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.