by Alton Gansky
The officer sighed, turned, and looked her in the eye. “Then they will call and complain that you’re being a public nuisance,
or the landowner will call and say that you’re trespassing, and I’ll have to come up here and arrest you, and that may look bad on your résumé.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I wouldn’t have any choice. Now let’s go.”
Perry watched as the mayor stewed then relented. She strode off without looking back, leaving the deputy to follow.
“There goes one unhappy woman,” Jack said.
“I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be seeing her again.”
“No doubt,” Jack agreed. “Come over to the table. Gleason and I have something to show you.”
JULIA STRAIGHT WALKED into Rutherford’s office unannounced. Apart from Rutherford himself and the duty nurse, she was the only one on the planet with the identification card that allowed such access. It was a concession reluctantly given when Rutherford’s health had reached the point that a simple cold could kill him.
Rutherford looked up from his monitor, his head bobbing slightly as his ever-weakening muscles tried to steady the weight of his skull and brain. His sister paused a few steps past the threshold and folded her arms. She was tall, just under six feet, a trait she never concealed. On dates she wore heels, even if the man was shorter than she. Thick mahogany hair flowed down past her shoulders. Her green eyes revealed a keen intellect nearly matching that of her brother. Science was never her interest, but business was. It was she who guided the fledgling RS BioDynamics from its early “garage” days to the financial force it was today. As president of the company, she answered only to Rutherford and the board, and the board had never had the courage to press her about anything.
“What?” Rutherford snapped.
“The nurse said you refused to eat your lunch.”
“I’m not hungry. I’m busy. I have things on my mind.” He looked back to the monitor.
“You’re the one with multiple PhDs. I’m just a simpleminded businessperson, but I’m pretty sure that eating is necessary for life.”
“I know what I need.”
“Good, we’re in agreement. I’ll send the nurse in, and you
can have a meal.”
“It’s way past lunchtime,” Rutherford protested.
“That’s my point. Take some soup, and then we can have dinner later.”
“I don’t want soup. Leave me to my work.”
Julia walked over to her brother and kissed him on the forehead. “Work. It’s always work with you.”
Rutherford croaked a laugh. “And you’re so different?”
“No, but I eat when I should. I need the fuel for brain and body. So do you.”
“Neither my brain nor my body is hungry. I don’t get much exercise, so I don’t need much food.”
“There’s that sarcasm again.” She looked at the computer monitor. “Pretty,” she said. “Is that the place?”
“That’s it. Alex obtained the photos from an operative he hired.”
“Someone outside the company?” Julia didn’t like this idea.
“He has it under control. He knows what he’s doing. Look here.” Rutherford moved his one responsive hand to a small joystick on the panel of his high-tech wheelchair. The infrared beam connected the panel to the computer. The picture grew larger on the screen. “I’ve digitally enhanced the image. You can see some of the equipment. They’re definitely prepared to dig.”
“You enhanced the photos? Yourself? Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Yeah, get out of this chair. Stop patronizing me.”
Julia took a couple of steps away. “You’re lucky to have me, you know. I’m indispensable on so many levels.”
“You’re one of the richest women in the world, Julia. I made you that way.”
Julia laughed. “I made me this way. You had the idea, you made the discoveries, you got the patents, but there’s more to running RS BioDynamics than just that. Who arranged for the IPO that made you rich overnight? Who put together the staff, the marketing, and the corporate image? There is as much of my blood in this company as yours. I might add that there is as much dirt under my nails too.”
“If I eat the soup, will you shut up?”
“Yes.” She returned to the computer monitor, this time standing behind her invalid brother. “Do you think it will work?”
“It has to. It’s the only hope I have.”
“Then we’ll make sure it works.” Her tone turned icy. “No matter what.”
PERRY STOOD IN the harsh glare of the lights his crew had erected earlier that day. Four banks of one-thousand-watt halide work lights shone down like artificial suns, casting shadows in four directions. It gave the pasture an otherworldly feel. The deep green of the grass was hued yellow under the artificial light. A stiff breeze blew through, rustling leaves and grass. In various spots, tiny yellow marker flags attached to wire stems fluttered in the wind. A short distance away, the muted, throaty rumble of the Ingersoll-Rand generator used to power the lights echoed off the soft hills.
Other noises filled the early evening, the most noticeable coming from the Diedrich D-50 all-terrain drilling rig. It was one of two that Perry had requested. The D-50 was the smaller one, designed for drilling and coring in areas with limited overhead space. The drill unit was attached to a four-wheel-drive truck with large black tires that were now sunk an inch into the soft soil. Perry watched as the hollow tube of the corer slowly bored into the ground. The shaft was small, only four inches in diameter, but large enough to make the initial coring.
Moving his attention from the D-50, Perry quickly took in the surroundings. Jack had, as always, done a superb job. The longer grass had been cut short; white chalk lines formed a grid on the ground. Yellow chalk lines delineated the width and run of the buried ramp and other artifacts shown by the surveys. Precision, forethought, determination—those were words that every project manager at Sachs Engineering understood. The concepts reached their pinnacle in men like Jack. Perry was satisfied.
Deeper and deeper the shaft went, filling its hollow interior with soil.
“How deep did you say this object was?” Perry asked.
“It’s the closest to the surface, just over a meter.”
“Over three feet,” Perry muttered.
The sound of the four-cylinder diesel that drove the drill changed in pitch. “Sounds like we’ve encountered a little resistance.”
Jack nodded. “It’s about the right depth. How much deeper do you want to go?”
“A few more feet. I would rather have too much information than not enough.”
Minutes turned into moments as Perry stood by impatiently. What he really wanted to do was bring in the backhoe and rip up whatever was down there. A good night’s work and he could have everything dug up by breakfast, but that wasn’t an option. Too much was at stake. He’d have to jump through all the hoops and record everything for future study. He glanced to his left and saw Brent with a video camera held to his eye. The lad was going to get quite an education.
The D-50, expertly handled by its operator, had reached two meters when Perry gave the signal to bring the coring up. The core was raised, secured, and detached from the drilling rig. A one-inch slit ran the length of its metal shaft. Perry, Jack, and Gleason laid it on the ground and rolled it until the slit could be seen.
“Looks like typical soil and rock,” Jack said.
“This doesn’t,” Perry said. He was shining a small flashlight on a material darker than the dirt. He leaned over the area and placed his face close to the shaft. He touched the material with a finger. It felt organic. “Anyone have a pocket knife?”
“I do,” Gleason said, reaching into his pants pocket. He handed a small penknife to Perry, who snapped it open and returned his attention to the tightly packed shaft. “You getting this, Brent?”
“Yes, sir, every pixel of it.” The intern knelt down opposite Perry and
to the side so that he had a clear angle on the sample. The additional light from the camera was welcome help.
Perry touched the dark area with the knife blade, pressing it slightly. “Spongy,” he announced, more to himself than anyone else. He then took the point of the knife and dug at the material. A chunk came through the slit easily. Perry picked up the piece and rubbed it between his fingers. It flaked off on his skin. He raised it to his nose and sniffed. Sour.
“Any guesses?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I think it’s wood—old wood.”
“Like a tree branch or something?” Gleason inquired.
“Maybe,” Perry said. “Whatever it is, it’s been there a long time.”
“Look at this,” Brent said. He had moved the camera along the shaft. “Is that more wood?”
Perry shifted his gaze three feet down the core, which represented three more feet in depth. After repositioning himself, Perry repeated his actions. Gleason hunkered down beside him. “Looks the same.”
“That pretty much rules out the tree branch idea.”
“Why?” Brent asked.
“We drilled a perfectly vertical hole,” Gleason explained. “What are the odds that we would come across two branches aligned one above the other?”
“It could happen,” Brent said.
“But not likely,” Gleason replied.
“I doubt they’re branches,” Perry said. “They’re not very thick. I’m thinking we just drilled through some planks.”
“Stop your smirking, Jack,” Gleason said.
“I love being right,” Jack replied. “Being a genius is a difficult cross to bear, but somehow I seem to manage.”
“What are you guys yammering about?” Perry asked.
Gleason explained. “After the survey discovered the objects, Jack suggested they were the stacks of shoring left over by the people who did all this.”
“I hope you didn’t put any money on that, Jack.” Perry was staring at the core again.
“Hey, I don’t like the sound of that,” Jack said. “You’re not going to embarrass me in front of my admirers, are you?”
“Yup. The wood is separated by loose soil. If it were stacked wood, I wouldn’t expect there to be this kind of distance between the planks. I think what we have here is a box.”
“Boxes hold things,” Gleason said. “What do you suppose was in this one?”
“Hard to tell from what little information we have. The soil between the planks isn’t compressed, so I’m guessing the box held most of its shape. Of course, it could be—” Perry stopped suddenly. He worked the knife through the slit again, this time prying a small brownish object from the core. He put it in the palm of his hand and studied it closely.
“What’s that?” Brent asked. “It looks like . . . It couldn’t be.”
“Gold?” Jack asked with a chuckle.
“No,” Perry said somberly. “It’s not gold. It’s bone.”
“Human?” Brent said. “I mean if it were human, it would mean that we just cored through a grave. Man, that creeps me out.”
“We don’t know it’s human,” Gleason said. “There’s a lot of wildlife up here and always has been. It could be the jawbone of a muskrat or something.”
Perry said nothing; he just gazed at Gleason for a moment. He had known Gleason for years and seldom had he encountered anyone sharper.
“Okay, okay,” Gleason conceded. “We found it between what appears to be wood planks. Most people don’t bury farm animals in caskets.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “This could be bad.”
“You got that right,” Perry said.
“Wait, I don’t get it,” Brent admitted.
“If it’s human, then we’ll have to prove that it’s not recent, or that this isn’t an Indian burial.”
“In other words, the authorities could shut us down.” Brent lowered the camera.
“Or slow us down.”
“What now?” Gleason asked.
“We have the wood and bone carbon-dated,” Perry said. “I assumed we’d find some artifacts, so I made arrangements with a local university to do the work. I just didn’t expect to be sending them a bone. If that’s what it is. We also continue analyzing the core.”
Jack walked to where Perry had been on his knees hovering over the coring. He lowered his great bulk to the ground and studied the long column before him, running his finger along the slit. He stopped. “Let me see that knife.” Perry handed it over.
As gentle and methodical as Perry had been, Jack dug in the dirt between the wood layers and extracted a round object. He brushed the dirt away.
“Is that what I think it is?” Perry asked.
“I think so. It’s extremely corroded, but I think we can rule out a Native American burial.”
“Why is that?” Brent asked.
“Because Indians didn’t carry coins.”
ACROSS THE PASTURE and behind a stand of oak trees, a pair of eyes peered through binoculars at the brightly lit work area. To the side of one of the trees stood a tripod with a parabolic dish mounted to its top. A line ran from the sensitive microphone to a recording device and from the device to the audio input of the video camera that was mounted on a second aluminum tripod. The equipment’s owner listened in through a headset. The wind chopped up the dialogue he was recording, but he was getting enough.
Dawes smiled. “Not bad for a nearly broke private eye,” he said to himself. “This ought to knock the socks off Olek.”
Chapter 8
ANNE SLUMPED DOWN in her favorite booth in the Coat of Arms restaurant, Tejon’s only upscale eatery. The city had no shortage of eating establishments. McDonald’s, Burger King, and other expected fast-food joints dotted the main street that ran through town. A half dozen “sit-down” restaurants filled out the dining needs of the residents, but most were the typical fare found in any Southern California city: Chinese, Mexican, a steak house, and a barbecue joint.
The Coat of Arms was different. It was here that people went for a night out or to celebrate a special occasion. On weekends a live band played in the lounge, and reservations were required. Anne had a standing reservation and frequented the place whenever she entertained on city business. It was also the place she ate when depression came to visit.
She ordered a glass of Merlot and, without looking at the menu, rattled off her meal request: roast beef, red potatoes, and asparagus spears with hollandaise. Comfort food. Normally a light eater, the frustrations of the day had justified the heavy meal.
The restaurant was dimly lit in an effort to create a romantic tone. Candles flickered from cobalt blue tear-shaped jars. Anne moved her glass of wine in front of the dancing flame and stared into its crimson fluid. Light danced through the liquid like carefree nymphs skipping through a pond in a European forest. Anne wasn’t feeling carefree.
“I can see the headline now,” a voice said from her left. She turned to see David Branson. “Tejon mayor drowns sorrows in a flood of wine worthy of Bacchus himself.”
Anne looked at Branson for a moment, trying to understand what he said. “Speak English, David. You’re the editor of the town newspaper; you should be able to speak English.”
Without an invitation, Branson lowered his lanky frame onto the bench seat of the booth and stared across the table. He was tall, painfully thin, and hair had left his head long ago. He had a keen mind and odd sense of humor. He struck Anne as the kind of person other kids picked on in school because he always tried to sound smarter than he was. “Bacchus. You know, the ancient god of wine and parties.”
“I’m not partying. I’m just here having a little dinner. How did you know I was here?”
“I saw your car in the parking lot.”
“You just happened to be driving by looking in parking lots for cars you recognized?” Anne took a sip of her drink.
“You want the truth?”
“I have no use for lies,” Anne retorted. The comment sounded harsher than she meant.
Branson leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard about your journey into the hills. Also heard it didn’t go well.”
“How do you know about that?” Anne asked with surprise.
“Police scanner. I keep one in my office. When a deputy takes a civilian anywhere, it has to be called in. That goes for the cop on the beat and the head deputy sheriff for the substation. He told dispatch that he had you in the car. That made me curious.”
Anne thought back and remembered that Deputy Montulli had made such a radio call. “There’s nothing secret about that.”
“I didn’t say there was. I’m just telling you how I knew you went up into the hills. After hearing that, I sat by the scanner and listened with my finely tuned journalist’s ear. Nothing, until he radioed that he was back in the car and headed to the station. I let some time pass and went to see the good constable. He didn’t have much to say. Just that he drove you to private property to ask some construction workers a few questions.”
“There you have it,” Anne said.
“There’s more. He let on that you were unhappy because they wouldn’t tell you what they were doing.”
“So?”
“So,” Benson went on, “they’re keeping secrets, and secrets are news. Skullduggery sells papers.”
“What skullduggery?” Anne asked.
“I’m surprised you asked, Mayor.” Benson leaned back in his chair. “From what I hear, you think they’re doing something on the sly.”
“I never said anything like that!”
“Haven’t you? I did a little more research. I spoke to Bob Vincent.” He quickly raised a hand. “Before you ask, Montulli told me you came to see him and Vincent was with you. Bob said he made a trip up there with you too. Two trips in one day.”
“Just trying to do my job,” Anne said. She took a deeper swallow of wine.
“Exactly what I’m trying to do, Mayor. I’m on your side. People keep secrets for a reason, and I think the public needs to know the effort you’ve spent looking out for their interests.”
“Don’t tell me you wrote an article about this.” Anne felt a rush of warmth to her face, and she hoped it was just the alcohol.
