LAST ASSAULT ON OAK ISLAND 4
Chapter 4
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The Clemens’ operation main shaft was Borehole 12B. Cribbed by tank car casings, the shaft was jealously guarded by both casual workmen and engineer heads. The steady grind and buzz of the enormous drilling rig could be heard clear to the lighthouse. It was doubly compounded by the Yearbright operation beginning less than 200 yards away.
The barren soil was clustered with air compressors, tanks, lengths of giant ductwork, high capacity pumps, old railroad tank cars, dismantled scaffolds and shoring, and two mobile home trailers in stages of disrepair.
The morning broke foggy, which developed into a chilly drizzle, which then cleared to allow the sun an overcast appearance. The suspicious nature of the workers on the drilling site made Lauren realize her tour of the borehole was highly unusual. There was more to Miles’ invitation than a neighborly gesture. She worked up an innocent smile.
“The extra tourism this summer has made our insurance skyrocket!” Miles shouted to her over the noise of the machinery. “Scheduled tours are planned for the anniversary, but even those will be conducted from a distance!”
“I’m lucky to be so close!” she yelled back.
He looked at her quizzically. “Well, I didn’t know how long you were staying,” he said loudly, and lamely, leaning down to her. “I know you said you were here for a visit, but. . . I didn’t know if you were staying long enough . . .” He faltered to a stop, then brightened and continued with a grin. “Actually I just wanted to meet you.”
“I’m flattered.”
Lauren had only made the comment on a personal tour to see his reaction. He had no plausible excuse for showing her the Clemens’ operation firsthand when public tours would be held in a few weeks. He hadn’t admitted the real reason for taking an interest in her presence on the island, but his clumsy excuse proved it wasn’t for the friendly or romantic notions he claimed.
He showed her the parts of the rig and pumps channeling water to a nearby pond created exclusively for the drainage. She feigned ignorance, asking where the saltwater came from and how it got into the borehole.
To explain in depth she followed him into one of the trailers. Inside it was quieter and the shabby exterior belied a moderately comfortable office. She looked around at the survey equipment and maps lining the walls. A full gun case was in one corner. Beside it was a planter with a leafless stick that had at one time been an ornamental tree. She took off her hardhat and sat at the desk where a map was spread as Miles gestured to a chair.
“This is an aerial view of the island. Smith’s Cove, South Shore Cove, the original pit site, and our operation.” He sat down behind the desk, across from her. He smoothed back his hair, which helped flatten the tufts very little.
She was looking at the map, trying not to seem too interested. “You’re not drilling in the original site?”
“No. Yearbright has that location,” he admitted with no trace of envy. “We had it until three years ago, but our lease expired, and Yearbright took over.”
She shrugged. “Then why dig at all here?”
He traced two blue lines on the map with his finger. “These are flood tunnels that keep the original pit filled with water. Sort of a booby-trap for anyone who tried to retrieve the chests. It’s impossible to pump all the water out from the tunnels—although Lucy’s trying to—which means there must be another way to get the treasure out.
“And,” he continued, frustration edging his voice, “the whole area’s been dug, tunneled, and blasted so many times that the chests aren’t in the pit anymore. The flooding from Smith’s Cove is strong—emptying at about 2,000 liters per minute. Coming through a space the size of the tunnel, the force is strong enough to push a sizable weight quite a distance. That’s why we believe we’re in the right spot now. The flooding from Smith’s Cove is much stronger than the one coming from South Shore.
“Also,” he said, “Blackbeard had another way of—”
“The pirate Blackbeard?” she asked dubiously, anticipating his defense.
“Yes. It’s his long-lost treasure,” Miles said without hesitation. “A few other pirate captains had gone in with him, but Blackbeard would have carried out the operation. We believe the pit was either dug as a distraction—nothing was ever hid there—or it was there, like I said, and has been pushed south by the flooding. That’s our strongest theory.” His finger rested on one of the blue lines. “It’s probably about here, in the South Shore tunnel.”
She considered this for a moment. “Wouldn’t the water pressure there keep it from moving?”
He shook his head. “Not when compared to the force from Smith’s Cove.”
“What if Blackbeard didn’t bury it in the pit at all? Do you have a map or something?”
He watched her carefully, leaning on an elbow near the map. “No. Do you?”
“Why would I have a Blackbeard map?” She laughed, then saw he was serious. “I don’t even believe in this pirate treasure theory.”
“Why is Rudy Maddock so interested in the Money Pit? He’s never given it a second look until a few months ago.” He leaned more over the desk. “What’s your old man really doing here?”
“I didn’t know Rudy was interested,” she replied slowly, trying to look puzzled. “Dad hasn’t seen him in years. He just thought a visit was due. Neither of them are young anymore, if you haven’t noticed.” Miles’ guard had slackened and she decided to try another approach. “Is that why you invited me here? You didn’t want to meet me.”
She stood up abruptly and had reached the door before he stepped in front of it.
“No. I’m sorry, Lauren,” he said quickly. “That’s not why I asked you here.” He shook his head. “Honestly. I’m so used to people coming to the island for the pit that I sometimes think it’s the only reason.”
“Well, it isn’t,” she said stoutly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Rudy gives tours of the light, too, you know. In fact, there’s a group of kids coming Thursday for a field trip. It’s the only kept light off the coast since Country Island went automatic.”
“I know, I know.” He sighed, a hopeful grin crossing his face. “I’m sorry, again, Lauren. Let me take you out to dinner tonight.”
“I have plans for dinner.”
“With Captain Maruso?”
“How do you know?” It was an opportunity to find out what he had heard from the local gossips. “When did you talk to him?”
“I didn’t.” For a moment he was at a loss. “It did get around that you two were an item a few years ago,” he finally said. He shrugged. “He’s been hanging around the lighthouse for almost a week. Anything serious?”
She decided ambiguity was best. “I just got here.”
He opened the door and followed her out. “How about lunch Saturday?” he called over the noise as they made their way to his pickup truck.
Carlos wanted information out of Miles and Lauren knew she hadn’t got any yet. What the curator expected her to find out, she didn’t know.
She gave Miles a forgiving smile. “Okay. Saturday.”
It was after noon when Lauren got back to the lighthouse. Carlos and Rudy were seated at the kitchen table, their dishes from lunch barely pushed out of the way to make space for working. Beside Carlos was a pad of legal paper where notes were scratched. Rudy was trying with great difficulty to decipher the curator’s handwriting from the yellow pad.
“Ah, Lauren,” Carlos said with a brief glance in her direction as she entered the kitchen. “How was your tour? What did you find out?”
“Nothing important. Miles is a dead end.” She nodded to Rudy as he smiled and nodded. “All I learned was that they think the treasure is Blackbeard’s and it’s lodged in the South Shore flood tunnel.”
She sat down and told them about the borehole and Miles’ line of questioning. Rudy heated up some chili he had made for lunch, which frightened Lauren a little, and Carlos highlighted his own progress.
“For the first section,” he began with a sigh, stretching his fingers, “the admiral seems to be a high-minded man, complaining of his ship and the paltry provisions the Crown insist he take. He reads as greatly insulted his talents are used as a mere transport of goods. He even says in one place how privateering would be more profitable than sailing the colonial waters for the Crown.”
“Did he go into privateering?” Lauren gave the bowl of chili Rudy handed her a suspicious look. “Oh . . . thank you.”
Rudy set a plastic sleeve of saltine crackers near her and she mumbled her thanks.
Carlos shook his head. “He makes no mention of it, and I doubt he would at this point.” He traced down the journal page. “But he does state that a man of his intelligence could be better used in another position. Jonathon Stuart shares this opinion.”
“A conspiracy is born,” Rudy said. He watched Lauren sample the chili.
“Almost. Conceived, at least,” Carlos said.
Lauren took a long drink of her iced tea, which Rudy had left free of whiskey. She added four crackers to the chili in hopes of diluting any possible spicy fire brewing in the bowl. “I think I made a mistake with Miles this morning,” she said lowly, estimating Carlos’ response. “He asked me out for dinner tonight, but I told him I had plans. He assumed they were with Captain Maruso, and I let him think so.”
Rudy shrugged. “We’ll just say he canceled.”
Carlos shook his head slowly. “It won’t look right, not after waiting for Lauren to come up. Well, I can get along without you tonight,” he said to her. “It’ll give you two a chance to get your stories straight.”
She swallowed her second bite of the spicy chili. “I wish you’d told me about that part, Carlos.”
“I’ve been meaning to put that straight.” He cleared his throat. “You have the samples ready for . . . ? Who is it now heading the lab? Gallop? I want the lab results as soon as possible. And I have a letter for Stends, when you’re finished eating. No, don’t hurry, dear.”
She took a deep breath to calm the heat flaming up her throat after her third bite. “I’m finished.”
“Too hot?” Rudy asked.
“A little.”
She retrieved her notebook from her room upstairs and took Carlos’ letter to the museum’s director. After she finished typing it up on her portable, she prepared the samples.
The leather cover of the journal demanded careful attention, and she made sure she took a small, inconsequential patch off the back, carefully clipping the material that was frayed and delicate. Of the pages she snipped a half inch square that bore several letters of the black ink. She made a note of what page the sample had come from and the exact characters on it. Carlos had already translated that particular passage, so she knew it wouldn’t interfere with his work.
She quickly detailed a letter to Hines Gallop, the museum’s new head lab technician, and put all these in her purse. It wouldn’t do to be seen tonight carrying a questionable parcel. If Clemens was meddlesome enough to send Miles over under the pretenses he had, it wouldn’t be out of line to believe the lighthouse was under surveillance.
By the time Maruso arrived that evening, Lauren had caught up on Carlos’ notes and made some of her own on research and more books she needed. The first ten pages of the diary were slow, explaining the daily routine of the admiral’s life on the Lady Grey, and his view of it. There were numerous mentions of Jonathon Stuart, the Royal British Engineer also aboard. He was of the same mind as Claude Brielle, but no partnership had yet been formed.
The Second Wind left the small dock that evening for the nearby mainland. Lauren was unsettled at the thought of being watched, wondering if the island’s centuries of secrets and paranoia could be contagious. As the sun headed inland, she took a covert peek at the slope leading to the dock. A few trees broke the darkening horizon, but nothing else looked even vaguely human in form.
Maruso watched her eyes move over the land. “He’s there.”
“You know who?” She pulled her thin jacket tighter.
“No, but I’m sure someone is. Probably Miles. Lucy may have someone watching, too.” He motioned for her to come away from the rail as he kept one hand on the wheel. “Are you cold?”
“Just a chill. Summer goes down with the sun out here.”
“Inland it stays warmer longer.” He turned the Second Wind south. “It’ll get humid and warmer, but it’s always colder seaside of the bay.”
She looked around at the small wheelhouse. There were a few bench seats and the usual equipment and instruments for navigation. “I’m sorry to change your plans for tonight. This whole charade thing kind of threw me.” She sat down across from where he stood at the wheel and watched the mainland lights.
“I don’t mind. Besides, it’ll get you out of one of Rudy’s hot dinners.”
“We had chili for lunch.”
He laughed. “He must be trying to impress you.”
“It made an impression.” In the distance she could see the thin fog rolling in from the sea. The Oak Island beacon blinked on. She took a deep breath and sighed. “So, how do we go about this? Do we set up a schedule, or what? We can’t go out for dinner every night.”
“Actually, this is a good time for you and Carlos to come up,” he told her. “The pit’s anniversary isn’t the only event going on this summer. There’s the Cabot Pageant in Cape North next week, and Canada Day the week after. Halifax hosts the International Tattoo next month, and there’s the Acadian Festival in Claire, too. There are a lot of Scottish and Indian events coming up, and if you’re still around this fall we’ll go to the Oktoberfest in—”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What kind of a timeframe did Rudy give you?”
“I’m hired for one month, with an unchallenged bid on another sixty days.” He studied her, reading the slightly fuming purse of her lips. “I thought Carlos told you that much.”
“He didn’t.” She frowned more. “I can’t call you Maruso or captain. This is going to be awkward enough, so just tell me what I should call you.”
“Lewis.”
She returned his slow smile. “As long as we’re being frank about this, I have a few questions.”
The restaurant Maruso picked wasn’t large or lavish and suggested a family atmosphere more than intimacy. Although the Cabot Pageant was in Cape North, its influences had trickled down to the small town of Giselle in the form of pewter John Cabot statuettes and other commemorative memorabilia.
Nor was the pageant the only excuse for the festive decoration. Tasseled bagpipes, plaid banners, and Scottish clan devices hung off the restaurant walls and ceiling beams. Thousands of military and civilian performers gathered for the Nova Scotia International Tattoo in Halifax, and it was only the first of many such holidays.
Over the meal, Lauren and Maruso traded information that they deemed necessary for their faux romance. She told him she was in her third year at Penn State, and beginning in her second year, she'd taken a collection of class subjects Carlos Sheldon decided would in turn make a needful assistant. It worked well with her natural interest in history and museum work, something that put her in a small group of contenders for a limited scholarship the Carnegie sponsored. She was one of three other students who worked as a temporary assistant and, after a glass of wine, admitted she dearly wanted to spend her working life at the museum.
She learned Maruso made his living shuffling fishermen and tourists around the seaward coast and worked on the docks during the slower seasons. She thought it a rather unstable livelihood until he told her it was quite organized, complete with a local union and guidelines that regulated fees and charters. The only significant alteration he made in being retained for the museum was in dropping a fulltime first mate on the Second Wind. By law he’d have to assign one for excursions out of the bay, but he was trying to take as few fares as possible out of the bay for the month.
“But your museum’s fee offsets any missed fares,” he said, chuckling as they waded through what was becoming a less awkward dinner.
She nodded, watching him finish the German chocolate cake they’d split between them; not romantically—the piece of dessert was enormous.
He swallowed quickly, returning her stare. “Something wrong?” He nodded, seeing her hesitation at answering. “You think I’m too old for you.”
She shook her head swiftly. “Well, no, but . . .”
“I can keep my mouth shut about my jobs,” he said, sitting back, resting one shoe beside her sandal beneath the table at the pedestal base. “That was Rudy’s primary qualification.”
“No, I don’t think . . . you’re too old.” She refolded her napkin beside her plate.
“Got a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “I'm kind of in-between right now.”
His gaze dropped to her camisole where the collar was trimmed with beaded embroidery. “Then it’s not a problem, right?” He grinned hopefully.
She smiled back. “Not a problem.”
Later that night Lauren paused as she pulled down the frayed shade in her room in the lighthouse cottage. She watched the Jeep lights drive the short distance to where the Second Wind was docked at the shore. They weren’t using the lighthouse dock because it was off-limits to the public and a boat the size of Maruso’s would only invite others.
She frowned, realizing the lights weren’t that of Rudy’s Jeep. They were heading towards the Clemens’ operation.
Maruso was right, she thought. Once on the island, everyone thought everyone else was suspect. She pulled the shade down completely. Of course, there could be other traffic out that night. Surely she and Maruso weren’t the only ones out, and the road to the causeway was in that general direction.
She undressed quickly. Maruso seemed convinced Clemens and Yearbright would have people watching Rudy’s place, and the captain knew the islanders better than she did. Rudy and Carlos must think so, too, or there would be no need to concoct a story about them.
She turned from the window, satisfied the shade was pulled as far down as possible, and gathered Carlos’ notes. She got comfortable on the bed and sighed. She desperately hoped the expedition was not going to take all summer. Not with this masquerade.
The phone call at the quiet drilling site didn’t come until late. Lucy Yearbright took it immediately. She closed the office shack door to the chill night air and held the phone to her ear.
“Yes. As soon as possible,” she said to the caller, putting a hand on her hip, making her blocky form somewhat shapely. For a long moment she listened, shaking her head and frowning, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a short ponytail beneath her hardhat. In all the years she’d heard every kind of news possible about the pit, her equipment, and breakthroughs, she’d learned to keep her expression to herself. “I’d like it before that.”
She finally nodded, sighing, allowing a bit of resignation to show through. “Ten days will have to do.”
She hung up and looked to her drilling operation’s head engineer across the table in the shack office.
He knew her expressions and her lack of emotion, learned to read Lucy Yearbright where others saw nothing on her face.
A wry smile broke across her lips. “We got it.”
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