Hunt at The Well Of Eternity gh-1

by Gabriel Hunt

  The boat emerged into another long channel between fields of saw grass. It was empty in both directions as far as Gabriel could see. Hoyt turned to the right, proceeding at a less breakneck pace now.

  They hadn’t gone a hundred yards when, with a roar, the other airboat surged out into the channel behind them.

  “Son of a gun!” Hoyt exclaimed. “That fella must have a pretty good man at the tiller to get through those mangroves.” The airboat jumped ahead again as he goosed the motor. He looked back at Gabriel. “Don’t you worry. I know a place where we can lose ’em for sure!”

  “You’d better find it fast,” Gabriel said, pointing. A couple of men on Jet Skis had appeared in the channel in front of them and were racing toward the airboat, firing guns as they came.

  Chapter 5

  At least he had some suitable targets for the Colt now. Gabriel reached behind his back and whipped out the revolver. He leveled it and squeezed off two shots at the man on the right as Hoyt shouted, “Give ’em hell!”

  The man Gabriel had targeted went backward off the Jet Ski, which shot into the air as it went out of control. The other man veered away as Gabriel swung the Colt toward him. Gabriel triggered one shot but then held his fire as the man circled and retreated.

  “Son of a—” Hoyt exclaimed. Gabriel jerked his head and saw that smoke was coming from the airboat’s motor now. Hoyt shouted, “Bullet must’a nicked an oil line! We can’t keep runnin’ full out like this!”

  “Can you fix it?” Gabriel asked.

  “Yeah, if folks’ll quit shootin’ at us!”

  Gabriel thought for a second. “You ever play chicken?”

  “Now you’re talkin’!” Hoyt said as a grin creased his leathery face.

  His hands moved with assurance on the controls. The airboat wheeled to the left—to port, Gabriel corrected himself; this was a boat, after all—and kept turning until it was headed straight back at the airboat that had been pursuing them.

  “Get behind the seats!” Gabriel called to Hoyt. That meager cover probably wouldn’t stop a high-powered rifle bullet, but it was better than no cover at all.

  He had extra bullets in a pocket. He stretched out on his belly on the bottom of the airboat and thumbed fresh rounds into the Colt’s cylinder, loading all six chambers.

  The other airboat wasn’t backing off. The two craft leaped at each other, the gap between them closing in a matter of heartbeats as the men at the controls held both throttles wide open.

  Gabriel braced his gun hand with the other hand around his wrist and began firing. He felt the wind-rip of a bullet near his head but didn’t hear it because the roar of the airboat’s motor drowned out the slug’s whine.

  The rifleman had bellied down, too, to make himself a smaller target. As the airboats roared toward each other, the space between them narrowed to the point that Gabriel could make out the man’s face. It was no surprise that he recognized it.

  The rifleman was the ugly bastard who had carried Mariella Montez out of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  “Who’s gonna blink?” Hoyt called. Black smoke continued to trail behind the motor, but so far it hadn’t missed a beat.

  “Better be them,” Gabriel said. The other airboat loomed in front of them, mere feet away. If neither pilot’s nerve broke, this was going to be one hell of a crash.

  But then the other airboat suddenly juked to the left as the man at its controls shoved the tiller over. Hoyt’s boat shot past so close that Gabriel almost expected the two vessels to scrape against each other. He twisted his neck to look behind them and saw that the other boat had turned so sharply that it left the water entirely, soaring several feet into the air and tipping to the side. The rifleman and the pilot both had to leap for their lives as the boat went over.

  The out-of-control airboat was almost upside down as it slammed into the water with a huge splash and broke apart. The fan was still whirling madly and stirred up the water even more in the second or two before the motor stopped. With all the silvery spray in the air, Gabriel lost sight of the two men.

  He said to Hoyt, “Get us out of here and find a quiet place where you can repair that engine.”

  “Sure thing. I think I’m gonna have to charge you the whole three hundred, though.”

  “We had a deal,” Gabriel said with a grin.

  “I charge extra for gettin’ shot at.”

  “Fair enough,” Gabriel said.

  Hoyt found a shady slough where the thick, overhanging mangrove limbs gave them some concealment in case anybody else came looking for them. While Gabriel swatted at mosquitoes and watched snakes wriggling past in the water, Hoyt repaired the oil line.

  When Hoyt was done, he slapped the engine housing and said, “We’re ready to go. You still want to head for the battlefield?”

  “That’s right,” Gabriel said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, it seems to me that those fellas with the guns didn’t want you goin’ out there.”

  “I don’t let little things like that stop me.”

  Hoyt chuckled. “I didn’t really figure you would. Just thought I’d ask.”

  It was quiet and peaceful under the mangroves, but Gabriel was glad to get moving again. The wind kept the mosquitoes off and cooled him down some. His shirt was dark with sweat.

  About thirty minutes later Hoyt brought the airboat to a stop next to a dock that extended a short distance into the stream they had been following. An asphalt road started at the dock and led off through a thick stand of pines.

  “Battlefield’s a couple hundred yards that way,” Hoyt said, pointing up the road. “Want me to come with you?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary,” Gabriel said. He stepped from the boat up to the dock.

  “I’ll tinker with this motor some more, then. Make sure the repair job I did will hold up until we get back.”

  Gabriel walked along the road until it merged with another road leading from the highway. This was the road the tropical storm had washed out, he assumed. To his left was the battlefield site’s parking area, and just beyond it the visitor center and museum. Behind the visitor center Gabriel could see a long open field bordered by swamp on one side and a pine forest so thick as to almost be impenetrable on the other. That was the battlefield itself, he supposed.

  This was a state park, he reminded himself, so it was probably illegal for him to be carrying his Colt. But he figured breaking the law was the lesser of evils when people were out to kill him.

  With the road closed and few, if any, tourists arriving by airboat, he knew the visitor center might be closed, in which case the trip out here could well have been for nothing. But he had come this far and wasn’t going to turn back now. He walked on toward the building.

  A man pushed open the glass door and stepped out as Gabriel approached. The man was wearing a butternut-colored Confederate army uniform, complete with a campaign cap and brown pack. He carried a long muzzleloading rifle with a bayonet attached to the barrel. With no one in modern dress around other than Gabriel himself, it felt a little like stepping back in time.

  Then he heard a ringing noise and the Confederate soldier took a cell phone out of his pocket and answered it. So much for time travel.

  By the time Gabriel reached him, the man had finished his conversation and was putting the phone away. He was wearing modern wire-framed glasses, too, Gabriel noted, instead of old-fashioned spectacles. He said, “Sorry, sir, we’re closed today. Most of the staff and volunteers can’t get in because of problems with the road.”

  “You’re here,” Gabriel pointed out. “Or have you, ah, been here since the battle?”

  The man looked puzzled for a second, then laughed. “You mean the uniform? I’m one of the reenactors here. I was just trying on a new uniform when I saw you walking up the road. Did you come by airboat?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I suppose I could let you take a look around, since you went to that much trouble. I’m Stephe
n Krakowski, by the way.”

  “Gabriel Hunt.” Gabriel shook hands with the man.

  “Come on inside.” Krakowski led Gabriel into the visitors center, which had the usual exhibit cases, gift shop, and snack bar that most such tourist attractions sported. “Are you interested in the Battle of Olustee in particular, or the Civil War in general?”

  “I’m interested in this battle,” Gabriel said as he headed for the glass display cases. In one, he saw there were flags spread out. “One cavalry regiment in particular.” He studied the flags, looking for a match to the one Mariella Montez had brought to New York. He didn’t see one.

  “Which regiment?”

  “The Fifth Georgia.”

  “Ah. General Fargo’s regiment.”

  Gabriel tried to keep from looking too eager. “You’re familiar with it?”

  “Of course. I even played General Fargo in a reenactment one time.” Krakowski leaned the rifle he’d been carrying against the display case, then went into the gift shop and came back with an oversized leatherbound book. “This isn’t for sale, but we keep it on hand for reference. The local historical society had it printed up around the turn of the century.”

  “You mean the turn of the twentieth.”

  “Of course.” Krakowski set the volume on one of the display cases and opened it. “This is a history of the battle put together from the accounts of several officers who participated in it. It lists all the units and officers who took part and includes biographical sketches of most of them.” He flipped through the book, found the page he was looking for, and rested a finger on it. “There’s General Fargo. You can see that I don’t look much like him.”

  That was true, Gabriel saw as he studied the old, sepia-toned photograph reproduced in the book. Krakowski was rather moon-faced and balding under his campaign cap. General Granville Fordham Fargo had been a lean, intense-looking man with deep-set eyes, a lantern jaw, a mane of salt-and-pepper hair, and a close-cropped beard. Even in the photograph, he had an air of command about him, which wasn’t surprising considering that he had led a cavalry regiment.

  Gabriel scanned the biographical sketch of Fargo that accompanied the photograph, but nothing unusual jumped out of it. Fargo had been born and raised on a Georgia plantation and had been a planter, surveyor, and college professor before the war. Seemed to have spent his entire life happily within the confines of the state—until the war, at least. He had helped form the Fifth Georgia when the war began and had risen to command it by the time of the battle at Olustee in 1864.

  There was nothing in the brief account to explain the events of the past day. Gabriel felt a twinge of frustration.

  “Did Fargo contribute one of the accounts of the battle that are in this book?” he asked.

  Krakowski shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t have been possible.”

  “Why not? Was he killed in the fighting?” Gabriel glanced at the biographical sketch again and saw that it listed no date of death.

  “Oh, no, General Fargo survived the battle and the war itself. But then…he disappeared.”

  Gabriel frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Most people think that the war was completely over once General Lee signed the surrender terms at Appomattox,” Krakowski said. “But that’s not actually the case. There were Confederate army forces spread out all over the South, and some of them refused to concede defeat. That’s what happened with General Fargo and some of his men. Most of the regiment went home once they got word of Lee’s surrender, but General Fargo wasn’t ready to give up. Instead of going back to Georgia, he and the other holdouts went west instead, across Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. The last anyone knows for sure, they were in Texas, heading south to the Rio Grande.”

  “They were going to Mexico,” Gabriel guessed.

  “Probably. A number of Confederate officers believed that if they fled to Mexico or even further, to South America, they could keep the dream of the Confederacy alive down there. General Fargo was one of that group.” Krakowski shrugged. “Most of them eventually gave up and came home, but not General Fargo. He was never heard from again.”

  If the man had ended up in Mexico or South America, that might at least be a tenuous link between the Fifth Georgia Cavalry and Mariella Montez, Gabriel thought. If she was from that area, her family could have wound up somehow with the general’s battle flag and passed it on down through the generations. Fargo might well have had that bottle of Old Pinebark whiskey with him, too, and the empty bottle could have become another family keepsake.

  This theory didn’t answer a hell of a lot—it didn’t explain why she’d thought Michael would be interested in these relics, or why anyone else would be willing to kill over them—but it was a start.

  “Would you happen to know anything about the Fifth Georgia’s battle flag?” he asked Krakowski.

  “Which one?”

  “They had more than one?”

  Krakowski nodded. “They had two. They had the standard regimental battle flag, the one I’m sure you’ve seen, the flag known as the Stars and Bars.” The man made a face, as if a bad taste had suddenly filled his mouth. “You know, the one that everyone hates because all the skinheads and white supremacist groups like it so much.”

  “Of course.”

  “They’ve got the Fifth Georgia’s regimental in a museum in Mexico City. That’s one of the reasons people are fairly sure General Fargo made it at least that far. We’ve been in contact with the museum to see if perhaps they might be willing to return it to us, but so far that arrangement hasn’t been worked out.”

  “Got it,” Gabriel said. “And the other flag?”

  “That’s one I’m pretty sure you haven’t seen,” Krakowski said, and Gabriel restrained himself from saying, Don’t be so sure. “That one was General Fargo’s personal standard. I’ve seen a drawing of it made during the war, but the actual flag itself has never been found.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “I wish I could draw it for you,” Krakowski said, “it was really quite impressive. But I’m no good at all with a pencil. It had a red background with crossed sabers in the corners, and a circular painting in the middle with a cavalryman on a rearing horse in the foreground. Very striking. It must have been something to see, flying at the front of the regiment as they went into battle. You can hardly imagine.”

  “I think I can,” Gabriel said. “Do you know how the museum in Mexico got hold of the flag they have?”

  Krakowski shook his head. “I’m afraid you’d have to ask the director down there. It’s not unusual for American artifacts to turn up in Mexico, however. The two countries are side by side, after all, and there’s always been a lot of traffic both ways across the border.” He paused. “I must say, it’s unusual for anyone to be so interested in a figure as obscure as General Fargo. Hereally doesn’t have much historical significance. And to be asked about him twice in the course of one month—”

  Gabriel looked up sharply from the book containing the general’s portrait and biography. “Twice?” he said.

  “That’s right. A couple of men were here late last month doing research on him. They claimed to be distant relatives…descendants, I mean. But they didn’t really look like genealogists.”

  “Let me guess,” Gabriel said. “One of them was a big guy, short blond hair, nose that’s been broken a couple of times, scars on his cheeks and around the eyes?”

  Krakowski nodded. “That’s right. Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met,” Gabriel said. “Who was with him?”

  “They didn’t give me their names,” Krakowski said with a shake of his head. “The other man was older. Gray haired and very distinguished looking, with a narrow mustache and these moles, two of them, right over the mustache, on his upper lip. They left a generous cash donation to support our programs.”

  The description of the second man didn’t ring any bells, but he was sure the first man was the same one who had tried twic
e to kill him in the past twenty-four hours. He said, “They didn’t leave you a card, or any way to get in touch with them?”

  “I’m afraid not. I just helped them with their research. It’s why I have all this information at my fingertips. When they came, they had to wait while I hunted it down, took the better part of an hour just to find this book.”

  “I’m sure they were glad to wait,” Gabriel said. He reached for his wallet. “I appreciate your help myself, Mr. Krakowski.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t hinting for a donation,” the man said hastily. “Of course, anything you want to give will be put to good use, but I just enjoy meeting someone else who’s interested in the war. Anyway, like I said, we’re not officially open today…oh, my God.”

  Gabriel looked up sharply. Krakowski was staring at the door. Gabriel glanced that way, too, and saw Hoyt Johnson standing there.

  The shocking thing, though, was the man standing behind Hoyt with a gun pressed to the old-timer’s head.

  Chapter 6

  “You are a stubborn, troublesome bastard, Hunt,” the gunman said.

  “You’re pretty stubborn yourself, to escape that airboat flipping over like that and come back for more,” Gabriel replied.

  The killer ground the gun barrel against Hoyt’s temple, making the swamp rat grimace in pain. “I’d’ve let go at him with my shotgun, Mr. Hunt, if I’d seen him in time,” Hoyt said, “but he snuck up on me.”

  A stunned Stephen Krakowski regained his voice and stammered, “Th-that’s him. One of the men who came here asking about General Fargo!”

  “I figured as much,” Gabriel said. He asked the gunman, “What do you want?”

  “Right now, just for you to leave us alone.”

  “Let Hoyt go and I give you my word—”

  Gabriel didn’t get a chance to finish what he was saying. The man pulled the gun barrel away from Hoyt’s head, pointed it at Gabriel, and said, “I don’t trust your word.”