A Treasure Deep (19 page)

“Through the door.”

Claire reached the landing, saw a door, and
opened it. She also saw a shiny band of metal, a latch, and a large
padlock. This room was to become their prison, and Claire could
think of nothing to do about it.

Once inside she turned to the door. Veronica,
if that was her name, stood there staring at the two. “Now?” Claire
asked. “Please. Let’s not wait another minute.”

The woman shook her head. “Sorry,” she
said.

“You promised,” Claire objected, knowing how
stupid the appeal sounded. Expecting someone who had abducted them
under threat of death could be trusted in what she said was
ludicrous, but pleading was the only tool she had.

“I lied,” the woman said and shut the door.
Claire heard the latch and lock being set. A dim incandescent bulb
in an old floor lamp lighted the room.

The rest of the night had passed in blazing
anxiety. Claire sat in the only chair the room offered, a rusty,
metal folding chair. Joseph sat on the floor next to her and leaned
his head on her thigh. She stroked his hair and waited for the
awful moment to arrive.

Demons of despair plied her mind with
thoughts of burying the only family she had left. Without Joseph,
she saw no reason to continue living. All that she had cared for
would be gone. When he died, her spirit would die.

Minutes turned into moments.

A few times she had risen from her seat and
tried to open the door, even kicking it repeatedly, but got only
pain for her efforts. Still, she had to try. She had tried to pry
off the thick plywood that covered the window, but it wouldn’t
budge. Moving the light closer to the covered opening, she saw that
someone had used a dozen drywall screws to fix the wood panel to
the wall. There was no way she could remove it without tools.

Claire had reluctantly faced the truth of the
matter: She and Joseph were stuck where they were, and there was
nothing she could do about it.

Moments turned into hours.

The horrible specter of death hadn’t come.
Joseph showed no signs of illness. When he had first lain down on
the threadbare carpet, Claire had joined him, draping an arm over
him as an embrace of love and as a way to monitor his breathing.
His breathing slowed, but not like a man dying, like a man
sleeping. In the abysmal black of the room, Claire thanked God for
every rise and fall of her son’s chest, for every inhalation.

Joseph slept.

Claire prayed.

Night turned to day.

Joseph continued to live. It was making sense
now. The woman had lied about her intentions and had lied about the
poison. It was the cruelest abuse Claire had ever suffered, and for
the first time in her life, she found herself hating another human.
Her husband’s assailant had remained faceless and nameless to her.
He’d been tried in court, but Claire didn’t attend. Joseph’s care
was too demanding of her time. This was different. She’d seen
face-to-face her son’s attacker; she’d felt the woman’s strong,
cold hands on her body. That made her too real not to hate.

Then the hate was extinguished with the cold
of fear. Hate was a foreign emotion for Claire; fear she was
familiar with.

Again, Claire did all that was left to her:
She prayed. Prayer had been a part of her life since childhood;
faith a companion for just as long. Her own death seemed a small
thing. Her concern was Joseph.

Why do they want my son?

BRENT ARRIVED AT the site sucking air in heavy
inhalations. He approached Perry and the others, nodded a greeting,
leaned over, and placed his hands on his knees.

“What’d ya do, kid?” Jack asked. “Run all the
way back from Tejon?”

He shook his head then stood erect. After one
more deep breath he said, “We have company.”

“Deputies,” Perry said. “That’s why we sent
you.”

“No, not the police or sheriffs or whatever
they are. They’re on the way too. I’m talking about the
others.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Perry said.
His thoughts ran to the newspaper article Anne had warned him
about.

“I noticed a couple of cars behind me,” Brent
said. “I didn’t think much about it until they followed me up the
dirt road. I know you’ve been really secretive about this project,
so I assumed you didn’t want visitors.”

“You assumed right, but I was expecting
it.”

“Really?” Brent said.

“I’m afraid so.” Perry explained about the
article and his meeting with Anne Fitzgerald.

“So people are going to read that and think
we’ve found a hoard of gold or something,” Brent said. He paused.
“Have we . . . I mean, have you?”

“Not like you’re thinking,” Jack
inserted.

“How far behind you were they?” Perry
inquired. His calm exterior was a shell that held his anger in
check.

“Not far. I ran up the hill in hopes that
they wouldn’t see which direction I went. Not that it matters.”

Perry knew what he meant. The equipment
parked on the dirt path would be a giveaway, as would the wild
grass beaten down by the workers moving up and down the hill.

“I’m new to all this secret construction
stuff,” Brent said, “but I don’t imagine having spectators is a
good thing.”

“You’re right, but we have other concerns.
This is now a crime scene. If people start wandering around, they
will contaminate the scene. The sheriff’s department won’t be happy
about that.”

“Everyone with me,” Perry said as he started
down the slope. “Except you, Dr. Curtis. Maybe you should wait in
the office.” He motioned to the oak grove. “Let’s see if we can
keep our guests off the site.”

They hadn’t gone far when they saw five
people struggling up the grade. Perry quickly sized them up: two
couples of retirement age and a bald, thin man dressed too nicely
for the terrain. What bothered him even more was what he saw behind
them: three other vehicles pulling to a stop. Clearly, the secret
was out.

“Can I help you?” Perry asked forcefully. He
gave a short smile. The winded visitors stopped and took a moment
to catch their breath.

“Who are you?” one man asked. He was round
and decked out in work boots, a T-shirt, and jeans that were held
up by a pair of wide, multicolored suspenders that made Perry think
of a circus clown. The man was missing a front tooth and sported a
week’s worth of stubble on his chin.

“My name is Perry. May I ask who you
are?”

“Sure, I’m Don Tucker. People just call me
Tuck. This is my wife, Shirley.” Shirley smiled sweetly.

“I’m Dr. Lloyd Stevens,” the other man said.
Unlike the first, he was clean-shaven and had bright eyes. “I’m the
town dentist. This is my wife, Nancy.”

Perry nodded in their direction and wondered
why Tuck didn’t visit Lloyd in his office. He looked at the skinny
visitor.

“I’m David Branson. I’m the editor of the . .
.”

“. . . local paper,” Perry said, finishing
the sentence. The words seemed sour in his mouth.

“You’ve heard of me?” Branson smiled.

“The mayor mentioned you,” Perry
explained.

“All good, I hope.” The editor let slip a
little chuckle.

Perry frowned and cut his eyes to the others.
“How may I help you?”

Tuck looked at Perry and then the others; his
eyes widened as he took in Jack’s size. “We was having some eggs
down at the café and readin’ the paper. Came across the article
about what you guys are doing up here. I said to Shirley, ‘What say
we take a run up there and say hi to the folks, maybe see what
they’re doing.’”

“Same with us,” Lloyd said.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to see,” Perry
said. “We’ve only been here for a day.”

“Is it true there’s treasure?” Branson
blurted. “A treasure right here in town?”

“Actually, we’re in the county, not the City
of Tejon—”

“Don’t matter none,” Tuck interjected. “We’re
all neighbors. So how about it? Can we get a tour?”

“I’m afraid not,” Perry said diplomatically.
“This is private property and—”

“It ain’t your private property,” Tuck
insisted. “It belongs to the Trujillos. That’s what the paper said.
Ain’t that right, Branson?”

“Yes,” the editor said. “That’s what I wrote
in the article.”

“We have a contract with the Trujillo
family,” Perry said.

“What kind of contract?” Branson asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“Maybe I should just drive up and talk to
Trujillo myself,” Tuck said. “We’re friends, after all.”

“You’re friends with Mr. Trujillo?” Perry
asked. “How is he doing?”

Tuck’s eyes shot back and forth for a moment,
and he licked his lips. “Fine. He’s doing great.”

“No, he’s not,” Perry said. “He’s sick. A
friend would know that.”

Stepping forward, Tuck raised a finger and
jabbed it against Perry’s chest. The scraggly man smelled of aged
Old Spice and strong coffee. “You callin’ me a liar?”

Jack cleared his throat and moved a step
closer to Tucker, who immediately took a quick stride back.

“We have a right to know what goes on in our
county,” the dentist said.

“That’s right,” Branson interjected. “It’s my
responsibility to report what’s going on.”

“Perhaps,” Perry said. “But I’m afraid I
can’t let you on the site.”

“Who’s gonna stop—” Tucker began then
stopped. Perry turned to see Jack at his shoulder, standing calmly
with hands clasped in front of him. His sheer size was threat
enough. Perry knew what Tucker couldn’t: No man was kinder than
Jack. Perry decided to keep that quiet for the moment.

“Well, maybe I’ll just come back with the
sheriff.” Tucker was reduced to bluster.

“It’s been tried already,” Perry said.
“You’re welcome to do so too.”

“Well . . . well, maybe I just will.”

“You won’t have to wait long,” Gleason added.
He nodded down the hill.

At the bottom of the slope a white patrol car
parked behind the growing line of vehicles. Approaching the slope
came five other citizens of Tejon, all men. Perry felt like he was
looking at a football team.

Tucker followed Perry’s gaze and saw the
deputy exit the car, as well as the approaching group. “Well, I
guess we’ll see who can and can’t take a look around.”

The answer to that was already clear in
Perry’s mind. With a body lying in a pit—two bodies, he corrected
himself—the police were not going to allow crowds to roam over the
crime scene.

“Hey, Doc,” a man in his late teens said as
he led the second group forward. He wore a letterman’s jacket. “You
out here to see the treasure hunt?”

“Hey, Vince,” the dentist replied. “That was
the plan, but we’re not getting far. It appears we’re not
welcome.”

“That a fact?” Vince said. He was a muscled
man who obviously spent most of his off hours pushing iron and
looking in mirrors. “Who’s stopping you?”

“These guys,” Tucker said with a jerk of his
thumb.

“Perhaps I can talk some sense into them,”
the man called Vince said.

“Well, isn’t this fun?” Gleason said quietly,
then nervously cleared his throat.

“His pals look pretty big,” Brent said
shakily. He shuffled his feet.

“How about it, buddy?” Vince said. “You gonna
stand in the way of me and my friends?”

Perry smiled but said nothing.

“Pop ’em one,” Tucker said.

“Stop it,” Tucker’s wife demanded. “This is
getting out of hand.”

“There’s no need for a riot,” Branson
offered.

“Ain’t gonna be no riot. Me and my friends
are going up there to see what you’re doing,” Vince growled, “and
there’s nothing you can do about it.” He looked at Jack. “You’re a
big one. Think you can take five of us?”

Perry raised a hand before Jack could speak.
“Go home.” Perry’s words were just above a whisper.

“I don’t think so, buddy,” Vince said. “I
think I’m going to finish my little walk up the hill.” Vince drove
his point home pressing his index finger against Perry’s chest.

There was a cry of pain.

Vince was on his knees, one hand raised, the
other holding his wrist. The raised hand was kept in place by the
strong grip of Perry as he bent the man’s finger back. Vince’s
knees had buckled at the pain.

“You’re breaking my finger. Let go!”

“Hold still, son,” Perry said without
emotion. His eyes were fixed on Vince’s four friends. They started
forward, and Perry applied more pressure to the digit. Vince
bellowed. His friends stopped. Jack took a step forward and
clinched his fists. The message was sent and received.

“Hey!” The voice traveled up the hill. Perry
saw the deputy he had met yesterday, marching up the slope. His
voice was strong, and his face appeared chiseled in concrete. He
had the look of a man not to be trifled with.

Perry braced himself for the officer’s verbal
assault, but it never came. Instead, he strode up to Perry then
looked down at Vince, whose face was twisted in pain. “Mr. Sachs,”
the deputy said with the kind of nod one gives an acquaintance met
on the street.

“Sergeant Montulli,” Perry replied
smoothly.

“I was expecting something else when I
arrived,” Montulli said. “Has Vince been giving you trouble?”

“A little,” Perry admitted, “but nothing to
worry about. You know this man?”

“Vincent? Oh yeah, we go way back. He’s a bit
of a celebrity around town. Local high school kid makes college
football team. He’s a linebacker. Pretty good too. Just not real
smart.”

“Ah,” Perry said.

“Come on, man, he’s breaking my finger.”
Sweat dotted Vince’s brow.

“Say, Vince,” Montulli said. “How many times
have you been in my jail?”

“I don’t know. Ow. Two, maybe three
times.”

“Four times, cowboy. You want to make it
five?”

“He attacked me!”

“Nah. I saw you poke him in the chest. That’s
assault and battery. That’s a little more serious than underage
drinking and disturbing the peace.” He turned to Perry. “You want
to press charges?”