24
Oak Island
Jacky ducked low, pressing himself into the sand, avoiding the guards’ torches. There was a grin on his face that belied his beautiful looks. This was the kind of face expressed by a man enjoying the touches of a woman. Jacky found skulduggery in the night much more arousing than sex, however. The thought of sneaking up on a man who has a gun was much more appealing than the thought of a woman seducing him. In that respect, one might almost think his beauty was wasted on him.
He had dressed in Lycra jogging bottoms and a tight black T-shirt and training shoes with thick black socks. Tonight’s action was all about comfort and ease of movement, not appearance. He wasn’t planning to be seen, anyhow. The final piece of equipment was an item that he wrapped in a plastic bag so it wouldn’t get wet.
After leaving the hotel, Jacky had gone to the Marina to hire, borrow, or even better steal, a boat. He had come across the perfect thing for stealth, a Rover 280RIB, a Rigid Inflatable Boat. He had piloted this sort once before during a boating holiday in Colorado. Medium V fibreglass hull and transom with moulded anti-skid fibreglass deck. Problem was, he would have to row it because it would kill his mission instantly if the outboard motor was heard echoing across the water by the guards on Oak Island.
If he had wanted, a quick call to Marcellus would have accorded him the permission to take a stroll around Oak Island, but that would have taken the fun out of it.
The boat had been tied to a pier support post. Dropping into the water, he had played with the tight rolling hitch knot around the post, easily defeating it. It seem that the same gods who had made that part so easy didn’t want him to lose too much energy, for they had provided him with a pair of oars in the boat. He had scooped them up and begun rowing out of the Marina.
He kept a good distance from the causeway to the island, correctly judging that it would be guarded. The man who patrolled it occasionally swept the beam of his torch out across the water, but this was only to relieve the boredom and not because he’d heard Jacky splashing away with the oars.
He had hauled the boat onto the beach, the very same one that had divulged the ingenious drainage system that filled the Money Pit with water, and thrown shrubbery atop it to conceal it. That had been when the two guards had appeared on the crest of the beach, aiming their torches down in his direction, forcing him to dive into the sand and outwait them, for they were only routinely checking the shoreline.
Once they had gone, Jacky got up and brushed off most of the sand. He sensed something behind him and turned. A large yacht was passing by. He could see people dancing on the deck and could hear faint music. A boat party. Perhaps that was what had attracted the guards; just making sure none of the partiers decided to trespass.
He ran up the beach, ducked low and peered over the crest. The guards’ backs were to him as they walked away, laughing and joking.
Because the past two centuries had seen incessant and violent action around this part of Oak Island, the land was half-dead for flora. To the left and right, and far ahead on the other side of the island, there were thick expanses of oak trees, which of course was where the name came from. But ahead the land was bumpy, grassy and rocky and mostly barren. After the crest of the beach it dipped, then rose again to a maximum height of 33ft. Jacky found it hard going to follow the guards without cover of trees, but follow he did, keeping low to the ground and freezing every time there was a pause in their conversation. He couldn’t actually see them, just the light from wavering torchess, which thankfully never once came in his direction.
A shrill horn and a raucous cheer from off to the left, almost inaudible due to the distance, sent the guards running in that direction. Old Smith Cove was that way; perhaps the people on the boat had come ashore to continue their party. If so, that was good, for it would keep the guards out of his way.
The area around the Money Pit was bathed in bright white light from the spotlights lining the eaves of the thirteen huts that composed the complex. This was the first time he’d taken a proper look at this part of the island. Given the Money Pit’s fame - or infamy - one would have expected something a little more romantic, more practical and more business-like. It just looked like any typical dig area he’d ever been at.
Washed by light, Becker was plodding around the area, scratching his head, reading from a notebook. Perfect, Jacky thought. The item in his rucksack he’d brought in the hope of playing a kind of joke on that very man. It had just been a funny idea, but now it seemed he could play it out. Might as well. For a laugh.
Becker was alone out here, which made it easy for Jacky to creep around. Every time Becker's back was turned, Jacky darted across the land and ducked behind a fence or a knoll. At one point while he was running towards the Heddon shaft, Becker tripped slightly and turned to see what had caught his foot. Instinctively, Jacky jumped, diving over a low wooden fence, hitting the sloping, rough grass hard, tumbling over, rolling, out of control, his breath caught in his throat as he waited for darkness to overcome him, for the ground to disappear, and for his screams to echo as he tumbled down the large shaft, breaking bones against the hard walls until his body smashed many feet below. But he came to a stop a good five feet from the triangular entrance of the shaft.
He lay there, staring at the gaping black hole, listening, waiting for Becker’s shout, for his face to peer down from over the fence. But nothing happened. Jacky peered over the fence and saw Becker making his way up the curving path towards Borehole 10-X, having heard and seen nothing.
Quickly Jacky was up, climbing the hill, climbing over the fence, running up the path towards the largest hut in the complex and the one behind which was Borehole 10-X. He pressed himself against the hut wall, knowing that he was hidden because the lights above would sting the eyes of anyone who looked towards him.
Hugging the wall, he moved around the hut until he was at the side that faced Borehole 10-X, and Lucy.
Becker was knelt by Lucy, studying a series of graphs that had been compiled by the Golder Association for Triton Alliance years earlier. Never made public, the reports composed by the Toronto firm of geologists showed that there were indeed secret chambers far below the topsoil of Oak Island, any one of which could contain treasure. They had also suggested that the frailty of the land meant excavating these chambers was nearly impossible, for all the same reasons that previous attempts had failed, most prominently flooding. But Becker was a man obsessed. He believed in evolution: if those who had designed the Pit could not split the atom or send men into space, then no way could they devise a construction that would foil future generations’ attempts to excavate it.
He set his mind on the graph, and consequently did not see Jacky creeping around behind the dark, silent, solid core drill.
Jacky approached the steel behemoth carefully, quietly. Currently the drill bit was removed from the ground, the auger displayed so workmen could fix it. It was caked in dirt from a hundred and fifty feet below the surface, but the jaws were wiped clean and open. Jacky took off his rucksack.
He thought of Becker's reprimand, the Sid Viscous remark. Embarrassing social actions, he'd said. The guy had been referring to the kind of stunt Jacky was pulling off right now. He felt see-through, predictable, and it should have made him turn back, rethink his actions. It just made him angry and more determined, and he pushed on. Fuck Becker.
Two minutes later he left the area. Once out of sight, he planned to explore the rest of the island. But he no longer wanted to go running and hiding. Tell the truth, he was getting tired.
Retrieving the RIB, Jacky rowed back to the mainland.
25
Lunenburg County
When Jacky got back, he stripped off, planning to go into the shower to wash out the sand that was in his hair and inside his clothing. Instead, he flopped face-forward onto the bed, staring at the darkened window, at the piece of paper that had slid down a couple of inches, turning slightly to the right. As he stared, two things happened. One, his
eyes slowly began to close, sleep forcing the lids down. And two, the picture on the paper began to appear different to his mind. In his dreams that night, based on the newly disclosed aspect of that 243 year-old sketch, Jacky Jackson would solve the riddle of the Money Pit.
But for now, he just slept.