A Treasure Deep

by Alton Gansky

  “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.”

  Chapter 2

  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.

  “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 un
forgiving 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.

  In the center of the small office was an oak desk, scarred with age. It had once belonged to her father. Several pink message slips were laid out on her desk awaiting her attention. She stacked them and put them aside. Lowering herself into the leather executive chair behind the desk, she snatched up the phone and dialed a two-digit number.