The Navigator (45 page)

Next he handed up the shield and the lance and instructed Austin how to hold them.

“Watch the pennant near the lance head,” Squire said. “It will tell you where the point is.”

“Any other words of advice?” Austin’s voice echoed inside the helmet.

“Yeah,” Squire said. “Let your horse do his work, remember the third tilt, and pray for a miracle.”

He gave the horse a light slap on its flank and the giant animal lurched forward. Austin tried walking the horse in a circle. Val responded well to knee nudges. The weight and fighting equipment were awkward, but the saddle was high in the back and offered some support.

The brief rehearsal was about to come to an end.

A man dressed in the Lincoln green costume of a herald at arms blew a blast on his trumpet. The signal to get ready. Austin brought his horse around to face Baltazar. The second trumpet blast was the alert to lower lances. The third blast followed a second later.

Baltazar dug his spurs in ahead of the signal.

Austin was only a second behind.

The horses accelerated to a rolling gallop that sent clods of earth flying into the air like startled birds. The ground shook as the massive animals and the metal-skinned creatures on their backs flew toward each other in a thundering charge.

USING THE BUOY LINE as a guide, Gamay and Zavala had powered their swift descent with practiced scissors kicks. The lake’s surface clarity had been deceptive. The greenish brown tint had deepened into an opaqueness that cut visibility to a few murky yards. The soupy gloom quickly absorbed the twin cones of light from their electric torches and muted the bright yellow of their wet suits.

Several feet from the bottom they hovered to keep from stirring up a cloud of blinding silt. They consulted a compass, and swam west until a shadowy mass loomed in the murk. Their flashlight beams touched a vertical surface. Glimpses of flagstones were visible in the spinachlike growth carpeting the exterior of the two-story hotel. Fish darted through the glassless windows that stared out vacantly like eye sockets in a skull.

A Donald Duck voice crackled in the headset of Zavala’s underwater communicator.

“Welcome to the friendly Hotel Gold Stream,” Gamay said.

“Every room comes with a water view,” Zavala said. “Must be off-season. No one’s around.”

Although the building was not huge, the mansard roof and stone construction gave it grandeur beyond size. They glided over the wide front porch. The portico had collapsed. Green slime covered the rotting wood where guests of a bygone era once sat in rocking chairs to take in the fresh country air.

They peeked through the entrance. The darkness was almost impenetrable, and the cold emanating from the hotel penetrated their wet suits. They swam around to the rear of the building. Zavala pointed his light at a one-story addition built onto the backside of the hotel.

“That could be the kitchen and service area,” Zavala said.

“Good call,” Gamay said. “I think I see a stovepipe sticking out of the roof.”

They glided down a gradual slope, whose lawn had been replaced with freshwater marine vegetation, to a wide set of stone stairs. At the base of the stairs was a stone apron where the cave boats used to be kept. The granite mooring posts were still in place. The two divers plunged into the open maw.

The stalactites and stalagmites inside the cave had been worn down like the teeth of an old dog, and marine vegetation dulled their once-brilliant colors. Fantastic rock formations hinted at the strange world that once had greeted the eyes of turn-of-the-century tourists.

After swimming about a quarter of a mile against a slight current, they came to the end of the cave. The way was blocked by huge boulders. A cavity in the ceiling appeared to have been the source of the rockfall. Unable to explore farther, they returned to the mouth of the cave, making good time with the current behind them.

Minutes later, they were out of the cave and back behind the hotel. Zavala went along the outside of the service building until he came to a wide doorway. He made his way in, with Gamay right behind. The interior space was big enough to have been the dining room. Zavala swam along the walls until he found a door, and they entered the room. Their lights picked out empty cupboards and large slate sinks. A pile of rust in the corner might have been a cast-iron stove. They examined every square inch of floor. Nothing resembling a hatch cover came to their attention.

“I wonder if we’ve been ‘shafted,’ literally,” Zavala said.

“Don’t give up yet,” Gamay said. “The old kitchen worker was pretty specific. Let’s try that room.”

She swam through an opening into a space around a quarter the size of the kitchen. Shelves lined the walls, indicating the room had been a pantry. She dropped down until her face mask was inches above the floor, and, after searching for a short time, she found a rectangular raised section. She brushed away the silt and found hinges and a rusty padlock.

Zavala reached into a waterproof bag attached to the D ring of his harness and pulled out an angled pry bar around a foot long. He inserted the bar under the trapdoor cover only to have the rotten wood break into pieces. He pointed his light down the shaft. The blackness seemed to go on forever.

“I don’t hear you saying ‘Me first,”’ Gamay said.

“You
are
slimmer than I am,” Zavala said.

“Lucky me.”

Gamay’s reluctance was feigned. She was an intrepid diver and would have gladly arm-wrestled Zavala for the chance to find the mine. At the same time, she had done enough diving to realize she had to be extracautious. Cave diving requires an uncanny calmness. Every move must be deliberate and well thought out in advance.

Zavala tied a length of thin nylon line to the leg of a cabinet and the other end to his pry bar. He lowered the bar into the shaft, but it didn’t touch bottom, even after fifty feet were played out.

Gamay examined the wood-covered sides of the shaft. The wood was soft, but she thought it would hold. The shaft opening was about a yard square, which would allow just enough room for her tank.

Gamay glanced at her wristwatch. “Going in,” she said.

Her supple body slithered over the lip of the opening and she disappeared into the square black hole. The tanks gonged against the sides, dislodging pieces of wood, but the shaft remained intact. Zavala watched the glow fade as Gamay descended.

“What’s it like down there?” Zavala said.

“Just like Alice in Wonderland down the Rabbit Hole.”

“See any rabbits?”

“Haven’t seen a damned thing—hello.”

Silence.

“Are you okay?” Zavala said.

“
Better
than okay. I’m out of the squeeze. I’m in a tunnel or cave. C’mon down. There’s a ten-foot drop after you exit the shaft.”

Zavala slid into the opening and joined Gamay in a chamber at the bottom of the shaft.

“I think this is a continuation of the boat cave,” Gamay said. “We’re on the other side of the rockslide.”

“No wonder the hotel management was upset. The river would have carried the kitchen slops into the boat cave.”

Zavala took the lead again. He swam into the cave, playing his flashlight beam on the walls. The rock formations disappeared after a few minutes.

“We’re in a mine,” he said. “See the chisel marks?”

“This could be the source of the gold that the hotel guests panned for.”

Zavala probed the darkness ahead his light.
“Look.”

A tunnel opening had been cut in the wall to the left.

They left the main cave to explore the tunnel. The passageway was about ten feet high and six wide. A barrel ceiling arced overhead. Alcoves had been cut in the wall for torches.

After about a hundred yards, the tunnel intersected with another at a right angle. The discussion of their next step was short but intense. They could be dealing with a labyrinth. Without a lifeline, they could quickly lose their way. The limited amount of air in their tanks could make the wrong decision a fatal one.

“Your call,” Zavala said.

“The floor on the right-hand passageway is more worn than the others,” Gamay said. “I say we follow it for a hundred yards. If we don’t find anything, we’ll head back.”

Zavala crooked his forefinger and thumb in an okay signal, and they plunged into the passageway. They swam without talking to conserve air. Both were aware that each fluttering kick brought them closer to danger. But curiosity spurred them on until the tunnel ended, and they broke into the open after swimming about fifty yards.

The passageway had ended in a large chamber. The ceiling and opposite walls were beyond the range of their lights. They had come to the most hazardous part of their dive. It would be easy to become disoriented in a large open space. They decided to confine their exploration to no more than five minutes. Gamay would stay at the mouth of the tunnel. Zavala would do the actual exploration. At no time would one diver be out of sight of the other’s light.

Zavala struck out into the darkness, keeping close to the wall.

“Far enough. I’m losing you,” Gamay cautioned.

Zavala stopped.

“Okay. I’m swimming away from the wall. The floor is smooth. This room may have seen a lot of traffic. Nothing to indicate what it was used for.”

Gamay issued another warning. He turned back and homed in on her light. He followed a zigzag pattern that would cover the maximum about of ground.

“See anything yet?” Gamay said.

“Noth—wait!”

He swam toward an amorphous shape.

“You’re moving out of sight,” Gamay said.

Gamay’s beacon had become a smudged pinpoint. It would be suicide to proceed much farther, but Zavala couldn’t stop now.

“A couple more feet.”

Then silence.

“Joe. I can barely see you. Are you all right?”

Zavala’s excited voice came over the communicator. “Gamay, you’ve got to see this! Leave the torch to mark the tunnel and follow my light. I’ll wave it.”

Gamay estimated they had just enough air to navigate the tunnel, rise up the shaft, and make their way to the surface. “We don’t have much time, Joe.”

“This will only take a minute.”

Gamay was known to use salty language, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She placed the flashlight on the floor and swam toward the moving light. She found Zavala next to a circular stone dais about three feet high and around six feet in diameter. The surface of the platform was covered with rotten wood and pieces of yellow metal.

“Is that gold?” she said.

Zavala held a yellow piece of metal close to her mask. “Could be. But this caught my attention.”

In brushing away the wood, Zavala had exposed a metal box around a foot long and eight inches wide. Raised lettering on the top of the box was partially obscured by a black film, which came off with a wipe of Zavala’s glove. He murmured an exclamation in Spanish.

Gamay shook her head. “It
can’t
be,” she said.

But there was no denying the evidence of their eyes. A name was embossed on the box lid:

THOMAS JEFFERSON

THE HORSE THUNDERED TOWARD the gorge like a runaway battle tank. Austin fought to stay in the saddle. He was top-heavy from his weapons and armor. One foot had slipped from a stirrup. His steel-encased head bounced like a bobble-head doll’s. His shield was sliding off his arm. The long lance pointed everywhere except where he wanted.

Val’s hooves clattered onto the metal bridge. Through the eye slits, Austin caught a blurred glimpse of a gleaming spear tip and the bull’s-head emblem on Baltazar’s tunic. Then the horses were off the bridge and back on the grassy turf.

Austin let out the breath he’d been holding and tightened the reins. He slowed the horse and brought it around to face Baltazar, who was on the other side of the gorge calmly watching Austin’s disarray. Baltazar lifted the helmet from his head and held it in front of his chest.

He shouted: “Good joust, Austin. But you seem to be having some trouble keeping things together.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd of onlookers.

Austin removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his mailed glove. He ignored the pain from his half-healed rib wound and called back in defiance. “I was distracted by thoughts of my new Bentley.”

Baltazar plucked the car key from the helmet and held it high above his head. “Don’t count your Bentleys before they hatch,” he taunted.

Austin reached into his helmet for the folded paper and held it in a Statue of Liberty pose. “Don’t spend your gold before you find it.”

Maintaining his frozen grin, Baltazar hooked the key back onto the horn and lowered the helmet onto his head.

Austin turned in his saddle and glanced at the lone figure in white sitting in the Bentley. He waved and the figure waved back. The gesture gave him renewed encouragement. He stuffed the paper into his helmet and lowered the steel pot onto his shoulders.

The trumpet blew its warning clarion.

Austin balanced his shield against the saddle and elevated the spear a few times to get a feel for its balance. He tilted his head forward and watched through the eye slits as Baltazar called Adriano over and bent down from the saddle to speak to him.

The second trumpet blast shattered the air.

Austin angled the lance to his left so the point would be in the path of the oncoming rider.

The trumpet sounded for a third time.

Austin apologized to Val and dug his spurs in. Baltazar’s figure grew larger in the vision vents. Austin crouched low behind the shield, keeping his lance aimed at Baltazar’s chest as Squire had advised. His hard breathing sounded like a steam engine inside the helmet.

At the last second, Baltazar raised his lance. The point caught Austin’s helmet under the eye slits and levered the steel pot off his head.

Then they were over the bridge.

Austin wheeled his horse around in time to see his helmet hit the ground near where the bridge joined the edge of the gorge. Adriano ran out and snatched up the helmet. He handed the helmet to Baltazar, who extracted the paper with a flourish. He read the words Austin had written and gave the paper to his hired killer. Adriano headed for an SUV, but before he drove off he handed off the helmet to a jouster, who ran over and tossed it up to Austin.