The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [591]
“I could find it,” Rafe said, “not just one or two stupid coins.”
Rob punched his brother in the arm. “There isn’t any treasure, Dumbo. It’s a myth, otherwise someone would have dug it up by now.”
“But that’s the thing about treasure,” Ruth said, her voice dropping low, “sometimes you wonder how all the talk of a treasure even got started. An old guy in a tavern two hundred years ago spun a story so he could get a free mug of ale? And then you sometimes wonder if it isn’t all magic. When you think it’s magic, you’re ready. You go to Fauquier County and find William Kirk’s will that’s still there, and read that he not only left his wife a large property, he also left her a big bundle of currency. Where is it?”
Rafe said, “Didn’t the wife know her husband was a pirate? Everyone knows pirates always hide their gold, like Captain Kidd did somewhere on Long Island. She shouldn’t have sold the farm, she was stupid.”
Ruth grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe she didn’t believe there was a treasure, like Rob. Or maybe she believed, she simply didn’t know how to find it.”
Dix said, “Knowing Ruth for only three days, boys, you can already tell the most important quality of a successful treasure hunter: You’ve got to believe. You’ve got to be the eternal optimist, and you have to be able to stand lots of disappointment.” He cocked his eyebrow at her.
Ruth stared at him, lounged back in his chair, his fingers laced over his lean belly, his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
She started to say something, but found she had to clear her throat first. “Well, yes, that’s about it,” she admitted.
“So you think the gold’s still there, Ruth?” Rob wanted to know.
She nodded. “Oh yes, it’s there. I think it was in leather pouches, a number of them, and some of them have split open, scattering the coins. But the big cache is under there, still waiting.”
Dix rose. “With that, it’s time for some carrot cake from Millie’s Deli. You can each take a piece, then it’s off to do your homework. We’ve got some work to do down here ourselves.”
Rob stopped long enough on the bottom step of the stairs to tell Ruth that Billy McCleland had come by today to fix the window frame in his bedroom. “No more cold leaks,” he told her.
When the boys were out of earshot, the four adults moved into the living room, taking coffee and tea with them. The house was warm and quiet, except for Brewster’s snoring from his seat of honor on Ruth’s lap. Savich began, “So Dix, you told us the doctor at Loudoun County Community Hospital did a toxicology screen on Ruth when she was admitted. You hear from him yet?”
Dix nodded. “Actually, it was the ME who called earlier. He ran what was left of your blood sample, Ruth. You had the same drug in your system that Erin Bushnell did—a drug called BZ.”
Sherlock said, “I don’t know much about it except I think it’s a gas they used in Vietnam that affects the nervous system. Did he tell you more about it, Sheriff?”
Dix paused for a moment, smiled at her. “Actually, Sherlock, while Savich’s corn on the cob was boiling, I googled it on the Internet. I printed some of it out, so you can look at it later. It’s officially called quinuclidinyl benzilate, but for obvious reasons it’s known simply as BZ. It’s a colorless and odorless gas that’s usually delivered as an aerosol and was developed for the military in the 1960s. It works fairly quickly, causing increased heart rate, blurry vision, lack of coordination. The unusual thing is that it’s what they call a psychochemical—it affects perception and thought, causes hallucinations, confusion, forgetfulness, and eventually stupor.
“BZ didn’t turn out to be much use in war, though, because the effects are unpredictable, ranging from overwhelming fear and panic to all-out rage that led exposed soldiers