Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Her idea did sound crazy, but Doyle had nothing left but crazy, so...
He held Tia’s hand and let her pull him up the stairs, out of the remodeled chapel, and through the corridor back to the dining hall.
A few of the team had left—Jake, along with Pete Brooks and Keon—but Declan and Austen remained, sipping coffee, standing over the table and map while Ethan and Ham stared at a tablet, searching for a fresh heat source.
“You’re looking in the wrong place.”
Of course that’s what Tia led with, always jumping right to the sharp point, but maybe that’s what he liked about her. That and so many other things, like her courage, and her dedication to the things she believed in. So yes, in that way, she was like Juliet.
And yet he could hardly call Tia soft-spoken or sweet.
He was done with soft-spoken and sweet. He rather liked spirited and bold.
She burst into the room like lightning, sparking life in the darkness. “I think I know where they are.”
Declan leaned up from the table. “Where?”
“Ethan, remember when you were telling the pirate story at the fundraiser? One of our kids—Rohan—said that he’d hide the treasure in the crypt.”
Ethan nodded, frowned.
“I told you that the storage areas had been redone. But maybe that’s not what Henry van der Meer meant when he said ‘storage.’” She finger quoted the last word. “Back in medieval times, they often stored valuables—like art or church treasure or even people—in crypts. We assumed he meant the food storage areas, but...”
“Yes,” Ethan said. “Brilliant. Does the church have a crypt?”
“Rosa would know,” Doyle said, and Tia looked at him, nodded.
“C’mon.” She headed to the kitchen, but it had been cleaned and secured for the night, the lights off. “She might be sleeping.”
He ignored the word, just in case his body decided to remember that he hadn’t slept for way, way too long. Right now it simply buzzed, part fatigue, part what-if.
She headed up the stairs off the kitchen to the apartment, stood in the shadowed alcove, and knocked.
Nothing.
“Rosa? It’s Tia. I think I know where the kids?—”
The door opened. Rosa stood in the frame, her dark hair down, wearing a housecoat, a pair of worn slippers. She seemed remarkably young, or perhaps he simply spotted the youth in her expression. “You found them?”
“Does the church have a crypt?”
Rosa frowned, a beat passing, and then, “Yes, of course. It’s an ancient church, and the crypt runs all the way under the courtyard, the refectory, and even past the gardens.” She cinched her belt tighter. “But the crypt entrance was sealed years ago. It used to be under the sacristy.”
“Is there another entrance, somewhere the kids might be able to access?” Doyle asked, because suddenly, in his head, he heard Jamal’s words, “You can smell them—the dead bodies.”
What if he hadn’t been talking about the sulfur mine but... “Caves. Jamal said caves.”
Rosa frowned, shook her head. “I don’t know about any other entrance.”
“Let’s find Jamal,” said Tia.
“I saw him with Kemar and the Jamesons in the hall before I retired,” said Rosa and closed the door behind her as she followed Tia down the stairs. Doyle landed in the kitchen and headed out to the hall.
Elise and Hunter Jameson sat across from Kemar and Jamal at a table. Kemar scooped up beans and rice, shoveling them into his mouth.
They wore concern on their faces as Doyle walked up to them.
“Jamal,” Doyle said, “when you said that Gabriella and Rohan and Jaden went into the caves, did you mean the sulfur mine?”
He frowned, then shook his head. “They went into the caves by the soccer field.”
By the... soccer field?
“Doyle, Ethan found an old document with the original monastery blueprint,” Declan said. He stood with Ethan, looking over his shoulder, and Doyle headed over to them.
Ethan showed him his tablet. “I pulled this from Esperanza records during my initial search of the building.” He pointed to the church, then the sacristy. “There were stairs here, going down under the church. But in a later drawing, there is a map of the burial plots of various family members. The crypt is under the entire monastery.”
Just like Rosa said.
“Jamal mentioned caves,” said Doyle.
Ethan set the tablet down, shrank the drawing. “I don’t see?—”
Doyle pointed to an area east of the monastery. “How about over here, past the gardens? Near the edge of the soccer field. There’s an area that I think used to be a grotto?—”
“I know where you’re talking about,” said Tia.
“The statues are gone, but the floor is stone, and it has a small bench...”
Jamal had gotten up, walked over. “I told you—it smells like dead people.”
Doyle turned to him, crouched in front of him. “Yes, you did, Jamal.” He glanced past him at Kemar. If he hadn’t misunderstood Jamal and gone to the caves in the mountain, Kemar wouldn’t be reunited with his brother.
Huh.
Tia was already fumbling through a nearby pack. She unearthed a flashlight.
Outside, the rain had turned into a miserable, chilly drizzle.
She grabbed a drying slicker hanging on a hook near the door. Doyle picked up his jacket, still covered in amber dust, and pulled up the hood. He grabbed one of the SAR packs that had been left behind on the bench.
Ethan had put down the tablet, turned up his collar. Declan set down his coffee. Austen went to stand with Rosa, whose expression had turned stricken. “You think they’re down there, with the dead?” Rosa said.
Tia flicked on her light. “If they are, I’m going to find them.” Then she drew in a breath and looked at Doyle, her eyes landing on his, so much hope in them that he wanted to reach out and...
What? Kiss her? Another panic kiss?
No. Not panic. Hope. Maybe even... Well, as he headed out into the murky darkness, forgotten feelings stirred inside him, feelings that included belonging and camaraderie and even, okay, desire.
She pushed out into the night, and something about following her and her light as it parted the darkness felt perfectly right.
He turned on his own headlamp, adding to the glow, and strode through the courtyard to open the gate for her. Light shone on the slick grass, haze showing in the puddle of light. An alarm sounded, and oops, he’d forgotten that they’d added a security system.
Around the corner appeared a man—one of the Jones, Inc. guys, in a black rain jacket, armed and striding toward them.
“It’s us,” said a voice behind him—Declan—and the man nodded and punched in a code to silence the alarm.
“We’ll be back soon,” Declan said.
“I’ll disable the alarm and leave it unlocked for when you return.” He lifted a hand and walked away.
Tia had taken off at a jog across the wet earth, her light bobbing against the tall grasses and rock. The smoke and mist and the eerie night swept over Doyle, prickled his skin.
Please let us be right.
They crossed the soccer field, and it occurred to Doyle that once upon a time, these had been gardens. Then they headed down stone steps overgrown with weeds and dirt, and he found himself in the grotto. A circular, stacked-stone area with an empty arch where once probably fitted a statuette of the Virgin Mary.
And built into the stone beside it stood a rusty iron door. Except, stones had broken free of the wall, cascaded in front of it, blocking the entrance.
Could be a result of the landslide.
“Help me move these,” Doyle said, and Declan and Ethan helped unbury the door, Tia shining light on their work.
They cleared a path, and the hinges creaked as Doyle grabbed the door handle. He pulled off his pack and found the crowbar that Pete had used to move the rocks earlier. He shoved it into the space.
The door looked damaged and had been wedged shut by the rocks, but now he levered it open and found steps leading into darkness. Must and a feral scent swilled through the open door.
Dead people.
Hopefully not children.
Tia stepped past him into the darkness, heading down the stairs, and Doyle took a last gulp of fresh air and followed.
Footsteps behind him suggested Declan and Ethan followed too.
Tia stepped down onto a stone floor and splashed her light around the room. A tunnel, narrow, stone walls, low ceiling, with vaults built into the sides. Most of them remained empty, but a few held burial urns and other trinkets. The place harbored a chill different from the soggy air outside. It swept into Doyle’s bones, his cells.
“This is creepy,” he said.
“Yeah,” Tia whispered and glanced back at him.
“You really think the kids would come down here?” Declan said behind him.
A few burned-out wax candles sat in sconces affixed to the walls. And as they ventured deeper, crucifixes hung on the stone caskets sealed into the walls.
“My sister used to hang out in our cellar—our cook stored apples down there, and she’d sneak in and eat them,” Tia said. “I realize it’s not the same as a crypt, but maybe the kids thought it would be an adventure.”
“The monks must have kept the place up while they lived here,” said Ethan. “It’s in better shape than some of the crypts I’ve seen in Europe. No skulls or bones.”
“That’s a cheerful thought, Pine,” Declan said.
“Where are the kids?” Tia said. “I would have expected them near the entrance?—”
“Unless they gave up trying to move the door and went searching for a way out.” Doyle put a hand on her shoulder. “Look at the ground.”
She pointed her light down to see footprints in the dust. Her glance back at him held hope.
“Gabriella! Rohan! Jaden!” Her voice lifted, but the catacombs devoured it.
“Keep moving,” Ethan said. “Usually the tunnels lead to a main chamber under the church. It’s possible the kids made it there and are trying to get out via the sacristy.”
Tia pushed away an ancient, low-hanging curtain of dust, and Doyle put a hand over his nose. More vaults, these sealed with coffins bearing inscriptions. Late eighteen hundreds, but as they walked, he found the dates receding in time.
“Early eighteen hundreds, and this name reads Esperanza , so it could be one of the early mayors of the town.” This from Ethan, who ran his flashlight across the tombs. “We’re getting closer to the time of Henry van der Meer.”
“We’re not here for the treasure,” Tia snapped.
They had turned south, down another corridor, and in his thoughts, Doyle mapped out their location. He guessed they were under the courtyard.
“I see a light—Gabriella! Rohan!” Tia’s voice echoed down the tunnel. Dust shifted off the ceiling, and Doyle looked back to see Declan ducking.
Hard to be the tallest guy in the room.
And it made him suddenly wonder if anyone had heard from Stein. Austen hadn’t seemed worried, but...
“Here!” A voice emerged from the distance. “Here!”
“Gabriella!” Tia took off jogging, and Doyle kept up. The light bounced off more vaults along the tunnel and then burst into a large chamber.
Gabriella stood, her arms around herself, her face reddened, clearly from tears. She launched herself at Tia, sobbing.
Rohan pushed himself up from where he’d been sitting on the ground, his eyes reddened. Jaden wiped his hands down his face, leaving grimy streaks.
“Hey, guys,” Doyle said. “Anybody hurt?”
Jaden shook his head, and Doyle walked over to Rohan, put his hand behind his neck, met his eyes. “You’re going to be okay.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. D,” Rohan said. “This was my idea.” He ran his hand across his face. “ Stupid. And then we got in and our flashlight died, and when we found our way back, the door was locked...”
“We thought we were going to die down here,” Gabriella said, her voice broken.
“Shh,” Tia said, putting down her flashlight and holding Gabriella’s face. “You’re found. You’re safe.”
Gabriella nodded, and Tia pulled her tight again, her eyes closed, her cheek against Gabriella’s head.
Doyle looked up, his headlamp flashing light around the chamber. “Are we under the sacristy?”
Rohan nodded. “I think so. But the door is sealed.” He pointed to ornate metal stairs that curled down from the ceiling.
Declan had stepped into the chamber and stood with his hands on his hips. “You okay, kids?”
Doyle didn’t hear their answer as he moved the light around the room, across the various nooks and arches that held artifacts—statues of the Virgin Mary, crucifixes. A bench sat in the middle of the room. “I think this was used as a prayer room.”
“And for storage,” said Ethan, who’d walked over to an arched doorway and stepped inside. “I think this is the tunnel entrance.”
Doyle pressed his light into the space. A tunnel, and at the end, a blockade of rubble.
Ethan stared at it. Sighed. He turned and headed back to the chamber.
Well, that ends that, thank you. Doyle stepped out and watched as Declan climbed the stairs. He held the light steady as Declan reached the top and pushed against an iron door at the top.
It creaked, and Declan glanced at Doyle. “I think we can move it.”
Ethan lifted his flashlight as Doyle climbed the stairs and perched next to Declan.
Declan stepped up, put his shoulder against it, braced his hands on the door. “On three.”
Doyle braced his hands on it too, and on the count, pushed.
The metal door groaned, fought them, and Declan let out a grunt.
But it moved. Pebbles and broken stone rained down over them.
“I think it’s just rusty,” said Declan. “Let’s go again.”
Doyle readjusted, and this time when Declan pushed, he added his own grunt?—
With a terrible shriek, the door broke free. Dust clouded Doyle’s hair as cool air rushed into the dark space. Declan climbed up. “It’s the sacristy. There’s a rug over the door.”
Doyle stuck his head up into the small room, dark, night pressing through the tall stained-glass window.
He looked down at Tia, and she grinned up at him, so much light and triumph in her beautiful eyes, her arms around Gabriella. And it swept through him then—the sense that this, right here, was what he’d been looking for, waiting for, even perhaps hoping, without knowing the answer.
He’d always felt a little less-than with Juliet.
Tia made him feel bigger than himself. Made him feel part of something that could change if not the world then the lives that he’d been granted stewardship of.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Rohan, and climbed the stairs. Doyle moved aside and helped Declan lift Rohan to freedom.
Jaden followed, climbing up on his own. Except he gave Declan a hug as he jumped out. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
Tia had released her hold on Gabriella, and the girl ran up the steps. Declan and Doyle lifted her into the church. She hugged Declan too.
Doyle turned back to Tia. “Let’s go.”
But Tia was looking back down the tunnel and now receded into the darkness. “Ethan?”
Doyle headed down the stairs. “Tia—what’s?—”
Oh.
Ethan stood in front of one of the vaults, his light shining on a plaque.
Tia had walked over to him. “What does it say?”
Doyle stepped into the tunnel, close enough to hear his reply.
“This is the tomb of Henry van der Meer.” He turned to Tia, then Doyle, and smiled. “And I’ll bet inside is the treasure of the lost ship Trident .”
* * *
And that was just enough of this stupid nearly-lethal treasure hunt.
“No,” Tia snapped. “We are not breaking open a crypt! Seriously.” Tia stepped in front of the tomb, blocking it with her body as she faced Ethan. “Have you lost your mind?”
She glanced at Doyle like Back me up here , but a weird deer-in-the-headlights expression cast over his face.
He didn’t believe Ethan, did he?
Although, he’d believed her crazy brilliant idea about the catacombs, so...
Maybe it was a night for out-of-the-box ideas.
“We should quit while we’re ahead.” She stepped up to Doyle, cut her voice low. “Let’s get out of here. The kids are okay, and that’s all that matters.”
He seemed to come back to himself, put his hands on her arms, nodded. “Yes.” He turned to Ethan. “She’s right. We’re not breaking—Ethan!”
Ethan had picked up the crowbar Doyle had used to open the door and advanced on the stone.
And the nightmare in her mind showed him opening the resting place of who knew who, really, spilling bones and a skull and whatever final peace the monk had onto the ground.
“Stop!”
Ethan glanced at her. “This is not a coffin, Tia. My guess is that the monks found the treasure and hid it from Henry. They might have even rocked up the entrance and called it a cave-in. And then they sealed it inside an unmarked grave, at least until he decided to leave. I promise you that Henry van der Meer’s body is not in this tomb.”
“Then why didn’t they sell the treasure?” She put a hand on his arm. “Stop.”
He lowered the crowbar. “Because of the pirate.”
“The... Wait— what ?”
“Raging Rodrigo did not die in that shipwreck. And Rodrigo wasn’t his last name—it was his first . I found records on the island that he lived, or I think so. I found a death certificate from the late seventeen hundreds of a Rodrigo Sebold. He fathered a number of children, all of whom claimed the treasure belonged to them. You met one of them.”
She stilled. “Sebold.”
“Mm-hmm,” Ethan said. “You want to stop Sebold from looking for the treasure and end his terror? Then we find the treasure.”
“And what—pay him off?”
“Of course not. We take our cut, hand it over to authorities, and let them deal with him.”
And for a second—a terrible, long, silent second—it made sense. Find the treasure. Take their cut, and she gets back her medical equipment and Sebold leaves them alone.
Maybe they’d even have enough money to update the medical center and start a college fund for the kids who weren’t adopted and?—
Except— hello, wasn’t grave-digging a crime ?
Ethan wedged the crowbar into the wall.
“No—stop. We need to at least ask Declan. He owns the property?—”
“Declan left us in charge.” The quiet voice beside her sent a chill through her body. She turned.
Doyle stood there, his light shining on the crypt, eyes earnest in hers. “Ethan’s right, Tia. We find this treasure and we have the upper hand. Sebold has to play to our rules. We have the power. And as for Declan—my guess is that he’s going to want to seal this place off to keep the kids from ever getting lost here again. So it’s now or never.”
Never.
Except he stepped up next to Ethan, put his hands on the crowbar.
“Doyle!”
He looked at her. “This is the right thing to do. Please, trust me.”
She blinked at him, swallowed, and oh no, she did trust him. With every cell in her body.
“Oh, I hope we don’t burn in hell for this.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow.
“Or break some ancient Mariposa law. Am I going to have to learn how to say ‘pass the bread and water’ in Spanish?”
“I think it’s Dutch,” Ethan said, and then he and Doyle heaved against the stone.
It broke, chipping off a large section of what looked like plaster, and the piece thudded on the floor at their feet.
Doyle leaned in, his light exposing decaying wood. “It’s just plaster over a wooden crate.”
“Like a coffin .” She folded her arms.
“No,” Ethan said. “If it were a coffin, it would be actual stone.” He wedged the pry bar against the wood and plaster, and again Doyle added oomph.
The next section broke off, revealing the end of the crate. “That’s not a treasure chest.”
“It’s a shipping crate.” Ethan lifted the flashlight. “Oak, and look at these dovetail joints.” He pointed to the corners of the box, then dusted off the front. A faint stamp had been burned into the front.
“WIC,” Ethan read. “Vereenigde West-Indische Compagnie.”
“What does that mean?” Doyle asked.
“It translates to ‘United West Indies Company,’ which was active in the Atlantic trade, including the Caribbean.” He palmed the edge of the box. “This is it. The treasure of the Trident .”
She stilled, looked at Doyle, who met her gaze with a hint of a smile, a nod.
And then Ethan slammed the end of the pry bar into the box.
“Ethan!”
It broke, enough for him to open a hole with his next strike.
He stuck his hand inside, and for a second, she imagined one of those river-monster shows?—
He pulled out a fist. Opened it.
A gold ingot roughly the size of an old school eraser, with rough-hewn edges. He held it under Doyle’s light.
An eagle stamped in the center with a bear beside it, a number and a mysterious symbol at the end, along with a date.
1697.
Ethan handed it to Tia. She took it, the weight surprising, at least a couple pounds.
“What are these symbols?” She handed it back.
He studied it. “The eagle is Prussian, so the ingot probably belonged to Duchess Eleanora Maria of Valmont, and the bear signifies royalty, so that fits. The number signifies the purity, and this is the assayer’s mark, along with the date.” He seemed to debate for a moment, and then Doyle reached out and took the ingot from him, put it back into the crate.
“We need to get one of the guards down here,” Doyle said.
“You said it—it’s now or never.” Ethan made a move for the crate.
Doyle stepped in front of him. “Ethan, we need help getting this out of here. It’s late, and if this is as big of a find as you think, we need documentation and pictures and yes, Declan’s permission to retrieve this.”
Ethan’s mouth tightened, and after a moment, he nodded. “Of course. You’re right.”
Tia eyed Doyle, who seemed to study the man. He held out his hand. “Give me the crowbar.”
And if Ethan wanted to do something sinister, like overpower Doyle and grab the treasure and make off into the night, it was now?—
Silly. Her brain had clearly taken a walk into trauma land, expecting the worst, because Ethan handed over the pike. “You’ll put a guard on the door?”
“On both of them. We can trust Jones and his team.”
Ethan exhaled, then turned to Tia and winked. “We make a good team.”
But her gaze fixed on Doyle, who looked at her, a soft smile on his face, his eyes warm.
Yes, yes they did.
She followed Ethan up the stairs to find Declan returning from bringing the children to the dining hall.
Ethan was telling him about the treasure as she emerged, Declan’s hand in hers, pulling her out.
“Ethan, I never know what to think about your stories.” Declan shook his hand. “Well done.” He looked at Tia. “Both of you.”
Doyle came out, then turned and closed the door. “We need to lock this room, set a guard outside the door and another one at the grotto.”
“I’ll talk to Ham,” Declan said, moving the carpet back into place. He stood, glanced at Ethan, who stared at the carpet as if wistful. “How much do you think is in there?”
“According to ships’ records, about a hundred thirty thousand pounds, or, if you do the math, about two hundred thousand dollars.”
“In 1702,” Tia said.
“Mm-hmm.”
“And today?” Declan asked.
“With the current price of gold? Sixty million and change.”
Silence.
“Yes,” Declan said. “We’ll get security on this.” He looked at Doyle. “Stay here? I’ll send North or Skeet over to babysit the, um, carpet.”
Doyle smiled.
Declan opened the door for Ethan. Gestured to usher him out.
Ethan sighed and exited, and Declan closed the door behind him.
Tia walked over and locked it. Turned to Doyle, her back to the door. Her entire body tingled, and maybe not from fatigue.
“Sixty.”
“Million,” Doyle said. “And change.”
She pressed her hand to her head. “Even for me, that’s... that’s a lot.”
He laughed and stepped over to her. Took off his backpack and let it drop to the ground. Propped his hand above her head on the door, those blue eyes on hers.
She put her hands on his chest, smoothing it. He still wore a little grime on his whiskered chin, a dampness to his jacket, but as he smiled down at her, everything inside her heated, her bones turning to fire inside her.
“You trusted me,” he said softly, his gaze roaming her face.
“I mean...”
“You trusted me.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips, ran his hand under her chin.
“Of course I did,” she said. “You’re my partner.”
He smiled then, shook his head. “Codirector.”
“Whatever.”
Then he leaned down and kissed her. Softly. Perfectly. His mouth gentle, exploring.
But she didn’t want exploring. Not now. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him against her.
And kissed him. Really kissed him, with a sort of abandon and freedom and joy and hope that maybe she’d never had with Edward—no, for sure had never had with her former fiancé. Instead, she’d always reserved a little piece of her heart to hang on to, just in case?—
But Doyle, he was... he was nothing like Edward. Impulsive and fierce, and charming and annoying and devastatingly handsome and capable and...
And hers. Please, hers.
He groaned deep inside and stepped her back, her body against the door, his against hers, both hands moving to hold her neck, his thumbs caressing her face, angling it up so he could deepen his kiss.
Yes, hers.
He tasted of safety and home and the future and that fresh start that he’d talked about, smelled of adventure and tomorrows, and in his kiss, something unlatched inside her.
Fear, maybe.
And peace washed through her. Or joy. Or perhaps just that sense that here, right here, her what-ifs had vanished.
Replaced by yes, yes, and again, yes .
Doyle.
Oh, she loved this man. And that thought didn’t even scare her. Because he loved her back. She felt it, knew it in her soul.
He lifted his head, touched her forehead with his. “See? I told you everything was going to be okay.”
“You did? I don’t remember that part.”
“I did.” He smiled. “On the cliff. Or could have been in the ocean.”
“I just remember a lot of ‘Stop talking’ and ‘Keep swimming’ and?—”
“What if I just thought it?”
She laughed. “Thought it—when?”
“The first day I met you, when you showed up in the four-wheeler, your hair pulled back, all ready to take over the world, or at least Mariposa.”
“You did not think that.”
“I did. I thought, This woman is going to drive me crazy. And it’s going to be okay .”
She laughed then. He didn’t.
“You’re so beautiful, Juliet.”
He stilled, his eyes wide, his breath caught.
It was a punch right to her chest, resounding through her entire body, shattering the moment into a thousand jagged-edged shards. “What?”
“Tia. I meant—” His eyes widened. “It was a—oh, Tia. That’s not?—”
She held up her hands, her heart slamming into her throat. “No, right, it’s... it’s fine.” She turned, unlocked the door to the sanctuary.
“Tia!”
She opened the door and couldn’t stop. And yes, she knew—in the front of her brain where her common sense still survived—that he hadn’t meant it.
But she was there, wasn’t she? Juliet. His true love.
And she’d always be there, in his heart, between them, and maybe Tia could learn to live with that—perhaps it wasn’t even fair that she wanted more but... No.
“Tia!”
She fled through the church, across the sanctuary and the nave, then out the back, nearly running smack into one of the Jones, Inc. guys.
“Ma’am—you okay?”
She nodded, her throat too tight for words, and launched out into the dark, gloomy night still heavy with fog and chill and drizzle, and that seemed exactly right. She didn’t even realize she’d been crying until she reached her room, tried not to slam her door—she didn’t want to wake the entire compound—and locked it.
She shucked out of the slicker, toed off her shoes, and climbed onto the bed fully clothed, the blanket around her.
Then she lay in a ball, tears burning her cheeks as she listened to the darkness echo in her heart.