A Treasure Deep (8 page)

“There’s too much equipment back at the road
for them to

be looking for water.”

“I suppose they could be drilling for
something else.”

Their truck took another bounce, and Anne
swore and rubbed the side of her head where it hit the doorframe.
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“I’ve always wanted to be mayor.”

“You’re not in the line of succession, Bob.
Just try to avoid the holes and gullies.”

“Sorry, but the grass obscures everything,
and I left my X-ray vision back at the office.” Bob turned the
wheel right and directed the truck toward the grove. He slowed as
he approached.

Anne was looking around like a child in an
amusement park. The drilling rig was not the only vehicle present,
nor was it the only piece of equipment. Two yellow SUVs were parked
to one side of the grove and another truck at the south end. That
truck had a large machine attached to the bed. Bob nodded at it and
said, “Generator.”

Bob pulled his pickup under one of the trees.
He and Anne exited and took in the situation. There were about
twenty men working in different areas of the meadow. They were
assembling what looked to Anne to be aluminum towers. “Any idea
what they’re doing?” she asked Bob, directing his attention with a
pointed finger.

He studied the work for a moment then
replied, “Lights. I used them in my construction days. These guys
are planning on working around the clock.”

“There’re a lot of them.”

“Lights or people?”

“Both, but I meant the lights.” Anne noticed
a pattern. “It looks like they’re setting them up in rows.”

“That’s how I see it. Three banks of lights
in two rows.” Bob pointed to the ground where the different teams
were working. “See those markers? The sticks with the colored
ribbon on them? Those are surveyor marks. Whatever they plan to do,
they plan on doing it between those rows of markers.”

“Let’s see if we can find someone to talk
to.” Anne started off with determined strides, marching to the
cluster of oaks. Twenty steps later she found herself standing
beneath a plastic canopy. Several plastic tables were standing with
legs propped against the downhill slope. On the tables were
computers and various pieces of electronics she didn’t recognize.
All the tables faced out toward the open field. In the center of
“camp” was a larger table covered with sheets of paper held in
place against the stiffening breeze with rocks and various
travel-mugs. Several paces beyond that was another table upon which
were large plastic containers.

Anne watched as one of the workmen came in
from the meadow, picked up a paper cup, and filled it from a spout
in one of the containers. He took a long drink then threw the cup
in a dark green trashcan. At least they’re tidy, Anne thought. A
small trailer was parked to one side.

Redirecting her attention to the table with
the papers, she saw three men huddled over some document and
conversing quietly.

“They look like a good place to start,” Bob
said.

Anne agreed and walked to the table. “Excuse
me,” she said. The three men turned their attention to her. One was
young, fresh-faced, and couldn’t be older than a college student.
The next man was tall, trim, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. It was
the third man that caught her attention. Unlike the other two, he
was ebony-skinned and massive. Thickly muscled and intimidating in
appearance, Anne thought he could have a stellar career as a
barroom bouncer. “Excuse me,” she repeated, using her best
professional tone. “I’m looking for the person in charge.”

The three men looked at each other for a
moment then back to Anne. “In charge of what?” the man in the
glasses asked.

“In charge of all this.” Anne motioned to the
trucks and equipment.

“He’s not here, Ms . . . ,” the big black man
said.

“Fitzgerald. Anne Fitzgerald. I’m the mayor
of the City of Tejon. You passed through it on your way here.” She
introduced Bob.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mayor. I’m Jack
Dyson, assistant project manager.” He motioned to the others. “This
is Gleason Lane, one of our engineers, and this is Brent Hapgood, a
college intern with Sachs Engineering. How can I help you?”

“I would like to know what you’re doing
here,” Anne asked. She directed the comment to the man who
identified himself as Jack Dyson.

“Why?” Jack asked.

“What do you mean, why?”

“It’s a simple interrogative,” Jack said. “I
don’t mean to be impolite, but I’m not obligated to answer a
question simply because it’s been asked.”

Interrogative? Anne thought. Boy, did I
underestimate this guy. “I think I have a right to know what you’re
doing.”

“Why?”

“As I said, I’m mayor of Tejon, and I’m
interested in everything that may impact my city.”

“This will have no impact on your city,
ma’am,” Jack said. “I don’t believe we’re in city limits.”

“Events outside of our borders can affect the
city,” Anne protested. She felt her ire heating up. This man was
being evasive. She told him so.

“I’m not being evasive, ma’am. I’m simply
stating the facts. We’re not in city limits; we’re on private
property in the country, and we are here with the permission and
blessing of the landowner. Again, nothing we do here will impact
your lovely town.”

“I have a right to know,” Anne protested but
knew it was futile. It was clear Jack Dyson was as resolute as he
was big.

“I’m sorry, but you don’t have that
right.”

“So this is a secret project?”

“I suppose you can call it that. We have a
confidence to keep, ma’am. We plan to keep it.”

Bob chimed in. “I could find no county record
for a building permit.”

“We’re not building,” Jack said
perfunctorily.

Anne decided to take another approach. “You
said you were the assistant project manager. Who is the project
manager you assist?”

“His name is Perry Sachs, and as I said, he’s
not here.”

“Sachs?” Anne responded. “As in Sachs
Engineering?”

“Perry is senior vice president and senior
project manager.”

“Where is he now?” Anne pressed.

“Resting.”

“Resting while you work. Nice job.” Anne was
getting irritated. “Precisely where is he resting?”

“In his motel room, and no, I won’t tell you
where that is. He’s had only a few hours’ sleep over the last few
days. He doesn’t need to be disturbed.”

Anne sighed loudly. She had run up against a
brick wall in a man the size of a brick wall. “I could have a
sheriff’s deputy up here in no time.”

Jack nodded and reached into the breast
pocket of his work shirt. “Here’s my card. It has my name on it so
the deputy will know who to ask for.” He handed the card to Anne.
She took it reluctantly, and before she could retract it, another
hand appeared with another card. It was from the man with the odd
name: Gleason Lane.

“You can have mine too,” he said.

Anne caught sight of the college kid patting
his pockets. He shrugged, smiled, and said, “I’m just an intern. I
don’t get cards, but I could write my name down if you want.”

Her anger had been brought to a boil, but
expressing it would be futile. She had no authority to demand
answers, and it galled her. Then she had another idea. “So you’re
telling me this Perry Sachs is not on location. He’s resting.”

“That’s right,” Jack answered.

Anne spun and snapped, “Let’s go, Bob.”
Several steps later she turned to look at the men who stonewalled
her. They had returned to their computer and papers. Back at the
truck, Anne asked, “You’re the local building specialist; what do
you think they’re doing?”

He dropped the truck into gear and pulled
away, descending the slope slowly. “I’d only be guessing.”

“Guess. It’s more than what I’ve got.”

“They’re excavating.”

“Excavating what?”

“Could be anything. If I were a betting man,
I’d say they’re about to drill test holes. Once they learn what
they want, then they’re going to bring up that backhoe we saw on
the truck parked by the road and start pulling up dirt. Whatever
they’re after, it’s underground.”

“How do you know that?”

“Those papers on the table. While you were
trying to be the irresistible force that moved the immovable object
called Jack Dyson, I was getting an eyeful of those papers.”

“And?”

“They were printouts of underground surveys.
I recognized one set of images as being what you get from a GPR
survey. They’re definitely searching for something.”

“GPR?”

“Ground-penetrating radar. It’s a way of
seeing what lies below grade. The technology has gotten pretty
sophisticated, and I bet these guys don’t use anything that isn’t
top of the line.”

“What could be underground that is so
important?”

“Who knows? Maybe they found someone’s
treasure. Maybe they’re doing something for the government. If it’s
a federal project of some kind, then that would explain why they’re
so tight-lipped.”

“And why they could care less about me
bringing the sheriff’s department up.”

“True. What now, coach? Back to the
office?”

“No.” Anne found her cell phone in the small
purse she carried. “As soon as I get a cell signal, I’m going to
make a few calls.”

“To whom?”

“We have only three motels in Tejon, Bob, and
we know this Sachs guy is in one of them. They have to put those
workers up somewhere. I’m betting they’ve taken a block of rooms
somewhere. We’re the closest town, so it would make sense that they
stay there.”

“You’re going to hunt this guy down?” Bob
asked as he directed the truck back down the road. “You’re that
curious?”

“It has nothing to do with curiosity, Bob.
It’s the principle of the thing.”

TWENTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD Joseph Henri sat at the dining
room table rocking like a metronome. Back and forth, back and
forth, then side to side. His eyes were open and staring blankly at
the tabletop that was covered in open books. The tomes were
unrelated. One was a Latin grammar; another, an atlas of the United
States; still another, the phone directory for San Francisco.

Joseph grunted. He always grunted when he
rocked, but he did so with clock-like precision. Every thirteenth
movement came with an “uhh.” Thirteen beats later, “uhh.” He could
do this for hours and often did, never missing count, never
varying. Thirteen rocking motions . . . grunt . . . thirteen . . .
grunt.

As he repeated his little choreography, body
firmly planted in the dining room chair, he stuck his tongue out
and licked his lips. This he did every seventeen cycles. Rock . . .
“uhh” . . . rock . . . lick . . . rock. He could do calculations
“normal” humans couldn’t. But Joseph couldn’t read. He could,
however, absorb books and even memorize entire volumes word for
word. Words, numbers, sounds, pictures, songs were all stored in
his mind. He never forgot anything. He understood almost
nothing.

Rocking . . . swaying.

Joseph’s tongue fired out again and ran
across his thick, chapped lips. An image was on his mind and he was
examining it. This picture was not from a book but from a person,
although he had trouble distinguishing an image from an object. The
image was a face. A deep voice face like his father’s. A smile fun
word face like his mother’s. “Uhh . . . Perry . . . uhh . . .
Perry.”

Joseph stopped suddenly and began to cry.

PERRY’S MIND, DESPITE the thick shroud of sleepiness
that covered him, still ran in high gear. It had always been that
way for him. Even as a child he didn’t simply “have” ideas; he was
infected with them. Once a thought wormed its way forward in his
brain, he couldn’t expel it. Many thoughts bounced around in his
mind like ping-pong balls in a cement mixer.

It had begun. What was originally an effort
to save a man’s life had become a project more important than
anything he’d ever done, and probably more than anything he would
do. As he lay back on the motel bed, he took a deep breath and let
it out slowly, hoping to calm his thoughts.

This is more than a project, he reminded
himself. He’d built buildings above and below ground. He had
traveled to every industrialized country in the world and many
third-world lands. He’d spoken to heads-of-state and military
leaders; the wealthy were impressed by him and sought his counsel.
But all of that was dross to the gold for which he now hunted. In a
few hours, he would return to the spot that very well might change
the world. It would be dark by then, but that didn’t matter. This
was an around-the-clock operation. Things had to be done quickly,
accurately, and without mistake. They would push on at the best
speed possible but not so fast as to make mistakes.

Controversy lay around every corner, but that
couldn’t be avoided. For now it was a secret, but soon it would be
world news. This is no mere project, Perry reminded himself. This
was a mission for God, and he planned on treating it as such. The
best research had been done, the best equipment requisitioned, and
the best workers brought to bear. Each key man had in the past
proven himself to be trustworthy and loyal. Each worker on the site
had signed a detailed nondisclosure agreement—not that it was
needed for his regulars. Perry would trust his life, and had in the
past, to these men, Jack and Gleason in particular.

Again, Perry took a deep breath and released
it. His mind wound backward, becoming a mental time machine that
took him back to Seattle, back to the night when a young gunman
attempted to kill Professor Jamison Henri . . .

The police arrived in the dark alley as Perry
administered CPR to Henri. Perry prayed with each compression and
with each breath he blew into the elderly man’s lungs. CPR was hard
work. Perry was soaked from the inside with sweat and from the
outside by the chilling Washington rain.