A Treasure Deep

by Alton Gansky

  “I thank you for what you have done,” she said to Perry. Her eyes were wet, but no tears flowed. She was controlled, but he could see that a hurricane of emotions raged inside her. He had no doubt the show of strength was for the young man pressed against her side.

  “I wish I could have done more,” Perry replied.

  “Most people would have done nothing,” Claire said. “At least he’s alive. Where there is life, there is hope.”

  Perry nodded. “I’m Perry Sachs.” He held out a hand.

  “I’m Claire Henri. This is Joseph.” Joseph did nothing.

  There was an uncomfortable pause, then Perry held out the leather case. “Your husband was very concerned about this.”

  “Yes, yes, he would be.” Claire studied the case for a moment then took it, pulling it to her breast. “Did you . . . look inside?”

  Perry shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Most people would have, you know.”

  “Perhaps,” Perry said softly. “It didn’t belong to me, so I didn’t look.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  “Are you and Joseph going to be all right?” Perry asked. “Do you have someone to stay with you tonight?”

  “We’re going to stay here. I want to be by my husband’s side when . . . if things get worse.”

  She looked up at him, and this time, Perry saw a tear.

  “I’m going up to the site in a minute, but I wanted to say hi to the resident genius. How’s he doing?”

  “Good for the most part,” Claire said. Despite the fast connection, her image hesitated, but her voice came across uninterrupted. “But he’s been a little agitated. He keeps saying your name.”

  “Odd,” Perry said. Joseph was a savant and largely uncommunicative. He spoke words occasionally, but such times were rare. He had different ways of communicating. Since meeting Joseph, Perry had become a self-educated expert on Savant Syndrome. He knew of the relationship between left-brain damage and the ability of some to perform tasks far beyond what people with “normal” intelligence could do.

  Names flooded Perry’s mind, names of those incapable of caring for themselves yet who reached a level of accomplishment few could match.

  There was the unusual musician Leslie Lemke. At just fourteen years of age, he played Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 without flaw, and he did so after hearing the music only once before while watching television. To make the feat more amazing, he played the piece even though he was blind, developmentally disabled, and afflicted with cerebral palsy. He continued to sing and play concerts in the U.S. and around the world, even though he had never had a piano lesson.

  Then there was internationally known artist Richard Wawro. Margaret Thatcher and Pope John Paul II had collected his work. Praised by art critics, Wawro produced artwork that touched heart and mind. But unlike other artists, Richard Wawro was autistic and unable to communicate with anyone.

  To Perry, Kim Peek was the most fascinating savant. Peek had memorized seventy-six hundred books, could state the name of every city in the U.S. and all the highways that connect them, as well as cite their area codes, Zip codes, and television and radio stations. He could recognize most classical music, naming the composer, the composer’s birth and death dates, as well as when the music was first published and performed. Developmentally disabled, he depended on his father for his daily needs.

  In 1789, Benjamin Rush did research with such remarkable people. He described meeting one young man who, when asked how many seconds a man had lived if he lived seventy years, seventeen days and twelve hours, gave the correct answer ninety seconds later: 2,210,500,800 seconds—and he had taken into account seventeen leap years.

  Joseph Henri was such a person. Unable to communicate more than a few words, he could calculate like a computer, remember whatever he had heard or seen and repeat it, draw it, or play it on the piano. Perry never ceased to be amazed by him. It was because of Joseph that Perry was in the motel room.

  “Perry . . . uhh . . . uhh.”

  “He’s been saying that all day,” Claire said. “You sure must be on his mind. He’s never this chatty.”

  “Maybe he knew I was going to call,” Perry said. “How ’bout it, buddy? Did you know I was going to call?”

  “Uhh . . . uhh . . . Perry.”

  “Did you draw any pictures today?”

  “Uhh . . . Perry.”

  “He certainly did. He drew a landscape. That’s odd too. He normally draws pictures of animals.”

  That was true, Perry reflected. Joseph could see an animal once and render it on paper at near photo quality. Claire had told him that he would spend hours on each drawing. He couldn’t utter more than a half dozen words, but he could draw a bird with greater detail than John James Audubon.

  Joseph disappeared from the camera’s eye then returned a moment later with a large piece of paper in his hand. He held it tightly in his fists, crumpling the edges.

  Claire chuckled. “I think he wants you to see his newest artwork.”

  Joseph shook the paper. Even over the video call, Perry could see that Joseph was disturbed.

  Taking the picture from her son, Claire held it up to the camera. “Can you see this?” she asked.

  “Pull it back just a little,” Perry replied. “It’s too close to the camera.” Claire did as instructed, and the chalk drawing became clear. It was indeed a landscape. Perry had seen all of Joseph’s drawings and not one had been a traditional landscape. He could see the vibrant greens, a mixture of several greens from what Perry could tell over the computer monitor. It was perfectly proportioned and balanced with an azure sky over rolling hills. Trees, thick and wide, populated the gentle slopes. They looked like the oaks that Perry had seen when he flew over the site in the helicopter—

  A chilling disquiet ran through Perry.

  The drawing was the site.

  He leaned forward, straining his eyes to take in the picture. A cluster of oaks stood to the right, the very place he had stood a few hours before, reviewing the early survey data. Several other trees stood in various places. Dominating the picture was the open, sloped pasture rendered in verdant greens—with one exception. On the lower end of the slope was a spot, not green like the tall grass, but red—red like blood.

  “When did he do this?” Perry asked. He had to push the words past lips that didn’t want to move.

  “This morning,” Claire answered, lowering the picture. “He seemed a little sad, so I suggested that he draw. That always makes him feel better. Well, it usually makes him feel better.”

  “I don’t understand,” Perry admitted. “I don’t know how this can be possible. Did you tell him about where we were going? I mean, did you describe the setting?”

  “No. I’ve never been to Southern California.”

  Perry took a deep breath then released it slowly. The subject of the picture was unmistakable. Somehow, Joseph had portrayed exactly where he and his crew were working.

  “Perry . . . uhh . . . uhh.”

  “It’s a great picture, Joseph,” Perry said with a broad smile. “You’re the best artist in the world, buddy.”

  “Claire, has he drawn anything else today?”

  “Just this. Why? You seem disturbed.”

  “Not disturbed, just puzzled.” He told her about how the painting mirrored the work site.

  “That is a coincidence,” she said. “You really think it’s that similar?”

  “It’s hard to tell because I’m viewing it over the computer, but it sure looks like it from here.”

  “What does the dark red spot mean?” she asked.

  “I have no idea, but it seems to be right where we plan to dig.”

  Chapter 7

  ALEX OLEK SETTLED back in the leather chair and checked his seat belt for the third time. He was not a nervous flier, but he was impatient. He also wanted a drink from the onboard bar of the Citation X business jet. A splash of Crown Royal would fit the bill, but he was forced to
wait until the aircraft was airborne and above the clouds that were dropping sheets of rain. The craft was perfectly capable of flying through rain. It was, after all, one of the best business jets on the market. It could cruise just below Mach 1, if it ever got off the ground.

  Turning his attention to the entertainment center, he watched the stock reports scroll beneath the image of a CNN anchorwoman. The sound was muted. He had little interest in what the pretty brunette had to say. The real news was in the stock numbers.

  The craft lurched forward then began a gentle roll as the pilot moved from the concrete apron to the runway. Once on the long, straight path, the pilot brought the jet to a complete stop, powered down the engines for a moment, then brought them up to speed. The jet moved forward, slowly at first, then accelerated with alarming speed. Rain on the wings began to run in rivulets off the metal skin. A few seconds later, Alex felt the craft break free of the ground and smoothly climb skyward. It bounced and shook slightly as it passed through the storm clouds but then settled into an easy glide.

  Above the pillowed clouds, the sky was still bright, though dimming quickly as the sun settled toward the horizon. A gentle turn put the plane on course to the south. This would be his first visit to Southern California.

  The decision to fly from Seattle to The Site (that was what Rutherford Straight had taken to calling it) was not impromptu. He knew he’d be making the journey the moment he learned that Sachs was onto something. Truth be told, all of this was still an assumption, but an educated one. They’d been unable to get direct information that Sachs Engineering had indeed come up with the right location. Every attempt to hack into their corporate computers had failed. What they did know was that Perry Sachs had rescued Dr. Jamison Henri, and that subsequently he’d had access to the material that Henri had always kept near.

  They also knew that Sachs had visited the Henri home many times. Now, the fact that Perry Sachs had brought equipment and workers to a lightly populated area of the Tehachapi Mountains meant that Alex couldn’t make the pieces of the puzzle work any other way. Sachs had done what Alex had failed to do.

  The jet lowered its nose, decreasing the rate of climb. Alex released his seat belt, made his way to the bar, poured golden scotch into his glass, and dropped in two ice cubes. Although he was alone in the twenty-four-foot, ten-seater cabin, he raised his glass and said, “To fortune.”

  He hadn’t told Dawes he was coming. He preferred to retain the advantage of surprise. Dawes worried Alex. He was the loose end. It was necessary to have a man on the scene, but it also presented problems. The more people who knew, the greater the risk of discovery. That was a fact, and he specialized in facts. Now that Alex was more convinced than ever that Sachs was onto something, he needed to be the one on the scene. The next stage of work couldn’t be delegated. He would just have to deal with Dawes, one way or the other.

  PERRY PILOTED HIS Ford Explorer up the dirt road toward the site. His mind was still saturated with the image that Joseph had drawn. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince himself that it was a coincidence. There were too many similarities. Of all the trees that Joseph could have drawn, he drew oak trees—not tall pines or redwoods, not droopy willows, but mature oaks. And not only had he gotten the trees right, but he nailed their location. Where two trees were close on the site, they were close on the drawing, and the clutch of trees that they called “the office” had been perfectly rendered. It wasn’t possible. But it was true. And it made no sense.

  The Ford bounced and rocked as it moved over the uneven ground. Perry had to interrupt his mental wanderings to focus on the path ahead of him, but the moment the road rills smoothed out, he returned to his wonderings.

  Joseph was unique in so many ways, but precognition wasn’t one of his talents, at least as far as Perry knew. Had Perry mentioned oak trees? Had he spoken to Joseph of the rolling hills and green grass? No, he was sure he hadn’t, and even if he had, he doubted that Joseph would have understood. Then why, he asked himself, did Joseph draw such a picture?

  Something else bothered Perry. The picture included a landmark he’d not seen at the site: a crimson blotch on the ground. Joseph had placed it right where the early surveys placed the target of the dig.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Perry said to himself. Maybe someone from the site had spoken to Joseph, but he had to dismiss the idea. Of the group, only he had met the prodigy, and only a couple of others—Jack and Gleason—even knew of him.

  Pictures? Perhaps Joseph had seen photos of the area, and after hearing that was where Perry was going, copied the image. It was remotely possible, but too difficult to believe. A photo book could contain such an image, but that was an unbelievable stretch. Still, he would ask Claire next time they talked.

  Perry steered the big vehicle off the dirt road and onto the narrow path leading to the bottom of the slope that led to the work site. As he crested the small rise to the staging area, he saw the trucks and bus of the caravan. He also saw a white car with a red-and-blue light bar on its roof. “This can’t be good,” he mumbled as he parked behind the patrol car, exited, and marched through the tall grass and up the slope.

  He found what he expected. Under the canopy of oak branches stood Jack, Gleason, a sheriff’s deputy, and the woman who had come banging on his motel door. Even from a hundred yards, he could recognize her short blond hair. She was standing with her hands on her hips and appeared to be doing all the talking. Several strides later, Perry was in earshot.

  “You’re being obstinate,” the woman groused.

  “And you’re being . . . ,” Jack started. He trailed off as Perry approached.

  “Annoying?” Perry suggested.

  The woman and the officer turned.

  “You!” she said.

  “Most people call me Perry, but ‘you’ will work just as well.”

  “Perry,” Jack said, “this is Mayor Anne Fitzgerald. She’s concerned about what we’re doing here.”

  “We’ve met,” Perry said.

  “You have?”

  “She paid me a call at the motel room. I was expecting a basket of fruit but got the third degree instead.”

  “I didn’t tell her where you were staying, Perry,” Jack said. “No one here did.”

  “I know. Madam Mayor is persistent.” He looked at the officer. His uniform name tag read Greg Montulli, and the three stripes on his sleeve said he was a sergeant. “Officer,” he said with a nod.

  “You are the man in charge?” Montulli asked.

  “Yes. I’m Perry Sachs. How can I help you?”

  “Well,” the officer began. He seemed uncomfortable, and Perry thought he had reason to, considering the attitude of his mayor. “You can tell me what you plan to do here.”

  “Dig a hole,” Perry said flatly. “Did anyone offer you a drink? We have water, juice, and soda.”

  “No thanks,” Anne said. “This isn’t a social call.”

  Perry saw Montulli close his eyes then open them slowly. Clearly the man didn’t want to be here. “I’m fine, but thanks for the offer. What do you mean, dig a hole?”

  “Just that,” Perry answered. “We plan on digging a hole.”

  “You sure have a lot of equipment to just dig a hole.” Anne crossed her arms. Her back was now to Jack and Gleason. Both men rolled their eyes.

  “Some holes require more equipment than others.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Sachs,” Anne said. “I know your company builds structures all over the world. Why would a builder dig a hole?”

  “Mayor,” Perry replied, “we’ve had this discussion. I’m under no obligation to tell you anything. This is not in the city limits, we have permission of the land owner, and we are doing nothing illegal.”

  “Why the secrets?”

  “Secrets are our choice.”

  “Perhaps I can have a look at the printouts,” Montulli suggested.

  “I’m sorry, Officer, but you can’t, unless you have a warrant.”


  “I can get one.”

  Perry recognized the bluff. “I doubt it, and even if you could, you don’t have one now.”

  The deputy lowered his head. “May I have a word with you, Mr. Sachs?”

  “Sure.” Perry motioned toward the open field.

  “I’m going with you,” Anne insisted.

  “No, you’re not,” Montulli snapped. The mayor froze mid-stride. The two walked a few yards away. After they had put some distance between themselves and the others Montulli said, “Listen. You and I both know that I’m on thin ice here. I can’t make you tell me anything unless I suspect a crime, but if you could just give me something to quiet the mayor’s nerves, then I can go home to my supper, and you can get on with digging your hole.”

  Perry smiled. “Stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea, eh?”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I can sympathize, Deputy, but I can’t be of any help to you. We’ve done our homework and made certain we are breaking no laws. What we do here will have no impact on the county or the City of Tejon.”

  “Is it a government project?” Montulli probed.

  “I’m not going to play twenty questions, Officer. I’m sorry to be such a stickler about this, but it’s the way things must be.”

  The officer pursed his lips and frowned. “I want to be clear about one thing. If I get wind that anything illegal is going on up here, I’ll be back, and I will shut you down.”

  “No need to worry, we’re all good citizens here.”

  “I hope so,” the officer said and started back. Perry followed.

  “Let’s go, Mayor,” he said. “There’s nothing that can be done here.”

  “But we do not know any more than when we came,” she shot back.

  “That’s true, but we still need to call it a day.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?” she asked.

  “Suit yourself,” Montulli replied. “But you came up here in my car. Unless you have another way of getting home, I suggest you come along.”

  “And if I choose to stay anyway?”