Sooner Fled

by David L Thornburg

  She immediately regretted saying it. More quietly, she said, “I just thought we were all stressed out, and you might like having some of the work done.”

  “We all share the credit, and we all share the responsibility,” said Figueroa.

  “Please! You’re not even real writers!” She stormed out, almost overturning the tray of coffee cups Stephanie was carrying in.

  Figueroa broke the awkward silence. “I resent that a little bit.”

  “She’s always been high strung,” William said, “but there’s no denying she gives us a more…literary dimension.”

  “Whatever,” Figueroa said, unplugging Anna’s laptop from the projector and replacing it with his own. The screenplay flickered on to the screen. He scrolled to 44. Int. Depot.

  “I’m not sure what Marshall West wants,” Figueroa said. “This looks good to me.”

  “He texted me earlier,” said William. “He wants us to play up the treasure angle.”

  “The Confederate gold? That’s just a myth. We can’t put that in a documentary.”

  “Remember, it’s not exactly a documentary. It’s a ‘re-enactment.’ That’s why they hired a Hollywood director.”

  “A washed-up has-been Hollywood director,” Figueroa snorted. “He thinks this is his ticket back to the big time. He needs to remember it’s for a 2nd rate cable TV channel.”

  “Don’t forget, it’s an opportunity for us as well. We agreed we would do what it takes to make this project successful. You don’t want to teach high school forever. That’s why we brought on a writer-in-residence.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Figueroa pulled a pipe from his jacket pocket. He packed the bowl and hovered the flame from a disposable lighter over the tobacco. Probably the first time anybody had lit up in the church building in its 90 years.

  “Besides, we owe it to Ben. This meant a lot to him.” William turned back to the screen. “Is there any real research on this treasure?”

  Figueroa pulled a thick notebook out of his computer bag and turned some pages. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Phillip Whitecloud, General Cooper’s liaison to the Cherokees, mentioned it in a deathbed statement 30 years after the battle. His son writes that Whitecloud was ordered to bury a cache of gold coins when it became clear the supplies at the depot would have to be abandoned. He said he and a soldier named Littlebear buried it during the retreat to Elk Creek. Littlebear was killed later that day, which means Whitecloud was the only surviving witness.”

  Anna came back into the room. “Sorry about earlier, guys. Why didn’t this Whitecloud go back and get it?”

  Figueroa continued. “He told his son the gold was bad luck and better off buried. Whitecloud went on to fight with the Confederates and was even a prisoner of war. I guess he knew about bad luck.”

  “Hasn’t anybody ever looked for it?” William asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Whitecloud’s son never stopped. And when his son published his grandfather’s reminiscences in The Chronicles of Oklahoma, it sparked a full-scale gold rush for a while. But it was never found, and interest waned.”

  Anna said, “The whole battlefield is only a couple of square miles.”

  “Exactly. That’s why most historians think the treasure was a myth. Still, it’s Hollywood.”

  “What do you mean?” Anna asked.

  “Marshall West wants it in the scene we are filming tomorrow,” William said.

  This got the uproar started all over again. Stephanie slipped into my office and closed the door.

  “They’ll go at it for hours, but they always get something good on paper.”

  “That doesn’t seem like the best way to write anything,” I said.

  “It works for them. They had a rough patch when Anna joined. The others thought she was trying to take over, but they eventually settled down and got busy. Then the script attracted attention at the American Wars Channel, and here we are.”

  “Except for Holbert.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “except for Ben.”

  The temperature rose as the late morning sun heated the stone roof of the depot. Honey Springs was a wagon stop on the Texas Road, but when the Confederate Army set up camp, they built a log hospital and a large tent village.

  The scene we were filming was set inside the depot, with General Cooper giving orders to Whitecloud to hide the gold. Tempers were fraying, since the actors felt they did not have enough time to memorize the script changes. After what seemed like the 47th time the actor playing Cooper said “Gary the Bold” instead of “bury the gold,” Marshall West called for a break.

  He pulled his phone to check messages, then hit a button to make a call. Stephanie and I were drinking iced tea from the craft services table when he yelled, “You must be kidding! That will kill us!”

  He shoved the phone in his pocket and looked our way. “The Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation has ruled Holbert’s death a murder! They’re not allowing any more filming at the battle site until their search is complete. I’m going to be over budget on a lousy TV movie! I’ll never get a real job again.”

  He pushed his way off the depot stage and headed toward the van that served as his on-set headquarters. Nobody rated a trailer, not even the director.

  Figueroa passed him, then came over to us. “Steph, your dad needs you. We think we’ve found something.” He looked at me. “I guess you can come too.”

  We found William Martin talking with a Native American man of 40 years or so, looking a little uncomfortable in his period costume.

  “This is Connor Whitecloud,” William said.

  “Phillip was my great grandfather.”

  “Connor, tell them what you told me.”

  “There is a story in my family that when Phillip told my grandfather about the gold, he said the tree spirits had it. It still wasn’t enough for grandfather to find it, but you guys are the second people to find it interesting this week.”

  “Who else?” I asked.

  “That poor guy that got killed in the accident yesterday. He asked to interview me a couple of days ago, and he got real excited when I mentioned it.”

  “Have you looked for it?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Connor. “I have one of the best metal detectors money can buy, and I set the discriminator as high as it would go, but I haven’t had any luck. If you guys do, remember where you got the tip.”

  “Don’t be silly,” William said. “We’re not interested in a treasure hunt.”

  But the rest of us were looking at the trees.

  Later, when we were walking around the largest stand of blackjack trees, Stephanie said, “These trees don’t look old enough to have been here 150 years ago.”

  I looked around at the grayish, gnarled trunks twisted around each other, barely tall enough to emerge from the grassy undergrowth. “Surely there were trees on this spot then,” I said.

  She looked around and saw her father was several yards away. Figueroa had gone into Muskogee to buy a metal detector from a sporting goods store there. Anna was not on set today, but working at her office at the college. Steph lowered her voice. “Bet this is different than anything you ever did in Detroit.”

  “You’ve got that right. Most of the searches I was involved in weren’t for gold.”

  She didn’t answer, so I glanced her way. She was looking at the tops of the tallest trees in the stand. Her father noticed too, and walked over to her.

  “What is it?” William asked.

  “Those squirrels coming up out of the tree trunk up there. It must be hollow.”

  William and I considered the significance of this. “That would be a lot quicker than burying,” I said.

  “If we start climbing trees, we might get noticed by the others,” William said drily.

  “Or if we start waving a metal detector in the air,” I said.

  Stephanie said, “If we come back at twilight, all the cast and crew will be gone, as well as any investigators from the OSBI.”

  We b
oth nodded. “Good,” she said, “I’ll call Figueroa.” She paused. “Should I call Anna?”

  William appeared to consider his words carefully. “Let’s not trouble her with this just yet.”

  The rest of the day was passed getting pick up shots at the depot set and having interviews with the investigators. I got word from a production assistant that one of them wanted to see me in the crew tent they had commandeered for their discussions.

  When I entered, an agent in a dark suit and conservative tie stood. The tie was not loosened, even though the temperature was north of 90 degrees. Probably in his late thirties, his sunglasses were pushed back on top of his close-cropped hair.

  “Thank you for coming, Father, I’m Agent Long.”

  “The title is Reverend, but please call me Peter.”

  He sat and motioned for me to do the same. “I’m Bill Long. Did you know the deceased?”

  “Only as an acquaintance. We met on the set here a few days ago.”

  “Did he seem to have anybody mad at him?”

  I thought it best not to mention how the writers argued like cats with their tails tied together. “Mr. Holbert seemed respected by his colleagues. Do you have any reason to suspect it wasn’t an accident?”

  He didn’t answer the question. “Have you seen any guns on set?” Before I yielded to the temptation to say something sardonic, he clarified. “From this century, I mean?”

  “No. But I thought he was killed by an accidental live round in a prop gun.”

  Long pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Nope. It was a .45. It appears Holbert was targeted. If you hear anything that might be helpful, please call me.” He passed over a business card.

  That night found us back in the woods, this time with flashlights and two metal detectors. We divided up, William Martin and Kevin Figueroa on the west side of the stand of trees, and Stephanie and I on the east side. I was holding the detector over my head to pick up any readings from the upper trunks of the trees. On the few occasions we got a hit, Stephanie held the flashlight to allow me to climb into the tree and then passed the detector up to me.

  After a couple of disappointing hours, I was scratched up and my arms ached, and I had pulled two ticks off my legs. “I think I could use a break,” I called from a branch about 15 feet off the ground.

  “Yeah,” Stephanie said. “Pass it to me and come on down.”

  We sat on a fallen log. We could see the main area of the battlefield. The prairie grass that was brown in the light of day glowed amber in the moonlight. Fireflies blinked on and off, and the night breeze was cool on our skin.

  I brushed a stray strand of milk chocolate covered hair from Stephanie’s face. She smiled uncertainly.

  “There’s no guarantee that these trees were here 150 years ago. The trees that were here may have fallen, been carried away by floods, anything.” I was trying to fill the silence.

  She nodded. “Assuming our tree theory is even correct,” she said, doing her part.

  More quiet. Then, “Do you regret it?”

  “What?” I said, forcing her to say it out loud, hoping she wouldn’t.

  “That you gave up your golden parachute? That you’re stuck here?”

  My first week in Oak Valley Stephanie and I recovered unpublished manuscripts by famed author K. C. Waters, who had been living under an assumed name in town for 30 years. I had secretly kept a novel to sell in case I had to leave my Witness Protection Program identity quickly, but had given it to some organized crime loan sharks to get a friend out of trouble.

  “No. I want to be stuck here. You’re here.”

  “That’s sweet, but I don’t know if I can be with someone who wasn’t truthful with me. Who stole to help himself. You pretended to be someone else. I get it, but you’re still pretending. What kind of future is that?”

  More silence, but this time it was because I knew she was right and I didn’t know how to make it better. Being forced to leave my old life in Detroit and looking over my shoulder since then, it seemed wrong that I could find someone special and not be able to be with her.

  “Stephanie, if I had to leave suddenly, would you go with me?”

  She turned from my gaze and we looked out at the road to the site. Two headlights appeared and grew larger. I looked at my watch. 5 A. M. It was probably the director, Marshall West, arriving for the day.

  My heart was stuck in my throat waiting on her reply, like I had pulled it out to show her then swallowed it.

  She faced me. “If you had to leave…”

  Her face lit up with a flash of light the split second before the roar of the explosion reached us.

  “It was a bomb in the road,” Agent Long said. An ambulance had taken the bodies of Marshall West and his driver away, but the twisted and smoking wreckage was still in the road.

  “What’s going on?” William asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” said Long as his cellphone rang. “I see,” he said and disconnected. “Gunpowder is missing from the prop room.”

  “Is someone trying to stop the movie?” Figueroa asked.

  “Perhaps you’re the best person to answer that,” said Long.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Figueroa, I need you to come with me. There are some extenuating circumstances. Given your background, and you being here so early this morning, let’s just say there are some questions stacking up.”

  Long took Figueroa by the arm and guided him to the black SUV he and his fellow agents had arrived in.

  “What was that about?” I asked as the vehicle sped down the road, chased by a cloud of dust.

  William shook his head. “Kevin has some unfortunate things in his past, I’m afraid. He was an environmental activist during his college years, and he was suspected of damaging some oil and gas drilling equipment with explosives.”

  “How did he ever get a teaching job?” Stephanie asked.

  “He was never convicted. I don’t know what his motivation would be for all this.”

  “Simple,” I said. “The treasure.”

  William snorted. “Why would he kill three people over something that might not exist?”

  “Could he know something he hasn’t shared yet?” I countered.

  “Young man, I’ve known Kevin for many years. He wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone.”

  I decided not to answer. I wasn’t making very good progress on impressing my girlfriend’s father.

  Stephanie said, “Dad, he didn’t mean anything by it. Let’s go call Anna and fill her in.”

  She led him away as he muttered, “What does a preacher know about anything like this?”

  I wandered over to the group of tents that served as the production camp. Equipment trucks and cast busses were pulling in. The plan was to resume the big battle scenes today, but the frantic Assistant Director was telling people the day’s work was postponed. A short, wiry lady with short blonde hair held back from her face with a bandana, she looked like she was barely out of film school.

  “Reverend Andrews,” she called when she saw me. “Have you seen Mr. Martin?”

  Yeah, I thought. I made him mad and he took his daughter away. “He had a phone call to make. Do you need him?”

  “Well, I need someone with more gravitas than me to help wrangle the cast and crew. I guess you’ll do. We need to reschedule everybody for this afternoon, at the earliest. Can you help?”

  “Sure. I’ll work the outside.” Five years as a Detroit police officer before I became a chaplain stood me in good stead. Acting like you know what’s going on is half the battle. With both cops and small town preachers.

  Grateful to have a practical assignment, I intercepted work trucks on the road and told them about the rescheduling. The tow truck pulling Martin’s wreckage onto its bed was a useful visual aid. After an hour or so, with the morning sun heating the field, I went back to the main tent and found the AD popping the top on a Diet Coke
. She tossed me a can. “Thanks for the help, Rev.”

  “You can call me Peter. You’re welcome.”

  “Carlin.”

  “Now what? Are you taking over?”

  “Are you kidding? If you take my salary and divide it by the 20 hour days, I’m making about half of minimum wage. I’ll do that for a credit, but it’s getting dangerous out here. No, I’m going back to Austin and working on some safe commercials.”

  “This could be your chance at the big chair,” I said.

  “No, the production company said they would get William Martin to take over. No film experience, but they called him a subject matter expert.”

  Surely Stephanie’s father wouldn’t be ruthless enough to…I felt ashamed to even think it. Speaking of which, I pulled my phone out. There was a message from Stephanie. I hadn’t heard it over the commotion.

  “Peter, help! We are…”

  Then nothing.

  I called, but it went straight to voicemail. It had been turned off, or destroyed. Same with William’s cell.

  I felt the panic rising. I had no idea where to look for them. I didn’t know what I would do if I couldn’t help her. Then I remembered Agent Long’s business card. I retrieved it from my shirt pocket and dialed the number.

  “Say that again,” he said after I explained. I could sense he was pinching the bridge of his nose again.

  After I repeated myself he said, “Well, that confirms that this Figueroa guy is not behind this. They went missing after I had him in custody. He says you and the girl and the dad can alibi him out. True?”

  “We were with him most of the night.”

  “Mind telling me what you were doing?”

  “Looking for treasure.” It sounded silly to say it out loud.

  “Also what he said. Give me the girl’s phone number. I’ll get a trace started and head your way.”

  I had nothing to do but wait for him by the road. He arrived in good time, but it seemed to take forever. He stopped in front of me and the dust swirled around the car.

  “Buckle up,” he said when I got in. “We have a location.” He didn’t even slow down when he got to the main road, just glanced both ways and roared north.