“Thanks. I’ll just be a minute.”
She continued to skim, confident she was onto something, but unwilling to mention it to anyone else until she was certain. It took several pages before she found what she was looking for.
There was a story regarding a car, an old rumrunner from the 1920s. She read the notes, and turned the page, where a black and white drawing of the car was still visible. There notes referring to the car’s make and model appeared blotched and unreadable, but next to them were some other information that might help her identify the car. Color: burgundy. Year of manufacture: 1927. And a lot of technical gibberish that would only interest car lovers.
Virginia beamed a wide grin.
Sam took a seat next to her, still holding his pony-bottle of oxygen. The regulator seemed to have seized on the bottle and he was having trouble separating the two for the flight out. “What’s so interesting?”
“This,” she handed him the drawing of the car. “Any idea what sort of car that is?”
“That’s a Model A Ford Tudor.” Sam matched her smile, his lips setting deep creases in his cheeks. “What about it?”
She whispered, still afraid to jump to the wrong conclusion. “There’s a chance this car still holds the Confederate gold.”
“Really? That’s what you think?”
“No. That’s what Holman thought.”
Sam asked, “And how did Holman work out the gold was hidden inside Murphy’s car?”
Virginia answered, “He’d searched and ruled out every other location, but then he’d recalled that Robert Murphy loved his car more than any other possession. Murphy had even joked on multiple occasions, and I quote: ‘within my car, is all that my heart has ever desired.’”
“But surely someone would have found the gold by now? It’s not like the driver wouldn’t notice the additional weight, is it?” Tom asked.
Virginia scanned the specific lines referring to the design of the Ford Tudor. “It was originally specifically built with double leafed springs, to take the additional weight of the contraband rum. There was a secret compartment built beneath the false floorpan, filled with lead weights to reduce the vehicles center of gravity. This improved maneuverability in the event of a police chase.”
Sam’s eyes widened, and his intense blue eyes lit up like sapphires in the sun. “Robert Murphy switched the lead for the gold. Anyone who knew the car would have instantly assumed the heavy weight was from the lead, never guessing it had anything to do with the gold of a nation.”
Tom whistled. “Find the car and you find the gold.”
“Find what car?” David asked, dropping the wood by the fire, suddenly interested in their conversation.
Virginia said, “A Burgundy 1927 Ford Tudor, heavily modified to make it fast and agile, as a rumrunner during the bootlegging era.”
“Hey, my dad owns one of those. My grandfather bought it back in the 1930s.”
“You’re kidding. What color was it?”
“Burgandy. A 1927 Model A Ford Tudor,” David said without hesitation.
“Certain about the year?” she questioned him.
“Yes. Of course, I’m certain about the year. It was a new model. Ford changed from the last run of the Model T in 1926 to the brand-new Model A in 1927.”
“Where did your granddad buy it?”
“What’s with the twenty questions?” David asked, curtly.
“It’s important. It has to do with the Confederate gold.”
David raised a cynical eyebrow. “Okay. Apparently, the car was Robert Murphy’s pride and joy. Stanford liked the concept of owning it when it went to auction after Murphy died. Even though his father, William Chestnut had long been dead, he somehow felt it was a fitting end to a family feud that had lasted a lifetime.”
“No joke? Where does your father keep it now?”
“At private residence in Minnestra Minnesota, where he lives when he’s in office as a sitting senator. He’s kept it meticulously maintained and has even shown it at various car events throughout the years.” David smiled. “Why do you want to know?”
Virginia expelled a deep breath of air. “Because, according to Holman, there’s a hidden compartment within that car, where the entire contents of that chest have been hidden all this time.”
“Get out of here.” David’s face flushed red. “Are you certain? It’s been in my family’s possession all this time?”
Virginia handed him the book with the markings. “See for yourself.”
David read the note enthusiastically.
“Okay, so Robert Murphy and Jack Holman went back in 1920 to find the treasure. Jack Holman helped the man return it to his home in Saskatchewan. Jack looked up to Murphy. Then, when Murphy died, and there was no mention about the gold, he started to search for it himself. He was certain that Murphy had simply decided to hoard it away somewhere like a miser.”
“What do you think?” Virginia asked, her heart pounding.
David grinned. There was something reptilian in his wide eyes. “So, the gold has been hidden in my father’s Ford Tudor all these years?”
“It appears so,” Virginia said.
“That’s amazing.” David reached inside his backpack and retrieved a handgun. A Beretta 92. He leveled it at her. “I guess I don’t need your help anymore.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Startled, Virginia opened her mouth to say something cutting. Thinking better of it, she quickly shut it again. Sam and Tom stayed stock-still in stunned silence.
“I’ll have that journal now,” David commanded, holding out his open palm.
Virginia, still frozen with shock, didn’t move.
An instant later he flicked the side mounted safety of his Beretta 92 forward with his thumb to emphasize the point.
“Okay, okay,” Virginia said, as she slowly reached over to place the book in his hand. “We don’t want the treasure — that’s not what we came for. The journal is all yours. You’ll need it to unlock the hidden compartment.”
David aimed his Beretta at her face. He remained silent, but his jaw set firm. The way his eyes intensely fixed on Virginia, suggested he didn’t believe a word she’d said.
Slowly, David’s trigger finger gently squeezed the trigger.
Sam kicked his diving pony bottle — containing compressed oxygen — into the fire. The plastic regulator nozzle broke on impact with one of the larger pieces of shale they’d used to surround the fire. This sent a burst of compressed oxygen into the fire.
Excited by the sudden burst of pure oxygen, the flame flared upward, like in a mini-explosion.
Virginia dived to her side.
The blast knocked David off his feet. He discharged multiple rounds as he fell, but the shots went high. It took an instant to recover, but his vision had been blurred by the explosion.
Holding his breath — a reaction to fear, Sam’s eyes swept the scene, darting between Virginia, Tom, and David.
Sam exhaled, relieved. The bullets missed them all by a long shot. David was disoriented and his vision impaired, but he still held the handgun — he and it were out of reach.
Sam didn’t have seconds to react and neither did Tom nor Virginia. Veterans of combat, their eyes met. Silent meaning passed between them.
They needed to move fast.
They needed to move now!
Without looking back, Sam, Tom and Virginia sprinted together into the thick forest to the west. It took time for David to gain control and regain normal vision.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The lethal automatic made a thunderous, audible roar as David emptied the remaining rounds from his Beretta. The weapon hissed, bullets whizzed, slapping into the trees around them, but by the luck of the heavens, none of them reached their intended targets.
Sam felt his heart thumping in the back of his throat as he sprinted through the thin cover of trees. The large muscles of his legs burned. The trio ran for about a half-mile. Then, panting, they walked briskly to catch their breath.