A Treasure Deep

by Alton Gansky

  “I’m fifty-six years old and have dug holes on three continents. I’m beyond being surprised.”

  “Care to bet a pizza on that?”

  “Sure. I want Canadian bacon on mine.” He rubbed his eyes and repositioned his bulk in the seat. “I should get a gourmet meal for being made to fly in that puddle jumper I just crossed the country in.”

  “I tried to get you the corporate jet, but Dad had dibs on it.”

  “How is your father?”

  “Well and very active. I don’t think he’ll ever retire. Of course, I haven’t seen him much over the last six weeks or so. I’ve been working overseas. Scotland, actually.”

  “Sounds nice,” Curtis said. “Now enough of the small talk. Spill the beans. What is so important that it costs me a night’s sleep?”

  “I’m not going to say. If I did, you wouldn’t believe me. You’re going to have to wait five more minutes. You don’t have a heart condition, do you?”

  “Oh, please,” Curtis said. “I can survive whatever trinket you’ve uncovered.”

  “Wait until you see this trinket.”

  The academic huffed. “Let me guess. We’re in Southern California, so you’ve probably come across something Native American . . . maybe even a graveyard. Is that it? You’ve dug up an Indian grave, and you want me to verify it? Probably Yokut, Chumash, or some other Uto-Aztecans.”

  “Nothing so simple, Dr. Curtis.” Perry steered from the dirt road to the access path. He saw the trucks and equipment parked alongside. “Let’s take a walk. I’ll have someone run your things to the motel.”

  “This isn’t going to be a lengthy stay, is it? I’m doing some research for your father.”

  “I’ll let you decide.” Perry parked and led the chunky scientist up the grade, taking the ascent slower than he would if alone. A few minutes later they stood under the canopy of oak leaves that covered their “office.” Jack, Gleason, and Brent were there waiting. Brent looked as if he had been dragged from bed.

  “A real paradise,” Curtis said between panting breaths. The men exchanged greetings. “Did you guys bring coffee?”

  “We brought a thermos of the high octane stuff,” Gleason said. “I’ll get you a cup.”

  “Bring some oxygen too,” Curtis said. “The air seems a little thin.”

  “We’re about five-thousand feet above sea level, Doctor,” Jack said. “That’s a little higher than Boston.”

  “That would explain it,” Curtis replied.

  Perry looked around. “Everything looks the same as we left it.”

  “Where’s your crew?” Curtis asked, taking the coffee from Gleason.

  “We gave them the day off,” Perry said. “We wanted to give you some elbow room. I can have some up here in short order if you need them.”

  “Let them relax. Whatever you found has been in the ground for a long while; another day won’t matter.”

  Jack caught Perry’s eye. “You have told him, haven’t you?”

  “Why ruin the surprise?”

  “Okay, boys. Enough of the Indiana Jones melodrama. Show me what you’ve stumbled across.”

  Perry motioned with an exaggerated flourish to the open pasture, then started for the hole they had dug the previous evening. A yellow ribbon similar to police crime tape was stretched around four metal stakes driven into the ground near the dig’s corners. Covering the opening was a wide panel of brown canvas held in place by several large rocks. Curtis stepped to the east side of the tarp and waited for the great unveiling. He sipped his coffee casually, like a man looking at his garden. Jack and Gleason removed the rocks while Brent videotaped the process. Once the anchors were removed, Perry reached under the tape barricade, took hold of the heavy material in both hands, and took several steps back, pulling the covering from its place. The early morning sun flooded the opening.

  Dr. Curtis dropped his cup.

  “Whoa!” Brent said and shifted the camera’s eye down to the cavity in the earth.

  Perry threw the tarpaulin to the side and then caught a look of Jack’s expression. Not a man easily shocked, Jack’s jaw dropped like an elevator. Gleason paled and became wide-eyed.

  Stepping forward, Perry peered down expecting to see the skeleton he had met face-to-face last night. What he saw turned his stomach. The skeleton had company. A man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, lay face down in the pit. A trowel protruded from his back, just left of the spine. Perry could see that it

  had been turned and directed to pass through the victim’s ribs.

  It didn’t take a doctor to realize the pointed blade had reached the heart.

  Ignoring his instincts to back away, Perry approached, knelt, and bent over the body. He reached to the side of the man’s neck and felt for a pulse. His skin was cold, and there was no pulse.

  Perry looked up. Everyone was staring at him. He shook his head.

  “I . . .” Curtis swallowed hard. “I take it that this isn’t what you wanted me to see.”

  “Brent,” Perry said, ignoring Curtis’s uncomfortable quip, “drive into town and tell the sheriff’s department what we’ve found here.”

  “Got it.” Brent was off at a jog.

  “Can’t you just call them on a cell phone?” Curtis asked.

  “Not from here. Cell coverage in the area is spotty at best. We’re only two miles out of town. The police can be here soon.”

  “Any idea who our friend is?” Gleason asked. He looked pale to Perry.

  “I’ve never seen him,” Perry said. Jack agreed.

  “You know,” Gleason said softly. “With all due respect, our . . . guest, he’s going to cause a lot of trouble.”

  Perry knew where Gleason was headed. “That crossed my mind too.”

  “I don’t follow,” Curtis said.

  “There are two bodies in the pit,” said Perry. “Just below this poor guy is a skeleton that shouldn’t be here.” Perry paused as he thought about how to phrase his next words. “Our ground penetrating surveys found a buried object. We cored and found wood and what looked like a piece of bone. We excavated and discovered several planks. I’m sure now that it’s a type of coffin. Inside are the remains of a person—a man.”

  “How do you know it’s a man?” Curtis pressed.

  “There’s a metal shield over a portion of his body; a bowed, rectangular shield. Since I removed only one plank I couldn’t see the whole thing, but I saw enough. There is an emblem of an eagle on the shield.”

  Curtis looked more shocked than when he first looked in the pit and saw the murdered man. “Are you . . . are you telling me that there is a Roman legionnaire in that hole?”

  “You’re the expert, but I’ve read a little history here and there, and that’s my first, best guess.”

  “That’s not possible,” Curtis shot back. “Not possible at all. It’s preposterous.”

  “I saw it too, Doc,” Jack said.

  “Me too,” Gleason added.

  “No. You’re mistaken. It’s impossible, I tell you. It must be some kind of prank.”

  “That’s what you’re here to find out,” Perry said.

  “Guys,” Gleason said, “I think we may have a bigger challenge before us.”

  “Greater than a murder?” Jack asked.

  “Maybe,” Gleason said. “That trowel is ours. It was the one Perry was using last night.”

  THE PHONE BY Anne’s bed rang with an obnoxious trill. It took three rings to break through the cocoon of sleep encasing her mind. She fumbled for the receiver.

  “What?”

  Her voice was little more than a gravelly croak. She cleared her throat and tried to ignore the thick film that coated her mouth. The taste was bad, as if she had spent the night dining on day-old carrion. It was the price of drinking scotch. She smacked her lips once and tried again: “Hello.”

  “Sorry to wake you, Mayor,” the caller said. “But I knew you’d want to know.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Se
rgeant Montulli.”

  Anne sat up in bed and crossed her legs. She ran a hand through the tangle of her hair. “Sorry, Greg. I was asleep.” She looked at the clock. Six-thirty. Greg never called that early. As she thought about it, Greg never called her at home. Something was wrong.

  “I figured as much, but I knew you’d have my head if I didn’t let you know.”

  “Let me know what, Greg?” Disquiet percolated in her already sour stomach.

  “There’s been a murder at the Sachs site. Someone from their crew drove to the substation and spoke to the duty officer. He called me at home.”

  “Who was killed?” The news had snapped Anne awake.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m heading up there in a few minutes to secure the site. I’ll have the office call the detectives in Bakersfield.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “There’s no need for that. I have limited traffic in the area. You’d just be . . .” He trailed off.

  “I’d be what? In the way?”

  “I was going to say bored.”

  Anne knew he was lying. “I’m going up there. You want to pick me up or do I drive myself?”

  “You’d better drive yourself,” he conceded. “I may be there for quite awhile.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Anne hung up without another word. Tossing the covers back, she moved into the bathroom and emerged twenty minutes later scrubbed, groomed, and with a minimum of makeup. Striding to the closet, she wondered what one wore to a murder scene. Remembering the slope she had to scale last time she was there, she chose a pair of stonewashed denims and a striped camp shirt. Donning a pair of sneakers, Anne headed for the door.

  CLAIRE SAT IN a dim and dusty room. A meager amount of light was able to push through the window and around the plywood that covered it. There was just enough light for her to know that the sun had risen, but nothing more. The room was the size of a small bedroom and had clearly been uninhabited for a long while. Dust covered the floor and the single throw rug that rested in the middle. Joseph lay on the rug in a fetal position.

  Claire did what she had done every few moments since their capture: She checked his breathing. To her relief, she saw his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm. The woman who had identified herself as Veronica, and who had so deftly injected Joseph, had driven them to this spot. They had changed vehicles once, moving from a sedan to a panel truck. Once in the truck, she and Joseph were blindfolded. Joseph submitted to the indignity without protest. Claire had expected him to pull away, but he allowed his eyes to be shielded. It was as if he understood what was going on.

  Nor did Claire fight back. She doubted she could defeat the much younger woman in a struggle, and it would have been counterproductive to try. Poison was coursing through her son’s body; he needed the antidote quickly. She had no option other than complete submission.

  The remainder of the trip seemed interminably long. Seconds lasted eons; each mile passed slowly. With each minute that crept by, Claire expected to hear something horrible from Joseph: a moan of pain, a scream of agony, or vomiting. Such terrors never came.

  The van stopped sometime later, and the back doors opened. “This way,” the woman said. “Leave your blindfolds on.”

  A rush of salt air poured into the vehicle. Rising, Claire felt for the side of the van with one hand while reaching for Joseph with the other. “Please,” Claire pleaded. “Give him the antidote. It’s been a long time. Please, before it’s too late.”

  The woman didn’t respond. She guided them down from the van with hands Claire found surprisingly strong. Once on the ground, she felt a hand on the back of her neck.

  “We’re going to take a few steps forward then stop,” the woman said. “You’ll hear a door open. I’ll guide you through. You’ll be able to take your blindfolds off then, but wait until I tell you. Understood?”

  “The antidote. Please,” Claire pleaded. Tears were beginning to run. “Let’s hurry before it’s too late.”

  They took the steps, heard the door open, and were guided inside. The air was musty and carried a hint of mildew. The sound of the door closing behind them echoed loudly. Claire’s head was pulled back roughly, and the blindfold was stripped away.

  Blinking several times, Claire quickly took in her surroundings. She was standing in a cavernous room with a ceiling that hovered twenty feet above her. A single light burned from its lamp in the ceiling, weakly pushing back the darkness. It was a warehouse. Salt air and a warehouse. They were at the docks, the shipping center on Elliot Bay. That much she could deduce, but there were many such buildings in Seattle. One thing was clear; this building had been out of service for a long time.

  “To the stairs,” the abductor said, pointing to a set of wood stairs against one of the walls. The stairs led to a second floor door that Claire assumed had once been the building’s office.

  “You promised to give him the antidote. You said if we cooperate you’d—”

  “Just get to the stairs,” the woman snapped and gave Claire a shove.

  Turning to Joseph, Claire removed his blindfold, took his hand, and started for the stairs. The steps squeaked eerily under their weight. Claire was certain that the rickety construction would give way and plunge her and Joseph to certain injury.

  “Through the door.”

  Claire reached the landing, saw a door, and opened it. She also saw a shiny band of metal, a latch, and a large padlock. This room was to become their prison, and Claire could think of nothing to do about it.

  Once inside she turned to the door. Veronica, if that was her name, stood there staring at the two. “Now?” Claire asked. “Please. Let’s not wait another minute.”

  The woman shook her head. “Sorry,” she said.

  “You promised,” Claire objected, knowing how stupid the appeal sounded. Expecting someone who had abducted them under threat of death could be trusted in what she said was ludicrous, but pleading was the only tool she had.

  “I lied,” the woman said and shut the door. Claire heard the latch and lock being set. A dim incandescent bulb in an old floor lamp lighted the room.

  The rest of the night had passed in blazing anxiety. Claire sat in the only chair the room offered, a rusty, metal folding chair. Joseph sat on the floor next to her and leaned his head on her thigh. She stroked his hair and waited for the awful moment to arrive.

  Demons of despair plied her mind with thoughts of burying the only family she had left. Without Joseph, she saw no reason to continue living. All that she had cared for would be gone. When he died, her spirit would die.

  Minutes turned into moments.

  A few times she had risen from her seat and tried to open the door, even kicking it repeatedly, but got only pain for her efforts. Still, she had to try. She had tried to pry off the thick plywood that covered the window, but it wouldn’t budge. Moving the light closer to the covered opening, she saw that someone had used a dozen drywall screws to fix the wood panel to the wall. There was no way she could remove it without tools.

  Claire had reluctantly faced the truth of the matter: She and Joseph were stuck where they were, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Moments turned into hours.

  The horrible specter of death hadn’t come. Joseph showed no signs of illness. When he had first lain down on the threadbare carpet, Claire had joined him, draping an arm over him as an embrace of love and as a way to monitor his breathing. His breathing slowed, but not like a man dying, like a man sleeping. In the abysmal black of the room, Claire thanked God for every rise and fall of her son’s chest, for every inhalation.

  Joseph slept.

  Claire prayed.

  Night turned to day.

  Joseph continued to live. It was making sense now. The woman had lied about her intentions and had lied about the poison. It was the cruelest abuse Claire had ever suffered, and for the first time in her life, she found herself hating another human. Her husband’s assailant had rem
ained faceless and nameless to her. He’d been tried in court, but Claire didn’t attend. Joseph’s care was too demanding of her time. This was different. She’d seen face-to-face her son’s attacker; she’d felt the woman’s strong, cold hands on her body. That made her too real not to hate.

  Then the hate was extinguished with the cold of fear. Hate was a foreign emotion for Claire; fear she was familiar with.

  Again, Claire did all that was left to her: She prayed. Prayer had been a part of her life since childhood; faith a companion for just as long. Her own death seemed a small thing. Her concern was Joseph.

  Why do they want my son?

  BRENT ARRIVED AT the site sucking air in heavy inhalations. He approached Perry and the others, nodded a greeting, leaned over, and placed his hands on his knees.

  “What’d ya do, kid?” Jack asked. “Run all the way back from Tejon?”

  He shook his head then stood erect. After one more deep breath he said, “We have company.”

  “Deputies,” Perry said. “That’s why we sent you.”

  “No, not the police or sheriffs or whatever they are. They’re on the way too. I’m talking about the others.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Perry said. His thoughts ran to the newspaper article Anne had warned him about.

  “I noticed a couple of cars behind me,” Brent said. “I didn’t think much about it until they followed me up the dirt road. I know you’ve been really secretive about this project, so I assumed you didn’t want visitors.”

  “You assumed right, but I was expecting it.”

  “Really?” Brent said.

  “I’m afraid so.” Perry explained about the article and his meeting with Anne Fitzgerald.

  “So people are going to read that and think we’ve found a hoard of gold or something,” Brent said. He paused. “Have we . . . I mean, have you?”

  “Not like you’re thinking,” Jack inserted.

  “How far behind you were they?” Perry inquired. His calm exterior was a shell that held his anger in check.

  “Not far. I ran up the hill in hopes that they wouldn’t see which direction I went. Not that it matters.”