Helen Brenna - Treasure

A prime focus of her work at the museum, many called it an obsession, involved acquiring Spanish artifacts from Central America. She was always searching, always hoping. Upon hearing of the death of an elderly man in the area who’d brought back many relics and such from his travels to Belize and surrounding countries, she’d jumped at the opportunity to acquire his collection.

Aaron stood behind his untidy desk pulling on his suit coat. “You made it through that stuff already?”

Annie nodded. “A lot of what he owned belongs in antique stores,” she said, “but this—”

“Annie, I’m sorry. I’m already late for a lunch meeting.”

“Read this one passage. Please?” She held out the diary. “It’ll only take a second.”

Sighing, he scanned the excerpt and handed it back. “Intriguing. Let’s talk about this when I get back.” He didn’t believe her. No one did.

Unwilling to give up, she followed him down the long, antiseptic hall. “I’ll walk out with you.” Though the museum was filled with rich historical artifacts and lavish decorations, its administrative offices lacked a speck of personality.

“You’re thinking Santidad Cross,” he said, “aren’t you?”

“What else could it be?”

They reached the outside grounds and were greeted by a perfectly warmed summer day. As they came to Aaron’s parking spot, he slowed to face her. “I thought you’d decided to quit obsessing over that cross.”

“This is it, Aaron.” She glanced up at him, squinting against the noonday sun. “The validation I’ve been looking for all these years.”

“Annie.” He reached for her cheek, stopped, and instead squeezed her shoulder. “This…fixation is ruining your life.”

What life? She had no life to ruin, but it was sweet he cared. She’d tried caring back, really she had, but as attractive, intelligent and financially stable as Aaron was, she felt nothing romantic toward him. There had to be something wrong with her.

“We don’t even know if there is a Santidad Cross.” He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat of his convertible.

“Did you read the soldier’s description?” She jabbed the old book. “No other such cross existed at this time.”

“You can’t accept it, can you?” Clearly frustrated, Aaron ran both hands through his light brown hair. “The Santidad Cross and its curse are myth. Speculation. Rumor. The cross isn’t listed on one single manifest, let alone the Concha’s. There’s no port master’s record of it. No ship record. Nada.”

She held out the diary. “What about this?”

“No official document ever mentions the Santidad Cross!”

“Maybe it wasn’t listed on anything official because no one wanted to scare the crew of the ship carrying it. News of the curse could easily have spread from one port city to the next.” She shook the book in his face. “And because of the rumors, the Concha’s captain may very well have kept the cross hidden in his private quarters.”

“Annie.” He gripped her shoulders with both hands. “The cross…doesn’t…exist.”

Her breath lodged in her throat. She’d known he’d say this, but all the same it blindsided her. She’d allowed a part of herself to hope Aaron, of all people, would believe her. He was her friend. And he’d given her no choice.

As he climbed into his car, she loosened the string on the box she’d been carrying. “Here.” She drew back the cloth coverings. “Look at this.”

He put the keys into the ignition and, obviously humoring her, glanced halfheartedly at the contents of the box. In an instant, he grew completely transfixed, didn’t tremble, didn’t breathe. Only his hair ruffled slightly from the breeze blowing in off Lake Michigan. “Have you shown this to anyone else?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Aaron, we have to lock it away at the museum. Put it somewhere no one can touch it.”

“This is yours? You came by it honestly?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want it?”

“No!”

He grabbed the box and tossed it on the seat. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Aaron, don’t!”

“We’ll split it.” He started his car and revved the engine. “Fifty-fifty.”

“No—”

He grinned at her, pointing to his ear as if he couldn’t hear her, and zoomed out of the parking lot.

“Wait!” She raced after him, hoping to catch him at the red light. The stoplight turned green before she got to the intersection. He sped across Columbus. She saw the truck. Heading north. The driver wasn’t slowing.

“Aaron!” she screamed, running.

Tires screeched. Metal crunched. Aaron’s body flew across the road. He hit pavement with a sickening thud. Cars slammed on brakes. The busy street hit gridlock in seconds.

“No, no, no!” She reached Columbus and bent beside his still body. His blood poured onto the hot, dry asphalt. Frantically, she tried stopping the flow. Brushing away the tears clouding her vision, she felt his wrist. No pulse. Felt his neck. Nothing. “Aaron! Oh, Aaron!”

It was starting all over again, and the truth hit her with sickening awareness. She was the only person who could stop it.

“WHY DID YOU PULL IN all four survey ships?” Jake Rawlings strode into Oceanic Exploration’s largest corner office and slammed the door behind him.

Harold Puttlim, OEI’s head honcho, glanced up from the maps and surveys strewn in front of him. “You tell me, Jake.” He tossed his pen aside and leaned back in his chair, folding his bent, arthritic fingers over the small paunch of his stomach. “For two months you’ve been running all four ships practically nonstop looking for the Concha. What have you got for me?” He nailed Jake with his characteristic show-me-the-money gaze. “Are you any closer to finding it than you were two years ago? Ten years ago?”

No. Jake couldn’t truthfully make that claim. But then neither could anyone else. Treasure hunters had been climbing all over themselves looking for the shipwrecked Spanish galleon Concha since it went down in a hurricane off the coast of Florida almost four hundred years ago. With a main cargo hold loaded with enough gold, silver and gems to fetch close to a billion dollars, no shipwreck was more coveted, none more elusive.

“I made a promise,” Jake said evenly. “Don’t stand in my way.”

Harold seemed to chew on that, his cool gray eyes warming with sentiment. “Your dad and I were partners long before you owned your first set of flippers. I know how much he wanted the Concha.” He paused, all trace of emotion draining away. “But a personal promise made on a death bed holds no place in business.”

He knew Harold was right. Still, there was the little matter of that smile on his dad’s grizzled face after Jake had sworn he’d find the Concha. The glint of pride in the old man’s eyes as he lay in that hospital wasting away had stuck with Jake like barnacles on the hull of an old wooden boat.

“We were close this time.” Jake resisted the urge to slam his fist against the antique mahogany desk. “I know it.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me, Harold. I know. The way a man knows his best friend just slept with his wife.”

Harold raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Considering that happens to be your area of expertise and not mine, it doesn’t do me much good, now, does it?”

Jake bit back a nasty comeback and walked across the plush gray carpet to the wall of windows, keeping his gait as normal as possible. His ankle was aching to high heaven today, but he wasn’t about to show any manner of weakness to Harold, or anyone else for that matter.

“The fact is you’ve exhausted your crews,” Harold continued. “Pissed off everyone from cook to captain. Spent millions this summer. And all you’ve got to show for it is a feeling you’re close.”