A Treasure Deep (4 page)

“That generated this?” Perry asked. He held a
piece of paper that was marked with curving black lines. It
reminded him of a contour map. While he was familiar with the
process, he liked to review all the details.

“Yes,” Gleason said. “First we did a general
survey by eye, but, as expected, found nothing. No news there. We
then did the electromagnetic scan and covered about five acres’
worth of ground. We found anomalies right off the bat. We then
narrowed the area of search, taking readings every meter to get a
more detailed picture. That’s what you’re holding. As you can see,
to the left of center, the lines of magnetic force have
changed.”

“Indicating what?” Perry asked.

“A shaft or maybe a chamber,” Brent piped
in.

“Brent helped with the initial survey and
analysis,” Gleason said, then added, “That survey alone would be
enough to convince me that something is down there.”

“Could it be something natural?” Jack asked,
always the pragmatist.

Gleason answered quickly. “Could it be
natural? Yes. Is it likely that it’s natural? No. But to be sure,
we’re repeating the survey. This time, we’re taking readings every
half meter.”

“Of course,” Brent added, “there’s this.” He
handed Perry a color image. “That’s the GPR image of yesterday’s
survey. GPR stands for—”

“Ground-penetrating radar,” Perry
interjected. “I’m familiar with it.”

Brent cleared his throat. “Of course. I was
only . . . I mean . . .”

“It corroborates the EM survey,” Perry
remarked, letting Brent off the hook. “Odd.”

“I wondered if you’d notice that,” Gleason
said with a knowing smile.

“Notice what?” Jack asked. He moved closer to
Perry and peered over his shoulder.

“This.” Perry pointed to a gray-white blob at
the bottom of the printout. The rest of the image was a mottled
blend of reds, purples, and blacks. “Looks like a chamber or
something buried. I expected that. It’s this that strikes me as
odd.” He ran his finger along a fuzzy streak on the page.

Jack huffed. “You mean the blue-gray smudge
that goes from the blob to the surface?”

“That’s what I like about you engineer
types,” Gleason said, “all that fancy technical language.”

Perry ignored the remark. “I was expecting a
vertical shaft, but this looks to be angled at, what, thirty
degrees?”

“Twenty-five degrees on average,” Gleason
said. “I say ‘on average’ because it’s not consistent, which could
mean many things.”

“Such as?” Jack asked.

“Such as it was dug by amateurs or people
with poor equipment, or that the ground has shifted over the
years.”

“Which is the most likely cause,” Brent said.
“This is California, home to shifting ground and earthquakes.”

“We can run the GPR over the area again,”
Gleason said.

Perry shook his head. “No need. This is more
than enough evidence to take the next step.”

“Next step?” Brent asked.

Perry shifted his gaze to the two field
workers taking EM readings. “When they’re done,” he said, “let’s
set up to take some cores.” He turned to Jack. “Where’s the
equipment? The trucks should be here by now. Let’s get them on the
cell phone—”

“No need, buddy,” Jack said. “I hear them
coming.”

Perry tilted his head and strained his ears.
The sound of diesel motors rolled faintly up the hills, carried by
a scented wind.

“It’s not going to be easy setting up the
drilling rig,” Jack said, “not on a slope like that.”

“We have permission from the land owner to
grade the hill as necessary,” Perry said. “Let’s work quickly but
not foolishly. Safety first.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Jack said.
“I’ve had enough close calls in my life. I don’t need any
more.”

Perry nodded. He too had faced his share of
disasters. It came with the job. Cranes, concrete, and steel were
unforgiving if taken for granted. And of course, there were always
the people who made life difficult and sometimes deadly. Perry’s
life had rarely been dull.

“Any special place you want us to drill?”
Gleason asked.

Picking up the printouts from the EM and GPR
surveys, Perry marched from beneath the canopy of oaks and into the
sun-washed clearing. He stepped off the distance until he found
himself standing just north of the field’s middle. He removed a
fountain pen from his pocket, drew an X on one of the printouts,
and then returned the pen. Reaching into the pocket of his
trousers, he removed a small penknife, opened it, squatted down,
and plunged the knife through the paper and into the soft
ground.

“X marks the spot. Can’t dig for treasure
without that.” He stood and looked around. “Let’s begin five meters
up and along the area where the GPR shows where the ditch used to
be. Take a coring a meter on each side of that and work your way
here. Of course, I just paced this off. You’ll be able to determine
a more precise location once your crew finishes the last
survey.”

“We won’t be able to finish by nightfall,”
Gleason said. “You want us to set up the lights for night
work?”

Perry nodded. “Yes. The men are here; let’s
put them to work.”

“I may be crossing the line here,” Brent
said, “but what are we looking for? I mean, if that’s not too much
to ask.”

Perry studied the young man for a moment then
said, “Sorry, newbie. You’re asking too much—at least for now.”

“I was just curious,” Brent remarked. “I feel
like we’re working in the dark.”

“Only four people know what we’re looking
for, and three of them are standing in front of you. I can tell you
it’s not oil.”

“You said ‘treasure,’” Brent said. “I’ve got
an image of a pirate’s chest filled with booty.”

“Trust, kid,” Perry said. “Learn to trust. It
makes a big difference in life.” He turned to Gleason and asked,
“Who has the keys to the Ford Explorer over there?”

“I’ll get them for you,” Gleason answered.
“You ready to head to the motel?”

“No. I have another stop to make first; then
I’ll go into town.”

“Where’re you going?” Jack asked.

“While you are enjoying a casual day in the
sunshine, I’m going to go talk to the man who made all this
possible.”

Jack chuckled. “Day in the sunshine. Sounds
great. Birds singing, diesels belching . . . who could ask for
more?”

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” Perry said, and
he knew Jack would. Three minutes later, Perry pulled away from the
work site and headed up a dirt road. He’d already seen and done
more than most engineers did in a lifetime. This, however, was
beyond even what he could fathom. And that sent the electricity of
enthusiasm through him.

Before him lay an open dirt road that wound
through the hills; around him was country as beautiful as any he
had ever seen; above him was a bright sky of ocean blue. As he
glanced up, he saw a small white airplane cruising through the
crystalline air and mused, “A perfect day to go flying.”

“CAN’T YOU SMOOTH this out any?” The man’s question
carried a harsh tone of voice with it.

The pilot laughed. “I told you it’d be rough.
You can’t fly through the kind of winds we get here and not expect
some bounces. Besides, I don’t usually let clients fly with
me.”

“I paid you enough for it,” the man snapped.
He was thickly built, broad in the shoulders, and broader around
the waist. His size was a cramped fit in the twin engine Cessna 320
aircraft. Shoulder rubbed against shoulder. Behind them, Jim
Willis, the pilot’s brother and partner, snapped photos with a
Leica RC-30 aerial camera.

“That you did, Mr. Dawes,” the pilot said.
“That you did.”

The plane bounced again, and Dawes released a
little groan.

“You’re not getting sick, are you?” the pilot
asked. The thought of his customer losing his lunch in the cockpit
made him shudder.

“Of course not,” Dawes shot back. He raised a
hand to his mustache-crowned mouth and belched loudly. “Just fly
the plane, and let’s get this over with.” Dawes raised a pair of
Tasco binoculars to his hooded brown eyes and peered out the
window.

“How’s it going, Jim?” the pilot asked his
brother in the back.

“Just peachy. Hold course, and I’ll snap a
few more shots, then one more pass ought to do it.”

“How long before I have my photos?” Dawes
asked, the binoculars still glued to his eyes.

“You got a computer?”

“Yeah, what’s that got to do with
anything?”

“This is the digital age, my friend. I’ll
send you home with a CD full of photos. I can print them out if you
want, but there’s an extra charge for that. And if you want a
larger print . . .”

“The CD will be fine.”

Ron Willis, founder and pilot for Willis
Aerial Photography, looked at his impatient customer and thought he
detected a slight green hue about the face. He wondered if the man
could control his stomach for one more pass.

The plane bounced again. Dawes swore.

“Sorry, Mr. Dawes, but there’s nothing I can
do about the CAT.”

“Cat? What cat? What are you talking about?”
He lowered the binoculars and took a couple of deep breaths.

“Clear air turbulence,” Willis explained.
“You fly over the mountains, you get bounced. Especially on a warm
day like this.”

“Whatever.” Dawes raised the binoculars to
his eyes.

“You know,” Willis added, “if you’re feeling
a little sick, then it would be best if you looked ahead, toward
the horizon. Looking down through binoculars will only make you
feel worse. Motion sickness is bad. I know—”

“Just fly the plane.”

“You’re the boss.” Willis shrugged.

Dawes had come to the Bakersfield airport
just before lunch, insisting on hiring a plane for an aerial
survey. Willis had tried to schedule a day for the following week,
but Dawes had been too impatient for that. “It has to be today, and
it has to be soon. I’m . . . I’m here on business, and I have to
leave this afternoon.”

“I can send you the photos over the
Internet,” Willis had offered. Again Dawes had shot the idea down.
“I have to give a report to my boss when I get back, so I need the
pictures today.”

“I’m afraid I’m already booked.”

Willis recalled how the man’s hooded eyes
narrowed and his voice lowered. “I’ll pay double. You can keep the
extra for yourself or use it to pacify the other customer. Frankly,
I don’t care. Just get me in the air, and let’s take some
pictures.”

Double was a lot of money, and the other
customer was a friend. He would—and did—understand. The company
stood to make a little extra and not lose anything in the process.
But now Willis was starting to regret the decision. Several times
he’d tried to learn more about the man who sat next to him, asking
where he lived, if he was looking to buy property in the Tehachapi
Mountains, and so on. But the man was slippery. Willis talked it
over with his brother and partner Jim, and the best thing to do,
they decided, was do the job as quickly as possible, take the
money, and hope the guy never came back.

“That’s it,” Jim said. “Swing us around. I’ll
shoot one more pass, then we can go home.”

“With pleasure,” Willis said under his
breath. One more glance at his passenger found him gazing down at
the ground below.

“They sure have a lot of equipment to do it,”
he muttered.

“What’s that?” Willis asked.

“Nothing. Did you get a picture of those
trucks down there?”

Jim heard the question. “Yup. We’re going to
take shots of the area just south of that now.”

“Forget it,” Dawes said. “I have what I need.
Let’s head back.”

“Are you sure?” Jim said. “One more pass and
we’ll have a complete set—”

Willis cut his brother off with a raised
hand. If Dawes wanted to call it a day, that was more than fine
with him.

ANNE WAS TORN. Her first impulse was to follow the
caravan of trucks she’d seen roar by the Tejon Table, but that
seemed a little too impulsive even for her. It was possible that
they were just passing through town headed for one of the larger
ranches. It wasn’t unusual to see trucks and flatbeds carting heavy
equipment around. Ranchers needed everything from septic tanks to
large structures for their work. The local vineyards that populated
the lower hills had their fair share of big equipment needs too.
What bothered her was the caravan style and the name Sachs
Engineering painted on the sides of the trucks.

Squelching the impulse to pursue, she turned
her Toyota Camry onto Central Avenue and aimed for City Hall
instead. With less than seven thousand residents within its
borders, the City of Tejon was definitely a smaller town. Known as
a “general law” city in California, it had the various departments
common to cities of all sizes. It also had a city council composed
of five elected representatives, one of whom was selected to serve
as mayor. This year that privilege fell to Anne, beginning her
third term on the council.

City Hall itself was a single-story building
composed of slump stone topped with a red Spanish tile roof. Built
in 1980, it had weathered well but was starting to show wear. Two
council members were proposing renovations—refurbishments the city
couldn’t really afford.

Anne parked her car and entered the building
through the double glass doors of the lobby. Turning right, she
followed the corridor to her office at the southwest corner. June,
her part-time secretary, was absent. It was Tuesday, and since Anne
only came to the office Wednesday through Friday, there was no need
for her to be there. The full-time receptionist who sat in the
information booth near the lobby took messages for Anne.

The office was a twelve-by-fifteen affair and
simple in décor. A large color photo of snow-dressed hills hung
prominently on one wall. On the other was a photo of Oak Glen
Avenue, the locale’s main street in 1922, the year the city was
chartered.