The scanner in his right hand detected something and started beeping. Arcadias hurriedly pulled his pinpointer out from a pocket on his cargo jeans. He waved the pinpointer over the area until he found the exact place where the metal object lay. And then he started to dig.
After burrowing down about six inches he found a long, skinny cylinder. He brushed off the dirt and examined it closely. It looked like a ramrod from a flintlock rifle. Since the house was built before the Civil War, Arcadias speculated the ramrod might very well have come from a British or American soldier fighting during the War of 1812. He further surmised that the soldier died while reloading his weapon. Why else would he leave behind such a valuable object?
Arcadias imagined what it must have been like on that day; men and boys fighting for their lives, muskets and cannons firing. The bloody carnage would’ve been horrific.
The ramrod was an interesting discovery he would normally find thrilling. But a ramrod wasn’t a chest full of gold. So he tossed the ramrod aside and moved on.
He’d barely covered another foot of ground when his two-way radio squawked. He heard Damien’s voice pierce the static. And his brother sounded fearful. Arcadias pulled out his radio.
“Arcadias, can you hear me. We have a problem, copy?”
Arcadias pressed the talk button. “I hear you, Damien. What is happening? What is the problem?”
“I searched the carriage house and was attacked by a dog. The dog was huge. I had to shoot it.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No, I only wounded it. It ran off.”
“You have to find the dog and finish it off. We can’t allow it to run to a neighbor’s house. Have Colette help you? Do you copy, Damien?”
“I copy. We’ll find the dog. You find the treasure.”
Chapter 16
“I think I removed enough bricks. We should both be able to get through the hole,” Rafter said, eyeing his work.
“I’ll take your word for it, Jon. I’ve never climbed up a chimney before.”
Rafter turned and faced his wife. “You wait here. I’ll go first and see if I can get the grate off.”
No way! Bobby asked Rose to wait for him. And evidently Bobby never came back, because Rose never got married.”
Rafter grinned. “I’m not going off to war, Annie. I will come back for you. I promise.”
“If you don’t come back in fifteen minutes I’m coming up there.”
“Okay, fair enough. While I’m gone can you look around for some rope?”
“What do you need the rope for?”
“I’m going to tie one end around a railing of the widow’s walk. We’ll rappel down to the ground,” Rafter explained.
“Do you think the widow’s walk will hold our weight?”
Rafter nodded. “I rebuilt it. Don’t you remember? There’s all new wood in it. It took me forever. I about roasted to death refurbishing it.”
Annie shook her head. “We’ve rebuilt or replaced almost everything on this house. I can’t remember everything.”
Rafter kissed her. “Wish me luck. Here I go,” he said. He put the small flashlight between his teeth and scooted through the hole on his belly. Once his shoulders and chest cleared the hole he grabbed the closest rung. A thin layer of creosote buildup made the rung a little slippery, but the rung seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight. Rafter gripped the rung and hauled his legs through the hole.
Once inside the chimney, he was surprised by how much room he had to operate. The chimney didn’t narrow once it left the hearth; it remained wide and spacious all the way up.
Rafter shimmied his way up towards the top, hoping and praying he could pop the grate off. The grate stood in the way of their freedom. He had to overcome it. Their lives might depend upon it.
Near the top he could smell fresh air. Aromatic scents from Annie’s flower beds rode the breeze. Without much effort he could imagine the early evening air, cool and clean and refreshing from the day’s heat. The day had been mostly clear. Stars would be twinkling and lighting up the heavens.
Rafter moved as quickly as he could while still maintaining silence. He didn’t know if the sound of his movements would carry down to the hearth or not. If the Charbonneaus were in the parlor next to the fireplace they could possibly hear him.
Reaching the chimney top, Rafter pulled his screwdriver from a back pocket. He located the bolts affixing the grate to the bricks. He appraised his chances at overcoming the rusted bolts. 60/40, he thought.
Rafter inserted the screwdriver blade into the grate near a bolt and pried upward with as much strength as he could generate with only one hand. The grate moved a quarter inch, but the antique bolt held. Well, maybe this endeavor is a 50/50 proposition.
He moved to a different corner and a different bolt. He moved his head so the flashlight in his mouth would spotlight the bolt, and tried again. Sweat dripped off his nose. Rafter prayed for divine intervention, for supernatural strength. He pried from every angle and direction, but the bolt stubbornly held fast. The stars above his head taunted him. The leaves from nearby magnolia trees rattled in the wind and laughed at his puny effort. I can’t do this in my strength, Lord. I’ll be here all day if you don’t help out.
Not long after he sent up the petition, the bolt seemed to move ever so slightly. Rafter thought he might only be imagining things. But then the bolt started to give way. The grate lifted up a half inch this time.
Encouraged, Rafter switched the screwdriver to his left hand, giving his right hand a break. Thirty more seconds of prying and the bolt relinquished completely.
Rafter jammed the screwdriver under the grate, wedging it fast. He then inserted his fingers through the grate and pushed the bolt out with his hand. He heard the liberated bolt roll down the slate roof.
One down and five more to go, he thought. Maybe this crazy escape plan isn’t so crazy.
Chapter 17
A half mile down the levee road, Ned and Cora Hoxley sat in their living room—Ned in his well-worn recliner, and Cora in her wheelchair.
Despite the arthritis in her hands, Cora crocheted a baby afghan. Blue yarn trailed down the side of her wheelchair. Great-grandchild number seven would arrive in four months, and Cora wanted to finish the afghan in time for the new arrival.
Every now and again Cora glanced over at her husband. Ned dozed peacefully in his recliner. She shook her head. Ned slept just as much as their pet cat. But I suppose it’s normal for an eighty-nine-year-old man to sleep a lot, she thought.
Cora tilted her head. She thought she’d heard something, and it sounded from outside and on the stoop. Even though arthritis crippled her mobility, she still possessed excellent hearing. Cora set her crocheting project to the side and wheeled herself over to the door.
She reached up and flipped on an outside light. She then opened the door and saw Rosie; the neighbor’s dog lying on the stoop near the door. The Newfoundland looked up at her and whined. Cora frowned. Rosie often came over to their house to get treats from Ned. But tonight something didn’t look right about the big dog.