Chapter 5
Holding two WG D18 Hand Held Metal Scanners in a V-shape, Arcadias stood in the Rose Room—an upstairs bedroom—and dragged the scanners along the lath and plaster wall. The scanners Arcadias operated were often used in prisons to find small metallic objects hidden by prisoners, either on their bodies or in their cells. The scanners were lightweight and easy to use. But best of all they were powerful and accurate.
Arcadias admired the home as he worked. Ornate woodwork filled the home, as did antique furniture. Brass chandeliers hung throughout the house. Jaw-dropping artwork covered the plaster walls: some paintings, but mostly murals. Frescoes covered high ceilings. Arcadias felt like he was in an art gallery dedicated to the Renaissance period. A mural of a lush garden filled with rose bushes covered the walls in the room he worked.
The historical mansion displayed many treasures, every room a feast for the eyes. But only one treasure called his name. And Arcadias intended to find it.
So far the scanners hadn’t emitted a pulse in the Rose Room, except for when he got too close to a gilded-framed painting hanging by a nail. He could only assume nails were a scarcity when the original owner built the home back in the early nineteenth century, using a half timber frame construction. All the trim work he’d examined so far was constructed with wooden pegs instead of nails.
Arcadias’ trusty Fisher F75 lay in a corner. He’d already scanned the room’s floor, finding nothing. The wooden floor planks were also fastened together with wooden pegs, for which he was glad. Nails gave off false hits. From what he could tell, the same flooring ran throughout the house. He would eventually have to go over the entire floor, but would wait until the owners turned in for the night.
Outside the house, his brother Damien hunted the backyard with a traditional metal detector. Originally he planned to hunt for the treasure alone. But the house and grounds were simply too big to go it alone. So he enlisted the help of Damien and his girlfriend Colette, as well as his own on-and-off-again girlfriend, Iris.
At first Colette and Iris thought they were being treated to a romantic getaway. But now that they were here, Arcadias put them to work. They worked as a team and searched one of the other six bedrooms, using scanners like his along the walls.
A large, antique canopy bed filled the Rose Room. Sheer curtains hung from the bed’s wooden frame and fluttered in the afternoon breeze coming through a window.
Pushing aside the canopy curtains, Arcadias climbed onto the bed and scanned the wall behind the headboard. It didn’t take long for his scanners to pulse stridently. Arcadias pulled a carpenter’s pencil from his tool belt and marked the location. He then hopped off the bed and grabbed his cordless drill equipped with a hole-cutter bit.
He climbed atop the bed once more and drilled the spot on the wall he’d marked. Plaster dust showered onto the pillows and comforter. His heart thumped as he peered inside the cavity. His headlamp spotlighted the wall’s interior.
But he saw only electrical wiring and Bousillage—a Spanish moss and mud mixture used to insulate houses during the antebellum period—and nothing else. Arcadias moved on. No time to pout. Keep moving, he told himself.
Arcadias moved to the next wall. He started his scan up high near the crown molding and worked his way down, methodically working a search grid. He was halfway across the wall when Damien’s voice came across his Motorola two-way radio.
Arcadias pulled the Motorola from his tool belt. He pushed the talk button. “Please repeat what you just said, Damien.”
“The owners are headed your way, Arcadias. And they look mad.”
Arcadias pushed the talk button once more on the Motorola. “You better stop what you’re doing and come inside. I’ll need your help with them.”
“Be there in a bit, brother.”
Arcadias switched channels on his radio and then hit the talk button again. “Iris, stop your scanning immediately. Tell Colette the same. Turn up the TV or turn on the shower and lock your door. The owners are coming.”
Arcadias switched the channel back to his brother’s frequency and put the two-way radio back into his tool belt. He took off the bulky belt and slid it under the canopy bed along with his metal detector and scanners. He then bent down and peeled his pant leg up high enough he could reach inside his boot. He pulled out a Glock 17 side arm. He slid a clip into the bottom of the grip and pulled back the slide.
Arcadias slid the Glock into his waistband at the small of his back. He opened the bedroom door a crack and then sat down in an overstuffed chair. He grabbed a paperback from a nearby bookcase—appropriately entitled Treasure Island—and pretended to read.
He heard people thumping up the stairs, could hear anger in their footfalls. A confrontation loomed like storm clouds in the hurricane season. Stay calm, Arcadias. Use your charm, he told himself.
In this portion of the house hallways didn’t exist. Upstairs bedrooms connected to each other through entry and exit doors. Each bedroom had three doors in it, one of which opened to the outside gallery. The stairs ended at a small landing. One had the choice of entering a room to their left or right.
Voices floated toward him from the landing. The Rose Room was the first bedroom available to the right of the landing. Arcadias heard a man and a woman. He recognized the woman’s voice. It was Annie, the owner. Arcadias assumed the man accompanying her was Jon, her husband.
A harsh series of raps sounded on the door. Arcadias took a deep breath and then exhaled. He set the paperback down and stood up. He took two steps and answered the door.
Jon and Annie Rafter faced him. Arcadias took a brief second or two to assess his foes. Annie was a strikingly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties. Caramel-colored hair and sapphire eyes made her pleasant to look at. She appeared fit and healthy. Long legs and toned arms gave her an athletic appearance. She’s probably a runner, he thought.
Jon stood about six feet tall. A handsome man in his early forties, Rafter’s graying hair made him look a little like George Clooney. He also appeared lean and fit. And if Arcadias could sum the man up in one word it would be: dangerous.
Jon Rafter was indeed an oxymoron. He gave the impression of being humble and meek. Yet Arcadias knew it was only a façade. Rafter was more than just an artist. Arcadias could look into Rafter’s eyes and see there was much more to the man than just paint and brushes. The eyes were windows into a person’s soul. And Rafter’s hazel eyes belied a quiet strength and courage few others possessed.
While planning this recovery expedition, Arcadias studied up on Jon Rafter. He had to know what he was up against. And he came across an old newspaper article of the man’s heroic exploits in the Atchafalaya Basin.
Without any support from law enforcement, Rafter singlehandedly took out the Boudreaux clan—hardened criminals—and saved Annie and a little girl named Gabby Witherspoon from their clutches. And he performed his heroic deed during the worst hurricane to ever hit Louisiana shores.
Be careful of this one, a voice said in Arcadias’ mind.
“I’m sorry Mr. Charbonneau, but we’re going to have to ask you and your friends to leave. Your money will be refunded,” Jon Rafter said firmly.
Arcadias put on a bewildered face. “I don’t understand. We just arrived not long ago.”
“We have a behavior clause in the contract you signed. Your behavior thus far breaches the contract,” Annie said.