Crouching down, I could hear the thump of double doors being driven apart. I had no way of knowing if I’d been seen. I held my breath and waited.
The pirate called out its eternal warning. “Git your own gold, Matey! This be all mine!”
Sound muted by the ancient plastic surrounding me, I strained to hear beyond the warped music tape and the gurgling water.
I released my held breath, adjusting to a squatting position, and waited for what seemed like an eternity.
The unpleasant odor of mold tickled my nose, and I stifled a sneeze.
If someone saw us, how long would it take before they shut the ride down and conducted a search? When would we know?
“Git your own gold, Matey! This be all mine!”
A high, feminine shriek pierced the air, making me cringe. A hysterical giggle followed the shriek.
I rubbed my itching eyes, which made my nose complain further.
God, how am I going to survive?
“Git your own gold Matey! This be all mine!”
Frustrated, I banged my head against the back of the pot, and then quickly hunched down against my knees.
What if someone heard that?
How could anyone hear me? It’s way too noisy in this room.
Why take the chance?
Great—now I’m arguing with myself.
Hey, stupid. You slipped and fell. How could you let that happen? This little adventure could have ended in disaster before it started, and it would have been your fault. You harped all over Chip, because you didn’t think he could handle it.
“Git your own gold Matey! This be all mine!”
Ha, ha, Gunther. You’re a funny guy, hiding the money in this room. Wouldn’t you love to know your irony is appreciated over 25 years later?
How long has it been? Chip said the park could remain open for another half hour or so, depending on the crowd.
“Git your own Gold—”
“Hey, fuck you, One-eye!” A deep, loud voice called out. “I got your pot of gold right here!”
I shoved a hand into my mouth, biting down to keep a loud laugh from escaping.
Is that guy passing a bottle with his buddies, or trying to impress a date? Ooooh, you’re so cool, man. Now, bend over and moon it.
“Git your own gold, Matey! This be all mine!”
I wiped cold moisture from my forehead. “Screw you, Gunther. It’s ours, now.”
* * * *
I huddled in the confines of the plastic cauldron, biting down on my chattering teeth and waiting for the shakes to pass. Instead, they increased. The sides of the container seemed to fold over me, and I found myself holding back a scream.
I closed my eyes. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this...
When I thought I couldn’t take another second—just when I knew I’d pop out of the cauldron like a demented, life-size jack-in-the-box, terrifying whichever boat riders happened to be traveling through the room, the pirate drone stopped. The loud, constant organ music also cut off. I sat engulfed in darkness and silence. Only the pounding of my heart, thumping loud and fast in my own head, interrupted the otherwise total quiet of my surroundings.
I closed my eyes, hunkering down against my aching legs, but it made no difference against the sickening vertigo that insisted the room was spinning.
I panted deep breaths, a harsh hissing sound that echoed loudly off the confines of my prison walls.
My pounding heart, my gasps for breath, and a trickle of water in the distance overloaded my senses.
I forced myself to count slowly to ten; forced my hands to reach with purpose above my head. No mad jack-in-the-box antics at this point.
In my plastic-shelled confines, the rustle of denim struck me as obscenely loud.
I gripped the edge of the pot, pulling myself up. My legs stretched gratefully, the knots of pain easing.
My back, where I had taken the beating beneath the roller coaster, throbbed.
I looked over the lip of the cauldron; a blast of cool air fluttered against my face. I drew in blessed, fresh air in deep, grateful gulps.
Instantly, the pounding in my head quieted and the sickening motion settled.
With intentional calm, I reached down into my messenger bag, identified the telltale thin rod via the Braille method, raised the flashlight to point in front of me, and flipped the switch.
My thin beam of light beam cut through the darkness.
I looked down, illuminating the wooden porch-like platform beneath the pot in my spot of light. Shiny, plastic coins lay sprinkled on the ground around me. The platform itself was barely wide enough to hold the plastic bowl. The planks of the platform were widely spaced, showing large gaps in the pedestal. Its only purpose seemed to be to provide stability for the cauldron on the otherwise sandy island. The wood, on careful inspection, showed varying grades and conditions, indicating several repairs through the years.
Additional, twin beams lit up the night. I turned to see Chip depositing two pen-sized flashlights onto the ground.
He held out his hands. Grateful for the help, I put the penlight between my teeth.
I gripped one of his hands and reached down with the other to support myself on the cauldron. With an easy hop, I cleared the edge and landed in the sand.
I took a moment to assess my surroundings. The three penlights did little to illuminate the islet. The engulfing darkness pressed in all around us.
I stared down at the wooden platform beneath the cauldron. Two people could lift and set the platform aside with ease.
I ran my hands over my face, trying to shake a surreal, dreamlike essence to my vision.
Somewhere in the room beyond the light, I heard a continuous gurgle of water, an annoying white noise further deadening my senses.
Growing annoyed, I directed my beam to the double set of doors leading to the outside. Through these doors, the boats took their exit back to reality.
I called out into the darkness. “Well. Now what?” My voice echoed several times through the domed chamber.
Chip jumped, startled. “Let’s keep it down, okay?” He opened his knapsack and produced a hammer and a military-style shovel with a collapsible handle. “Umm, the thieves came through the door and onto this island, burying the money right underneath this pot.”
“Chip, are you sure about this? If we spend the night digging up this island and we don’t find anything, I’m going to stick the shovel in a very uncomfortable spot.”
Chip looked down at the platform and shrugged. “I’m sure about this. As sure as I am about anything.”
I wiped my hands across my face again, but the surreal buzzing only intensified. I’d never experienced such a level of claustrophobia before, despite my stint as Chicka-D. I didn’t think it affected me, but the light kept seeming to dim, and darkness kept overtaking the room. The huge, cavernous walls wanted to close in and bury me forever. “I’m sorry—I’m hot, and I’m pissed, and my back hurts. I was almost caught due to my own stupidity, and we haven’t even started digging, yet. You’re the only one here to take it out on.”
Chip nodded. “It’ll be okay, Blue.” He stood on one side of the cauldron, bracing his hands along the outwardly curved lip. “Help me. It’s not as light as it looks.”
I gripped the other side. Together, we lifted the cauldron to reveal the wood beneath.
“So, if we move the platform and dig under it, we’ll find the bag with the money in it?”
“We should…”
I smiled. “We will make the front page of the morning paper—Special Souvenir Edition? Then, I won’t have to hear another word about Gunther, ever again?”
Chip grinned back at me. “No fair peeking at the last page.”
I extended an arm. “Okay. Hand me the hammer, and if you have any more flashlights, turn them on. It’s too damn dark in here.”
Chip handed me the oversized hammer with a clawed end. Gripping the handle, a surge of excitement coursed through me, clea
ring away the surreal buzzing. Excitement filled me—excitement over finding this treasure and over fulfilling Chip’s long-awaited hopes.
Chip snapped on two additional flashlights. The darkness receded further, and my sense of reality returned.
The platform, though well-settled into the ground beyond the thin layer of sand, popped up with ease after I pried it up with the hammer. Together, we made short work of moving the platform, and soon he and I were standing on the flattened, bare earth.
Chip grabbed a second shovel, snapped it open, and held it out to me.
With our area now exposed and well lit, Chip raised the shovel and turned in my direction. “Ready?”
“Ready, but first...” I leaned over and kissed him quickly. “I’m sorry I got so pissed.”
Chip smiled, his blue eyes glittering in the lightbeams. “You’re fine. Your spunk is helping me to get through this.”
As if on cue, we raised our shovels together and brought them down, breaking the ground in two separate places.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I drove the clawed hammer into hardened clay dirt, the chunk of breaking soil creating an answering, weak echo throughout the domed chamber.
Splattering sweat stung my eyes and forced me to stop.
I stepped aside, pressing the hammer into the ground and leaning on the handle, wiping my sleeve across my face. My breath came in heavy gasps, and my palms stung from developing blisters. I’ll never make a living as a manual laborer.
In the last couple of hours, we’d dug down about a foot and a half, sticking to the twelve-foot circumference—large enough for two people to stand side-by-side and dig. We deposited the growing mound of dirt beyond the circle.
I’d long pushed aside all fears of getting caught, instead focusing on the exhausting ache of simple hard work.
The light—already too dim—flickered between near darkness and back again. I looked over to spy one of Chip’s flashlights pulsing in irregular repetition. Losing the light would create a handicap we really didn’t need.
Outside, the harsh, whistling noise of a windstorm rattled the flimsy building, adding an intense, vibrating backdrop to our work and making my skin crawl.
I wondered at the ferociousness of the windstorm. Although such storms were not unusual for October in Indiana, the evening had been calm—outright pleasant—up until now.
Getting annoyed at our decided lack of discovery, I straightened, bringing the hammer up and over my shoulder. “Are you sure they buried it underneath the cauldron?”
Chip paused, glaring at me, his own shovel raised at his shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure.”
I bit back my own annoyance. “Because that’s what your father’s bowling buddy told him? He was that specific in detail?”
Chip stood straight, letting the shovel jab into the soil. “Yes. That’s what he said.”
I nodded, still chewing over the facts. “Well, then. Are you sure that this pedestal hasn’t been moved since then? It’s been over twenty years, right? Maybe they shifted the display from one side of the island to the other.”
“I...don’t think so.” He couldn’t hide a look of shock that told me he hadn’t considered the possibility.
I raised my hammer and pounded it into the dirt. “Great.”
“Well, I can’t think of everything, Blue.” A whine entered his voice that danced on my last nerve. “This is an old ride. It hasn’t changed since it went up, at least as far back as I can remember. I can’t swear the cauldron has been here in this exact spot since before we were born.”
That didn’t appease my building frustration. “I don’t want you to swear about anything, I just want to find something.”
I slammed the hammer deep into the sand. The clawed metal impacted something. A crackling noise echoed through the chamber.
I snagged my penlight from the ground and pointed the beam toward the newly turned dirt. “Oh, shit.”
Chip rushed forward. “What!”
The light reflected off small, broken pieces of dull white stones.
I squatted on my haunches and picked one up.
I brushed my thumb along the texture, and knew with certainty I held a small bit of bone—maybe a knuckle bone.
Chip pointed, indicating all around me. “Look. Here’s more. It looks like...” His voice trailed off.
I gripped the rough digit lengthwise, holding it under the light. “Gunther?”
Chip nodded. “Has to be. They buried him here. Buried him next to his stash. This confirms it.”
With a morbid fascination, I held my hand up next to the knuckle bone. The bone extended a half inch beyond my own knuckle.
The strange, buzzing nausea overtook me again. “This just seems so...wrong.”
Chip stood, walked across the dug-out dirt back to his own spot, and brought his shovel down.
I passed the penlight beam across the ground. At the same time, I kept shaking my head, trying to clear it of the buzzing energy.
Exposed bone sprinkles scattered along newly exposed soil, and at the edge, a large protrusion poked out of the dirt. Gingerly, I extended my foot, tapping away the powder and exposing a larger white bone, stuck into the ground at an angle.
An upper arm, perhaps. I couldn’t be sure.
A sudden creaking noise made me jump. The billowing wind had strained the double doors.
I shifted the penlight beam to view the shaking doors, surprised at the intensity of the rippling effect across the water. The waves traveled across the surface and washed up on the islet.
A shivering dread, like insects crawling below the surface of my skin, drove me to my feet. “Christ. We could find all of him. I’m not digging anymore.” I pulled myself out of the hole and stepped up to beach level.
Again, Chip paused in his work. “What? Why not? They might have buried the money underneath him.”
I stared down into the hole, battling a sudden onset of nausea. “Chip, it’s a fucking grave site, and you want to know why I’m upset?”
Chip raised his shovel. “It’s just a pile of bones. It can’t hurt you. Look. There’s no rot, there’s no bugs. It’s clean. It’s been clean for years.”
I fought back rising bile. “That’s not the point.”
Chip brought his shovel down.
A skewed, rustling noise cut through the air, releasing a cloud of dirt that puffed around him, forcing him to step backward.
My nausea forgotten for now, I peered down into the hole, spying a cloth-like, gray-leather pillow in the dirt. I pointed the penlight at it. “Oh, shit, Chip. That’s it.”
I dropped down to my hands and knees in front of the exposed cloth. Chip joined me a moment later.
Chip’s fingers clawed at the dirt. “Hold on.” He broke away clay soil, exposing a large piece of gray cloth with black stenciled letters, much of it illegible, but “ionne” and “ank” stood out against the material.
Chip gripped the cloth and yanked, exposing a metal handle pulled loose from the dirt in a cloud of dust. He gathered up a sizeable bank bag still securely clasped shut.
I watched Chip’s face light up in euphoric relief. “Oh, God. This is it. We have it. We did it!”
I laughed with delight. “Damn right we did. Never had a doubt.”
He grinned. “Oh, you never had a doubt, huh?”
Seeing the look on Chip’s face left me giddy with a joyous surge of happiness. “‘Course not.” I’d deny any statements to the contrary.
Chip fumbled with the snaps and drew the handles apart, kicking loose another cloud of dirt.
I coughed, the sound echoing through the room and joining the noise of the creaking double doors.
He peered into the open bag and then reached his hand in.
My eyes locked on the opening, anticipation filling my being like a palpable ache.
He withdrew a wad of bills, extending them to me. I took a few of them, gripping a hodgepodge of cash a couple inches thick.
I ruffled
the bills. They puffed dust, and the green ink had faded to virtual nonexistence, but they still had the distinctive odor of United States Currency.
My head reeled. The bag practically bulged.
Chip said, “You realize, you’re about to become a very famous outsider to the town of Perionne, and probably will be an outsider no more.”
I rubbed my itching nose. “You mean, they’ll be telling stories in American Folklore 50 years from now about how the poodle with blue hair dug up the money?”
Chip laughed. “Something like that.” Distracted, he turned his gaze back to the ground. “Hey, what’s this?”
He aimed one of the penlights toward the ground and kicked at a small object, dislodging the item from the dirt.
I crawled around to get a better look.
Chip held a small object of reflective metal: a gray, rusty-metal handle that piqued my curiosity.
Is that what I think it is?
Even as Chip held it under the light, I reached a hand out and snatched it from him. “Hey!”
I held it up to my own eager gaze. “A pocket knife.” The thickened handle held at least eight various blades and contraptions.
I rubbed my hand along the handle, scraping away crusted, brown corrosion, then dug my fingers into the thumb groove of the blade and pulled. It resisted.
Undaunted, I tried a second time, yanking loose a rusty, crusted blade twice the size of my palm. “An excellent pocket knife.”
I stared, transfixed. Even after being buried all these years, I could make out intricate, ornamental designs carved into the hardened wood. With a little cleaning and some TLC, I could restore this to like-new condition.
As I brushed crust from the blade, a realization hit me. A chill traveled across my fingertips.
“You said Crimley stabbed Gunther?”
Chip nodded. “That’s what I heard.”
I peered at the blade. “From your Dad’s bowling buddy. Well. Well, well.” Somehow holding the murder weapon did not spook me the way picking through Gunther’s bones did.
I looked away with an effort. “I guess I found me one hell of a souvenir.”
Chip reached out. “It looks pretty crapped up, Blue. Maybe you’d better just put it in the bag.”
Haunting Blue Page 20