The second draft came out to 532 pages ... forgive the flaws; here's the prologue and Chapter 1.
PROLOGUE
Friday October 23, 1891
Phoenix, Arizona Territory
The old man had not moved in two days.
Except for the feeble, barely discernible rise and fall of his chest, he appeared to have been dead for some time. Whatever color that had once pasted his cheeks was gone, replaced with a gray miner’s pallor of ash and stone. His arms and legs resembled sticks jutting from the sheets and his hands appeared gnarled into claws, intent upon digging his own grave.
The unheated room was dingy, sour with the stench of sweat and unwashed clothes. The window shades were pulled and although the sun would rise for in another three hours, the woman doubted whether he would live long enough to see it.
The old man had lived in this room since spring, when he had been discovered clinging to a tree near his one room hut beside the Salt River after the worst storms she could remember caused the stream to overflow its banks. The swollen, fast moving current had trapped him there for almost five days, before she thought to dispatch her son to accompany the Sheriff and bring the old man back to town. Since then he seemed to have regained some of his strength, but now she felt certain the pneumonia had returned because his condition seemed to deteriorate with each passing day.
He lay on his back with his eyes glued to a dark spot on the ceiling. The woman standing beside him wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cloth and watched his chest to see if it moved. Her face was oddly impassive. She knew next to nothing about him, only that he was German, and that prior to moving to Phoenix he was a prospector, and that he called himself Jacob.
She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer that death would take him soon.
Jacob was a queer one, even among the hordes of drifters and scoundrels who seasonally teemed through Phoenix. Men who’d fled their families and children back east on their way to riches and fortunes, itinerants and ne’er-do-wells who made and spent fortunes with equal indifference; they were hard-drinking, hard-living men who seemed out of place everywhere, men with visions lost in time as the twin devils of railroads and barbed wire fences closed the last frontiers, and carpeted the American frontier with civilization. They came West with dreams of prospecting for silver and gold, and almost all stumbled down from the mountains broken and disillusioned.
The old man suddenly stirred and gasped.
The woman, whose name was Julia Thomas, took a step back and clutched a hand to her heart. His eyelids blinked furiously, struggling to bring the room into focus. His breath rattled between his parched lips, and a single word resonated from his throat.
“Gold.”
Julia loosened the sheet covering the old prospector’s chest. “Jacob, what did you say?”
“My gold. Where is the gold?”
She laid her hand across his forehead, puzzled because the old man’s temperature seemed normal. He clearly was suffering from fever, and yet ...
“Try to lay still, Jacob. There’s no need ...”
The old man pushed her hand away and struggled to push himself up.
“Under the bed,” he hissed. “In the candle box.”
She wanted to ignore him, to wait for a moment until his delusion passed and death came to claim him. But what was he trying to tell her?
The fear in the old man’s face swelled to anger.
“Look under the bed!”
Julia sighed and wiped the perspiration from her face with a fresh cloth.
“Very well. But there’s no point getting yourself riled up when you need your rest.”
She bent beside the bed on one knee, lifted the cover, and thrust her hand underneath. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the fear that a mouse, or more likely a rat, waited in the darkness to bite a chunk of flesh from her fingers. She tried not to think about that, and decided that if she humored him, maybe the old German would fall back asleep for good and she would be done with him forever.
On the other hand, maybe she would find a small cache of gold powder or nuggets under the bed: the old man certainly lived frugally enough, yet he always had cash on hand whenever a friend seemed to need it. Even an ounce or two of gold would help defray the cost of his burial; so far as anyone knew, the old man had no wife or family to claim his body, and she was reluctant to handle the funeral arrangements for a charity case. And a foreigner at that.
Her fingers touched the rusted edges of a metal container. About the size of a breadbox, the top was covered with a thick layer of dust and grime. She needed both hands to pull the box from under the bed and she struggled lifting it to the night stand. The box was heavy, and her back sagged with the effort.
The old man’s face showed sudden relief as soon as he saw the box. He gestured with his hand and sighed.
“Open it.”
Julia shrugged and pried the box open with her thumbs. As her eyes focused in the dim light an unconscious gasp rushed from her throat. She touched her hand to the object and ran her finger over its coarse surface. Gold. A single nugget more than twice the side of a ladies’ shoe.
“Go on. I want you to have it.”
“But is it ...?”
He nodded and his whiskers settled like straw on his chest.
“That’s all that’s left.”
Julia trembled as she picked up the nugget. The rock was heavy, much heavier than she expected. At least twenty, maybe as much as thirty pounds. The yellow metal flowed in veins thicker than her wrists through the glowing white quartz. She jumped as the old man’s hand clamped down on her wrist.
“But there’s more,” he gasped. “More than fifty ... more than a thousand wagons could carry.”
“Where, Jacob? Where’s the rest of your gold?”
The bedroom door swung open and Julia’s stepson stepped through the threshold. Julia pushed the nugget back into the box and clamped the lid down tight.
“What’s wrong with the Dutchman?”
“Close the door!” She motioned the boy to join her beside the bed.
From her apron she produced a nub of pencil and a stained fragment of foolscap, which she thrust into her stepson’s hand. Her eyes glared as she mouthed the words, “Write it down.” She sat on the bed and pushed her fingers through the old man’s greasy hair.
“Now Mr. Waltz,” she began sweetly, “you go ahead and tell me where we can find the rest of your gold.”
Chapter 1
Lake Hartwell, South Carolina
The twenty-six foot wood cabin cruiser rolled gently on the lake’s glassy surface. Steve Case glanced over his shoulder at the nearest shore, more than a mile from where they were anchored, before hoisting the scuba tank onto his back and tightening the straps across his chest and waist. He kept an eye out for any traffic that might be headed in their direction and seeing they had this portion of the lake to themselves, he turned to the two men standing near the transom and watched as they struggled with their tanks.
“The water’s not that deep, but there’s not much visibility near the bottom. I want both of you to stay close and be aware of your surroundings. Even experienced divers have drowned from getting tangled in rotting branches and limbs.”
The taller man grunted and fingered the diving knife on his belt.
“That’s the third time you’ve told us. We hired you to be a guide, not our nurse.” He slipped the knife into its sheath and flexed the fingers on his right hand before curling them into a fist. Case sat on the transom and pulled on his fins.
“Well, I told you the rules before we left the dock. We’ll be breaking the law as soon as we go over the side, so I can turn around right now if there’s any problem deciding who’s in charge.”
The older, more slightly built man shrugged.
“All Calvin’s saying is that we’re not amateurs. Between us, we have more than twenty years of diving experience.” His voice was calm and reassuring, but the condescending tone put Case on edge.
“And besides not getting arrested, I want to make sure you each get twenty more.” Case checked his regulator and turned the valve to adjust the air flow.
The two men had arrived at his dock just before noon, eager to book a one-hour dive at the submerged Friendship town site. Neither man had a diving license but they paid cash up front, all in fresh twenties and fifties. Business was slack during the late summer, and Case welcomed the unexpected windfall despite what the men had asked him to do. He nonetheless booked the dive as a lesson to at least keep the paperwork legal, and fitted each man with tanks and gear. The older man had taken charge of the transaction, and signed an illegible scrawl on the receipt.
Al stood slowly with the cumbersome weight and checked his watch. “How much time will we have on the bottom?”
“If we maintain a fifteen minute reserve, we’ll have at least thirty minutes on the bottom.”
Calvin shot a glance at Al. “We paid for a full hour.”
“Your hour started as soon as we left the dock. We’re already taking enough chances as it is, and if we stay anchored here more than thirty minutes, someone’s liable to notice the boat and start getting suspicious.”
Al checked the beam on his diving light and glanced across the gunwale at the surface. “Thirty minutes will be plenty. All we need is a quick look at the site.”
Case lowered his mask and adjusted the fit to his face. He gave a thumbs-up, gripped the mask, and slipped over the side. Ten feet below the surface his descent stabilized, and he floated motionlessly in the boat’s quivering shadow as the two clients appeared beside him.
Case waited as the bubbles cleared and each diver adjusted his buoyancy vest. Both men returned his thumbs-up and then he pointed at the bottom. The pressure against his eardrums intensified almost immediately and he swallowed as hard as he could to relieve the strain as he swam to the bottom.
Twenty feet below the lake’s surface, the muddy clay bottom roiled as the three divers kicked ahead into the blackness. Their powerful handheld lights reached only a few yards into the swirling silt before fading into the inky, unsettled murk.
Case checked the compass attached to his wrist. Not much current on the lake bottom, but even the slightest drift could push them off course, and with the least deviation they might overshoot their target. He calculated their objective was only a dozen or so meters ahead, and motioned the two other divers to stay close behind.
The two men nodded and followed single file. Case switched the light to his left hand and casually played it along the bottom. Not much to see here, just the occasional beer can, an old tennis shoe, the rusted shell of a barbecue grill, and the ubiquitous stumps and tree limbs that could tangle and snarl a diver’s gear before he had the slightest hint of danger.
He exhaled and watched the silver column of bubbles surge to the surface. Escaping toward the light. The bubbles fluttered and disappeared overhead. He had accompanied student divers who could never adjust to the foreign sensations and the unnatural dependence on compressed air. Other first-timers found the experience claustrophobic, but Case found each dive exhilarating, and as natural as walking upright.
Then his beam struck a broken stone wall. His pulse quickened and he swam ahead with quick easy strokes, swinging the light back and forth across the forgotten site. A rotting door. A wagon wheel. A barely recognizable combine. Rotted boards and planks lay strewn across the silt as if deposited there by a giant hand.
In 1962 the Army Corps of Engineers had flooded the northeastern Georgia low-country along the Savannah River to create a lake for a new hydroelectric dam. A few private farm houses were jacked onto trucks and relocated before the flood gates opened, but most properties were judged too unstable or impractical for relocation, and were left to drown beneath the surge of the new reservoir.
Not much interest remained in the lost community following its disappearance. Even now, only an occasional sport diver expressed much desire to explore the scattered foundations, junked automobiles, and structural debris littering the lake bottom. In another decade corrosion and silt would reclaim all that remained, but the Corps maintained a strict policy requiring an application and an expensive permit before divers were allowed near the site. This policy had been put into effect to prevent souvenir hunters from vandalizing the historic location, and violations were considered a Federal offense with prison time often resulting for offenders caught with artifacts in their possession.
Al had claimed his ancestors lived near the site late in the late 19th century, and with a day off between appointments during a business trip to the upstate, this was his lucky opportunity to visit a lost part of his heritage. Not that Al’s interest in the submerged community mattered much to Case: he had collected his fee before leaving the dock. What mattered was guaranteeing that the next thirty minutes under the surface passed without detection from a passing Wildlife patrol.
A disembodied thunk echoed into his diving mask. Steve whirled around and froze.
His clients had vanished behind him, absorbed within the swirling layers of sand and silt. He held his breath and listened but there was only the sound of air bubbles escaping from his regulator. Ca-thunk.
Louder this time. About twenty yards to his left.
Steve swung his light back and forth in the sound’s direction. Nothing. Silt and suspended organic particles obscured his vision and prevented him from seeing more than a few yards ahead. Then the sound became steady, rhythmic and deliberate.
He swam ahead and spotted a faint beam of light arcing through the murk. As he swam to the light his beam revealed tombstones canted at odd angles along the bottom. Somewhere off to his right stood the stone walls of an old Baptist church dating from the 1850s.
Forty years ago, when no one claimed forgotten friends or relatives, the Corps of Engineers allowed the graves to remain undisturbed where they lay. Over the years, he had heard rumors that more than two hundred bodies remained interred in the lake bottom.
The tap tap tap became louder, and more distinct.
Then his light struck Al’s bent-over form, reclined at an odd angle on the bottom. Calvin was crouched protectively beside him. Calvin noticed the beam from Case’s light and suddenly jerked upright. Al tugged Calvin’s arm, and both men exchanged glances and waved Case close.
As he approached Steve saw the two men hovering beside an algae-stained tombstone. Neither man seemed injured or in distress, and then his light caught a flash of steel from the claw-shaped pick in Calvin’s hand. Case gestured “What’s up?” just as Al whirled around with his diving knife cocked in the striking position.
Case grabbed Calvin’s wrist with both hands but the serrated blade was already a blur of motion. The knife whipped past his chin, passing just inches from his throat. The next attack glanced off his mask and severed his air hose as Case turned to avoid the stroke.
Instinctively Case lunged at the other man’s mask, but Calvin was stronger, and had anticipated the move. He twisted Case’s wrist and punched his chest with the blunt hilt of his knife.
The air rushed from his lungs in a painful burst. Case kicked toward the surface, simultaneously fumbling with the emergency valve on his buoyancy vest. But Calvin slashed the bladders before the vest fully inflated, and a vise-like grip seized Case’s ankle as he tried swimming away.
Case struggled to release and free himself from his harness, but the effort foolishly wasted what little air remained in his lungs. He gasped and choked as water surged down his throat. Glowing white orbs scorched and burned the edges of his vision. The bigger man’s bulk was dragging him down, away from the oxygen his body desperately craved.
The spotlight slipped free from Case’s wrist. He watched with idle detachment as the light corkscrewed out of sight to the bottom. He was drowning, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Then the world around him dimmed, and his muscles twitched and relaxed involuntarily as he began helplessly sinking into the depths.
