LAST ASSAULT ON OAK ISLAND 7
Chapter 7
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In desperation, Lauren settled in front of one of the computer terminals near the reference desk—no outside laptops allowed, only leaving only library models—and looked through the microfiche archive index. The words "Money Pit" brought up a list of names and dates from Daniel McGinnis in 1795 to the current Yearbright and Clemens operations. She started with the first dozen, scribbling notes and frowning, then moved to the second set.
"I thought you weren't using the direct approach," Maruso said as he claimed the chair beside her.
She sighed, accepting the coffee he had smuggled in. "Thanks. I know Carlos said it would be futile to use anything already written specifically on the pit," she said, "but we haven't studied all the operations. It won't hurt to look."
"Those are old newspaper clippings. Sunday editions," he added, nodding to the screen. "It's all going to be public knowledge. There won't be anything about Brielle by name."
"No." She sat back, dejected. "I can't get anywhere on this one. Anything pertinent will have to come from the Brielle or Edwards estates." She frowned at the monitor. "1850. Yet another operation." She flipped to other editions of the old papers. "This guy Newport wrote a lot on the pit in 1973 and '74. There must be a dozen articles by him."
"Here." Maruso pointed to the slug at the top of several of the articles. "'Back in the Money Pit Again'. I remember him."
She gave him a longer study. "You remember him? From 1974?"
He gave her a half-annoyed look and pulled his chair closer to the terminal. "I was in grammar school and we read newspaper articles in class. Newport used to keep a running update on the operations working Oak Island. When nothing new was happening, he'd rehash earlier digs, like the one in 1850. I've seen his name on a couple other papers, too." He looked from the screen to Lauren. "I think he's with a Halifax paper now."
"Quite a leap from the Giselle Crier," she admitted. "I hope his style is under rein now. Look at this: 'In 1850, renowned treasure hunter Brian Masters was a studious man. He was not easily dissuaded by a tough job or negative public opinion. He tackled the ever elusive Money Pit and declared he would not rest until unearthing its priceless secret.'
"Very purple, especially for a quote at least a hundred years old." She laughed, reading on silently, then aloud. "'Masters wrote that the pod auger hit wood, dropped through a foot of empty space, rattled through eighteen inches of loose metal, continued through wood again, another foot of space, more loose metal, and wood again before finally halting in dirt. The find of the century is at hand.'"
"He probably wrote that line every week," he told her. He leaned back in his chair, watching her frown.
"No, those were Masters' words, according to Newport." She enlarged the screen to emphasize the photo of what was supposed to be broken chain links found in the Masters operation. "Well, that picture certainly wasn't taken in 1850."
"It's from the Smith Cove Archives, a small traveling exhibit that springs up at some of the museums in the summer," he explained. "It's been in about every book and article written on the pit."
She flicked to the next Sunday paper. "It just ends there. Why isn't there anything more on Masters? Oh, here." She skimmed the article Newport had written a month later. "It says the Masters operation pulled out in August of 1850. The other article was dated July of that year."
Maruso leaned closer to the screen. "It says his funding dried up. That's the most common reason digs quit. His backers probably couldn't continue feeding a dead horse."
Lauren was puzzled, unsatisfied with the answer. "But he had just made a discovery."
"Not really. The 1803 Reeves operation hit something at the same level," he recalled. He leaned over and flipping through her copies for a moment before selecting one. "Here. 'At ninety-three feet a crowbar was extended, which hit a wooden cache at ninety-eight feet. Work was halted, as night was upon us. We resumed our position the next morning to find the shaft had filled with sixty feet of water.' That was what the Reeves operation found almost fifty years before Masters got there."
She considered this. "But Masters plowed through wood, metal in pieces, more wood, empty space. Think of that arrangement, Lewis. Sounds like a chest to me. Maybe two chests. Stacked."
"It's supposed to sound like that," he said with a shrug. "Maybe he didn't drill through anything at all. He already knew what Reeves' crew had found at ninety-eight feet. I bet that was a last ditch effort to try getting more funding. He wanted to look like he was on the verge of discovery—buy himself a couple more months."
"Then it should have worked. It convinced everyone else."
He nodded, settling back in his chair. "But his financiers would want tangible proof. Something they could wrap their fingers around, and not a few links of chain."
Lauren focused beyond the screen. "You're right." Another thought occurred to her. "Maybe they did find it. He packed up in August because he already had it."
He was skeptical. "No one could keep their mouth shut about something like that, even if he told only a handful. He'd need help getting the damn thing out. An engineer or a couple workers, at least. And why would he keep it a secret? The recovery was just as important as the fortune itself. It was some treasure hunt, even after just fifty years."
She looked pensively back at the computer.
He leaned forward. "It's not a new idea, Lauren. One of the previous island's owner's daughters claimed she remembered a ship coming to the island at night and rolling out barrels to South Shore Cove. Another story says one of the original three discoverers did recover a chest and quietly left the province.
"In fact," he added, picking out another of the copies, "one operation from Halifax was investigated in 1868. A rumor went around that the company removed the treasure, but kept quiet to avoid paying royalties to the government. Canada wasn't a dominion until 1867, and before that any treasure or money found by treasure hunters had to be turned over to Queen Victoria. The crown assigned Treasure Trove Rights to the individual provinces after 1867. Even that kept a lot of hunters off the island because the agreement was non-committal on what percentage the government could keep. It translated as the first $50,000 plus two percent of anything else. Since 1950 the royalty has increased to ten percent."
"Miles was saying something about those rights," she murmured, thinking back. She took a deep breath. "Apart from that, why would anyone keep quiet? Maybe Masters already had a buyer for it."
Maruso wasn't convinced. "I don't know much about art collectors and all, but it seems unlikely that something like that—like the Holy Grail or Shakespeare's original manuscripts—would eventually surface on the black market. Carlos would have heard something about it."
She smiled lopsidedly. "The Holy Grail and Shakespeare's drafts have quite a different following."
"It was a metaphor."
She nodded. "I know. But maybe . . . Oh, I don't know." She lowered her voice when the librarian glanced her way. She studied the newspaper article on the screen. "Last week Carlos and I were at Smith's Cove and he remarked how the treasure couldn't have been buried in the pit; it would've been found by now."
He nodded slowly. "Or washed out to sea when the pit collapsed in 1861."
"Well, yes, but Carlos had the idea that it was designed to lead hunters away from the real treasure, which would be buried somewhere else."
His interest piqued. "Like the Swiss bank idea?"
"That could be one way to do it," she said, recalling more of what Miles had told her. "Even pirates did that; it wouldn't be very complicated."
"Don't tell me Miles convinced you of the pirate theory." He chuckled, shaking head. "So is it Blackbeard or Captain Kidd this week?"
"The pit is too well-structured to be the work of seventeenth century pirates, Lewis," she told him dryly. "I'm not saying I think pirates did it. But Swiss banks have been found in Haiti and Madagascar."
"By unconfirmed sources."
"I'm just saying there could have been a detour tunnel of some kind within the main pit," she mused, "or it could have been buried elsewhere."
"If it is Brielle's work," he said with a sigh, "perhaps he was afraid someone would come back and get it before he could. Maybe the mainland was aware of the activity on the island. Maybe he had trouble explaining the operation." He gestured to the screen. "Something like that might not make it to the papers. There were bigger things to report. Like the war, and French squalls."
Lauren agreed, sifting bemusedly through other articles on the topic. Photos of pit artifacts paused briefly on the monitor before she went to the next image. Most she had seen numerous times in books earlier that morning: a heart-shaped stone similar to ones found in pirate banks in Haiti, Spanish-style scissors, aged coconut fiber, planed wood dating from the eighteenth century, reconstructed drawings of the drain, and the cofferdam in Smith's Cove.
She wasn't aware of Maruso's eyes on her as she pondered the newspaper photos until he spoke.
"Do you do this often?"
She glanced at him, knowing he wasn't referring to the research or representing the museum. "Play Carlos' daughter?"
"Not exactly. What—"
"You meant was do I go far out of my way to get information for Carlos," she finished with distaste. "With Miles."
"I wouldn't have put it that way," he said lowly, shrugging one shoulder, looking guilty at her insulted tone.
"The answer is still no," she told him pointedly. "Carlos wouldn't ask me to make that compromise. Or any other type. In fact, he's never arranged a situation like this one before."
"I don't think sleeping with Miles would result in any leads anyway. Don't be offended," he said levelly, leaning closer to her chair as the librarian looked their way again. "I'm not making moral judgments. I just wanted to know how eager you are."
Lauren stood up abruptly and collected her copies and notes. She crossed the library floor swiftly.
Too swift, in fact, for Maruso to stop her.
"Wait," he said, catching her arm when he was within reach. He took her paperwork, which she relinquished reluctantly, and ushered her as gentlemanly as he could under the librarian's watchful eye. "I'm just saying it'd be tempting to use methods other than your mental faculties to get Carlos' job."
His hand tightened on her arm when she stiffened. "Now listen, Captain," she bit lowly, "I am—"
"I'm not suggesting that you've done anything other than research, Lauren."
"That's not how it sounded." She admitted a brief smile to the circulation clerk as they paused.
"I'm sure it didn't."
She moved on, heading for the double doors to the sidewalk outside.
"Hold it a minute," he said firmly as they exited the building.
She halted and looked at him expectantly.
"I'm sorry that came out the way it did," he said, louder now. "But it would be easy to use unorthodox means—"
"Some jobs are different," she said quietly. "Some you can't sleep your way to the top from where I stand and it's not in my options to try it. Promiscuity wouldn't necessarily result in a good assistant." She had added the last sentence with more bitterness than she planned.
Maruso noticed it, too. He shifted the papers to his other arm. "What else are you sore about?" They moved down the sidewalk in the late afternoon sun.
"You." Lauren sighed, not closing her eyes, but wishing she could, just for a few seconds to gather herself. Keeping up the charade every time they were in public was giving her identity whiplash. "I'm mad at Carlos for not telling me about you and this stupid pretense. He knew about it before we even left."
"Does he know you're mad?"
"Oh, yes. We already talked it out."
"Did he give you the option to leave?"
"Of course. I'd never let Beth take this one away," she said under her breath as they reached a corner and took the sidewalk around the back of the library. "It's a little late to back out. Nothing personal, Lewis, but between the surprise of that and lying all the time to Miles. . ." She shook her head. "It's driving me a little crazy."
"Miles giving you a hard time?"
"No. He's pushy because Saul is putting him up to this, but Carlos said I won't have to be as," she paused, shrugging, "chummy."
"Good. It doesn't look right anyway." Maruso offered her his arm, nudging her side with his elbow when she only stared at it. "May as well do this right."
"You said no one would see us here." She looped her arm under his.
"They won't." He grinned more, getting a look of relief from her. "Now, put on a smile and we'll find some dinner."
The day passed into evening with a casual dinner at a place serving American cuisine—something Lauren found amusing—and then she and Maruso were off to the modest accommodations at a small inn. They went their separate ways there for a while, she to her room and he to his.
The neighboring rooms proved a good arrangement until Lauren had a long shower and had pampered herself until she'd run out of the toiletries that came with the accommodations. She spent an hour trying to go through more notes from the library, but by that time all she could see was pirate flags and line drawings of boreholes and dozens of maps from over the centuries crowding her vision.
She made a phone call to Carlos, covertly detailing what she could from what they'd learned through their research—which was nil—and then hung up, wondering mildly if Rudy's line was tapped. She doubted it.
She lay down on the full-size bed and closed her eyes, her hair still damp and her mind buzzing with facts. For a moment she heard nothing, which she enjoyed, and then a muted cheer went up from the next room over. She sat up, suddenly feeling more alone than she knew she should.
Dinner wasn't settling right in her stomach and she knew why.
Minutes later she was dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of capris and was knocking on Maruso's door. Nothing like a serving of crow to ease down remorse and chagrin, she knew.
He opened the door, wearing a t-shirt that was emblazoned with an irritated-looking Indian brave in reds and blacks. He grinned. "Too loud?"
"Uh, no. . ." She sighed. "I'm sorry about being miffed earlier."
"Hey, our first fight." He opened the door wider. "Maybe that's why we broke up before, you think?"
She laughed a little, not stepping in despite his welcoming grin. "No, the TV isn't too loud."
He stepped back more. "You like hockey?"
She looked to the game playing on the television inside the room. "Not really. You're a fan?"
He gave her a knowing look. "Canada, eh?"
She looked back to the game on the set. "Yeah, stupid question, I know."
"It's an old game, from the eighties. Come on in." She stepped in and he closed the door behind her.
She watched the players on the TV for a moment. "Who's playing?"
"The Soviets and the United States, the 1980 Olympics." He saw no reaction from her. "It's a classic, Lauren. The Miracle on Ice."
She tried to nod as if she understood, but couldn't quite do so convincingly.
"Come on," he said. "Get comfortable and I'll tell you about it."
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