A Boy Called Duct Tape (21 page)

The incredible story made all the newspapers, all the network and cable television news programs, all the online news blogs. Public opinion was behind Pia, Kiki, and I, especially after the dangerous nature of our treasure-hunting expedition got out. The death of Monroe Huff also helped people see us as the deserving ones.

An editorial in the
Jamesville Times
put into words what everyone in the state was thinking:

The State of Missouri has about as much right to the Jesse James treasure as Neil Armstrong has to the moon.

Giving in to public pressure, Missouri Revenue Department officials said they would give up all claims to the treasure if we would pay a small state income tax. We agreed, and an army of antique coin dealers and jewelers were called in from Kansas City and St. Louis to place a value on the treasure. They spent a week in the bank vault appraising it.

One month to the day after we had recovered the four backpacks from Harper’s Hole—we never found the fifth backpack—Homer Wright held a press conference on the bank steps to announce the value of the treasure.

“Pia, what did you think when you opened that old steamer trunk and saw all the gold and silver?” a
CNN
correspondent in a coat and tie asked, pushing the microphone toward her.

“I thought I was dreaming,” Pia said. “I could feel my heart beating.” She placed her hand over her heart.

Again, the crowd of reporters and supporters laughed.

“Any plans to go back into the cave, Pablo?” a mustached newspaper reporter from the
Kansas City Star
asked.

“No way,” I said. “The earthquake sealed off the entrance, and the underground spring that used to feed into James Creek has dried up.”

“Dried up?” a newswoman from the
Joplin Globe
asked.

“It’s not there anymore. I think the spring must have gone … I don’t know, underground.”

“Too bad,” the
Globe
reporter observed, writing down my comments on a notepad.

The reporters asked a few more questions—a journalist from the
Springfield News-Leader
wanted more information about Pia’s bad leg—and then Homer Wright stepped forward with the announcement everyone had been waiting for.

“After many long hours of investigation by a team of Kansas City and St. Louis coin dealers and jewelers,” Homer said, reading from a slip of paper, “the value of the treasure has been established.” Homer paused to adjust his glasses, which had slipped down his nose. “Ten and a half million dollars.”

For a moment the crowd was stunned into silence, but then they broke into cheering applause.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words were stuck on my tongue. I was totally speechless. Pia put her hand over her heart. She was also too dumbstruck to speak. “Wicked!” Kiki said in a stunned whisper.

Homer held up his hands asking for quiet. “A collector from San Francisco, who wishes to remain anonymous, has expressed an interest in buying the entire treasure.”

Another cheer arose.

Before leaving for the first day of school that August morning, I received a phone call on my cell from Kiki. She had exciting news.

“I won, Pablo! I won!”

Kiki’s story “We Found the Jesse James Treasure” had placed first in the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
writing contest. When the time came, Kiki said, she would have a partial scholarship to the University of Missouri’s School of Journalism waiting for her.

“Did you write about Mr. Bear?” I asked with a small laugh.

“Mr. Bear is now a small part of the historical record!” Kiki said. “You can go online and read it at the newspaper’s website.”

I was proud of my
primo
, and I congratulated her.

“Pablo, show me the coin next … please.” It was Sara Miller. She had jostled her way through the crowd and was standing at my elbow.

I had become an overnight celebrity, and was being mobbed in the hallway after lunch that first day of school. Everyone wanted more details about my treasure hunt. I was passing around a $20 gold piece recovered from the treasure. It was one of the few coins we had set aside from the treasure as keepsakes.

“Big Dog, let Sara see it next,” I told Chet Armstrong, who was trying to make heads or tails out of the coin. Holding the coin in his big hands, he had looked at one side, then the other, at least a half-dozen times. He handed the coin to Sara.

“Sweet,” Sara beamed, examining the coin.

When Jimmy Coleman strolled past, I glanced at my old nemesis.

Through the sea of legs, Jimmy inspected my footwear. When Jimmy saw my same old duct-tape sneakers his eyes lit up and I watched him prepare to mock me. But Jimmy was at a loss for words. He seemed confused. His gaze met mine, he gave an “I don’t get it” shrug, and then he turned away without a word.

I had to smile inside. Someone like Jimmy Coleman would never understand. Although I could afford any pair of sneakers on planet Earth, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The fact was, I liked my old sneakers—they were comfortable, duct tape and all. Besides, they had brought me good luck.

It was a mild December day and Mom was sitting on our front porch having her afternoon tea when the UPS truck arrived. I watched through the front window as the driver hurried up the sidewalk with a package.

We had just returned the week before from Children’s Orthopedic Hospital in Kansas City where a team of surgeons had made bone and muscle repairs to Pia’s bad leg. The doctors predicted Pia would recover fully and soon walk like any other nine-year-old. She was still wearing a soft cast.

Mom took the package inside where Pia and I were wrapping Christmas presents in the living room. The package was addressed to Pia. When my sister opened it she recognized the object inside.

“Little Pia!” she cried.

It was the woodcarving Monroe had found that day in the Room of Ghosts many months before. Monroe had named the statue Little Pia, and then stuffed the ancient carving into his backpack as safekeeping for my sister.

“Monroe was saving it for me,” Pia told Mom.

When Pia inspected the package closer she saw the return address. “Ohmigosh,” she said, her eyes flooding with a sudden rush of tears. “Monroe’s alive.”

She handed the package to me. I read the return address and smiled.

Monroe Huff

Postal Drawer A-36

Gagra, Abrhazia

Republic of Georgia

You sneaky devil,
I thought, my smile widening.

A note inside the package read:

Sweet Pea,

You forgot something.

Monroe

I couldn’t quit smiling. Monroe Huff had not died in the cave, but was alive and fulfilling his lifelong dream of exploring the deepest cave in the world, his love affair with Mother Cave still in one piece.

I recounted the story for Mom.

“But how did Monroe get out of the cave, Pablo?” Pia asked, wiping the tears with the back of her hand.

I paused to consider Pia’s question. “Remember the bats?”

“Yeah. They were scary.”

“Remember Monroe telling us about that hollow oak tree the bats used to get in and out of the cave?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“I’ll bet Monroe found the roots to that tree growing down into the cave and somehow climbed out.”

Pia blotted her tears on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “I’m glad Monroe didn’t die, Pablo.”

“Yeah, Pia, me too.”

“Think we’ll ever see him again?”

I nodded. “I’d bet on it.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, Pia, I promise.”

It was a promise (like all my promises) I intended to keep.

THE END

Christopher Cloud began writing fiction full time at the age of 66 after a long career in journalism and public relations. He graduated from the University of Missouri in 1967 with a degree in journalism, and worked as a reporter, editor, and columnist at newspapers in Texas, California, and Missouri. He was employed by a major oil company as a public relations executive, and later operated his own public relations agency.
A Boy Called Duct Tape
is his debut middle-grade novel. Chris lives in Joplin, Missouri.