A Treasure Deep (3 page)

“Tehachapi,” Jack said, gazing out the
window. “Quaint little town of about six thousand.”

Perry waited until the helicopter turned
enough for him to see. “I see you studied for this project. Of
course, we’ll be closer to Tejon, just outside their city
limits.”

“Two miles outside,” Jack added. “So we can
run in for pizza when the mood strikes.”

“A man your age should watch the
cholesterol.”

“A man my age. How about a man your age?”

“I’m younger than you, remember?” Perry
joked.

“By four months, that’s it. Besides, it’s not
the age; it’s the mileage. And you’ve definitely got more of
that.”

The power-producing windmills disappeared
behind them, replaced by more open grazing land. They’d flown over
the highest part of the mountain range and were now on the
northwest side. The terrain was sloping downward; the highway
changed from a sinuous course and became arrow straight. Again,
Perry picked up the headset, this time directing the pilot to “Take
us in.” The helicopter changed course and headed back toward the
mountains. A few minutes later the pilot directed the craft in a
lazy circle over a grove of oaks. Perry could see several large
trucks nearby as well as a few Ford Explorers painted the same
yellow as the helicopter.

“We’ll have to land uphill where it’s clear,”
Jack said. “The site is near that stand of trees. I hope you’re not
too tired to take a little walk.”

“I’ll manage,” Perry replied. His weariness
was all but forgotten. The excitement of arriving on-site had given
him a jolt of adrenaline. “I want to see the images Gleason made
from the GPR. I assume he did an EM survey too?”

“Just as you requested. The electromagnetic
conductivity survey was done first, then the GPR. If I know
Gleason, he may have tried a few new things too.”

“No doubt.”

The helicopter descended in a slow, fluid
motion, but Perry noticed a slight tilt and sideward shift.
Apparently the wind was not intimidated by the multimillion-dollar
craft. Despite the stiff breeze, the pilot set her down as light as
a feather. Perry exited the moment he felt the skids touch earth.
Jack was on his heels. The men pulled their well-worn travel bags
from the storage compartment, waved to the pilots, then started
down the gentle slope to the grove they had seen from the air.

It was less than a quarter of a mile from the
makeshift landing site, but the descent was made slippery by the
shin-high grass that blanketed the soil. From the air, it had
looked short, like green shag carpet. Perry was surprised to find
it so tall. No cows had been grazing here. The wild grass, which
had matured with heads that looked like grains of wheat, stuck to
Perry’s pants. He wished he’d changed before leaving San Diego.
Traveling in a suit was uncomfortable to begin with, but hiking
through uneven ground with a tote bag of clothing and personal
supplies thrown over his shoulder made it worse.

Five minutes later they exchanged the blue
sky for a green canopy of leaves. Wind rustled through the
branches, carrying the perfume of sweet grass and fecund hillsides.
The verdant panorama, framed by the trees and augmented by the
quiet countryside, made Perry feel as if he had walked into Eden
itself.

“Well, look who’s here,” came a tenor’s
voice. “It’s the man himself.”

“Dr. Gleason Lane, I presume,” Perry
said.

“In the flesh,” Gleason answered. Gleason was
taller than Perry’s six-foot height by at least two inches. He had
kind blue eyes, a strong chin, and was known for his good humor. A
devoted family man, he was fond of showing off pictures of his wife
and two kids—photos he kept electronically filed in his handheld
computer. Gleason’s wheat-colored hair was cropped close to the
skull, but not so close as to be confused with a Marine in boot
camp. He turned and shouted to a young man hovering over some
equipment. “Hey, newbie, come here for a minute.”

The young man looked up. He was thin and
sported brown hair that hung to his shoulders. He pushed the hair
from his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” He sauntered over, and Gleason made
introductions. “This is Brent Hapgood. He’s a senior at Caltech and
helping us as part of his senior project.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Perry said, extending
his hand.

“Hey,” Brent replied with a nonchalant head
nod.

Gleason chuckled. “He’s not much on
conversation, but he’s good with electronic equipment. A friend of
mine who teaches at Caltech recommended him. He checks out and
understands the . . . nature of what we’re doing.”

Perry nodded and studied the young man for a
moment. He struck Perry as a cross between surfer and geek. He
seemed fit beneath his T-shirt and jeans, and his handshake had
been firm. Still, Perry would have preferred that only men he knew
be on the team, but that was impossible. Laborers had to be hired
from Tejon and even Bakersfield. Not ideal, but necessary.

“What’s your major?” Jack asked.

Perry watched as Brent turned his attention
to Jack. His eyes widened for a moment. Perry had seen this
reaction many times. Jack’s size could intimidate anyone.

“Um . . . electrical engineering.”

“Pity, you could have gone into civil
engineering . . . a real science,” Jack said.

“I tried,” Brent retorted, “but my grades
were too high.”

“Oh, a comedian,” Jack shot back sternly. The
boy’s eyes widened even more. “You’ll fit in nicely.” Jack stepped
forward and gave him a slap on the right shoulder. It wasn’t
brutal, just a gesture between men—albeit one that made Brent take
an unplanned side step.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Perry,”
Gleason said. “You look liked warmed-over death.”

“Who signs your paycheck?” Perry asked.

Gleason said, “Like I said, you look great.
Better than ever. Even though you obviously don’t need it, do you
want to ride into town with Brent and freshen up? We’ve taken over
the Oak Glen Lodge. It has a pretty good restaurant.”

“Let’s hold off on that for a while. I want
to see what you’ve found, and then I want to take a quick tour of
the camp. Maybe after the caravan arrives.”

“You sure? You look—”

“I’m sure. I can sleep later. Show me your
findings.”

Gleason shrugged and led Perry and Jack to a
tiny trailer that had been towed to the site. Perry noticed that it
was already leveled and blocked in place. “It’s cramped,” Gleason
said, “but it works. I decided against the larger trailer since
we’re only going to be here a few days.”

“You hope,” Jack interjected.

“Not hope,” Gleason retorted. “Experience and
planning. I think we can do what needs to be done in a week to ten
days. Two weeks tops, at least for the initial work. If you’re
right, detail men will be here for months.” He opened the door,
stepping up on a large block of wood that served as the only step.
Jack followed, and Perry started in when he noticed Brent on his
heels.

“Brent,” Perry said. “I have to make this a
closed-door meeting. I hope you understand.”

The student seemed shocked but quickly
regained his composure. “Um, sure, I understand. Let me know if you
need anything.”

Perry said he would and pulled the thin door
closed behind him.

“LET ME GUESS. You want a take-home box.”

Anne Fitzgerald looked up from her plate and
met eyes with the waitress standing next to her table. “Just
because I ask for a doggy bag every time I eat here doesn’t mean I
want one now,” she chided with a smile. The waitress was named
Sara, and she had worked at the Tejon Table and Grille since her
high school days two decades before. Anne knew her well and liked
her. The friendly give-and-take had been their pattern of relating
through the years.

“So you don’t want one.”

“Of course I do. Don’t be silly. I’m not
going to throw half a tuna melt away. I’ll eat it for lunch
tomorrow.” It was a habit. At the age of thirty-six, Anne had
gained barely five pounds over her weight in college, but it was
only because of her disciplined eating. For her, weight was a
struggle against more than carelessness; it was against genetics
and middle age. So far she had won, but victories came one meal at
a time. Years ago, a doctor had told her to eat whatever she
wanted—within reason—but to eat only half of it. So when she ate
out, which was most days, she would dutifully cut the food in half,
eating one portion and taking the other portion home for the next
day’s lunch.

The waitress disappeared and returned a
moment later with a Styrofoam container. “There you go, Mayor. By
now you should have enough of those to fill a room.”

“Or a landfill, Sara.” Anne picked up her
plate and slid the remaining fries and open-faced sandwich into the
container. “How’s the family?”

“Pretty good. Living with a middle-aged truck
driver and two teenage boys is making me old.”

Anne started to remind her that Sara’s
husband was living with a middle-aged woman, but thought better of
it. “Well, living alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I can tell
you that.” Anne had lived alone for five years. Five years since
John’s . . . She refused to finish the thought.

“Maybe not, but there are times when I envy
you. More iced tea?”

“No. I need to get back to the office.” The
thought of her dead husband blew a dark cloud over Anne’s mind. She
needed to move on to other things and to do so quickly.

“Which office today?” Sara asked as she
picked up the empty plate and used silverware.

“Business, but I’ll be in the city building
most of tomorrow. The mail is starting to pile up.”

“How you keep both jobs going, I’ll never
know. Waiting tables taxes what little brain I have.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sara. There’s
nothing wrong with being a waitress. And you’re a good one, even if
you do give me a bad time every time I come through the door.”

“That’s part of the charm of this
place—mediocre food but stellar service.”

“Stellar, eh? Is that the word? Stellar?”

“What word would you use?” Sara asked.

“I’d tell you, but you might poison my
food.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already done
that? I’ve been thinking about running for mayor myself.”

“Good luck,” Anne said. “There are days when
I’d give it to you. That way you could hold down two jobs.”

“Well, selling real estate has to be easier
on the feet than running between tables.”

“I’m sure it is, but it has its . . .
challenges too.”

A low rumble vibrated the floor, window, and
booth in which Anne was sitting. She turned and looked out the
window. Just beyond the restaurant’s parking lot ran Tejon’s main
road: Oak Glen Avenue. It was a four-lane strip of macadam the
State of California had given the ignoble designation “Business
52.” A large and loud eighteen-wheeler rumbled past, immediately
followed

by another. Behind it came a flatbed toting a
backhoe. A second later another flatbed rumbled past carrying a
piece of equipment Anne didn’t recognize.

“Wow,” Sara said. “It looks like someone is
getting ready to do some building.”

“Sachs Engineering,” Anne muttered.

“What?”

“Sachs Engineering,” Anne repeated. “The
trucks had Sachs Engineering painted on the doors.”

“Who are they?”

“I have no idea. I’m not aware of any large
construction going on in the area. No permits were filed.”

“They’re building without permission?” Sara
asked. “Don’t they need permits to do that kind of work?”

“They do if they’re building in the city,”
Anne replied. “Outside city limits they’d have to go through the
county—”

“Look, there’s more.” Sara pointed out the
window. Another flatbed went by with a large yellow tractor in tow.
Immediately after came a bus. “I wonder who’s on the bus.”

“Don’t know. The windows were tinted. I
couldn’t see in.”

Sara picked up Anne’s empty tea glass. “I
guess we’ll know sooner or later. I just hope the bus isn’t filled
with hungry people. The boss would like it, but then he doesn’t
have to juggle all those plates of food.”

Anne reached into her handbag, removed her
wallet, and placed several dollar bills on the table. “The rest is
for you,” she said as she slipped from the booth.

“Back to the office?” Sara said.

“Yes, but I’m going to take a little detour
first.”

THE PRIVATE MEETING in the trailer was brief but long
enough for Gleason and Jack to bring Perry up to speed on the more
sensitive and secret details of the work. Once that was done, they
traded the cramped confines for outdoor elbowroom.

Standing at a folding table situated under a
green plastic sunscreen, Perry felt out of place, like a prune in a
basket of oranges. Gleason had dubbed the outdoor area next to the
trailer “the office.” Around him were Jack, Gleason, and the intern
Brent, all dressed for the work and terrain. Perry, however, was
beginning to sweat in his suit. The sunscreen was held in place by
nylon cords strung between oak trees. The trees provided the
necessary shade but had an annoying tendency to drop leaves on
papers and equipment. The birds that flittered through the thick
limbs were another and more distasteful concern.

On the table under the sunshade were a laptop
computer, color ink-jet printer, and several pages.

“This is the magnetic survey,” Gleason
remarked. “We’re repeating everything just to be sure. That’s what
they’re doing over there.” He nodded in the direction of a young
woman in a white T-shirt and shorts with a metal pole in her hand.
Near the base of the pole was a black cylinder. Perry watched as
she took a step, placed the end of the pole to the ground, waited,
raised it, took another step, and repeated the process. A cable ran
from the pole in her hand to a computer that rested before a young
man. After each stop, he would say, “Good. Next.” The woman took
another step.