A Treasure Deep (29 page)

Tears welled and brimmed, hands shook,
emptiness filled with a wash of golden comfort—comfort she had
avoided every day of the last five years. And with the comfort came
peace. Still Anne fought back. It made no sense. Comfort and peace
were what she needed, but it came with a price: To accept the
offer, she had to admit she had been wrong, that God was not
responsible for her husband’s death and that she was responsible
for living in a purgatory of her own creation.

She had kept the room dark to avoid the
light, but an illumination grew inside of her, and there was no
denying it, no extinguishing it. The light wouldn’t be ignored,
wouldn’t be sent away. Anne wanted to hate God, to withhold every
positive emotion from Him. It was His fault, He was to blame. No,
she wouldn’t apologize, she wouldn’t bend, she would feed the
vicious animal of hatred and never let it weaken, never let it
die.

The dam cracked.

The tears poured out.

The truth flooded in.

The fortress of lies had been breached, not
by an invading army but by the constant, pervasive, unyielding love
of God. Anne had always been aware of its presence; had always
known that no matter how bitter she had become, no matter how
abusive of God’s good name, she was still loved. She had resisted
so fervently because to accept the peace God offered meant
accepting the fact that John was dead and had died in a horrible
way. To let peace reign, she had to leave behind the shield of
anger.

Now there were no more shields. The hiding
was over. She had been wrong, and she knew it.

Praying was hard. The only words Anne had
directed heavenward had been curses, but new words needed to be
uttered. No sentences formed in her mind, no formal phrases. Only
two words: “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

THE BUSINESS JET cut through the night sky, its lone
passenger sitting in a darkened cabin, in a plush seat, staring out
the window at the glistening drops of light below.

He recognized it from his previous flight
south. This was his second flight over the central valley of
California in as many days—third if he counted the return trip.
Below him was one of the richest areas of farmland in the country.
The soil below, when combined with the sweat of the farmer and
migrant worker, yielded everything from grapes to almonds. The
overfed stomachs of Americans were touched by the work that went on
below. The high-pressure sodium lights on the ground looked hued
with gold. The city below was Fresno, and the next stop was
Bakersfield. His plane would land there as it had the day
before.

And as before, he would do what he needed to
do in an effective, efficient, untraceable way. That’s the way
Rutherford Straight wanted it; it was the way Alex Olek would do
it.

THE METAL BUCKET of the backhoe hovered in the air,
its shaped metal teeth securely welded to steel gums. Perry nodded
and the operator pushed a lever. The bucket dropped in an even
motion and took a bite of the topsoil, a bite measured in hundreds
of pounds. Smoothly the articulated arm of the big tool curled the
bucket under, holding the dirt in place until it had completed

a ninety-degree swing to the left where it
deposited the dirt in

a pile. The bucket returned and inhaled
another load, then another, and another. Perry had to admire the
work of the operator. He’d been hand-selected by Jack with the
promise that he was the best heavy equipment operator on the West
Coast. Watching the ease and confidence with which he did his work
made Perry believe it.

“I’m back.”

Perry turned to see Sergeant Montulli
standing next to him. “I thought you called it a night.”

“Nope. I said I was staying, and stay I will.
One of my deputies told me that Detective Sanchez wanted me to
call. Since we don’t have cell service tucked away as we are in
these hills, I took a quick trip back to Tejon. Did I miss anything
exciting?”

Perry laughed, partly from the irony of the
question and partly because weariness was catching up with him.
“You might say that.” He explained about the Site Six excavation
and the discovery of the woman’s remains. He also mentioned the
name they found etched inside the coffin.

“No way!” Montulli said. “I don’t believe
it.”

“That’s your prerogative, Sergeant. I saw it
with my own eyes, and I’m having trouble believing it too. Unless
it can be shown to be a hoax, we have unearthed one of history’s
most important people.”

“Can it be a hoax?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it.
Right now I’d have more trouble believing that it was a setup than
in believing that the body of Mary Magdalene is resting up by the
trailer.”

“Is that where your Dr. Curtis is?”

“Yes. He’s doing a cursory examination and
taking still photos.”

“I imagine he has his work cut out for him,”
Montulli said.

“And more is on the way,” Perry said, nodding
at the hole being dug by the backhoe.

“So you gonna tell me what you expect to
find?”

“Let’s not go there now, Sergeant. If I’m
right, you’ll know soon. And remember that you’ve agreed not to say
anything to anyone.”

“Unless it involves a crime. I’m not setting
aside the law for you or anyone else.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just calling on
your honor and discretion.”

Montulli nodded.

The two fell silent for a moment as each
watched the graceful ballet of man and machine. “Sanchez had some
news,” Montulli said finally. “The murdered man you found was a
private detective named Dawes.”

Perry nodded. Anne had told him that much
earlier, but he saw no sense in mentioning the conversation. He was
uncertain if Anne should have been revealing such information since
he was, technically, still a suspect. “News of his murder was aired
on the eleven o’clock news in Bakersfield. A guy by the name of
Willis called the sheriff’s department and said he had seen the man
the day he died.”

“Really? When and where?” Perry asked.

“This Willis guy owns an aerial survey
business with his brother. He told Sanchez that Dawes breezed in
demanding an immediate survey and wanted pictures right away. Want
to guess where he was surveying?”

“Here?” Perry remembered gazing at the sky
when he first arrived at the site and seeing a small plane flying
overhead. He wondered if he had been watching someone watching
him.

“That’s right. Sanchez asked for copies of
the photos, which they sent him over the Internet. He forwarded
some of them to me.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out
several folded pieces of paper. “These were printed on plain paper
so the quality is a little iffy, but they’re clear enough to make
the point.”

Perry took the paper and glanced at it. He
didn’t need to study it; he knew exactly what he was looking at. He
had seen it from the air when he flew in the morning before.
“That’s the site, all right. So we have one more piece of
information indicating that he had us under surveillance.”

“But now we know he was working for someone
else,” Montulli added. “We suspected that since he was a P.I., but
Mr. Willis said the man mentioned his boss. That’s the word he
used, ‘boss.’”

“Any idea who that might be?”

“No, but we think he’s from out of town.
Willis offered to deliver the pictures in digital format. That
seemed to please Dawes. Digital photos can be sent over the
Internet. Sanchez is searching the man’s office even as we
speak.”

“This late?”

“Like you, Mr. Sachs, some of us are
dedicated to what we do.”

“I never thought otherwise, Sergeant. Is your
detective going to trace Dawes’s e-mail?”

“He has people working on it. He said the
photos were sent to a dummy account. It’s untraceable. You know
what that means, don’t you?”

“It means that you can’t use the e-mail to
track down Dawes’s contact.”

“It means more than that,” Montulli said
seriously. “It means you’re not dealing with an amateur. I think
you should be careful, Mr. Sachs.”

“That thought had already occurred to me.
That’s why we’ve stepped everything up. Time only serves those who
are against us.” Perry returned his attention to the backhoe. It
moved like a graceful dinosaur, chewing up the ground one giant
bucketful at a time.

“How deep does he need to go?” Montulli
asked.

“The top of our target is fifteen meters
down. It goes deeper than that, but we’re not certain how deep.
We’ll have to bring in a larger excavator because the backhoe has
depth limits.”

“So you just keep digging. It looks like
you’re off to a good start.”

Perry studied the hole. The operator had
opened a four-by-five-meter trench. Perry judged the hole to be two
meters deep. The operator was making good progress. At this rate .
. .

Suddenly the backhoe shuddered ominously.

“What was that?” Montulli said with
alarm.

A rumble rolled through the ground, the
backhoe convulsed, and then Perry saw something that froze the
marrow in his bones.

“Jump!” he shouted to the operator. “Jump,
jump!”

He saw the crewman grab the metal uprights
that supported the metal roof above the cab and pull himself up. It
was an act of desperation that came too late.

The ground opened up, and the multi-ton
machine dropped like an elevator car suddenly detached from its
cables. The backhoe fell awkwardly, pitching to the side. The
worker fell with his machine. A cloud of dust and smoke rose from
the opening as if hell itself had surfaced. Perry sprinted forward,
stopping at the edge of a hole that now had to be considered a
crater. Dust obliterated his view. “Hang on, partner,” Perry
shouted. He was ashamed that he didn’t even know the worker’s name.
He had left crew selection to Jack.

Montulli was immediately by his side, radio
to his mouth. Perry heard something about the fire department, but
he had no intention of waiting for them. Against every urge and
desire, he held back for the smoke and dust to clear. He heard the
diesel engine cut out and was thankful for that.

“What happened?” Jack asked. He and Gleason
had been aiding Dr. Curtis. Now the three had joined him. A moment
later Brent came running up, camera in hand.

“Ground gave way like a sinkhole,” Perry
said. “I want rope, and I want it now!”

“Got it,” Jack said and disappeared.

“Gleason, get one of the Explorers over
here.” Gleason didn’t waste time with words; he was off in a sprint
to the closest four-wheel drive.

“The sides are still caving in,” Brent said.
“How can that be?”

“The poor soul is going to be buried alive,”
Curtis moaned.

Perry heard a cough and a deep moan. He took
in the situation. Brent was right, the sides of the sinkhole were
expanding, and as it did, it dumped more dirt in the direction of
the downed man.

“Give me that,” Perry snapped, grabbing the
camera from Brent. He studied it for a moment. “Light. How do you
turn the light on?”

Brent reached over and pushed a button. The
small halogen light blazed to life.

“What are you doing?” Montulli asked
suspiciously. “I want you to wait for the fire department. They
have the equipment to . . .”

Perry didn’t wait for the rest of the
sentence. Instead, he stepped forward with a hop and disappeared
down the hole.

THE HOUSE PROVED too confining for Anne. Something
had happened to her the hour before. Something inside her that
needed breaking had finally broken. The shattered pieces dissolved
at her feet like cotton candy in the rain. She was worn out; the
grief, the anger, the release, the submission to truth had been
more grueling than any physical work she had ever done. While her
energy level was close to empty, she felt full for the first time
in half a decade.

The epiphany had been cleansing, cathartic.
It had begun with a firm word from a man she barely knew, but the
pointed admonition had punctured a hole in the darkness she had
draped her mind and heart with. In that moment, a small amount of
light had made its way in, and once in, it wouldn’t be denied.

Perry Sachs hadn’t brought about the change.
Someone far more insightful and powerful had invaded her and
dispelled the artificial wall of protection that kept nothing out,
but that kept her in like a prisoner. God deserved her apology, and
despite initial and hard-fought refusal, He had gotten it. She had
uttered the words “I’m sorry” a hundred times, and with each
utterance a layer of self-pity filth was washed away.

Her grief had been real and appropriate, but
she’d nursed it into something that sorrow was never meant to be.
In a moment, the years of conflict with God melted; in a second,
the self-loathing and hatred evaporated under the loving light of
God. She had left Him years before, but she now knew He had never
left her.

In a dark living room, on a dark night, a
woman scarred by pain and regret and poisoned by hatred and anger
was healed from the inside. It didn’t come with a refrain from the
“Hallelujah Chorus”; it arrived without sermon or Bible study. It
came without a preacher. One woman, one God, one healing.

How long the moment lasted, Anne couldn’t
tell. Perhaps it had been an hour, maybe two, but it happened. Her
prayer was simple, uncluttered, and devoid of pretension. The
prayer flew heavenward on wings of honesty. The answer came like a
fresh, cleansing brook, bubbling through the deepest areas of her
soul.

She drank in the forgiveness, gulped the
understanding, and absorbed the unmeasured, indescribable love.
Sleep was impossible. Weary as she was, spent as she was, she had
to move outside to find a space big enough to contain the release
that radiated from her.

Anne left her home and drove. At first she
traveled with