of buried pirate treasure, most notably the stash of one Captain Kidd. Two hundred years later, with six lives lost and millions of dollars spent, whatever was put in that ground, still sits there today.
That’s what excited him most, not the idea of finding something that nobody has seen, since any fool can stumble upon a hidden ruin, but succeeding where so many had failed. Men had spent their fortunes and their entire lives trying to get at the treasure. It had become an obsession to more than one individual. Even today, last he had heard, the island was divided in lots, obsession driven men were buying the land and digging without cause or reason. He knew the type. They would pick up a stone and see a scratch on the surface claiming it was a hidden message on how to retrieve the treasure. Rock called it shit polishing. Whatever crap they found, their mind would bend it into substantiation.
He started bringing up the recent articles on Nova Scotia and Oak Island. Most of the literature was about land rights and lawsuits. He only picked out a few that outlined any new finds and a couple that wrote about the whole thing as a hoax. He knew that was a very real possibility. The facts that were present were obvious fabrications, or stretches of the truth, and he’d have to weed out fact from fiction before he could reach any real resolution. But the place sounded like fun and he wanted to come to his own conclusions.
He left the library at 3am, thirteen hours after he arrived. He only printed off four articles in total, each having to do with the dating of certain items found on the island. Other than various conspiracy theories written by nutcases, there was nothing new of any substance. He found that both delightful and disheartening. The hunt had fallen extremely stale.
When Rock returned to the office, Sayla was gone. He shook the handle to the door once to be sure it was locked and it met with satisfaction.
“Rock Tilton,” an unexpected voice startled him. He spun around and found a man in a dark suit leaning against his car.
“A little late to be sneaking up on someone, friend.” Rock casually stuck his hand in his pants and fingered his leatherman. He flipped out the blade, but kept it in his pocket.
“I apologize for coming at such a strange time. My name is Michael Cooper. I represent an organization that wishes to acquire your services.”
“And this couldn’t wait until morning?” Rock started walking towards the front of his car.
“The people I represent are not known for their patience.”
“May I ask what organization you’re referring to?”
“I cannot say.”
“Sounds legal.” Rock squinted but he couldn’t get a good look at the man. He had conveniently placed himself in the shadows
“Legality won’t be an issue.”
“Perhaps we should continue this in the morning. It’s late and my negotiating skills aren’t exactly at their most functional. I think I’d be doing myself a disservice to continue. Why don’t you just slide your card under the door and I’ll call you, Michael, right?”
“Michael Cooper.”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Tilton. This concerns Oak Island.”
Rock paused. He checked his watch for no reason. “Oak Island is not my concern,” he said.
“It should be. Your ex-wife doesn’t know what she is becoming a part of.” The man began a light stroll. He reached into his pocket and withdrew something, holding it between his fingers. “Here’s my card Mr. Tilton.” He placed it on the hood of the car. “Call me in the morning.”
Rock watched him go until the man disappeared, lost to the night. He walked over to the front of his car and picked up the card, gently placing it in his pocket. Nothing was ever simple, he thought, and Oak Island just became that much more intriguing.
Chapter 3
Miami, April 1st 2012
