“Dave, I don’t know, man … I’m just not seeing it … anywhere,” 32-year-old Steven Lol Nevets dispiritedly divulges via his Samsung smartphone while gazing at the filtered-sunlight-mutedly-gleaming Pacific Ocean from the 480-foot-high (146.3 meters above sea level) Neahkahnie Viewpoint turnout off US 101 in northwestern Oregon on a mild Friday afternoon in October of 2019. “I checked up and down behind that low rock wall. Three times. Nothing.” Bet someone saw it. And grabbed it. Such a preposterous idea. So needless. What a blunder. Won’t be my fault, though. Or, will they think I found it … and re-hid it?
“No, Steve, it’s behind the tallest tree – a Douglas fir, I believe that’s what he said – behind the parking area’s stone-and-grout vehicle barrier,” 34-year-old David Otto Divad clarifies. “Jake left it there six minutes ago. Only the black cap is exposed; the tube is buried in soft, dark earth.” ‘The tube is buried in soft, dark earth’? Such madness. Completely unnecessary.
“Just six minutes ago, eh? Why couldn’t Jake have just met me here for a fast-sweet-and-downright-discreet handoff? I could already be in Manzanita with it.” This Jake guy must be way paranoid. Bet he’s a full-blown cokehead.
“This is Jake’s way – his proven method, Steve. It has worked fine every single time; he’s batting a thousand – a 100% successful transfer rate. Our keen Fil-Am [Filipino-American] never likes for the recipient to see him. He’s our faceless but trustworthy, good-as-gold ghost courier.” ‘Ghost courier’? Sheezus! These mind-drug dealers are all wacky.
“Ok, I’ll go check behind this nearby tree,” Steve then says.
“I’ll stay on the line, Steve,” Dave informs. I’m sure you will.
After 23 shoes-crunching-fallen-twigs seconds, Steve reports to Dave: “Nope, no black cap anywhere around the tallest tree. No signs of the moss-covered ground being disturbed in the slightest.”
“Oh, dear …” Dave groans.
“Was anyone up here when he planted that bulbous test tube?” Steve enquires as he notices a black sports car with appears-to-be-illegally-dark-tinted windows roll into the turnout from the north and park at the southern side of the lot. No one gets out.
“Jake said that there was no one at the vista point while he was there,” Dave replies. “No vehicles in the parking lot, and no people were seen.”
“Dave, I noticed a faint trail by the stand of trees that seemed to parallel the highway, leading north towards the Neah-Kah-Nie Mountain Trailhead. Do you think that a hiker may have stumbled upon it?” Why did he suggest that?
“Sincerely doubt it; highly unlikely, Steve. In fact, I would put the odds of that happening at 1 in 10,000. Are you sure that you looked behind the tallest tree?”
“I’ll check behind the one that looks nearly as tall, Dave.”
“Ok, I’ll still stay on the line, Steve.” Why, of course.
“Hey, maybe I was looking behind the wrong tree, Dave. I’m coming up on one that may actually be taller, but is a little lower on the slope.”
“Good deal, Steve. I will be on standby awaiting your propitious, vial-recovery announcement.” Propitious? Who says that word? Guess Dave does.
After 47 sigh-filled, boulder-bounding seconds, Steve is at the base of another evergreen conifer. He bends down to get a closer look at the black soil around the root-mounded base. And right then his sleek, slender phone … slides … out of his left-front, brushed-linen khaki pants pocket. It strikes a rock … and ricochets down … onto … another slab. Oh, no! Bet the phone is shot.
Steve carefully walks down to the severely damaged cell phone. He ruefully retrieves it. The all-black, lifeless screen now has 29 fault-line cracks. So much for this one. Wonder what Dave is thinking. ‘Did Steve just get whacked on the back of the head by a lurker?’ No, probably not that. More like: ‘Did that bastard Steve find it and decide to bolt?’ Bet he is thinking precisely that. And, I bet he’ll have his goons come up here in no time. The largest batch of the sublime substance that allows partakers to see and hear scenes from the past. The real-moments-relived psychedelic. In a league by itself. A good chance to potentially make $4M … Gone in a flash. Oh yeah, I’ll have ‘friends’ very soon. That’s for certain. Hmmm … what should I do? Should I just explain it to … Shit! Footsteps already?!
After quickly scanning his surroundings, Steve decides to hide behind a grassy berm about 20 feet (six meters) northeast of the second investigated tree. He soon hears a male cough. The five minutes seem to last 555 ponderous seconds. When he takes a peek, no one is seen. Anywhere. Whew! That was close. Probably too soon for one of Dave’s thugs to be up here. Bet that it was the guy in the Porsche. Probably had to take a piss. Bet that was it.
Steve quietly walks back to tree no. 2. And there on the northwest side of the trunk, nonchalantly resting on the dark earth, is a black, plastic, soda-bottle-style cap. Oh, my! This wasn’t here before. So, that guy was Jake. Jake from State Farm? Ha! Sure wish that I had gotten a good look at him. Hmmm … Dave said that Jake had already left it here – BEFORE I arrived. Jake, you wily snake. But, what advantage does Jake gain by falsely reporting the time of the tube planting? This is strange. Well, he must have seen my car in the turnout lot. But, does he know if that is my car? Maybe. But, maybe not. Where does he think I am right now? Checking behind every Douglas fir in this area? Still on the road? Well, I’m taking it – taking my chances right now.
With a gentle turning-while-pulling motion, the small glass vial is plucked intact from the damp soil. Steve brushes the dirt off with his right index finger. The small, oblate-test-tube-shaped vial contains a viscous, opaque, emerald-green liquid. Got it! Now, what should I? Footsteps? Again! What the hell is going on? Need to get the hell out of here. Fast!
Steve bolts eastward and races up the sylvan slope. He quickly steps over the galvanized steel highway guardrail and runs across a vehicle-vacant, two-lane US 101. Just before a black-on-yellow, diamond-shaped pedestrian crossing sign, he begins climbing a steep, densely wooded grade. However, in only 50 feet (15¼ meters), the tree canopy suddenly ends. Medium-build, light-brown-haired, straw-hatted Steve is now on a grassy field on the western flank of Neahkahnie Mountain. He notices that there are now three cars in the turnout: his silver Honda Accord, the same black Porsche, but there’s now a red car parked next to it. That looks like Dave’s [Ford] Mustang. Need to get closer for a better look.
After passing southward through a small stand of pine trees, Steve has an excellent view of the turnout from a vantage point some 80 feet (24.4 meters) above the parking lot. The black sports car and his silver sedan remain parked, but the red sports car is now gone. No persons are seen. Man, this is odd. What in the world is going on? Do they think that something happened to me? That I fell down the slope? Hmmm … Bet they know the vial is gone by now. Is one of them in the woods looking for me? Right now? And, is the other one at/near the north trailhead? Perhaps they think I went lower – towards that tiny beach. Are they yelling my name. ‘Steve, are you ok? Where are you?’ We must kill you. Yep, that’s probably their mindset now. Though, still don’t understand why Jake buried the vial after he said he did. Was it just a casual inaccuracy? No, this was planned down to the minute. Dave would not tolerate such. He knew I was closing in on the turnout. Was he just running late? And didn’t want to admit that he was off schedule to Dave? Hmmm … What’s that noise? Oh, no!
The sounds of a group of excited hikers coming closer from upslope dominate the sonic milieu. Their exhilarated chatter is unintelligible at first. But a few seconds later, Steve hears a young man boast:
“Hell focking yeah! We found the site of the long-lost Spanish gold in the heart of Neahkahnie. The vault is under that skeleton. I am absolutely mother-focking sure of it, mates! That heavy flat stone that we kept hitting was the lid. We’ll come back here early tomorrow with the proper tools and equipment and unearth that sweet-ass booty. We’re gonna be rich, comrades! So filthy focking rich!”
Steve is caught between a wide-open grassy patch with nowhere to hide and a wooded, almost-a-sheer-cliff slope. He backs up to the edge. What a predicament. I’m in a pickle – another pickle. A pickle within a pickle. What a freaking day! Nancy [his half-Siletz girlfriend] is never going to believe this. No, don’t think I will tell her. Even if I survive.
The group of five early-to-mid-20-something Caucasian hikers, three males and two females, with pointed shovels of various sizes on their shoulders, suddenly see him and stop. An awkward and tense proto-human pause congeals between them. This aint good. Not in the least. They know that I heard Mr. Loudmouth-Foulmaw’s proclamation.
“Guys, you’re going to have to act fast,” Steve shouts from 45 feet (13.7 meters) away. “There is company down in the parking lot. They will be up here very soon. You need to distract them. Maybe start digging right where you are.”
“And, exactly who in the hell are you?” the burly, dark-haired, bearded, snorting male asks, as the troupe of amateur trove-trackers inches closer. Oh, shit! This aint going well. Don’t want to be slashed to death by a slew of shovels – the five of spades. What a ‘lovely’ way to die. Ughhh ... Well, what to do now? Think! Time to dash back. It’s the only option. Have no weapon. Can’t out-brawl all of them.
Without answering, Steve begins to sprint back the way he came. The three men give chase with shovels in hand; the women stay behind. The gap between them remains about 60 feet (18.3 meters) as Steve approaches the bosky, dicey descent. Must not slip and fall. If I do, it’s over.
“Stop running, man!” the slenderest, most fleet-of-foot fellow yells. “Let’s talk.” Yeah, right! Talk about my burial site?
Halfway down the shaded slope, Steve’s lead shrinks to just 36 feet (11 meters) over the quickest one. The lean lad has left his other two pals several paces behind; he is gaining on Steve with every monkey-armed, hug-trunk-and-slingshot-to-the-next-tree maneuver. Damn. He’s almost on me. Hurry. If I can just get to the highway …
Steve sneaker-slides down the last semi-steep section to alight on the northbound lane of US 101. He looks west and sees the tantalizingly-tranquil-from-afar, teal-tethered sea, and then looks south. There is a two-cruiser Highway Patrol roadblock. Woah! Good and bad. Won’t be shoveled to death now. But, need to hide the mind serum. Where?! This ditch will have to do for now. Don’t press down too hard. Must not break the glass. Easy, easy. Ok, done.
Just as the shovel-toting male trio emerges from the woods, a service-revolver-drawn Manzanita police officer steps onto the southbound lane from the other side of the road. Never have I been so glad to see a cop. Perfect timing.
“The footrace is over, boys. It’s now time to talk under the bright light in my cozy office. You’re all under arrest. Toss the shovels aside and put your hands behind your heads. And don’t try anything foolish. We’ve got this whole area surrounded.”
The five hikers would be cited for unlawful excavation in a state park. They would pay a greatly reduced fine (for telling the truth), do 100 hours of litter-removal community service, and go about their lives. The skeleton that they discovered was actually that of a teenage girl who went missing several decades prior. The flat stone under the adolescent female’s remains was actually the top of a ledge-like geologic feature. Moreover, it was not where the fabled Neahkahnie Mountain Spanish treasure was buried.
Steven and David would be questioned independently and repeatedly over the course of three days. Both lied to varying degrees, David astonishingly. Steven would state that David wanted him to see what the five hikers were up to, and that when the hikers saw him watching them digging, they gave chase. David would say that he drove up there for the view, and ate a late lunch alone in his car. He stated that he did this fairly often. The police didn’t know what to make of their bizarre, non-corroborating stories. But, with no evidence of a crime being committed and no contraband, both were never charged with anything.
Neither Steve, nor Dave, call or text the other. Suspicion reigns.
Then, four evenings after the misadventure, Steve, now free and clear of police scrutiny, drives up to the Neahkahnie Viewpoint to retrieve the priceless vial. The forecast has rain moving in overnight, and he fears that it could get washed away.
After parking in the turnout, Steve walks up US 101. The vial is right where his left tan-rubber sole pushed it into the storm-water-run-off-ditch silt. He contentedly extracts and pockets it. Back in his Honda, feeling ultra-ecstatic, he wraps the vial in some fast-food napkins and places it in the glove compartment.
While heading north on US 101, his new-number smartphone chirps. The text message:
My police ploy failed to remove David, but other means have. So, a close call with the local shovel brigade. Stop. Escape is futile. Let’s talk. – Jake