A Treasure Deep (17 page)

Perry took a quick shower and donned clean
clothes; his others were soiled with dirt and grass stains.
Stepping into the warm night, he walked the two-and-a-half blocks
to the pub.

The place was as Perry had imagined it: a
pseudo-Irish bar in a Southern California village. Dark wood
paneling covered the walls, and the only light in the room came
from several wrought iron fixtures hanging from a high, open-beamed
ceiling. Small square tables, each with four matching chairs,
dominated the center of the room. Along the backside was a long,
wood bar with a shiny brass foot rail. Bottles of alcohol sat on a
counter behind the bar and on the racks that framed an oval mirror.
A single television set was tucked away in a corner of the ceiling.
A baseball game played there in silence. Around the other three
walls were tall-backed booths, intimate in size and decor.

Perry glanced around, feeling out of place
and off balance. Bars were foreign territory to him.

“Mr. Sachs.” Perry recognized the voice and
turned to see Anne Fitzgerald waving to him from the corner booth.
He nodded and approached.

“I got your message,” Perry said and offered
a small smile.

“I figured you did . . . since you’re here, I
mean. Have a seat.” She motioned to the bench seat opposite
her.

Perry sat down and leaned over the table.
Anne wore the same clothing he had seen her in early in the day. In
front of her was a short, wide glass filled with a golden
liquid.

A woman appeared next to the table as if by
magic. Perry looked up at her. She was rail thin and wore a
European barmaid outfit. She looked barely old enough to legally be
in a bar. Looking at Perry she smiled, turned to the mayor, and
winked. “What can I get ya?”

Perry hadn’t considered that. “What kind of
fruit juice do you have?”

“Fruit juice?” The cocktail waitress seemed
surprised. “This is a bar, sweetheart. We sell beer, wine, and
spirits, not fruit juice. How about a scotch like the mayor
here?”

Perry looked at the glass and shook his head.
“No thanks. But I’ll tell you what. Don’t they make a drink with
vodka and orange juice?”

“Sure. It’s called a screwdriver.”

“Good,” Perry said. “I’ll have one of
those.”

“Attaboy,” the waitress said.

“Hold the vodka,” Perry added.

The waitress rolled her eyes and walked
away.

“I hope I didn’t offend her,” Perry said.

“She’s seen it all,” the mayor said. “It
would take a lot to offend her.”

“She doesn’t look old enough to have seen
much of anything, Mayor.”

“Don’t let her youth fool you . . . and
please call me Anne.” She raised the glass to her lips.

“Only if you call me Perry.”

“That’s easy enough. Thanks for meeting with
me.”

“It’s my pleasure, but I need to say right up
front that I’m not answering any questions about the project.”

Anne made a face. “My life would be a lot
easier if you weren’t so stubborn.”

Perry laughed. “I was thinking the same thing
about you.”

The waitress came back and set a glass of
watered down orange juice on a cocktail napkin. “There you go, sir.
Go easy on that now.” She zipped away.

“I think my sarcasm detector just went off,”
Perry said.

Anne raised her glass. “To stubbornness.”

Perry raised his glass and gave a gentlemanly
nod. He took a sip. The orange juice was weak and thin. He set the
glass down.

“So what is it?” Anne asked. “Recovering
alcoholic or health nut?”

“What do you mean?”

“The virgin orange juice. Are you a
recovering drunk or a health nut?”

“Neither. There are people who choose not to
drink alcohol. I’m one of them.”

“I used to be that way,” she replied, then
raised her glass and took a sip. “Not anymore.”

Perry detected a sadness and anger in her
words. He wondered whether he was being invited to probe a little
deeper, but uncertainty sealed his lips.

“How long have you been mayor?” Perry asked.
It seemed an innocent and safe enough question.

“Not long. I’ve been on the city council for
three years. Each year a mayor is selected from the council, not
elected like in bigger cities. That’s a little too general, I
suppose. Some small cities elect their mayor in open elections, but
in most towns our size, it just rotates through the council
members.”

“Do you like it?” Perry chose to pursue the
small talk. Maybe they could find some common ground that would
move them beyond an adversarial relationship.

“I suppose. I mean I returned to it not long
after I moved here from Ridgeline.”

“Ridgeline?”

“It’s a small town in the San Bernardino
Mountains. I served on the council close to ten years there and was
mayor for six years.”

“But then you moved here, exchanging one
mountain community for another.”

“Ridgeline is much higher than Tejon. We got
a fair amount of snow each year, and the trees were pines, not
oaks. There’s quite a difference.”

“And what brought you to Tejon?” Perry asked,
sipping his orange juice and pretending to enjoy it.

“Death.”

The reply was blunt and delivered with
resignation. Perry was uncertain what to say. “It appears I’ve
stumbled into a sensitive area.”

Anne shrugged. “My husband was killed several
years ago, and my father died two months after that. Three months
later, my mom had a stroke. We lost her too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. We were close. All of us. Mom,
Dad, my sister. They say bad news comes in threes. It sure did for
me.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. The jewel in the crown of Ridgeline. A
medical doctor. Smart cookie.”

She paused and blinked several times then
added, “You know, my sister knew a Perry Sachs. You don’t know a
Gates McClure, do you?”

Perry shook his head. “I’ve never been to
Ridgeline. I imagine there are other men with the same name.”

“You’re sure? He’s an attorney. You didn’t
used to be a lawyer, did you?”

“No need to be insulting,” Perry quipped.
“I’ve never been a lawyer or anything other than an engineer. So
your sister is still in Ridgeline?”

“Yes. She’s a lot tougher than me. She had
her practice to keep her going. I needed a change.” Anne took a
larger gulp of the Scotch then set the glass down. “How about you?
Your family still around?”

Perry nodded. “I come from a small family.
Just me and my parents.”

“An only child, huh?”

“I was enough for my parents.” Perry paused
then decided to get on with things. “You said you wanted to give me
a heads-up about something.”

She ran a finger along the rim of the glass.
“I know I’ve been a pain,” Anne said. “And just to keep the record
straight, I plan on remaining a nuisance until I find out exactly
what you’re doing and why. But something has come up that’s beyond
even me. I thought I’d tell you now, since you’re sure to find out
tomorrow.”

“You called in the national guard?” Perry
joked.

“No, but it’s an idea. Tomorrow’s paper has a
front-page article about what you’re doing up in the hills.”

“What? How?” Perry asked. “No one knows what
we’re doing up there.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a problem for
David.”

“David?”

“David Branson. He’s the editor of the local
paper. As you might guess, there isn’t a lot in our town to fill up
more than a few columns of newsprint. Slow news means slow
subscriptions and ad sales. David also has a bit of an
imagination.”

“And just what has he imagined we’re doing?”
Perry pressed. He was unhappy with what he was hearing.

“I haven’t read the article, but he hunted me
down this evening while I was having dinner. Have you had dinner?
They make a decent sandwich here.”

“No, and I’m losing what little appetite I
had.”

Anne frowned and looked down into her scotch.
Perry expected her to hoist it for another belt. She didn’t.
“Anyway, apparently David’s headline is going to read ‘Mayor
Uncovers Treasure Hunt,’ or some nonsense like that. I don’t
remember exactly, but it’s along those lines.”

Perry leaned back in the booth and sighed.
“Sounds like he’s making you look good.”

“Like I said, I haven’t read it, but I
imagine that’s what he has on his mind.”

“That and increasing circulation.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Do you think anyone will believe it?” Perry
inquired.

Anne shrugged then raised her eyes from the
glass. “I had nothing to do with this. That isn’t my way. If I want
to know something, I ask the person with the answers.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been accused of being
shy and retiring.”

“There’s no way to stop the presses?”

“None that I know of. I only know of one
thing that will help: Tell the truth. Let David run a story about
what you’re really doing up there.”

“Is that what all this is about? Some kind of
scheme to get me to reveal a secret or two?”

“No, not at all. I told you I had nothing to
do with it.”

Perry tried to hold back the disgust he was
feeling. “I’m sorry, Mayor, but all this seems a little too
contrived.”

Anne leaned over the table and spoke in hard,
hushed tones. “You listen to me, Mr. High-and-Mighty-Engineer. I
took the initiative to set up this little meeting. I could have
just let everything run its course. Tomorrow you could have
awakened to this problem, and it would have been no skin off my
nose. I suggest telling David what you’re doing to take the mystery
out of it. Tell him anything, lie if you want to, but the die has
been cast. Everyone in town is going to think you’re up at the
Trujillo ranch digging up gold doubloons or something.”

“Did you tell him about our presence?”

“What’s to tell? You drove your convoy right
through town. Hundreds of people saw your crew roll by.”

“I’m not buying that. How did he know we were
at the Trujillo Ranch?”

At first Anne didn’t speak. Instead she
stared back through angry eyes. “He did his research. He’s
resourceful, I’ll say that.” Anne shook her head. “You’ll have
visitors. At least some, maybe a lot. I don’t know. I just thought
you should know.”

“This isn’t fair to the Trujillos. They don’t
deserve to have people crawling all over their land. I should let
them know.”

“I imagine David has spoken to them,” Anne
said, “but he didn’t say so specifically.”

“They don’t need the stress.”

“It shouldn’t be that bad.”

Perry looked at Anne for several moments. “Do
you know Hector Trujillo?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“He’s dying, Mayor. I seriously doubt he
would appreciate a line of people coming by to ask questions about
something they don’t understand.”

“Then tell the people so they will know.”

“Do you think they will believe anything I
say after that article hits? You and your buddy have just told
everyone that there’s gold in the hills. You have no idea what
you’ve done.”

Perry stood, reached for his wallet, and
pulled out the first bill he saw . . . a twenty, and dropped it on
the table.

“I didn’t do anything,” Anne protested. “I’ve
told you, I’m as much a victim as you.”

“Really? In one day, you’ve tracked down our
location, made two trips to the site, harassed some of my crew,
came banging on my motel room door, tried to involve the police,
and inadvertently cranked up the media.”

“But . . .”

“Do you really think it’s going to end here?”
Perry asked sharply. “What happens when some local radio show reads
about it? Who knows, maybe television stations will be down with
their cameras whirring.”

Perry turned and marched from the pub and
into a night of darkness that matched his mood.

ANNE WATCHED AS Perry strode toward the door and
exited into the night. She felt hollow, devoid of any value. Her
intentions had been legitimate. While she wanted to know exactly
what Perry was up to, she had no desire to find out through
skullduggery. Silently she cursed David Branson.

“Is your friend coming back?” The waitress
stood by the table.

“No.”

“He didn’t finish his orange juice,” she said
with a smirk. “Ha, big guy like that and all he wants is
juice.”

“Let it go,” Anne snapped.

“Sure thing, Mayor. How about you? You want
another scotch?”

Anne studied the tumbler; it was as empty as
she felt. Yes, she told herself. Yes, she did want another scotch.
“No,” her voice said. “Excuse me.” Anne rose, paid her tab, and
walked toward the door.

JOSEPH HENRI SAT in the backseat of a car he couldn’t
describe. He rocked and rocked, stopped, rubbed his arm, then
started rocking again. He turned and looked out the window nearest
him. Light from buildings and street lamps fluoresced through drops
of rain on the window. He turned to look at his mother. Her eyes
were raining too. Looking back at the window, he crossed his arms
and stared at the glass ornamented with droplets.

He counted the drops. Then he counted them
again. With each new raindrop, Joseph recounted. He also counted
the cars that passed, the lampposts on the sidewalks, and the
windows in each building they passed.

The car began to move faster, and the street
grew wider. This road was more interesting. It had evenly spaced
white lines that zipped past.

Joseph counted the lines.

DR. KENNETH CURTIS sat in the passenger seat of the
Ford Explorer with his head back and his eyes closed in sleep.

Perry couldn’t blame him. After all, it had
been he who had called him in the late evening. It was only
dinnertime in California, but Boston was on the other coast and
three hours further along in the night. While he had not awakened
the archeologist, he had insisted that he pack a few things and
make the flight west that evening. Arrangements had been made, and
at 6:10 that morning, the weary academic arrived at the small
airport in Bakersfield. No sooner was the man’s luggage loaded than
he was seated in the passenger seat, fast asleep. He didn’t move
during the forty-mile trip back to Tejon.