Precious Cargo

George Whitcomb was a successful orthodonist from Greensboro, North Carolina. Thanks to a thriving private practice and some careful investments, he could now work when he pleased, which was rarely.
There were available mountain retreats that could be had in western North Carolina or Virginia that would be just as nice and far more convenient, but George had his reasons for prefering the one in Maine.
Thousands of citizens owed their perfect smiles to George's handiwork. He was not cheap and his clientele featured many influential families. Southern, conservative families, many from old money.
Families who would frown upon his double life, had they known.
He had never been recognized in Maine, and was careful to never mingle with the tourists who frequented the Sugarloaf Ski Lodge, and never stopped at the store on the main highway where they most often shopped.

It was a glorious afternoon in mid June when the discovery was made.
George was patrolling the shoreline with his latest toy, a metal detector, while his boy toy lay upon a blanket fifty feet away with a picnic basket and a bottle of wine.
Chip was a nineteen year old student from the University of Maine in Orono.
"You silly man. Put that thing away and get back over here while the wine is still cool."
"Wait a minute Chip, I'm getting something here." George said excitedly.
"Sure you are. An old fishing hook perhaps?" Chip joked.
George was walking back and forth along a particular stretch of shoreline and getting a fairly strong signal at the edge of the water.
Holding the wand out over the water intensified the signal. Inspired, he headed over to the dock where his small fishing boat was docked.
"Chip, come on down and give me a hand."
Chip was in the mood to party, not treasure hunt, but he complied cheerfully, always eager to please.
Chip guided the boat while George operated the metal detector.
About a dozen feet from the bank the signal was strongest. The water was at least ten feet deep at this point, dropping off sharply from the shoreline.
To Chip's amusement, George stripped off his clothes and dropped off the side of the boat.
George was in good shape and an excellent swimmer. He easily dove down below, searching the bottom with his fingers, finding smooth silt covered discs.
He came to the suface, dropping a handful into the boat, returning to the bottom.
On his third trip up he was stopped by Chip.
"Slow down, Georgie. You're not going to believe this."
Chip had cleaned a few of the coins with an old rag he found in the boat. They bore ancient inscriptions and Spanish writing.
Now Chip was excited, as well, and joined George in the diving expedition, which continued well into the afternoon.
After the coins were gently cleaned in the kitchen, Chip called a friend of his from the campus, a European history major, after assuring George he would be discreet.
After enlarging th photos sent via I-Phone, Chip's friend said that yes, the coins were authentic.
And they were a)very old, and b)very valuable.

 

Chip's friend also went on to explain the word doubloon is derived from the Spanish word "doblon", meaning double, for the original value of the coin was two escudo, and weighed 6.77 grams.
The inscription engraved on these particular coins was The Pillars of Hercules.
"So tell me, my intrepid student, how do do suppose a Spanish galleon just happened to be cruising this lake three hundred years ago?" George asked jokingly.
"I'd say the big question is how many more are down there?" Chip asked, surveying the seven hundred and twelve coins neatly stacked on the table.
"Only one way to be certain, and that would be to hire a professional diver." George answered.
"And you don't want the publicity."
"Most definitely not, but I know someone who may be able to offer some advice."

The following morning, George placed a call to a must trusted friend, who also happened to be his broker.
Grayson and George had been friends since they were both college freshmen, and he trusted him implicitly.
"You do realize we are talking possibly tens of millions of dollars here." Grayson said.
"Actually, I had no idea."
"I have a name for you, old pal, and I recommend them without reservation. Hornsby Locators."

Hornsby handled the situation effeciently and discreetly. A dive team arrived in an electricians van and went to work discovering an additional sixteen hundred doubloons, and hinted there may be more down there somewhere.
Hornsby put an in house historian on the case as well. There was a record of a Spanish vessel found sunk in Penobscot Bay in the 1500s, but details were sketchy.
The adroit Hornsby investigator dug into folklore of the Abenaki tribe and found mention of a band of Spaniards who perished during a harsh winter.
The investigator speculated that they could have stored the gold on the frozen lake, thinking it was hard ground underneath, not frozen water.
During the spring thaw, it simply fell through the melting ice and sunk to the bottom, where it remained for over five hundred years.

Hornsby was every bit as discreet and efficient as Grayson promised. Rather than arrange a blind sale, which would have taken longer, they offered to buy the gold directly from George, which was preferrable to both parties.

 

"How did you sleep last night?" Chip asked George over coffee.
"Just fine." George lied.
He was plagued by nightmares the likes of which he had never had.
Cannibalism was something that had never entered his mind in the past and he found himself dreaming about it the last two nights.
The night they pulled up the initial coins, he had vivid images of men having their throats cut in their sleep on board a ship.
Having never been a sleepwalker, he awoke to find himself standing on the porch, staring at the lake at three A.M. the night after the diver left

He would be driving Chip to the airport in Bangor today, where he would fly home to spend a week with his parents in Pennsylvania before returning to Orono.
The truckdriver was scheduled to arrive tomorrow to pick up the dubloons and tomorrow couldn't arrive soon enough to suit George.
With the nightmares becoming more frequent and more realistic, the thought of spending a night out here alone filled him with an unexplainable dread.

 

George was fine on the ride to the airport. Chatting with Chip kept his mind away from the nightmares had become increasingly realistic.

George went into his kitchen for a glass of water the night before to find an armless Spaniard sitting at his table.
He flesh was beyond pale, devoid of color, except his lips, which were blue from the cold. Chunks of ice were in his hair.
"They have eaten my arms." was all he said.
Terrified, George ran back to his bedroom to find several men gathered around his bed.
They held knives and forks and two were wearing bibs, as if preparing for a tasty feast.
"Get away from him, you ghouls!" he screamed.
"It's too late George. We told you to put the gold back in the lake. Now you must pay."

"Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up..." came the voice from far away, as one of the ghouls grabbed him by the arms, shaking him.
He finally came to, realizing it was Chip who was shaking him.
Chip urged George into the kitchen, where he poured them each a glass of wine.
"You must tell me what this is all about. How did it start so suddenly?" Chip asked.
"It's the gold." George said.
"What could be so terrible about that? You have just went from wealthy to very wealthy overnight."
"If I tell you, you will think me a foolish old man."
"Of course I won't, now what has been tormenting you so?"
"It's cursed. They want me to put it back."
"Don't tell me you are considering that, George."
"You didn't see them."
"You didn't either, George. You are dreaming them is all. You're just freaking out a little. It will all be over soon. You have my cell number. Call me before you do anything rash, or if you just need to talk."

With Chip on the plane, and George alone with his thoughts, anxiety came over him as surely as the dark clouds materializing in the western skies.
Paranoia was tightening it's grip as he felt a half eaten sailor was in his back seat and he wouldn't allow himself to look in the rearview mirror.
The buzz of his cell phone brought him back to reality and he was grateful for the distraction.
"Hello?" George answered, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.
"Mr. Whitcomb? Clyde Durkins here from Hornsby Locators."
"Ah, hello Mr. Durkins. I don't believe we have spoken before." George said, relieved to be talking to a live human.
"You haven't, sir. I handle pick ups and deliveries. This is just a courtesy call informing you our driver is in Maine and will be visiting you tomorrow. His name is Eric, and he knows you are anxious to conclude this matter.
Once we recieve his call stating the transfer has taken place, and the photographs are emailed, we will transfer the balance of the agreed upon amount to the offshore account you have specified."
After a prolonged silence, Clyde asked "Mr. Whitcomb, are you still there?"
"Yes, yes, sorry. Just watching traffic. That sounds good, Mr. Durkins. I will be waiting."