A Treasure Deep

by Alton Gansky

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she offered. “Greg . . . Sergeant Montulli told me what happened. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

  Perry laughed lightly. “Me too. Unfortunately, my worker wasn’t so fortunate.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “I don’t know. He had a head injury, and it looked serious.” Perry motioned to one of the camp chairs. Anne took it, and Perry pulled another chair close to her. On the ground behind them rested six crates in two rows. An uncomfortable silence grew between them. Anne shifted in her chair. “May I ask what happened?”

  Perry explained what little he knew, leaving out Jack’s idea about an ancient booby trap.

  “And you just jumped in?” she asked with amazement.

  “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “You’re a brave man, Perry Sachs. I don’t know anyone else who would have done that.” She shifted in her chair again. Her stomach turned; her breathing went shallow.

  “It has nothing to do with bravery,” Perry said. “You seem nervous.”

  “What does it have to do with?”

  She watched Perry look off in the distance, staring at the big hole in the ground. “Faith, I suppose. Faith and responsibility. He worked for me. I felt responsible.”

  Anne inhaled deeply. “You were right,” she blurted. She felt her throat tighten.

  “About what?”

  “About my owing God an apology.” She bit her lower lip then continued. “Something happened to me tonight, something good . . . wonderful. I didn’t expect it, but it happened anyway. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “You faced God,” Perry said flatly.

  “I suppose you could say that. What you said got to me.”

  “No, it wasn’t what I said. I just brought up what you already knew, at least subconsciously. The Holy Spirit did the rest. Care to share what happened?”

  Anne did, recounting her trip to O’Tool’s, her anger with him, her frustration with herself, and the spiritual catharsis that followed. She left nothing out, and when she finished, she felt new, fresh. “The pain of my husband’s loss is still there. I suppose it always will be.”

  “Did you love him?”

  The question surprised her. “Yes, I did. I loved him very much.”

  “Grief is a function of love,” he said. “Much love means much grief in loss. Hard as it is to live with, it’s a . . . tribute.”

  “I suppose. I’ve never thought of hurt as honorable.”

  “Our society does everything it can to avoid discomfort. We are pleasure driven these days, not purpose driven.”

  “Is that what you are? Purpose driven?”

  Perry ran a hand across his face and then through his hair. Dust flew skyward; dirt fell earthward. “I guess so. I’m happiest when I’m working at something that matters.”

  “Like your secret mission here?”

  “It won’t be secret forever,” Perry said. “Hopefully not for much longer.”

  “So you’re pressing on?” Anne asked.

  “I have to. I’m meeting with my key people in a few minutes. We’ll make decisions then.”

  “Looks like that’s them,” she said, nodding toward the bottom of the slope. A yellow Ford explorer was pulling up the slope.

  “Jack went to the road to wait for Gleason and Brent.” He stood. “I’m going to have to cut this short.”

  Anne understood. She rose. “I’ll leave you to your planning. I just wanted to apologize for trying to slap you.”

  He smiled. “I was pretty direct. Maybe we can start over.”

  “Agreed,” she said and held out her hand. He took it in both of his. His touch was warm and strong. “No more jumping in pits.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  THE SMALL TRAILER was crowded with somber men. A narrow worktable served as desk and equipment catchall. Several metal folding chairs were stacked against the opposite partition. Perry moved coffee cups, handheld radios, and a few other items to make room for survey drawings made the previous day. Finding a red marker pen, he drew a loose shape on one of the drawings. It represented the cavity that had swallowed the backhoe and its operator in one gulp.

  “We were blindsided, guys,” Perry said. “Somehow this got past us all.”

  “There was no indication from the GPR or any other survey we did,” Gleason offered. “We did it right, and we did it multiple times, except . . .”

  “Except we didn’t do a deep search,” Jack said. “Our initial survey found what we were looking for in general. We used shallow survey devices. Once we got returns on that, we were able to map out the site and plan our coring and digging. I should have called for a deep radar search. That would have shown the sinkhole.”

  Perry turned to his men. Jack stood straight and met his eyes, but Perry knew he felt responsible. It had been he who oversaw the project until Perry’s arrival. Gleason looked as if the world had been dropped on his shoulders. He leaned against the wall, head down. Dr. Curtis stood silently in the corner, hands dangling at his side. These were men with unique qualifications for the work they did, but they were also men with feelings and pride. Something had gone terribly wrong, and with the exception of Curtis, they felt responsible.

  “Hindsight is always 20/20, guys. You know that.” Perry spoke directly and firmly. His men, his friends, didn’t need to be soothed; they needed to know that they were not to blame. “You did things exactly as I would have. If we knew of every possible problem ahead of time, then we could test for it, plan for it, even avoid it. That’s not an option available to us. We do the best we can and take what comes our way. I could have asked for a deep GPR survey, but I didn’t. Why? Because I knew, as you did, that what we were looking for would be shallow. We weren’t looking for geological faults; we were looking for something man-made. And we found it.” Perry turned to Curtis. “When do we ship out the crates, Doc?”

  “I’ve made all the contacts with researchers that I trust, and they’re ready to receive the finds. I didn’t tell them what they would be receiving. I thought they might enjoy receiving the shock of their lives. Just a little academic humor on my part. I’d pay money to see their faces.”

  “You’re an animal,” Jack said. “We can’t take you anywhere.”

  “Is that true for . . .” Perry was having trouble saying it. Like the others, he was having trouble believing his own eyes. “ . . . Site Six?”

  “No,” Curtis said. “She will be sent to my university. I have a couple of aides to receive the shipment and put her under lock and key. I’ve also notified the president of the college. He said he’d make sure security was provided.”

  “So you told him what we found . . . who we found?” Perry inquired.

  “No. Just that the college was about to be put on the map.”

  “Will he open the crate?” Gleason asked.

  “I asked him not to. He’s a man of science himself so he understands protocol.”

  “Good,” Perry said. “I need advice, men, and I’m turning to you. I want to press on toward the mark. Am I crazy?”

  The silence only lasted a moment. “Of course you are, Perry,” Jack answered. “You’ve always been crazy. That’s what we like about you. Normal people are boring. I say we push on without interruption.”

  “Even though you think we might have our own Oak Island here?”

  “It would explain a few things,” Jack said.

  “Oak Island?” Gleason asked.

  “It’s an island off the coast of Nova Scotia,” Jack explained. “In 1795 two young men went exploring on the island. They found an oak tree with unusual marks on it, like rope marks. Long story short, they found a treasure pit, and a deviously clever one at that. To this day, despite many repeated attempts, the pirate treasure has eluded recovery. Six people have died trying to get it out.”

  “What makes it so hard to excavate?” Curtis asked.

  “It appears that whoever buried the treasure—and id
eas ranging from Captain Kidd to Francis Bacon have been suggested—booby-trapped the site. In a nutshell, there is a thirteen-foot-wide shaft that descends to about two hundred feet. Coring has brought up bits of oak board, charcoal, putty, spruce, bits of gold coin, cement, iron chain, and more. The booby traps were as ingenious as they were deadly. Sloping shafts ran from the vertical shaft to the ocean. When the digging got deep enough, the shaft opened and flooded the site. Over the years other would-be treasure hunters found another such shaft.”

  “But there’s evidence of treasure there?” Gleason asked.

  “Oh, yes. One group bored a hole about ninety meters from the money pit and found several artificial cavities. They lowered a remote camera down the borehole and they saw three chests, a severed hand, and a body.”

  “So you’re suggesting that the sinkhole was a cleverly devised trap?” Curtis said.

  “I’m suggesting that we consider the possibility. A lot of time has passed since our Roman friends set up camp here. Maybe they planned a trap, and the passing years made it more dangerous. Or maybe this was exactly what they meant to happen. We don’t know, and we won’t know until geologists have had time to do a proper examination.”

  “Jack’s point is well taken,” Perry said. “The Oak Island pit was probably dug centuries after this site, but it does show that such traps can be devised and implemented by people with nothing more than hand tools.”

  “Considering everything else that has happened,” Gleason said, “I think it would be wise to assume that there may be other dangers.”

  “You advocate pulling back?” Perry asked.

  “No, just the contrary. I’m saying that we move forward, but we assume that something else is going to happen and take precautions. If you’re right, we’re after more than mere gold.”

  “I agree,” Perry said. “We may or may not be facing dangers from the past, but we know that we have present-day problems to deal with, not the least of which is a murderer. We push on. Agreed?”

  The men agreed.

  “All right then. I want to limit the crew’s access to the site. The fewer bodies, the less chance of injury. Now, we have one other thing we need to do.”

  Perry turned his back on the table with its papers and reached for one of the folding chairs. He passed one to each man, who opened it and took a seat, each facing the other. Perry sat leaning his arms on his knees, his head bowed forward. He closed his eyes and shut out the room, the trailer, the site, and the rest of the world. Silence settled in the cramped trailer. A moment later, Perry spoke. “Our Father in heaven, we praise You for this day and this opportunity . . .”

  The prayer lasted fifteen minutes as each man intoned praise and lifted a request for wisdom and safety. They prayed for their fallen worker, Lenny, and asked for healing. When each man had prayed, Perry made one last intercession, a heartfelt prayer for Anne Fitzgerald.

  Chapter 18

  JOSEPH SET THE crayon down, folded his hands in his lap, and started rocking. “Perry . . . uhh . . . uhh.”

  Claire rose from the chair she’d been sitting in for the last few hours. Emotions churned wildly within her, alternating anger with depression, despair with determination. The place they were held in now was a better room, cleaner, larger, and not so oppressive, but it was still a locked room, a cell in which she and her son were held captive. More than once she’d tried the door, but it remained locked from the outside.

  The fact that the door could be locked from the outside told her that her captors had thought things through. Prior to Joseph’s birth, Claire had taught elementary school, and she knew that fire codes prohibited rooms in which people could be accidentally locked inside. Someone had changed this lock just to keep them from leaving, and that worried her.

  For the first time since Joseph’s birth, Claire felt glad for his condition. They’d not eaten since the previous day, and she was feeling the effects, but Joseph showed no indication of discomfort. He was oblivious to the danger, to the fact that they were not home. She was grateful for that.

  Walking to Joseph, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He immediately ceased his rocking. Yes, she was glad that he was unaware of the danger, but she still wished he could turn to her and say, “It’s going to be all right, Mom. You’ll see. Everything is going to be fine.” It was a senseless, useless wish. Such a thing could never happen. In most ways, she was totally alone.

  Allowing her eyes to drift, she let her gaze fall on the picture Joseph had been drawing. At first she thought he’d just colored the page black, but when she looked closer she could see a faint outline.

  “This is different.” She leaned over the picture. Instead of putting down lines on the paper as he had always done in the past, Joseph covered the drawing area with the thick, waxy crayon—black. Then he carefully etched a line in the soft material, allowing the off-white paper to bleed through. It was an image drawn in reverse; etched instead of drawn.

  “Let me see your hands,” Claire said, reaching down to Joseph’s lap and pulling his palms up. She turned his hands to look at his fingernails. As expected, his nails were caked with black crayon. She released his hands, and he slowly lowered them back to his lap.

  Peering even more closely at the artwork, Claire made out a silhouette image against the black backdrop, outlined by a thin line carved out by Joseph. It took a few moments for her to grasp that it was the outline of a man. The man appeared to be on his knees, body hunched over his legs, his hands covering his face.

  “What does this mean?” she asked, resigned in the knowledge that no answer would be forthcoming. She studied the image and decided that the man was shocked or overcome with sorrow. She couldn’t be sure since his hands covered his face, but the body position seemed to indicate sadness. Or fear.

  Claire sighed and set the picture down. All these years Joseph had been drawing animals and such. Now this. The darkness of the picture troubled her. Maybe Joseph did sense some danger, and this was his way of expressing it.

  “I love you,” she said softly. She kissed him on top of the head, then walked back to her chair, sat down, and waited for the next indignity from her captors.

  “I CAN’T MAKE it out,” Rutherford said to Julia. She approached his desk and peered at the monitor.

  “Can you zoom in more?” she asked.

  “I tried that, but it didn’t help.” He tapped a key on his keyboard. The video image tightened on the drawing the Henri boy had drawn.

  “It’s just a big black blob,” Julia remarked.

  “No, it’s more than that. There’s an image; it’s just too faint for the camera to pick up.” He closed his mouth, focused his attention, and then successfully swallowed the saliva buildup. One more victory. “I want to see that drawing.”

  “You want me to go down and get it?”

  “Yes. You are to be their only contact. The more people they see, the greater the danger to us.” Julia started to walk away. “Wait. I want you to take this to young Mr. Henri.” He keyed a few buttons, and the printer came to life, spitting out a white piece of paper with a series of dark smudges on it.

  “What’s this?”

  “My DNA profile.”

  “What? Why do you want me to give this to him?” Julia said, furrowing her brow.

  “Just do it.”

  She started to leave when Rutherford’s private line rang. Only two people had access to that number: Julia and Alex. A keystroke later the phone came to life.

  “Yes,” was all Rutherford said.

  “I’ve arrived back in Tejon,” Alex said. That pleased Rutherford.

  “Very well. Enjoy your stay.”

  “I will,” Alex replied.

  Rutherford hung up.

  “I’M HOPING YOU’RE right,” Perry said to Jack as the two looked down the sinkhole. The harsh shadows cast by the work lights gave Perry the impression he was standing on the moon, except this moon had grass and a stiff breeze. “If this is an unnatural event, then there
must be a bottom to it. Who knows how deep a natural sinkhole would have gone?”

  “I’ve seen pictures of some that are huge,” Jack replied.

  Perry studied the fallen backhoe, which lay on its right side like a weary dinosaur. “You sent the men?”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “Two of them. They’re on their way to Bakersfield to pick up the trackhoe. They’ll truck it here within the next two hours. It’s a good thing I staged more equipment there.”

  Perry recalled Jack telling him he had done that when they were on the helicopter. “Great. We need the bigger machine. When they get back, let’s off-load the truck as quickly as we can. Gleason and Curtis are overseeing the transportation of the coffins. Curtis wants to ride with them all the way to the Bakersfield airport. Gleason will drive. I’m sending a follow-up vehicle with them. I want you to choose three men you can trust. Dr. Curtis has arranged for two of the Romans to go to one university, two more to another on the East Coast. He’s decided that Roman number five and Site Six will go to his university.”

  “Will do. I assume he has people taking possession as soon as they land?”

  “Yes. They’ll begin work as soon as possible.” Perry turned, faced the oak grove, and spent a moment watching Gleason and Curtis supervising two workmen and Brent as they checked and reinforced the crating.

  “I don’t think we should try and load the crates onto the flatbed up here. It’s a sturdy truck, but I think it might have a problem with the slope. Maybe we should run a round-robin with the Explorers. Their four-wheel drive is better suited for the terrain. We can run two Explorers in tandem and have the whole thing done in short order.”

  “Good idea. Go with that.” Perry looked back at the downed backhoe. “Do you think we can bring it up?”

  “Setting it upright is going to be the hard part,” Jack said after a moment’s thought. “Once it’s back on its wheels, we can tow it back to the top of grade. We could call for a heavy-duty tow truck, the kind used to haul big rigs and motor homes. Or . . .”