DR. KENNETH CURTIS sat in the passenger seat of the Ford Explorer with his head back and his eyes closed in sleep.
Perry couldn’t blame him. After all, it had been he who had called him in the late evening. It was only dinnertime in California, but Boston was on the other coast and three hours further along in the night. While he had not awakened the archeologist, he had insisted that he pack a few things and make the flight west that evening. Arrangements had been made, and at 6:10 that morning, the weary academic arrived at the small airport in Bakersfield. No sooner was the man’s luggage loaded than he was seated in the passenger seat, fast asleep. He didn’t move during the forty-mile trip back to Tejon.
Initially, Perry had intended to hire a helicopter to fly Dr. Curtis to the site, but after Anne Fitzgerald’s revelation the night before, he thought the extra time spent in the car would draw much less attention than a helicopter swooping into the mountains.
There was a small bump as Perry turned from the paved road onto the dirt path he had traveled several times in the last twenty-four hours. Curtis was jarred awake.
“Enjoy your nap, Professor?” Perry asked.
“Too little, too short.” His voice was higher than might be expected of a 250-pound man, especially when that weight was compacted into a five-foot-nine frame.
“I apologize for the rushed trip, but I promise that you’ll be amazed.”
“I’m fifty-six years old and have dug holes on three continents. I’m beyond being surprised.”
“Care to bet a pizza on that?”
“Sure. I want Canadian bacon on mine.” He rubbed his eyes and repositioned his bulk in the seat. “I should get a gourmet meal for being made to fly in that puddle jumper I just crossed the country in.”
“I tried to get you the corporate jet, but Dad had dibs on it.”
“How is your father?”
“Well and very active. I don’t think he’ll ever retire. Of course, I haven’t seen him much over the last six weeks or so. I’ve been working overseas. Scotland, actually.”
“Sounds nice,” Curtis said. “Now enough of the small talk. Spill the beans. What is so important that it costs me a night’s sleep?”
“I’m not going to say. If I did, you wouldn’t believe me. You’re going to have to wait five more minutes. You don’t have a heart condition, do you?”
“Oh, please,” Curtis said. “I can survive whatever trinket you’ve uncovered.”
“Wait until you see this trinket.”
The academic huffed. “Let me guess. We’re in Southern California, so you’ve probably come across something Native American . . . maybe even a graveyard. Is that it? You’ve dug up an Indian grave, and you want me to verify it? Probably Yokut, Chumash, or some other Uto-Aztecans.”
“Nothing so simple, Dr. Curtis.” Perry steered from the dirt road to the access path. He saw the trucks and equipment parked alongside. “Let’s take a walk. I’ll have someone run your things to the motel.”
“This isn’t going to be a lengthy stay, is it? I’m doing some research for your father.”
“I’ll let you decide.” Perry parked and led the chunky scientist up the grade, taking the ascent slower than he would if alone. A few minutes later they stood under the canopy of oak leaves that covered their “office.” Jack, Gleason, and Brent were there waiting. Brent looked as if he had been dragged from bed.
“A real paradise,” Curtis said between panting breaths. The men exchanged greetings. “Did you guys bring coffee?”
“We brought a thermos of the high octane stuff,” Gleason said. “I’ll get you a cup.”
“Bring some oxygen too,” Curtis said. “The air seems a little thin.”
“We’re about five-thousand feet above sea level, Doctor,” Jack said. “That’s a little higher than Boston.”
“That would explain it,” Curtis replied.
Perry looked around. “Everything looks the same as we left it.”
“Where’s your crew?” Curtis asked, taking the coffee from Gleason.
“We gave them the day off,” Perry said. “We wanted to give you some elbow room. I can have some up here in short order if you need them.”
“Let them relax. Whatever you found has been in the ground for a long while; another day won’t matter.”
Jack caught Perry’s eye. “You have told him, haven’t you?”
“Why ruin the surprise?”
“Okay, boys. Enough of the Indiana Jones melodrama. Show me what you’ve stumbled across.”
Perry motioned with an exaggerated flourish to the open pasture, then started for the hole they had dug the previous evening. A yellow ribbon similar to police crime tape was stretched around four metal stakes driven into the ground near the dig’s corners. Covering the opening was a wide panel of brown canvas held in place by several large rocks. Curtis stepped to the east side of the tarp and waited for the great unveiling. He sipped his coffee casually, like a man looking at his garden. Jack and Gleason removed the rocks while Brent videotaped the process. Once the anchors were removed, Perry reached under the tape barricade, took hold of the heavy material in both hands, and took several steps back, pulling the covering from its place. The early morning sun flooded the opening.
Dr. Curtis dropped his cup.
“Whoa!” Brent said and shifted the camera’s eye down to the cavity in the earth.
Perry threw the tarpaulin to the side and then caught a look of Jack’s expression. Not a man easily shocked, Jack’s jaw dropped like an elevator. Gleason paled and became wide-eyed.
Stepping forward, Perry peered down expecting to see the skeleton he had met face-to-face last night. What he saw turned his stomach. The skeleton had company. A man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, lay face down in the pit. A trowel protruded from his back, just left of the spine. Perry could see that it
had been turned and directed to pass through the victim’s ribs.
It didn’t take a doctor to realize the pointed blade had reached the heart.
Ignoring his instincts to back away, Perry approached, knelt, and bent over the body. He reached to the side of the man’s neck and felt for a pulse. His skin was cold, and there was no pulse.
Perry looked up. Everyone was staring at him. He shook his head.
“I . . .” Curtis swallowed hard. “I take it that this isn’t what you wanted me to see.”
“Brent,” Perry said, ignoring Curtis’s uncomfortable quip, “drive into town and tell the sheriff’s department what we’ve found here.”
“Got it.” Brent was off at a jog.
“Can’t you just call them on a cell phone?” Curtis asked.
“Not from here. Cell coverage in the area is spotty at best. We’re only two miles out of town. The police can be here soon.”
“Any idea who our friend is?” Gleason asked. He looked pale to Perry.
“I’ve never seen him,” Perry said. Jack agreed.
“You know,” Gleason said softly. “With all due respect, our . . . guest, he’s going to cause a lot of trouble.”
Perry knew where Gleason was headed. “That crossed my mind too.”
“I don’t follow,” Curtis said.
“There are two bodies in the pit,” said Perry. “Just below this poor guy is a skeleton that shouldn’t be here.” Perry paused as he thought about how to phrase his next words. “Our ground penetrating surveys found a buried object. We cored and found wood and what looked like a piece of bone. We excavated and discovered several planks. I’m sure now that it’s a type of coffin. Inside are the remains of a person—a man.”
“How do you know it’s a man?” Curtis pressed.
“There’s a metal shield over a portion of his body; a bowed, rectangular shield. Since I removed only one plank I couldn’t see the whole thing, but I saw enough. There is an emblem of an eagle on the shield.”
Curtis looked more shocked than when he first looked in the pit and saw the murdered man. “Are you . . . are you telling me that there is a Roman legionnaire in that hole?”
“You’re the expert, but I’ve read a little history here and there, and that’s my first, best guess.”
“That’s not possible,” Curtis shot back. “Not possible at all. It’s preposterous.”
“I saw it too, Doc,” Jack said.
“Me too,” Gleason added.
“No. You’re mistaken. It’s impossible, I tell you. It must be some kind of prank.”
“That’s what you’re here to find out,” Perry said.
“Guys,” Gleason said, “I think we may have a bigger challenge before us.”
“Greater than a murder?” Jack asked.
“Maybe,” Gleason said. “That trowel is ours. It was the one Perry was using last night.”
THE PHONE BY Anne’s bed rang with an obnoxious trill. It took three rings to break through the cocoon of sleep encasing her mind. She fumbled for the receiver.
“What?”
Her voice was little more than a gravelly croak. She cleared her throat and tried to ignore the thick film that coated her mouth. The taste was bad, as if she had spent the night dining on day-old carrion. It was the price of drinking scotch. She smacked her lips once and tried again: “Hello.”
“Sorry to wake you, Mayor,” the caller said. “But I knew you’d want to know.”
“Who is this?”
“Sergeant Montulli.”
Anne sat up in bed and crossed her legs. She ran a hand through the tangle of her hair. “Sorry, Greg. I was asleep.” She looked at the clock. Six-thirty. Greg never called that early. As she thought about it, Greg never called her at home. Something was wrong.
“I figured as much, but I knew you’d have my head if I didn’t let you know.”
“Let me know what, Greg?” Disquiet percolated in her already sour stomach.
“There’s been a murder at the Sachs site. Someone from their crew drove to the substation and spoke to the duty officer. He called me at home.”
“Who was killed?” The news had snapped Anne awake.
“I don’t know yet. I’m heading up there in a few minutes to secure the site. I’ll have the office call the detectives in Bakersfield.”
“I’m going with you.”
“There’s no need for that. I have limited traffic in the area. You’d just be . . .” He trailed off.
“I’d be what? In the way?”
“I was going to say bored.”
Anne knew he was lying. “I’m going up there. You want to pick me up or do I drive myself?”
“You’d better drive yourself,” he conceded. “I may be there for quite awhile.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Anne hung up without another word. Tossing the covers back, she moved into the bathroom and emerged twenty minutes later scrubbed, groomed, and with a minimum of makeup. Striding to the closet, she wondered what one wore to a murder scene. Remembering the slope she had to scale last time she was there, she chose a pair of stonewashed denims and a striped camp shirt. Donning a pair of sneakers, Anne headed for the door.
CLAIRE SAT IN a dim and dusty room. A meager amount of light was able to push through the window and around the plywood that covered it. There was just enough light for her to know that the sun had risen, but nothing more. The room was the size of a small bedroom and had clearly been uninhabited for a long while. Dust covered the floor and the single throw rug that rested in the middle. Joseph lay on the rug in a fetal position.
Claire did what she had done every few moments since their capture: She checked his breathing. To her relief, she saw his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm. The woman who had identified herself as Veronica, and who had so deftly injected Joseph, had driven them to this spot. They had changed vehicles once, moving from a sedan to a panel truck. Once in the truck, she and Joseph were blindfolded. Joseph submitted to the indignity without protest. Claire had expected him to pull away, but he allowed his eyes to be shielded. It was as if he understood what was going on.
Nor did Claire fight back. She doubted she could defeat the much younger woman in a struggle, and it would have been counterproductive to try. Poison was coursing through her son’s body; he needed the antidote quickly. She had no option other than complete submission.
The remainder of the trip seemed interminably long. Seconds lasted eons; each mile passed slowly. With each minute that crept by, Claire expected to hear something horrible from Joseph: a moan of pain, a scream of agony, or vomiting. Such terrors never came.
The van stopped sometime later, and the back doors opened. “This way,” the woman said. “Leave your blindfolds on.”
A rush of salt air poured into the vehicle. Rising, Claire felt for the side of the van with one hand while reaching for Joseph with the other. “Please,” Claire pleaded. “Give him the antidote. It’s been a long time. Please, before it’s too late.”
The woman didn’t respond. She guided them down from the van with hands Claire found surprisingly strong. Once on the ground, she felt a hand on the back of her neck.
“We’re going to take a few steps forward then stop,” the woman said. “You’ll hear a door open. I’ll guide you through. You’ll be able to take your blindfolds off then, but wait until I tell you. Understood?”
“The antidote. Please,” Claire pleaded. Tears were beginning to run. “Let’s hurry before it’s too late.”
They took the steps, heard the door open, and were guided inside. The air was musty and carried a hint of mildew. The sound of the door closing behind them echoed loudly. Claire’s head was pulled back roughly, and the blindfold was stripped away.
Blinking several times, Claire quickly took in her surroundings. She was standing in a cavernous room with a ceiling that hovered twenty feet above her. A single light burned from its lamp in the ceiling, weakly pushing back the darkness. It was a warehouse. Salt air and a warehouse. They were at the docks, the shipping center on Elliot Bay. That much she could deduce, but there were many such buildings in Seattle. One thing was clear; this building had been out of service for a long time.
“To the stairs,” the abductor said, pointing to a set of wood stairs against one of the walls. The stairs led to a second floor door that Claire assumed had once been the building’s office.
“You promised to give him the antidote. You said if we cooperate you’d—”
“Just get to the stairs,” the woman snapped and gave Claire a shove.
Turning to Joseph, Claire removed his blindfold, took his hand, and started for the stairs. The steps squeaked eerily under their weight. Claire was certain that the rickety construction would give way and plunge her and Joseph to certain injury.
“Through the door.”
Claire reached the landing, saw a door, and opened it. She also saw a shiny band of metal, a latch, and a large padlock. This room was to become their prison, and Claire could think of nothing to do about it.
Once inside she turned to the door. Veronica, if that was her name, stood there staring at the two. “Now?” Claire asked. “Please. Let’s not wait another minute.”
The woman shook her head. “Sorry,” she said.
“You promised,” Claire objected, knowing how stupid the appeal sounded. Expecting someone who had abducted them under threat of death could be trusted in what she said was ludicrous, but pleading was the only tool she had.
“I lied,” the woman said and shut the door. Claire heard the latch and lock being set. A dim incandescent bulb in an old floor lamp lighted the room.
The rest of the night had passed in blazing anxiety. Claire sat in the only chair the room offered, a rusty, metal folding chair. Joseph sat on the floor next to her and leaned his head on her thigh. She stroked his hair and waited for the awful moment to arrive.
Demons of despair plied her mind with thoughts of burying the only family she had left. Without Joseph, she saw no reason to continue living. All that she had cared for would be gone. When he died, her spirit would die.
Minutes turned into moments.
A few times she had risen from her seat and tried to open the door, even kicking it repeatedly, but got only pain for her efforts. Still, she had to try. She had tried to pry off the thick plywood that covered the window, but it wouldn’t budge. Moving the light closer to the covered opening, she saw that someone had used a dozen drywall screws to fix the wood panel to the wall. There was no way she could remove it without tools.
Claire had reluctantly faced the truth of the matter: She and Joseph were stuck where they were, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Moments turned into hours.
The horrible specter of death hadn’t come. Joseph showed no signs of illness. When he had first lain down on the threadbare carpet, Claire had joined him, draping an arm over him as an embrace of love and as a way to monitor his breathing. His breathing slowed, but not like a man dying, like a man sleeping. In the abysmal black of the room, Claire thanked God for every rise and fall of her son’s chest, for every inhalation.
Joseph slept.
Claire prayed.
Night turned to day.
Joseph continued to live. It was making sense now. The woman had lied about her intentions and had lied about the poison. It was the cruelest abuse Claire had ever suffered, and for the first time in her life, she found herself hating another human. Her husband’s assailant had remained faceless and nameless to her. He’d been tried in court, but Claire didn’t attend. Joseph’s care was too demanding of her time. This was different. She’d seen face-to-face her son’s attacker; she’d felt the woman’s strong, cold hands on her body. That made her too real not to hate.
Then the hate was extinguished with the cold of fear. Hate was a foreign emotion for Claire; fear she was familiar with.
Again, Claire did all that was left to her: She prayed. Prayer had been a part of her life since childhood; faith a companion for just as long. Her own death seemed a small thing. Her concern was Joseph.
Why do they want my son?
BRENT ARRIVED AT the site sucking air in heavy inhalations. He approached Perry and the others, nodded a greeting, leaned over, and placed his hands on his knees.
“What’d ya do, kid?” Jack asked. “Run all the way back from Tejon?”
He shook his head then stood erect. After one more deep breath he said, “We have company.”
“Deputies,” Perry said. “That’s why we sent you.”
“No, not the police or sheriffs or whatever they are. They’re on the way too. I’m talking about the others.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Perry said. His thoughts ran to the newspaper article Anne had warned him about.
“I noticed a couple of cars behind me,” Brent said. “I didn’t think much about it until they followed me up the dirt road. I know you’ve been really secretive about this project, so I assumed you didn’t want visitors.”
“You assumed right, but I was expecting it.”
“Really?” Brent said.
“I’m afraid so.” Perry explained about the article and his meeting with Anne Fitzgerald.
“So people are going to read that and think we’ve found a hoard of gold or something,” Brent said. He paused. “Have we . . . I mean, have you?”
“Not like you’re thinking,” Jack inserted.
“How far behind you were they?” Perry inquired. His calm exterior was a shell that held his anger in check.
“Not far. I ran up the hill in hopes that they wouldn’t see which direction I went. Not that it matters.”
Perry knew what he meant. The equipment parked on the dirt path would be a giveaway, as would the wild grass beaten down by the workers moving up and down the hill.
“I’m new to all this secret construction stuff,” Brent said, “but I don’t imagine having spectators is a good thing.”
“You’re right, but we have other concerns. This is now a crime scene. If people start wandering around, they will contaminate the scene. The sheriff’s department won’t be happy about that.”
“Everyone with me,” Perry said as he started down the slope. “Except you, Dr. Curtis. Maybe you should wait in the office.” He motioned to the oak grove. “Let’s see if we can keep our guests off the site.”
They hadn’t gone far when they saw five people struggling up the grade. Perry quickly sized them up: two couples of retirement age and a bald, thin man dressed too nicely for the terrain. What bothered him even more was what he saw behind them: three other vehicles pulling to a stop. Clearly, the secret was out.
“Can I help you?” Perry asked forcefully. He gave a short smile. The winded visitors stopped and took a moment to catch their breath.
“Who are you?” one man asked. He was round and decked out in work boots, a T-shirt, and jeans that were held up by a pair of wide, multicolored suspenders that made Perry think of a circus clown. The man was missing a front tooth and sported a week’s worth of stubble on his chin.
“My name is Perry. May I ask who you are?”
“Sure, I’m Don Tucker. People just call me Tuck. This is my wife, Shirley.” Shirley smiled sweetly.
“I’m Dr. Lloyd Stevens,” the other man said. Unlike the first, he was clean-shaven and had bright eyes. “I’m the town dentist. This is my wife, Nancy.”
Perry nodded in their direction and wondered why Tuck didn’t visit Lloyd in his office. He looked at the skinny visitor.
“I’m David Branson. I’m the editor of the . . .”
“. . . local paper,” Perry said, finishing the sentence. The words seemed sour in his mouth.
“You’ve heard of me?” Branson smiled.
“The mayor mentioned you,” Perry explained.
“All good, I hope.” The editor let slip a little chuckle.
Perry frowned and cut his eyes to the others. “How may I help you?”
Tuck looked at Perry and then the others; his eyes widened as he took in Jack’s size. “We was having some eggs down at the café and readin’ the paper. Came across the article about what you guys are doing up here. I said to Shirley, ‘What say we take a run up there and say hi to the folks, maybe see what they’re doing.’”
“Same with us,” Lloyd said.
“I’m afraid there’s not much to see,” Perry said. “We’ve only been here for a day.”
“Is it true there’s treasure?” Branson blurted. “A treasure right here in town?”
“Actually, we’re in the county, not the City of Tejon—”
“Don’t matter none,” Tuck interjected. “We’re all neighbors. So how about it? Can we get a tour?”
“I’m afraid not,” Perry said diplomatically. “This is private property and—”
“It ain’t your private property,” Tuck insisted. “It belongs to the Trujillos. That’s what the paper said. Ain’t that right, Branson?”
“Yes,” the editor said. “That’s what I wrote in the article.”
“We have a contract with the Trujillo family,” Perry said.
“What kind of contract?” Branson asked.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
“Maybe I should just drive up and talk to Trujillo myself,” Tuck said. “We’re friends, after all.”
“You’re friends with Mr. Trujillo?” Perry asked. “How is he doing?”
Tuck’s eyes shot back and forth for a moment, and he licked his lips. “Fine. He’s doing great.”
“No, he’s not,” Perry said. “He’s sick. A friend would know that.”
Stepping forward, Tuck raised a finger and jabbed it against Perry’s chest. The scraggly man smelled of aged Old Spice and strong coffee. “You callin’ me a liar?”
Jack cleared his throat and moved a step closer to Tucker, who immediately took a quick stride back.
“We have a right to know what goes on in our county,” the dentist said.
“That’s right,” Branson interjected. “It’s my responsibility to report what’s going on.”
“Perhaps,” Perry said. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you on the site.”
“Who’s gonna stop—” Tucker began then stopped. Perry turned to see Jack at his shoulder, standing calmly with hands clasped in front of him. His sheer size was threat enough. Perry knew what Tucker couldn’t: No man was kinder than Jack. Perry decided to keep that quiet for the moment.
“Well, maybe I’ll just come back with the sheriff.” Tucker was reduced to bluster.
“It’s been tried already,” Perry said. “You’re welcome to do so too.”
“Well . . . well, maybe I just will.”
“You won’t have to wait long,” Gleason added. He nodded down the hill.
At the bottom of the slope a white patrol car parked behind the growing line of vehicles. Approaching the slope came five other citizens of Tejon, all men. Perry felt like he was looking at a football team.
Tucker followed Perry’s gaze and saw the deputy exit the car, as well as the approaching group. “Well, I guess we’ll see who can and can’t take a look around.”
The answer to that was already clear in Perry’s mind. With a body lying in a pit—two bodies, he corrected himself—the police were not going to allow crowds to roam over the crime scene.
“Hey, Doc,” a man in his late teens said as he led the second group forward. He wore a letterman’s jacket. “You out here to see the treasure hunt?”
“Hey, Vince,” the dentist replied. “That was the plan, but we’re not getting far. It appears we’re not welcome.”
“That a fact?” Vince said. He was a muscled man who obviously spent most of his off hours pushing iron and looking in mirrors. “Who’s stopping you?”
“These guys,” Tucker said with a jerk of his thumb.
“Perhaps I can talk some sense into them,” the man called Vince said.
“Well, isn’t this fun?” Gleason said quietly, then nervously cleared his throat.
“His pals look pretty big,” Brent said shakily. He shuffled his feet.
“How about it, buddy?” Vince said. “You gonna stand in the way of me and my friends?”
Perry smiled but said nothing.
“Pop ’em one,” Tucker said.
“Stop it,” Tucker’s wife demanded. “This is getting out of hand.”
“There’s no need for a riot,” Branson offered.
“Ain’t gonna be no riot. Me and my friends are going up there to see what you’re doing,” Vince growled, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He looked at Jack. “You’re a big one. Think you can take five of us?”
Perry raised a hand before Jack could speak. “Go home.” Perry’s words were just above a whisper.
“I don’t think so, buddy,” Vince said. “I think I’m going to finish my little walk up the hill.” Vince drove his point home pressing his index finger against Perry’s chest.
There was a cry of pain.
Vince was on his knees, one hand raised, the other holding his wrist. The raised hand was kept in place by the strong grip of Perry as he bent the man’s finger back. Vince’s knees had buckled at the pain.
“You’re breaking my finger. Let go!”
“Hold still, son,” Perry said without emotion. His eyes were fixed on Vince’s four friends. They started forward, and Perry applied more pressure to the digit. Vince bellowed. His friends stopped. Jack took a step forward and clinched his fists. The message was sent and received.
“Hey!” The voice traveled up the hill. Perry saw the deputy he had met yesterday, marching up the slope. His voice was strong, and his face appeared chiseled in concrete. He had the look of a man not to be trifled with.
Perry braced himself for the officer’s verbal assault, but it never came. Instead, he strode up to Perry then looked down at Vince, whose face was twisted in pain. “Mr. Sachs,” the deputy said with the kind of nod one gives an acquaintance met on the street.
“Sergeant Montulli,” Perry replied smoothly.
“I was expecting something else when I arrived,” Montulli said. “Has Vince been giving you trouble?”
“A little,” Perry admitted, “but nothing to worry about. You know this man?”
“Vincent? Oh yeah, we go way back. He’s a bit of a celebrity around town. Local high school kid makes college football team. He’s a linebacker. Pretty good too. Just not real smart.”
“Ah,” Perry said.
“Come on, man, he’s breaking my finger.” Sweat dotted Vince’s brow.
“Say, Vince,” Montulli said. “How many times have you been in my jail?”
“I don’t know. Ow. Two, maybe three times.”
“Four times, cowboy. You want to make it five?”
“He attacked me!”
“Nah. I saw you poke him in the chest. That’s assault and battery. That’s a little more serious than underage drinking and disturbing the peace.” He turned to Perry. “You want to press charges?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant. I think that all depends on your friend here. I suppose I could overlook things.”
Montulli hunkered down to make eye contact. “I know you have a problem with authority figures, Vince, but I’m going to give you some advice. You’re a big boy now so you can make up your own mind, but if I was in your situation, I’d take Mr. Sachs’s kind offer here and leave quietly—or I can slap on the cuffs. What’s it going to be, sport?”
“Okay, okay, just make him let go.”
Montulli rose. “Ball’s in your court, Mr. Sachs.”
Perry let go, and Vince popped to his feet, backing up several steps. He shook his hand vigorously. “I should—”
“Watch it!” Montulli snapped. “You’re not out of this yet. Now take off.”
Vince scowled, threw Perry a hard look, and then started down the hill without a word, his friends close behind.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Perry said. “I try to stay away from confrontations.”
“You seem pretty good at it. I’ve wanted to do something like that to Vince since the first time I met him. His father’s the same way. The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree on that one. More’s the pity.” Montulli turned to the others. “What are you folks doing up here?”
“We read about the treasure and wanted to see for ourselves,” Tucker said.
“You’re not seeing anything up here today. So you can go home.”
“Why are you siding with him?” Tucker asked.
“I’m not siding with him or anyone else. This is a crime scene, and you’re interfering with an investigation. Now go home.”
“Crime scene?” Branson asked. “What kind of crime? I need facts for the story.”
“Not now, David,” Montulli said. “Now go on.”
“But . . . ,” Branson began.
“I said, not now,” Montulli snapped. “I’ve got my hands full. Now unless you want to spend time in my jail for interfering with an investigation, you best head back down the hill—all of you. ”
“I need facts,” Branson insisted. “I can’t write a story without details and facts.”
“It didn’t stop you yesterday,” Montulli shot back. “Now beat it.”
To Perry’s relief, they grumbled but left. Branson remained for a moment, stammered, pursed his lips in indignation, and then followed the others back to the road. “You handled that well.”
Montulli shrugged. “I’ve been at it for a while. Most of the people out here are good, quiet, and respectful. Some of them, however, wake up stupid each morning.”
“We all struggle with sin nature,” Perry remarked.
“That sounds like church talk,” Montulli said. “You one of them churchgoers?”
“That’s one way of putting it, but yes, I’m a Christian.”
“That’s probably a good thing, because you may need all the help you can get. Okay, it’s time to get to work.”
“How can I help?”
“Tell me where the body is.” Perry did, explaining how the body was discovered. “Did you touch anything?”
“Yes,” Perry admitted. “I touched the body in searching for a pulse, and Jack also touched the tarp.” He explained about the pit and how they discovered the body.
Montulli frowned. “How many people were working up here yesterday?”
“Maybe twenty or so,” Perry replied.
“Twenty-two,” Jack corrected. “That’s not counting two visits by the mayor.”
“Yeah, the mayor,” Montulli said somberly. “I should let you know she’s on her way.”
“Oh, great,” Gleason said.
Montulli continued. “Here is what is going to happen. I need to see the body, but I want to limit the number of people tracking in and out to the crime scene. So I want everyone but Mr. Sachs to stay here. There should be two deputies arriving anytime. They’ll cordon off the crime scene area. Sometime this morning a homicide detective from Bakersfield will show up. At that point, he’ll take charge of the investigation.
“I will also need to speak to each of you individually. The boys from homicide will want to talk to you and your crew. I assume they will be available.”
“They will,” Perry said.
“Good. I’m going to walk up the hill to the site. I’m going to do so through the undisturbed grass. Less likely to step on the killer’s footprints that way. I want you,” he said, pointing to Perry, “to follow directly behind me.”
“You’re the boss,” Perry said.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Montulli said. He was looking down the hill. A car had just parked. “I think the real boss just got here.”
Perry watched Anne Fitzgerald exit the car.