A Treasure Deep

by Alton Gansky

  Ten minutes later, Perry had stripped off his suit, washed his face, unpacked his clothing, and settled down on the bed.

  “I’M DRIVING US back,” Anne Fitzgerald said sharply. “Assuming we arrive at our destination safely.”

  “Come on, Mayor,” Bob replied with a wide grin. “It wasn’t that close. Consider it just another little adventure in your life.”

  “Some adventure. Do you know how much work it is to keep the gray out of my hair? You set the process back at least a year.”

  “You know what driving these back roads is like. They’re narrow and winding. That’s why we drive slowly. Do you know who that was?” Bob steered around the next corner, and Anne held her breath.

  “No, but I think it was one of the workmen from Sachs Engineering. The truck was the same yellow as the ones I saw in the caravan.”

  “Too bad we didn’t bump fenders. It would have saved us the drive to the site. Assuming we can find the site in the first place.”

  “I don’t want to talk to some employee. I want a face-to-face with the head honcho.” Anne shifted in her seat.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” Bob said.

  “Especially if the cat was in the car with you.”

  Bob replied with a laugh. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to make mountains out of molehills?”

  “A few people.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like every one of my friends and family. It’s what endears me to them—Wait! Stop!”

  Bob brought the pickup to a halt. “What? What is it?”

  “Back up, Bob. I think I saw something down that side road we just passed.”

  Putting the truck in reverse, Bob backed up slowly until he was at the narrow intersection of dirt roads. Another dirt path veered east from the road they were on.

  “There,” Anne said, pointing at a black puff rising from beyond a hill. “Is that diesel smoke?”

  Bob nodded. “It sure looks like it. There are tracks on the path, big tracks. They look fresh too.”

  Anne strained against her seat belt and peered out Bob’s window. “Tire tracks and they’re close together, like those big trucks with two tires on the back.”

  “Maybe you should be a detective, Mayor. That’s a pretty keen insight.”

  “That’s the road we want. Drive on, Jeeves.”

  “Jeeves? Great, I’ve been demoted to chauffeur.”

  “Not yet,” Anne said, “but the day’s not over.”

  Anne kept her eyes fixed forward as the truck pulled up the rise. Oak trees dotted the hills, rising from the gentle green slope of the mountains. Warmth swelled in her, and she almost felt guilty for living in such a beautiful place. She felt as if they were driving through a post card. It was this unspoiled beauty she wished to maintain from wanton development. It was bad enough to have hundreds of giant windmills spinning their propellers in the ever-present wind. She lost more battles than she won when it came to preserving the paradise of the Tehachapi Mountains. But she did win enough to keep fighting.

  The crest of the hill gave way to a slope sharper than the one they’d just ascended. At the bottom and just to the south of the road were a string of parked vehicles, the same ones she’d seen pass through town.

  “Bingo,” Bob said. “You got a nose for this kind of thing.”

  “Pull behind the bus. We found the caravan; now let’s see if we can find the people who go with it.”

  Anne was out of the truck before Bob had set the parking brake. She walked along the line of parked vehicles. Some were painted yellow and had the words Sachs Engineering printed on the side. The sound of a diesel engine rolled down the hill. Anne turned and saw truck tracks leading up the hill to a grove of oaks a quarter mile up the grade.

  “Walk or drive?” Bob asked. He had come up behind her.

  “Drive,” Anne decided. “I’m not wearing my hiking boots. Besides, the city paid for a four-wheel-drive truck; it’s time we got our money’s worth out of that investment.”

  Once back in the truck, Bob dropped it into gear and pointed it up the hill. From a distance, the surface looked smooth and even. In the cab of a truck with stiff suspension, Anne learned that there were more bumps than she could have imagined. Her small frame was bounced against the door, and at times her head hit the ceiling.

  “Could you make this a little rougher?” she snipped. “I’m starting to doze off.”

  “That sounds like sarcasm,” Bob replied.

  “You are perceptive.”

  The hill gave way to an open expanse of pasture outlined by several groves of trees. To Anne’s right and ahead about a quarter mile was a large truck with thick metal tubing swaying in the back. The truck was headed to the oak grove. “What is that?” Anne asked.

  “It’s a drilling rig,” Bob said.

  “You mean like for oil?”

  “More like water,” he explained. “I’ve seen them before. Farmers and ranchers often hire companies to come out and drill wells. All that metal you see at the back of the truck is the drilling rig. The truck backs up to the right spot, erects the rig, and starts drilling right from the back of the truck. Pretty neat really.”

  “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.

  Chapter 5

  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.