A Treasure Deep (18 page)

Initially, Perry had intended to hire a
helicopter to fly Dr. Curtis to the site, but after Anne
Fitzgerald’s revelation the night before, he thought the extra time
spent in the car would draw much less attention than a helicopter
swooping into the mountains.

There was a small bump as Perry turned from
the paved road onto the dirt path he had traveled several times in
the last twenty-four hours. Curtis was jarred awake.

“Enjoy your nap, Professor?” Perry asked.

“Too little, too short.” His voice was higher
than might be expected of a 250-pound man, especially when that
weight was compacted into a five-foot-nine frame.

“I apologize for the rushed trip, but I
promise that you’ll be amazed.”

“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?”

“Sergeant 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.