talking in circles, Nick. And once again we’re into the Executive branch of government.”
“Bureaucrat, you think?”
“High level, for sure.”
“Committee, group, rogue, what?”
“I’d bet on a deep background committee. Don’t think a single rogue bureaucrat could put the squeeze on one of the alphabet agencies to murder people. Again, almost every security or intelligence group in the government has its own black ops team, but it takes some mighty big muscles to convince the head of the CIA, for example, to turn a sniper loose and make people disappear.”
“Could be, probably was, a bunch of freelance shooters. Ex-military.’
“Still has to come from someone in government.”
I stood and walked down the deck stairs to my fabulous country lawn of mowed dandelions, scrub grass and an assortment of other weeds. Don’t mock it. Green is green even if it’s not Kentucky Blue.
“Sal, we’re not going to figure this out by guessing.” I picked at the bark of an old shore pine that I’d notch every year with the height of the kids as they grew up. I’d fire up the chainsaw, lay the bar flat on each kid’s head, tell them to run like hell (which they did) and make an inch deep cut in the tree. Today that’s called child endangerment. Back then, it taught kids to respect, not fear, dangerous equipment.
“Agreed. We need to start where the trail started.”
“Maine?”
“Well, we have to eventually get to Maine, but I thought we could backtrack. First Colorado then Illinois.”
The entire Tree Man episode began when we found a perfectly formed, highly polished and magnificently valuable gold ball in a clay egg hanging around the neck of a skeleton entombed in a 200 year old Madrone tree. Long story short, it pointed to a band of Europeans arriving on the Oregon Coast hundreds of years before any previous record of Europeans in America. The clay egg, when opened, revealed a minutely detailed map of the Coos County region in artistic perfection and accuracy with gold inlays.
As further investigation unfolded, we found similar stories of Tree Men across the country of those who had knowledge of the gold balls. Some had cashed in and paid off mortgages; others had invested in real estate. Unshackled from the chains of debt, all had become moderately wealthy.
And dead.
“What was the name of the town in Colorado?”
Sal pulled his iPhone, tapped on a few keys and pulled up a file from his iCloud account; scanned the information and, “Holly. Holly, Colorado. Southeastern part of the state. Arapaho Indians had a tale of gold balls and men in trees.”
“Are you suggesting we go to Maine, too?”
“Nick, that’s where it all started.”
“I won’t go to Maine.”
Sal sighed, “And why not?”
“There are no important people from Maine. The most notable thing about Maine is a lobster. Ain’t even human.”
“Stephen King is from Maine.”
“He’s an alien. That doesn’t count.”
Sal chuckled. “You’re just jealous because he sells more books than you.”
“He’s an alien. He can mind-control people into buying his stuff. Come on. Evil clowns? You think a publisher would give anyone other than an alien a few million bucks to write about a clown living in sewers and eating kids? Ha.”
Sal sighed again, but I continued, “Illinois, Abe Lincoln. Louisiana has Satchmo. Tennessee, Davey Crocket. Texas, well there are just too many to name. California has the Cisco Kid.”
“And Jerry Brown.”
“Another alien. Doesn’t count.”
“I can’t believe you think Stephen King is an alien.”
“That’s my story…”
“And you’re sticking to it, I know.”
Both of us fell silent. Popped a few Lil’ Orbits, sucked down on-the-verge-of-cold coffee. Each absorbed in our own thoughts. Stephen King even looks like an alien.
I was first to break the silence. “Do we really need to see these places first hand?”
“Internet’s good, but I have a feeling it would be to our advantage, yes.”
“Something’s been bothering me about the whole affair. We have gold balls stretching across the country. We have Bo telling us all of the gold we found here came from the same smelter.”
Bo is a metallurgist who performs valuations and assessments for a high-tone clientele and has a laboratory in Bandon with the latest in high-tech assay equipment. Sal and I found his stolen, classic T’bird a couple of years back and he became a friend for life.
“And from Europe, Nick. The gold used to make the balls was Spanish, if you recall.”
“Odd, don’t you think?”
“That the gold came from Spain? Not really. It’s what the Spaniards were known for. They had this thing about gold.”
“No, odd because the gold found here was from Europe which logically means the gold balls in Maine, Illinois and Colorado also were likely from the same batch.”
Sal thought that over for a second. “So the Celts drug gold cross country. We already figured that.”
“Why?”
“Why would they bring it with them? Because it was part of their tradition or heritage or religion or culture. I don’t know.”
Walking back to the table, “Need fresh coffee.”
Sal followed me into the kitchen. “What are you thinking, Nicky?”
“We have all that Celtic writing from Altos’ notes, correct?”
“Sure. I took photos of it all before the government came down on us and gathered it all up.”
“But you still have the photos. Didn’t give those up. What say we have the text translated?”
“Worth a try. But who?”
“How ‘bout that crazy professor who first told us about…”
I never got to finish my sentence. The rumble of V8 engines on Beverly interrupted.
Sal and I walked out to the driveway. First through the gate, Cookie in her ’76 MG, long ago outfitted with a 5-liter Ford engine. On her tail, a beautifully restored 1966 Thunderbird, dark blue metallic followed by a black ’40 Ford coupe.
To Sal, “Did I miss the memo
