A Treasure Deep

by Alton Gansky

  “I bet you thought I was pulling your leg back at the pizza parlor,” Perry said.

  “I . . . I . . .” Brent laughed. “I can’t even talk. This is really it?”

  “It has to be,” Perry replied.

  “Give the anchorman some room,” Jack said. The group parted and moved to the sides of the room. Jack moved easily from the bridge to the floor, but he froze in his tracks. He said nothing, his big frame casting a shadow the size of a bed sheet. After a moment, he stepped two feet to the side to let the light land on the thing before him. The beam wiggled and danced. Gleason had picked up its stand and was moving it across the bridge. He now set it in the center of the room and took a step back.

  Perry looked at Jack. “Well, big guy, what do you think?”

  Jack didn’t budge. He did, however, begin to weep.

  It seemed appropriate.

  Silence permeated the space more deeply than had the previous darkness. The only sounds were the running water in the aquifer and the sniffing of men as they fought back tears.

  “I suppose we should do something,” Jack finally said.

  “Yeah, we should,” Perry answered. He bowed his head and began, “Our Father in heaven, we are unworthy to behold this . . .” As he prayed, tears ran from his eyes.

  Chapter 22

  DR. CURTIS WAS childlike in his enthusiasm. He moved through the room pointing and talking nonstop. Perry had given him thirty minutes to evaluate the items while Brent, who had retrieved his camera, shot video.

  “The amazing thing is that the chrysalis has maintained its shape,” Curtis enthused. “It was too much to hope for. The ancient Jews often wrapped the deceased in strips of cloth that ran from the feet to under the arms. That’s why all we see is the shape of a man from the chest down. The hands of the deceased would be tied in front with a linen strip.” He paused and looked around the linen cocoon. “Here,” he said with excitement. “Right here on

  the pedestal, a cloth strip.”

  Brent moved in for a close-up. “Just don’t touch it, lad,” Curtis said to him and then continued his impromptu lesson. “Spices meant to honor the dead as well . . . as well as . . . well, just say it, to mask odor, would be poured over the body. As much as a hundred pounds of spices might be used. Another band of linen would be wrapped around the head to keep the mouth shut.”

  “If it’s cloth,” Anne asked, “why did it keep its shape? Shouldn’t it just collapse on itself?”

  “There’s a passage in the New Testament, John chapter twenty, that has puzzled scholars for many years,” Perry said. “The disciples Peter and John hear of the empty tomb and race to the grave to see for themselves. It says that they saw the linen wrappings lying there. After examining the empty tomb, it’s said that John saw and believed. The question is: What did he see that made him believe in the resurrection? Some have suggested that he saw what we see now, the linen in the shape of the body of Christ.”

  “Doesn’t it mention a facecloth too?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” Curtis affirmed. “In fact, it says the cloth was off by itself, not with the linen wrappings but rolled up and placed by itself. The word that is translated from the original Greek as ‘rolled’ means ‘to be wrapped.’ Some think that what the disciples saw was the face napkin still in the position it would have been if wrapped around Jesus’ head. The simpler explanation would be that it had been folded up and set aside. The truth is, we don’t know.”

  “Would it be here?” Gleason asked.

  Curtis acted as if he had been shocked. “That hadn’t occurred to me.” Curtis started looking around. Perry and the others joined.

  “Here,” Perry said.

  “You found it?” Curtis asked.

  “No, but I found something else. There is a small rock ledge and something is resting on it.” Perry turned to Brent. “I need more direct light. Bring the camera over.” Brent did and shone the high-intensity light where Perry indicated. “They look like medallions. Take a look, Doc.” Perry stepped aside, and Curtis hurried over.

  “I can’t be sure, but . . .” He took a deep breath. “This is almost too much to believe. I think these are clay seals. They bear an impression.” He leaned over the objects and then straightened. “Pontius Pilate,” he said in a whisper. “These are the remains of the seal that was on Christ’s tomb.”

  “Seal?” Brent said. “You mean like a wax seal? Remember I’m new at all this.”

  “A clay seal,” Curtis said. “To break the seal was punishable by death. The tomb was cut out of rock, and a large, round stone had been rolled in front of the opening. A seal would have been set by stretching a cord around the stone door and setting it with clay medallions. A signet ring bearing Pilate’s name would have been pressed into the clay, and the ring returned to the procurator.”

  “I found it,” Anne said. She was kneeling down at the head of the stone pedestal. “There’s a cubbyhole here and what looks like a folded dish towel.”

  Curtis scampered over. “Please, don’t touch it. It’s very old and might turn to dust if moved.” Anne moved so the archaeologist could kneel down and see for himself. “Yes, yes, this very well could be it. It must be it. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “What about those?” Jack said, pointing to two jars that were tucked away in a corner. “Should we open them?”

  “No, not here,” Curtis said sharply. “This must be done in a laboratory, not in the field.” He stopped, realizing the foolishness of his statement.

  “We all agree with you, Dr. Curtis, but you know the problem,” Perry said softly. “We’re going to have to move these, no matter what.”

  “But they’re invaluable,” Curtis moaned. “They’re more valuable than anything on earth. They’re more valuable than my life or . . .”

  No one corrected him. Perry understood the man well enough to know of his faith and the goodness of his heart. Curtis plunked down on the floor, pulling his legs up into a fetal position. “You’re right, of course,” he whispered.

  Perry walked to the scholar and crouched down next to him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know if there was any other way, I’d seize it, but for now, someone else calls the shots.”

  “I know,” the heartbroken archaeologist said. Perry felt the same emotion and had, for the briefest of moments, wondered if he shouldn’t just call the police and hope for the best.

  “Jesus died for the many, Doc,” Perry offered. “He also died for the one. We have to do what is right.”

  Perry rose, approached the stone bier, and looked at the wrappings that had once touched his Savior. Hot feelings churned in

  a roiling, emotional stew.

  Brent stepped to his side, shooting more video of the unusual object that had endured more than Perry could imagine. As he did so, the camera’s lights illuminated the chrysalis. For the first time, Perry saw a dark spot on the left side: an ancient bloodstain. He immediately thought of the spear thrust between Jesus’ ribs, and a profound sadness poured in to form a void in Perry where confidence had once been.

  In front of him rested objects that had touched the Christ, the Son of God. Once, the chrysalis had embraced the lifeless form of the Savior, then somehow, in some miraculous way, had retained its shape during the resurrection. Few doubted the reality of the historical Jesus, but many debated His words, His life, His miracles, and His resurrection. Here was proof. Doubters would work hard to find fault, but they would be left on shifting, shaky ground. Those who did not want to believe never would, but certainly many would recognize the truth when they saw it.

  Whoever moved the artifacts, whoever built the replica tomb endured the worst kinds of hardship and danger. It wasn’t something that one would do for a prank or a hoax.

  Chrysalis. Face napkin. Pilate’s seal. Even Perry was having trouble believing it. Here was corroboration for those who had eyes to see. Everything in the stone room was mentioned in the Gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all gav
e details of the event, and here was evidence of their accuracy—each item attested to the truth recorded in those Bible books. If they were accurate about the burial of Christ, certainly they were truthful about all He had said and done. They showed him to be the Christ, the Messiah, the very Son of God, and before Perry lay artifacts that gave silent but soul-shaking testimony to the truth.

  And he had to let it all go.

  An image came to his mind: An older man lying in a rain-soaked alley of Seattle; a man who clutched a battered leather satchel and said, “I’ve failed. I’ve failed the world. I’ve failed God.” Perry now knew what Dr. Henri had meant. He too felt he had failed the world and, worse, failed God.

  UNDER CURTIS’S PRECISE direction, Brent shot what seemed to Perry to be miles of video footage. Curtis provided running commentary on everything, recording his observations for future study. It was a wise course of action, Perry decided. The odds were great that the world would never see the precious treasure again. The thought sickened him.

  While the video record was being made, Jack and Gleason worked outside the chamber to build wood crates for the artifacts. Perry did nothing visible. He stood stoically to the side, watching Curtis and Brent work. His mind was anything but stoic; it was racing, plotting, conceiving, analyzing, and rejecting one idea after another. Anne stood quietly by his side.

  “So this is the treasure you were after,” Anne whispered so her voice wouldn’t interfere with Curtis’s dialogue with the video camera. “I thought you were after personal gain.”

  “How do you know I wasn’t?” Perry asked. “We’re looking at items more valuable than anything in the world. On the underground antiquities market, just one artifact would bring millions of dollars.”

  “Treasure hunters and tomb robbers don’t pause for prayer,” Anne said quickly. “Nor do they give over spectacular, history-changing finds to crooks to save the lives of others. I misjudged you, Perry, and I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not the first,” he replied. “Now you understand why I had to keep things secret, not that it matters now.”

  “I understand. You were right to do so.” She chuckled. “My whole town thinks you’ve found gold or pirate treasure up here.”

  “That would be a lot easier to surrender,” Perry said. “All the planning, all the security, and I still lose it all; the world loses it all.”

  “You sound like you’re giving up. You don’t strike me as a man who just rolls over when things go south.”

  “I haven’t given up,” Perry said resolutely. “God didn’t bring us this far and protect us through all of this just to let go now.”

  “God helps those who help themselves,” Anne said. “Doesn’t the Bible say that somewhere?”

  “No, but Ben Franklin did, and in this instance, I think he’s right.”

  “So what do we do now?” Anne asked.

  “We hand over the artifacts,” Perry said, then strode across the bridge and into the bright afternoon sun.

  The crating had gone smoothly but also under a somber veil darker than the pit over which their makeshift bridge was suspended. Curtis maintained a steady dialogue of why everything was wrong.

  “We should be guarding against moisture . . . dehumidifiers are what we need. We must double crate and prevent jarring. Everything could turn to dust, the pots could break open if mishandled . . .”

  Since Perry had known from the manuscript what treasure would be found, he’d made plans for shipping the objects. The crates built by Jack and Gleason were to serve as outer shells for

  a combination of plastic bags, inert packing material, and commercial packets of silica gel to remove moisture from the air.

  The ancient, dust-covered stone floor in the anteroom and the airtight stone wall separating the two chambers had kept moisture from the artifacts, but that had all changed when the floor had given way beneath Perry’s feet and when he breached the tightly fitted stone partition. Speed and care were essential now. Every moment the artifacts were exposed to the air endangered their existence. There were also several large plastic containers that Jack had called “Tupperware for giants.”

  With the reverence of a monk and the gentleness of a surgeon, the team placed the items in plastic bubble wrap bags, then in the large plastic containers with packing material. Those in turn were loaded into the wood crates.

  The process was slow and tedious. Perry and the others moved deliberately, knowing that any mistake could irreparably damage the precious find. The chrysalis and face napkin were tenderly packed in one crate, the two earthenware jars in another. The stamped clay medallions were bagged, enclosed in bubble wrap, and placed in a small mailing box and set in the crate with the pots.

  After the delicate packing was done, while the crew was still in the chamber, Perry pulled Gleason and Jack aside. The conversation was carried out in hushed tones. Perry did the talking; the two men listened intently, nodded, shook hands, and returned their attention to the artifacts.

  Perry and Jack carried each crate across the bridge and into the light of day. With careful steps and awkward lifting, the two crates were finally carried out of the pit and set on the grass-carpeted ground.

  “It’s time to clear the area,” Perry said. “Gleason, you take Brent, Dr. Curtis, and Anne back to town. Jack is going to stay with me. It will take more than one man to carry the crates, and I doubt our friend will be hoisting anything heavier than a gun.”

  “I’d rather stay,” Anne said.

  “I can’t allow it,” Perry said. “I’ve already endangered your life enough.”

  “You’ve done no such thing,” Anne shot back. “I’m here of my own free will.”

  “It’s out of the question,” Perry said. “This guy already has two of my friends. I don’t want him to have a third.”

  “At least let me stay a little longer,” Anne pleaded. “You said the guy gave you twenty-four hours. That means he’s not going to show up for a while. I’ll leave before he gets here. I drove my own car here, so I don’t need a ride home.”

  Perry looked to Jack, who just shrugged. “I’m sorry, Anne, but the answer is still no. You’re going to have to go.”

  Anne’s face clouded with the same expression of anger Perry had seen before, but then it softened. “Take care,” she offered. “I would like to see you again. Alive.”

  “We agree on that,” Perry said with a big smile. “I owe you a great deal, Madam Mayor.”

  “Yes, you do, and I expect a fancy dinner as payment, Mr. Sachs.”

  Anne bounded forward, threw her arms around Perry, and pulled him close. The embrace lasted only a moment, but it said many things. Releasing him, she quickly turned and started down the slope, Gleason, Brent, and Dr. Curtis following a few steps behind.

  “So now we wait,” Jack said.

  “Now we wait,” Perry agreed.

  THE SUN MOVED behind the hills, casting long shadows over the empty site. Overhead, the sky darkened into twilight. Perry and Jack had passed the time resting from the night’s labors and eating various snack foods that were kept on the work site. They ate for energy and not hunger. The tension of the previous hours and the anxiety of what was to come had eroded any hunger they should have felt.

  They were men in waiting, and waiting was agonizingly difficult work. They didn’t speak of what was to come. They made no speculations about what the visitor would do. Perry paused to pray awhile for Claire and Joseph. He was a weary man. He’d had far too little sleep over the past few days, and he doubted any meaningful sleep was in his near future.

  As the sun dropped out of sight, a new stillness settled over the land. Where once there had been the constant murmur of men working, of motors humming and engines cranking, there now was almost no sound. The breeze was gone too, as if it had abandoned the area for fear of what was to happen.

  Staring over the site, Perry saw the sinkhole that almost took his employee’s life. He also saw the scarred ground he and Jack had so quick
ly dug up to uncover the chamber.

  In the distance a sound interrupted the stillness.

  “You hear that?” he asked Jack.

  “Yeah. Sounds like a helicopter.”

  “Agreed, but it can’t be ours,” Jack said.

  “Sounds low.”

  The distant thumping turned into a roar as a white Robinson R44 Raven helicopter flew over, its skids less than a couple of meters above the trees. The power of its engine and the beat of its blades vibrated the ground beneath Perry’s feet. The copter shot overhead, then spun 180 degrees and returned.

  “He’s landing,” Jack shouted above the noise. “The idiot is going to land right in front of us, right on the sloping ground. He must be crazy.”

  Helicopters were versatile machines capable of full three-dimensional motion, but landing one on sloping ground was madness. If the tail hit the ground the rear rotor would shatter and, without the counterforce of the blade, the craft would spin out of control. Takeoff would be even more treacherous.

  The pilot circled the area once and then, remarkably, set the craft down without incident. Immediately the engine powered down to an idle. The pilot’s door swung open, and the villain exited. He was dressed in a suit.

  “Load it up,” he ordered.

  “A crook and a pilot. Impressive. You’re early,” Jack said

  nonchalantly.

  “Always keep your opponents guessing. Now shut up and load the crates.”

  “You don’t want to inspect them?” Perry asked. He made direct eye contact. The fires of fury burned hot in Perry’s belly.

  “No need,” Alex said. “You’re too smart to play those kinds of games. You could only lose your friends. Now load up the crates, boys. I have to call my boss in five minutes, or your friends eat a few bullets.”

  Perry stepped to the first crate and lifted one end. Jack did the same and they moved in tandem to the helicopter. The slowly moving blades swung threateningly overhead. Behind the pilot’s seat was a cabin designed to hold seats for two passengers. The seats had been removed. This man, Perry realized, had thought of everything.