Hunt at The Well Of Eternity gh-1

by Gabriel Hunt

  He kept making turns for several minutes, just to throw off any possible pursuit, then cut back south toward the Long Island Expressway. His nerves were steady despite the attempt on his life. It wasn’t his first. But he heaved a sigh of relief anyway.

  Then he reached for his cell phone.

  “Everything’s quiet here,” Michael said. “Are you okay?”

  “Just annoyed. Oh, and the convertible took some damage. I’ll leave it at the airfield and you can have somebody pick it up tomorrow.”

  “Of course. What happened?”

  “Somebody in an SUV just tried to push me off the Queensboro Bridge. Our friends from earlier in the evening, I’d guess.”

  “How did they find you?”

  Gabriel felt a pang of anxiety for Mariella. “I’m guessing they forced Señorita Montez to tell them who she was trying to give her package to. That’s why I told you to lock everything down at the brownstone. If they found me, they can find you.”

  “Well, they can find me,” Michael said, “but no one’s getting in without my say-so.”

  “Good,” Gabriel said. “Don’t give it to any men in a black SUV.”

  “Or any waiters,” Michael said.

  Gabriel grinned as he drove through the night. “That’s right. Or any waiters.” He shut the phone off. The airstrip was near.

  Michael had shown him on a map where the Battle of Olustee had been fought in 1864. The nearest town with an airport was St. Augustine, “the oldest European settlement on the North American continent,” the guidebook entry Gabriel had consulted said, “founded by Spanish explorers more than five hundred years ago.” He had called ahead to have the Foundation’s private jet readied for takeoff, so as soon as he’d filed a flight plan for St. Augustine, Gabriel got in the air.

  When he was at cruising altitude and had switched the autopilot on, he was finally able to sit back and think about everything that had happened over the past several hours. He had certainly never expected so much excitement when he’d struggled into that monkey suit for the reception at the museum. At most he had thought that he might find some willing female companionship for a late supper and a few drinks after the reception, followed by…

  Well, things hadn’t gotten anywhere near that far, Gabriel reflected. The most attractive woman he had met tonight was Mariella Montez, and their relationship had been brief, hectic, and filled with mystery and danger.

  Not the worst start to an evening, Gabriel reflected, but the ending could’ve been better. No man likes seeing his prospective date carried off by a linebacker in livery.

  He had no idea where Mariella was and preferred not to think too much about what was happening to her. The men who had carried her off were clearly the sort to stop at nothing to get what they wanted.

  And what, exactly, was that? A tattered battle flag and an antique whiskey bottle? What made those two items so special?

  The flag and the piece of the bottle were in Gabriel’s bag. He went back into the jet’s passenger cabin, leaving the plane to fly itself, and got them out to study them. He looked at the bottle first.

  There was nothing special about it that he could see. The printing on the label had faded with time, of course, but it was all still legible. He could still make out the two pine trees that flanked the name OLD PINEBARK. He turned the piece of glass over and peered through it at the back of the label, just in case something had been written or drawn on it before it was pasted on the bottle.

  Nothing.

  He set the piece aside and unfolded the flag, spreading it out on a table under a good light. The picture in the center of the flag had a lot of detail worked into it. Behind the cavalryman on the rearing horse was a large field of some sort.

  A cotton field, of course. There were even tiny figures in the field. Slaves. Gabriel’s mouth tightened.

  More men on horse back galloped over the hills to the right of the figure in the foreground, near the bullet hole. A hunt, perhaps? To the left was the plantation house, with more tiny figures in front of it. Southern belles in hoop skirts. It was like a scene out of Gone With the Wind.

  He sat down in one of the cushioned seats around the table and leaned back. How had these artifacts of the Old South wound up in the hands of the beautiful young woman who had brought them to the Metropolitan Museum to give to Michael Hunt?

  He didn’t have an answer. And he had no idea if any answers would be waiting for him in Florida. It was just the only place he had to start looking.

  Gabriel stared at the flag until his eyes hurt, feeling like there was something there he wasn’t seeing. After a while he shook his head and gave up. It might be better to come back to it later, he decided, and study the situation with fresher eyes…and a fresher brain, to boot. It had been a long night and he hadn’t had any sleep so far, not to mention having to fight for his life several times. And he still had miles to go.

  Florida loomed up ahead in the darkness as hereturned to the cockpit and the jet continued to arrow southward. The Sunshine State.

  Maybe it would shine some light on the ugly mystery that had already cost a dozen people their lives.

  Chapter 4

  Gabriel rented a car at the St. Augustine airport, then found a motel room not far away and crawled into bed for a few hours of much-needed sleep. When he got up the next morning his muscles were a little sore from the battering they had taken the night before, but the stiffness went away after a half hour in the motel’s pool.

  Over breakfast in the motel coffee shop he studied a map he had taken from a rack in the office that showed how to get to the Olustee battlefield and historical site. As the waitress paused by his table to freshen his coffee, she said, “You goin’ out to the battlefield, hon?”

  Gabriel smiled. “That’s right.”

  “That’s funny, you don’t look like a Civil War buff.”

  “Get a lot of them through here, do you?”

  “Oh, yeah, those reenactors come down to the battlefield all the time. You know, they’ve filmed some Hollywood movies there, durin’ the reenactments those fellas put on.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Gabriel said. Since the woman was talkative and the coffee shop wasn’t very busy, he asked her another question. “I suppose there are descendants of men who fought in the battle living around here?”

  “Sure. Most of the fellas in the battle were Florida boys. On the Confederate side, anyway.”

  “What about General Fargo? Any of his descendants in these parts?”

  The woman frowned. “Who?”

  “General Granville Fordham Fargo. He commanded a cavalry regiment during the battle.”

  The waitress shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t know anybody named Fargo who lives around here. And I’ve been in St. Augustine all my life.”

  “Well, it was a Georgia cavalry regiment,” Gabriel said.

  “There you go. The general and his boys must’ve gone back home. Those that were lucky enough to make it home.” The woman leaned over the table and tapped a finger on the map. “You know you’re not gonna be able to get out there today, right?”

  Gabriel shook his head and said, “No, I didn’t know that. Why not?”

  “Road’s washed out. We had a tropical storm come through here last week, and all the damage hasn’t been repaired yet. Only way in is through the creeks and the sloughs and the swamps.”

  That didn’t sound very promising. Gabriel had slogged through more than one swamp in his life. He didn’t like them. Didn’t like the mud, and the roots that wrapped around a man’s ankles, and the cottonmouths and the gators and the mosquitoes that sometimes seemed damned near big enough to carry you off.

  But he hadn’t come to Florida to sit around a motel waiting for a road to be repaired.

  “Any place around here I can rent a boat?”

  “You’ll need an airboat to get where you want to go.”

  “What about a place I can rent an airboat, then?”

  “Just
so happens you’re lucky today, hon.” The waitress pointed to a man sitting at the counter. “There’s the fella you’d need to talk to, right there.” She raised her voice. “Hey, Hoyt!”

  The man looked up. “Yep?”

  The waitress motioned to him. “Come over here. This fella wants to go out to the battlefield.”

  Gabriel would have preferred not to have his business announced to the entire coffee shop, but it was too late to worry about that now. Hoyt got up from the stool at the counter and came over to the booth Gabriel occupied, taking his time about it. He carried his coffee cup in his left hand.

  He was somewhere in his sixties, Gabriel estimated, although with a man who had obviously spent much of his life outdoors it was hard to tell his age. Hoyt was short and slender, with a lined, leathery face and a short gray beard. He wore a Jacksonville Jaguars cap, a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up over deeply tanned forearms, and faded jeans.

  “You don’t look like one o’ those reenactors,” Hoyt commented as he came up to the table.

  “I’m not,” Gabriel said. He put out his hand. “Gabriel Hunt.”

  “Hoyt Johnson.” He shook Gabriel’s hand.

  “I gather you have an airboat.”

  “Sure do. Make my livin’ guidin’ huntin’ and fishin’ parties. You much of an angler?”

  “When I get the chance,” Gabriel said. He motioned to the bench seat on the other side of the table. “Why don’t you sit down and join me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Hoyt slid into the seat and held out his cup to the waitress, who still stood there with the coffee. “Hot that up a little, would you, Patsy?”

  When they both had fresh coffee and the waitress had gone back behind the counter, he asked, “You’re not a drug smuggler, are you?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  “It’s just that you look like a fella who knows his way around. Not the touristy type, if you get my drift.”

  “I am here on business,” Gabriel admitted.

  “Not illegal business?”

  The only crime he’d committed lately was tampering with evidence. Well, that and discharging a firearm illegally on the Queensboro Bridge. But he didn’t think the men in the SUV would be filing any complaints with the police about the incident.

  “No,” Gabriel said with a shake of his head.

  “Well, you don’t look any more like a crook than you do a Civil War buff, I guess,” Hoyt said. “I can take you out there to the battlefield. Not today, though. Have to be tomorrow.”

  Gabriel didn’t want to wait. For one thing, that would give the men who wanted him dead more time to figure out where he had gone.

  “It’s worth some extra money to me to go out there today,” Gabriel said.

  “How much more extra?”

  “I suppose that’s for you to decide.”

  “Well…I’ll take you out there and back for three hundred bucks.”

  Gabriel had a feeling that Hoyt would be disappointed—maybe even suspicious—if he agreed to the price right away. So even though Gabriel could have paid double without hesitation he said, “How about two hundred?”

  Hoyt appeared to think it over, then said, “Split the difference?”

  “Done,” Gabriel said and extended his hand again. The two men shook on the deal.

  “When were you wantin’ to leave?” Hoyt asked.

  “As soon as I finish breakfast.”

  Hoyt pointed out the window. “Go right down this road half a mile and you’ll come to the marina where I keep my boat. I’ll go gas her up and see you in a little while.”

  The old-timer left the coffee shop. Gabriel finished his eggs and toast, drained his coffee mug, thanked the waitress for her help, and went out to the rental car. He didn’t need to go back to his room for anything. The Colt was already tucked behind his belt at the small of his back, concealed by the bomber jacket. Until this mess was settled, he didn’t intend to go unarmed any more often than he had to.

  He saw a sign pointing the way to Ponce de Leon Harbor and remembered reading that St. Augustine, in addition to being the oldest settlement on the continent, was also supposed to be the home of the legendary Fountain of Youth. Probably a lot more tourists came here because of that than did to see some Civil War battlefield, Gabriel reflected. But at least the battlefield you could see. Good luck renting a boat to take you to the Fountain of Youth.

  A number of airboats were docked at the marina Hoyt had mentioned. The giant fans that propelled them were mounted at the rear of the boats, which were little more than rafts with seats attached to them. Gabriel spotted Hoyt on one of the boats, and the old-timer waved when he saw Gabriel coming along the dock.

  “Come aboard,” Hoyt called.

  Gabriel stepped from the dock onto the boat. Hoyt waved him into one of the seats.

  “Ready to go?” he asked as he stood beside the motor.

  Gabriel nodded. “Any time you are.”

  Hoyt cast off the line that held the boat to the dock, then pulled the motor’s start rope a couple of times. The motor caught on the second pull. The giant fan was just a blur as the motor’s roar rose into the air above the marina. The boat eased away from the dock and out into the harbor, where Hoyt turned it toward an inlet and increased the throttle. The boat began to skim over the water.

  Hoyt steered it skillfully into a wide watercourse that separated a narrow island from the mainland, then veered off into a smaller channel. Over the noise of the motor he called to Gabriel, “There’s so many rivers, creeks, and sloughs once you get inland that a fella’s got to know where he’s goin’ or he’s liable to wander around for days out there!”

  Gabriel nodded, the wind of their passage ruffling his hair. “I’ve been in swamp country before,” he shouted back. “I know what it’s like.”

  They soon left St. Augustine behind them. Penetrating the interior of northern Florida was hardly like venturing into the jungles of South America or Africa, but itreally didn’t take long to reach an area where there were a lot fewer signs of civilization. Great pine forests crowded against the stream banks in places, while in others the channel wound through mangrove swamps. The airboat glided past an occasional peanut field and vast expanses of saw grass.

  They were cutting across country, avoiding the sprawling metropolis of Jacksonville, but there were still planes flying overhead and power line towers jutting up into the blue sky. When you kept your eye on the water and the surrounding landscape, though, with fish jumping and flamingos standing around mangrove roots and moss hanging from the trees, it was easy to see that some things hadn’t changed much over the years. Much of this territory looked the same as it had when Seminole Indians paddled dugouts along these same creeks and sloughs.

  “How long will it take us to get there?” Gabriel asked.

  “Be about an hour!” Hoyt replied.

  Gabriel sat back. He didn’t know if he would find what he was looking for at the battlefield. He wasn’t even sure just what he was looking for. He’d know it if he found it. And if he didn’t find anything, he’d know that, too. In that case he’d have to find some other place to pick up the trail.

  The one thing he wouldn’t do was to entertain any notions of failure. He would find Mariella Montez, and he would find out what was behind her kidnapping and the attack at the museum, and he wouldn’t stop looking until he did.

  Splinters suddenly jumped from the wooden armrest of his seat. Gabriel stared at the raw place on the armrest for half a second before he realized that a bullet had done the damage. He jerked around to look behind them. The fan blades were moving so fast that it seemed unlikely a bullet could have made it through them.

  “What’s wrong?” Hoyt shouted.

  Before Gabriel could answer, a bullet struck the outboard motor’s housing, whining off into the hot and sticky air. Hoyt jumped. “Son of a bitch!”

  Twisting in his seat, Gabriel saw that another airboat had emerged from the mouth o
f a slough they had just passed. The tall saw grass had hidden it until now. It surged across the water after them, and the man standing on its bow with a rifle in his hands brought the weapon to his shoulder and leveled it.

  “Get down!” Gabriel shouted.

  The old-timer flung himself against the tiller and sent the boat slicing to the side in such a sharp turn that Gabriel thought for a second it was going to overturn. He looked back and saw that the rifleman had lowered the gun. Now he was urging the man at the controls to go faster.

  “Can you lose them?” Gabriel shouted at Hoyt.

  “Damn sure try!” the old-timer replied. He increased the throttle until the airboat was going so fast Gabriel felt like it might leave the water at any time.

  The other airboat fell behind for a moment but then increased its speed as well. Gabriel didn’t want to try firing his Colt through the fan because the bullets might bounce back from the blades. Anyway, the range was a little too much for a handgun.

  Not for a rifle, though. Gabriel heard ringing sounds as bullets panged off the fan blades. If it was hit enough times it might be damaged and stop running. Then the other airboat could overhaul them with no trouble and he and Hoyt would be sitting ducks for the rifleman.

  The bad guys had gotten out here in the swamp in a hurry. Gabriel wondered if a member of the gang had been in the coffee shop, keeping an eye on him, and had heard the waitress announce that he was going out to the Olustee battlefield.

  With a huge spray of water, the airboat turned from the channel it had been in and began weaving through some mangroves. Gabriel’s jaw tightened. He thought that at any second one of the underwater roots might rip the bottom out of the airboat or flip it into the air, but Hoyt seemed to know where he was going.

  “This ought to throw ’em off our trail,” he called to Gabriel. He didn’t appear to be all that flustered by being shot at, and Gabriel wondered just what sort of things the old swamp rat had been mixed up with in the past.