A Treasure Deep

by Alton Gansky

  “Of course I did.” Benson gave a prideful smile. “I had to rework the layout for tomorrow’s paper, but I got it above the fold on page one. It will be good press for you.”

  Anne leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling. “What,” she began softly, “could you have written about? I asked a few questions; I learned nothing.”

  “I wrote about the secret, Mayor. The banner reads: Mayor Uncovers Treasure Hunt.”

  The pit of Anne’s stomach dropped like a freight elevator in free fall. “What makes you think there’s a treasure?”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire; and where there are secrets, there are valuables.”

  “I can’t believe you did that, David. I never said there was a treasure out there.”

  “What else could it be? We know it’s not oil. That issue was settled decades ago. It’s not a utility company project like new windmills. And if it was, why would there be such secrecy?”

  “It’s still a long leap to buried treasure.”

  “Ah,” Branson shot back, “well, I never say what kind of treasure it is.”

  “You’re leaving it up to your readers to make their own leaps in logic?”

  “Why not?”

  Anne lowered her head and rubbed her eyes. She sat in silence for a moment then drained the wine glass in a single gulp. “David?”

  “Yes?”

  “Go away. Go away now.”

  “Why? I’ve done you a favor. I’ve shown the voters of this city that they have a hands-on, take-no-guff mayor; someone willing to leave the office and search the hills for truth and to protect the city she loves.”

  Anne motioned for another glass of wine. The waiter nodded and disappeared into the back of the restaurant. “I’ll tell you what the problem is, David. I didn’t uncover a treasure hunt. All I know—and that is precious little—is that a group of workers with lots of equipment are up on the hillside doing something they don’t want to talk about.”

  “That’s the best part of it all, Mayor. That’s the mystery, the MacGuffin. That’s what my readers want. Small-town newspaper work is hardly an exciting endeavor. Even the most mundane of men get tired of reporting on petty crimes and farm sales.”

  “MacGuffin?”

  “It’s a term mystery writers use,” Branson sighed. “It refers to a plot device, something that moves the plot of a book along, taking the reader with it.”

  “Are you writing mysteries now, David?”

  “What’s wrong with that? They say everyone has a novel

  in them.”

  “Just make sure your mysteries don’t turn into my horror stories.”

  “I think you’re missing the point, Mayor. This will be good for you and great for the paper. I’m planning a series of articles. I’m writing them all myself. In fact, I plan to go up to the site tomorrow to interview the workers.”

  “Good luck,” Anne said. The words were sarcastic, but they were wasted on Benson.

  “Luck is for amateurs, not for the press.”

  The waiter appeared and adroitly set Anne’s plate of food on the table before her. He poured wine into her glass with a flourish. “Will the gentleman be joining you?” the waiter asked formally.

  “No,” Anne replied.

  “Yes,” Branson said. And he ordered the rib eye steak to prove it.

  PERRY ROSE FROM a kneeling position and stretched out the kinks in his back. He, Jack, Gleason, and Brent had spent the last hour meticulously studying the core sample. Moving the sample to one of the worktables in the oak grove would have made more sense, but the coin and bone fragment had riveted their attention.

  “Okay,” Perry said. “Let’s get the samples out to the labs. Jack, you choose someone you trust to hand-carry the material out of here. The soil seems pretty straightforward, but I’m especially interested in the Carbon 14. I’ll give you the names and numbers of the labs I want to use.”

  “Got it.”

  “Also, send the crew home. Keep three workers here. We have metal detectors, right?”

  “Four of them,” Jack said.

  “Good. Then let’s keep four men. I want the whole area searched. Let’s see if we can’t find more things like this.” Perry held up the corroded coin.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gleason asked.

  Perry studied the coin for a moment, turning it so the construction lights illuminated its face. The coin was obsidian black and crusted with dirt. Perry rubbed his thumb over the image on one side. He could barely make out the image of a man’s head in profile. Letters too worn to read ran close to the irregular rim. “If I were a betting man, I’d put money on it, but it still needs to be confirmed.”

  “So someone lost their lunch money?” Brent commented.

  “It was lost a long time ago,” Perry replied. “Here.” He held out his hand, pinching the coin between his fingers. “Go take some photos of this. You can rinse it in water, but don’t try to rub off the corrosion. We’ll leave that to the experts.”

  Brent took the coin and stared at it for a moment. “It looks, weird. Irregular.” He turned his attention back to Perry. “What are you guys going to do?”

  “Dig, of course. I want to see what’s down there.”

  “But we found a bone. You’d be digging up a grave.”

  Perry looked at Gleason. “You’re right. He is smart.”

  “You want me to keep a couple of guys to work the shovels?” Jack asked.

  Shaking his head, Perry said, “No. We need the exercise. You’re starting to look flabby.”

  “Is that a fact?” Jack shot back. “Do you think you can remember which end of the shovel to hold?”

  “I think I can figure it out.”

  Gleason, whose only calluses could be found on his fingertips from the hours he spent clicking the keys of a computer keyboard, looked dubious. “We have a backhoe, you know.”

  “Some things require a gentle touch,” Perry said with a broad smile. “You can join the fun as soon as you pack up the samples.”

  Gleason groaned.

  RAIN PLUMMETED FROM the Seattle sky in steady sheets on the large window overlooking the city’s skyline. The window was enormous, reaching from floor to ceiling and running the length of the office. Streams of water ran down it in jagged artery and vein patterns. Rutherford stared through the glass and water veil. City lights scattered into starbursts of yellow and white.

  The window-wall was a constant temptation for him. When he was first confined to a wheelchair, he’d adjusted the best he could. But when the standard wheelchair gave way to the fully electric device that now served as legs, feet, and spine, he fell into a deep depression. Strapped by a belt to the chair, it had become an extension of his psyche and a constant reminder of his impossible, hopeless affliction. How easy it would be to back the chair up to the opposite wall and then run it full speed into the glass pane.

  He had even done the research, calculating the impact speed necessary to explode the tempered glass into “dice.” That’s what the manufacturer of the glass had called it. Tempered glass was designed not to fragment into shards but to disintegrate into small cubes of glass, hence “dice.” He’d done the math and realized it could be done. He would need greater speed than his electric wheelchair could provide, but that could be arranged. No one questioned his requests. If he requested a V-8 engine be strapped under his chair, it would be done.

  It was possible, he knew. He had even read about a man who, while showing Japanese businessmen his new office complex, tried to emphasize how safe the glass exterior walls were by throwing his body against the pane. The glass was designed to give, to flex and rebound. It didn’t, and the exuberant executive plunged fourteen stories to his death.

  The desire to plow through the transparent barrier and pitch himself headfirst to the concrete sidewalk below grew with each passing week. The thought, ironically, comforted him. In a sense, he told himself, he was already dead; at least his body was dead. He was a
living mind in a decaying corpse. Each tick of the clock brought him closer to total dysfunction. He wouldn’t wait that long. If he didn’t find a cure soon, then he would take the “heroic” way out.

  Heroic way. How often had he heard suicide referred to as the coward’s way? Those who said such things were healthy and vital. They knew nothing of the courage it took for people like him to get out of bed each morning; to endure the condescending conversations of those who spoke and acted like the disease was nothing, that it didn’t affect the way they looked at him; but their eyes always betrayed them. Each glance said, “Poor devil, I’m glad I’m not in his situation.”

  What did they know? He was powerful and respected in the scientific community. He had secured his place in the annals of pure science as well as in the growing scientific entrepreneurship. Only five people in the country had more financial resources than he; and only nine in the world. If all his wealth were known, if all the sequestered, hidden businesses were revealed, those other billionaires would quickly fall behind in the ranking.

  But what did that matter? If he owned the world’s wealth, he’d still have ALS, he’d still have trouble swallowing his own saliva, and he’d still be welded to the chair he hated so much.

  Rutherford heard the door open behind him. “Alex has reported in,” a voice said. Since only two people could open that door without his permission, he knew it was either his duty nurse or his sister.

  “And?” He didn’t bother turning his chair. The voice was enough to identify the visitor.

  Julia Rutherford stepped to her brother and joined his gaze into the wet night. She stroked his hair with her long, red-painted fingernails. Rutherford felt some of the tension leave. The gentle gesture always relaxed him, and somehow, Julia always knew when he needed to relax.

  “He landed in Barstow and has rented a car.”

  “Under an assumed name, I assume.” It was a rare attempt at humor.

  “Ah, word play,” Julia said lightly. “He knows what he’s doing. No one will be able to trace him to the corporation. He’d cut out his own tongue rather than betray you.”

  “Why, Julia,” Rutherford began. He noticed that there was a slight slur in his words. “Do I hear romantic tones in your voice?” He feared the day when he would be forced to communicate through a speech synthesizer. Others had learned to do so. The famous physicist Steven Hawking seemed to manage with it, but for Rutherford it would be the final insult.

  “There’s nothing between us. You know that.” She paused. “Would you object if there were?”

  “A hypothetical question?”

  “Of course.”

  Rutherford unleashed a raspy chuckle. “Let’s see, my most trusted employee and my sister walking hand-in-hand through the park. I have trouble picturing it.”

  “I’m not the hand-in-hand type.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you are,” Rutherford said. He changed the subject. “I have something for you to do.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a bit of unpleasantness, I’m afraid. Does that bother you?”

  “Never has before.”

  “No, it hasn’t. Maybe you and Alex are a pair.”

  “Does that have anything to do with the assignment?”

  Rutherford turned his wobbly head and looked up at his sister. Any man in the world would want her. She possessed beauty and brains and knew how to use them to her advantage. Before her lay a rich life. Unlike him, she could know companionship, maybe even love. Those opportunities were gone for him, but not for her. Like him, she was unencumbered with a conscience. It was a family trait. “I want you to pay a visit to someone.”

  “Social visit? Business? Other?”

  “Other,” he said flatly. “I prefer you do it alone. We’ve had trouble in the past with . . . contract help.”

  Julia continued to stroke Rutherford’s hair. “I’m listening.”

  “DRAWING ANOTHER PICTURE?” Claire asked Joseph, not expecting a reply. Joseph sat at the dining room table, hunched over a large piece of butcher paper. Joseph often spent hours drawing and going through paper at an alarming rate. The solution had been to buy a large roll of white paper used by butchers to wrap meat. The roll lay on a spindle in a wood rack. Jamison had made the rack for the roll, and Claire had carelessly remarked that it looked like a giant toilet paper dispenser. She wished she could take the comment back.

  The small house in which they lived suffered from an “open floor” plan. Claire had grown up in an older home in which each room was . . . well, a room. Ever since the sixties, architects and builders had decided that people wanted rooms that were open to others. In her home only a counter separated the kitchen from the dining room, and both were open to the living room. A “great room,” they called it. Claire didn’t think it was so great, but the house had been in their budget, and it was close to the seminary where Jamison worked. Over time, the house grew on her. Now she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. This house had become home, open floor plan and all.

  It was emptier now. It had been six months since that night when the phone call came, when she quickly dressed Joseph and they drove across town to the hospital. After Jamison’s death, Claire had come to believe in ghosts. Not disembodied spirits that haunted castles and homes—that was foreign to her Christian doctrine. The Bible spoke of angels, of demons, and other unseen intelligences, but not ghosts as most people understood them.

  Still, Jamison “haunted” the house in a thousand little things that reminded her of him each day. His clothing had been moved out, his shoes given away or tossed, but that couldn’t remove the impression a man left on a house after living in it for nearly twenty-five years.

  Sometimes she’d find something he’d put away, something in the back of a cupboard or on the shelf in a closet. Once she found a bar of shaving soap, the kind that was put in a cup and whipped into lather by a bristled brush. He’d used such soap when they first married, reluctant to yield to shaving cream in a can. He had once said that foam from a can was “unearned.” Claire had never been certain what that meant.

  Jamison had been an odd man, more comfortable with books and journals than with people. Learning and teaching had been his two great loves, that and his family. Jamison and Joseph had been as close as any father and son. In private, and very seldom did he reveal a hint of the guilt he felt over his savant boy. “Bad genetics,” he had said one night while she and he lay in bed. “I gave him bad genes.”

  She had tried to convince him that it was no fault of his. “Such things just happen.” He agreed, but she knew he wasn’t convinced. He never spoke of it again, but she was certain that the guilt remained alive, sequestered in some corner of his great intellect.

  Claire was fearful of Joseph’s response. He’d never seen death before, but her fears had been unnecessary. Joseph had shown no emotion at all. He was a mystery; he’d always been so. He seldom displayed his feelings, but when he did, the display always seemed exaggerated for the event. At times he would cry for no apparent reason, and in those times when sadness seemed appropriate, he was unmoved. There was no understanding a person like Joseph. Intuitively she knew that he processed information, processed life in a way no normal person could fathom.

  “Dinner is almost ready,” Claire said. Again there was no response; again she expected none. Still she spoke to him as if he could be induced into a conversation. “I made your favorite: macaroni and cheese.” Claire didn’t know if it was Joseph’s favorite or not. He showed no signs of pleasure or disgust when eating. Her only indication was that Joseph ate more macaroni and cheese than anything else she set before him.

  Filling two bowls with the pasta and creamy yellow sauce, she added a few shakes of pepper then walked to the table. “How are we going to eat if you have the table covered in crayons and paper—”

  Claire dropped the bowls on the carpet.

  THE EARTH GAVE way easily to the assault of shovels. Still, by choice, the digging we
nt slow. Perry and Jack put blade to ground while Gleason poked around looking for any hints of artifacts in the pile of dirt that they had accumulated.

  Three feet down, the digging turned delicate. Based on the depth indicated by the coring, Perry knew that he had to be close to the first layer of wood. Instead of plunging the blade of the shovel down into the dirt, he now scraped through it layer by layer.

  The texture of the ground changed.

  “Hand me your trowel,” Perry said to Gleason, who surrendered it gladly. Lying on his stomach, Perry eased over the edge, reaching down into the pit. The trowel extended his reach by nine inches. Gently he scraped away another layer of soil. “It’s definitely wood and it’s man-made. Where’s Brent?”

  “Still in the grove.”

  “Have him bring his camera.”

  Jack let out a shout, and Brent jogged over. Perry pushed himself to his feet. “Get some shots of the pit,” he said.

  Brent looked down in the hole. “It’s pretty dark in there. The work lights are leaving too much shadow. I think the camera’s flood will do the job, but just to be sure, let’s take a few shots, then let’s do a few more with additional light.”

  “I’ll bring over a work lamp,” Jack said then trotted off.

  Brent started shooting. “Not much to see. The camera is having trouble with its auto focus. It’s hard to tell where the dirt leaves off and the wood top begins.”

  “Wait a second,” Perry said. Once again he lowered himself to the ground, reached in, and set the trowel on the wood surface. Rising again, he asked, “Does that help?”

  Brent raised the camera back to his eye, aiming its lens at the trowel. “Yeah, that’ll do it. The camera can focus on that.”

  Jack showed up with a metal yellow stand upon which was mounted a high-intensity work light. “It’s plugged into the generator. This should drive away the shadows.”

  The taller construction lights set up earlier that day bathed the hillside in harsh white light, but the walls of the pit cast deep ebony shadows. A more direct light was needed.