A Treasure Deep (13 page)

“You’re the one with multiple PhDs. I’m just
a simpleminded businessperson, but I’m pretty sure that eating is
necessary for life.”

“I know what I need.”

“Good, we’re in agreement. I’ll send the
nurse in, and you

can have a meal.”

“It’s way past lunchtime,” Rutherford
protested.

“That’s my point. Take some soup, and then we
can have dinner later.”

“I don’t want soup. Leave me to my work.”

Julia walked over to her brother and kissed
him on the forehead. “Work. It’s always work with you.”

Rutherford croaked a laugh. “And you’re so
different?”

“No, but I eat when I should. I need the fuel
for brain and body. So do you.”

“Neither my brain nor my body is hungry. I
don’t get much exercise, so I don’t need much food.”

“There’s that sarcasm again.” She looked at
the computer monitor. “Pretty,” she said. “Is that the place?”

“That’s it. Alex obtained the photos from an
operative he hired.”

“Someone outside the company?” Julia didn’t
like this idea.

“He has it under control. He knows what he’s
doing. Look here.” Rutherford moved his one responsive hand to a
small joystick on the panel of his high-tech wheelchair. The
infrared beam connected the panel to the computer. The picture grew
larger on the screen. “I’ve digitally enhanced the image. You can
see some of the equipment. They’re definitely prepared to dig.”

“You enhanced the photos? Yourself? Is there
anything you can’t do?”

“Yeah, get out of this chair. Stop
patronizing me.”

Julia took a couple of steps away. “You’re
lucky to have me, you know. I’m indispensable on so many
levels.”

“You’re one of the richest women in the
world, Julia. I made you that way.”

Julia laughed. “I made me this way. You had
the idea, you made the discoveries, you got the patents, but
there’s more to running RS BioDynamics than just that. Who arranged
for the IPO that made you rich overnight? Who put together the
staff, the marketing, and the corporate image? There is as much of
my blood in this company as yours. I might add that there is as
much dirt under my nails too.”

“If I eat the soup, will you shut up?”

“Yes.” She returned to the computer monitor,
this time standing behind her invalid brother. “Do you think it
will work?”

“It has to. It’s the only hope I have.”

“Then we’ll make sure it works.” Her tone
turned icy. “No matter what.”

PERRY STOOD IN the harsh glare of the lights his crew
had erected earlier that day. Four banks of one-thousand-watt
halide work lights shone down like artificial suns, casting shadows
in four directions. It gave the pasture an otherworldly feel. The
deep green of the grass was hued yellow under the artificial light.
A stiff breeze blew through, rustling leaves and grass. In various
spots, tiny yellow marker flags attached to wire stems fluttered in
the wind. A short distance away, the muted, throaty rumble of the
Ingersoll-Rand generator used to power the lights echoed off the
soft hills.

Other noises filled the early evening, the
most noticeable coming from the Diedrich D-50 all-terrain drilling
rig. It was one of two that Perry had requested. The D-50 was the
smaller one, designed for drilling and coring in areas with limited
overhead space. The drill unit was attached to a four-wheel-drive
truck with large black tires that were now sunk an inch into the
soft soil. Perry watched as the hollow tube of the corer slowly
bored into the ground. The shaft was small, only four inches in
diameter, but large enough to make the initial coring.

Moving his attention from the D-50, Perry
quickly took in the surroundings. Jack had, as always, done a
superb job. The longer grass had been cut short; white chalk lines
formed a grid on the ground. Yellow chalk lines delineated the
width and run of the buried ramp and other artifacts shown by the
surveys. Precision, forethought, determination—those were words
that every project manager at Sachs Engineering understood. The
concepts reached their pinnacle in men like Jack. Perry was
satisfied.

Deeper and deeper the shaft went, filling its
hollow interior with soil.

“How deep did you say this object was?” Perry
asked.

“It’s the closest to the surface, just over a
meter.”

“Over three feet,” Perry muttered.

The sound of the four-cylinder diesel that
drove the drill changed in pitch. “Sounds like we’ve encountered a
little resistance.”

Jack nodded. “It’s about the right depth. How
much deeper do you want to go?”

“A few more feet. I would rather have too
much information than not enough.”

Minutes turned into moments as Perry stood by
impatiently. What he really wanted to do was bring in the backhoe
and rip up whatever was down there. A good night’s work and he
could have everything dug up by breakfast, but that wasn’t an
option. Too much was at stake. He’d have to jump through all the
hoops and record everything for future study. He glanced to his
left and saw Brent with a video camera held to his eye. The lad was
going to get quite an education.

The D-50, expertly handled by its operator,
had reached two meters when Perry gave the signal to bring the
coring up. The core was raised, secured, and detached from the
drilling rig. A one-inch slit ran the length of its metal shaft.
Perry, Jack, and Gleason laid it on the ground and rolled it until
the slit could be seen.

“Looks like typical soil and rock,” Jack
said.

“This doesn’t,” Perry said. He was shining a
small flashlight on a material darker than the dirt. He leaned over
the area and placed his face close to the shaft. He touched the
material with a finger. It felt organic. “Anyone have a pocket
knife?”

“I do,” Gleason said, reaching into his pants
pocket. He handed a small penknife to Perry, who snapped it open
and returned his attention to the tightly packed shaft. “You
getting this, Brent?”

“Yes, sir, every pixel of it.” The intern
knelt down opposite Perry and to the side so that he had a clear
angle on the sample. The additional light from the camera was
welcome help.

Perry touched the dark area with the knife
blade, pressing it slightly. “Spongy,” he announced, more to
himself than anyone else. He then took the point of the knife and
dug at the material. A chunk came through the slit easily. Perry
picked up the piece and rubbed it between his fingers. It flaked
off on his skin. He raised it to his nose and sniffed. Sour.

“Any guesses?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. I think it’s wood—old wood.”

“Like a tree branch or something?” Gleason
inquired.

“Maybe,” Perry said. “Whatever it is, it’s
been there a long time.”

“Look at this,” Brent said. He had moved the
camera along the shaft. “Is that more wood?”

Perry shifted his gaze three feet down the
core, which represented three more feet in depth. After
repositioning himself, Perry repeated his actions. Gleason hunkered
down beside him. “Looks the same.”

“That pretty much rules out the tree branch
idea.”

“Why?” Brent asked.

“We drilled a perfectly vertical hole,”
Gleason explained. “What are the odds that we would come across two
branches aligned one above the other?”

“It could happen,” Brent said.

“But not likely,” Gleason replied.

“I doubt they’re branches,” Perry said.
“They’re not very thick. I’m thinking we just drilled through some
planks.”

“Stop your smirking, Jack,” Gleason said.

“I love being right,” Jack replied. “Being a
genius is a difficult cross to bear, but somehow I seem to
manage.”

“What are you guys yammering about?” Perry
asked.

Gleason explained. “After the survey
discovered the objects, Jack suggested they were the stacks of
shoring left over by the people who did all this.”

“I hope you didn’t put any money on that,
Jack.” Perry was staring at the core again.

“Hey, I don’t like the sound of that,” Jack
said. “You’re not going to embarrass me in front of my admirers,
are you?”

“Yup. The wood is separated by loose soil. If
it were stacked wood, I wouldn’t expect there to be this kind of
distance between the planks. I think what we have here is a
box.”

“Boxes hold things,” Gleason said. “What do
you suppose was in this one?”

“Hard to tell from what little information we
have. The soil between the planks isn’t compressed, so I’m guessing
the box held most of its shape. Of course, it could be—” Perry
stopped suddenly. He worked the knife through the slit again, this
time prying a small brownish object from the core. He put it in the
palm of his hand and studied it closely.

“What’s that?” Brent asked. “It looks like .
. . It couldn’t be.”

“Gold?” Jack asked with a chuckle.

“No,” Perry said somberly. “It’s not gold.
It’s bone.”

“Human?” Brent said. “I mean if it were
human, it would mean that we just cored through a grave. Man, that
creeps me out.”

“We don’t know it’s human,” Gleason said.
“There’s a lot of wildlife up here and always has been. It could be
the jawbone of a muskrat or something.”

Perry said nothing; he just gazed at Gleason
for a moment. He had known Gleason for years and seldom had he
encountered anyone sharper.

“Okay, okay,” Gleason conceded. “We found it
between what appears to be wood planks. Most people don’t bury farm
animals in caskets.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “This could be
bad.”

“You got that right,” Perry said.

“Wait, I don’t get it,” Brent admitted.

“If it’s human, then we’ll have to prove that
it’s not recent, or that this isn’t an Indian burial.”

“In other words, the authorities could shut
us down.” Brent lowered the camera.

“Or slow us down.”

“What now?” Gleason asked.

“We have the wood and bone carbon-dated,”
Perry said. “I assumed we’d find some artifacts, so I made
arrangements with a local university to do the work. I just didn’t
expect to be sending them a bone. If that’s what it is. We also
continue analyzing the core.”

Jack walked to where Perry had been on his
knees hovering over the coring. He lowered his great bulk to the
ground and studied the long column before him, running his finger
along the slit. He stopped. “Let me see that knife.” Perry handed
it over.

As gentle and methodical as Perry had been,
Jack dug in the dirt between the wood layers and extracted a round
object. He brushed the dirt away.

“Is that what I think it is?” Perry
asked.

“I think so. It’s extremely corroded, but I
think we can rule out a Native American burial.”

“Why is that?” Brent asked.

“Because Indians didn’t carry coins.”

ACROSS THE PASTURE and behind a stand of oak trees, a
pair of eyes peered through binoculars at the brightly lit work
area. To the side of one of the trees stood a tripod with a
parabolic dish mounted to its top. A line ran from the sensitive
microphone to a recording device and from the device to the audio
input of the video camera that was mounted on a second aluminum
tripod. The equipment’s owner listened in through a headset. The
wind chopped up the dialogue he was recording, but he was getting
enough.

Dawes smiled. “Not bad for a nearly broke
private eye,” he said to himself. “This ought to knock the socks
off Olek.”

ANNE SLUMPED DOWN in her favorite booth in the Coat
of Arms restaurant, Tejon’s only upscale eatery. The city had no
shortage of eating establishments. McDonald’s, Burger King, and
other expected fast-food joints dotted the main street that ran
through town. A half dozen “sit-down” restaurants filled out the
dining needs of the residents, but most were the typical fare found
in any Southern California city: Chinese, Mexican, a steak house,
and a barbecue joint.

The Coat of Arms was different. It was here
that people went for a night out or to celebrate a special
occasion. On weekends a live band played in the lounge, and
reservations were required. Anne had a standing reservation and
frequented the place whenever she entertained on city business. It
was also the place she ate when depression came to visit.

She ordered a glass of Merlot and, without
looking at the menu, rattled off her meal request: roast beef, red
potatoes, and asparagus spears with hollandaise. Comfort food.
Normally a light eater, the frustrations of the day had justified
the heavy meal.

The restaurant was dimly lit in an effort to
create a romantic tone. Candles flickered from cobalt blue
tear-shaped jars. Anne moved her glass of wine in front of the
dancing flame and stared into its crimson fluid. Light danced
through the liquid like carefree nymphs skipping through a pond in
a European forest. Anne wasn’t feeling carefree.

“I can see the headline now,” a voice said
from her left. She turned to see David Branson. “Tejon mayor drowns
sorrows in a flood of wine worthy of Bacchus himself.”

Anne looked at Branson for a moment, trying
to understand what he said. “Speak English, David. You’re the
editor of the town newspaper; you should be able to speak
English.”

Without an invitation, Branson lowered his
lanky frame onto the bench seat of the booth and stared across the
table. He was tall, painfully thin, and hair had left his head long
ago. He had a keen mind and odd sense of humor. He struck Anne as
the kind of person other kids picked on in school because he always
tried to sound smarter than he was. “Bacchus. You know, the ancient
god of wine and parties.”

“I’m not partying. I’m just here having a
little dinner. How did you know I was here?”

“I saw your car in the parking lot.”

“You just happened to be driving by looking
in parking lots for cars you recognized?” Anne took a sip of her
drink.