The Navigator (43 page)

Zavala squinted through the tinted bubble canopy and jabbed his forefinger downward. “That’s where Kurt and I dove on the wreck,” he said. “Havre de Grace coming up.”

The white spike of the Concord Lighthouse came into view. Then the railroad bridge at the mouth of the Susquehanna River.

Zavala followed the course of the river as the muddy waterway headed in a northwesterly direction. The Susquehanna’s flow was broken here and there by scraggly islands. Rolling agricultural fields out of a Grant Wood painting flanked both shores.

Cruising at a speed of one hundred fifty miles per hour, the aircraft quickly covered the distance to Harrisburg. Traffic on the roads was still light. About ten miles north of the Capitol dome, the helicopter veered east, away from the river and toward a range of mountains. The helicopter passed over dense woodlands and farms, finally dropping down through the early-morning mists to land at a grassy airstrip.

Saxon’s secondhand Chevy Suburban was parked at the edge of the tarmac. As the helicopter’s skids touched the ground, Saxon started the engine and drove across the field. The Suburban pulled up next to the helicopter and Saxon bounded out. He strode under the spinning rotors to greet Zavala and the Trouts with vigorous handshakes. He was decked out for an African safari in cargo pants, a cartridge vest, and a bush hat with the brim curled up on one side.

“Where’s Kurt?” Saxon said.

“Called away unexpectedly,” Zavala said. He hid his misgivings about Austin’s mission with a cheerful smile.

“Damn shame,” Saxon said with disappointment. “Kurt’s going to miss all the fun when we find the mine.”

“You sound pretty confident,” Paul said.

“Joe knows from experience that I tend toward grandiose pronouncements. Showmanship goes with my occupation,” Saxon admitted. “But I would swear on Sheba’s grave that we have the mine within our grasp. I’ll show you.”

Saxon went over to his car and dropped down the tailgate. He snapped open his battered suitcase and extracted a thick wad of papers.

“You’ve been busy,” Zavala said.

“I’m bleary-eyed from staying up all night doing research,” Saxon said. “But it’s been worth it. This is a topographical map of the area of interest. And this diagram shows the old railroad that used to service the coal mines. Joe has probably filled you in,” he said to the Trouts, “but what drew me to this place were the persistent rumors of a legendary gold mine and Indian burial caves. There’s the Gold Mine Road, which winds through the mountains, and an abandoned village called Gold Mine.”

Trout surveyed the woods surrounding the quiet airstrip. His large brown eyes blinked, as they often did when his brain went into ponder mode.

“You’ll have to pardon my scientific skepticism,” he said with typical New England bluntness, “but it’s hard to believe that Phoenicians sailed from halfway across the world and found a gold mine in this pretty Pennsylvania countryside.”

“Skepticism is healthy,” Saxon said. “You have to look at the context. We see walking trails, sleepy villages, and farms. But this land was once inhabited by at least five tribes who lived in twenty villages. In 1600, when the Europeans rediscovered the place, there were nearly seven thousand Susquehannock Indians living in these hills and valleys.”

“What’s your theory on first contact?” Gamay asked.

“I believe a Phoenician scouting ship in search of copper heard about the gold from the Indians. With their skill at organization, the Phoenicians could have hired the locals to open the mine, refine the gold, and established land and sea routes to transport it home.”

“Difficult but not impossible,” Trout said with a nod of his head. “Did I understand you to say that you can actually lead us to the mine?”

“I can lead you to where I
think
it is. Hop in the car and we’ll go for a ride.”

They shifted their bags from the helicopter to the Suburban. Saxon drove from the airport onto a winding country road. After a few miles, he turned off the road and followed a pair of ruts into the woods.

“Welcome to St. Anthony’s Wilderness,” Saxon said as the vehicle bumped in and out of cratered potholes. “This is the second-largest roadless area in Pennsylvania. The Appalachian Trail runs through it. You’ve got fourteen thousand acres of woodlands between First and Second mountains.”

“I wasn’t aware that St. Anthony visited North America,” Gamay said.

“He
didn’t.
It was named after a missionary named Anthony Seyfert. The locals know it as Stony Valley. It’s as quiet as the grave around here now, but in the 1800s hundreds of men and boys toiled in the coal mines. Rail lines came into the village of Rausch Gap, and later served the Cold Springs resort. Almost everyone left when the mines played out.”

“You said
almost,
” Zavala said.

Saxon nodded. “Some smart developers figured out a way to profit from the gold mine legend. They built a place called the Gold Stream Hotel. Tourists stayed at the hotel, and took boat rides into a cave—Pennsylvania is loaded with them. The highlight was the opportunity to pan for gold.”

“They actually found gold?” Gamay said.

“Enough to make the tourists happy. The hotel sold lockets to hold your gold dust. The hotel went out of business after the railroad pulled out.”

“There must have been a source for that gold dust,” Paul said.

Saxon grinned. “Absolutely right. That’s why I think the hotel is the key to unlocking this whole mystery.”

“How is that?” Zavala asked.

“
You’ll
see,” Saxon said mysteriously.

As the Suburban penetrated deeper into the woods, Saxon launched into a description of the wars between the Indians and the settlers, and pointed out ruins of the old mining camps and towers that marked mine shafts. The road ended abruptly at the shores of a lake. Saxon brought the Suburban to a stop.

“Welcome to the Hotel Gold Stream,” he said.

They got out of the car and followed Saxon down a gradual slope to the edge of a lake. Hardly a ripple marred the mirrorlike surface.

“The hotel is under the lake?” Zavala said.

“The hotel used to be in a valley,” Saxon said. “After the place was abandoned, gold hunters came in looking for the source. They had more dynamite than brains. They blew up a natural dam, and allowed the waters of a nearby creek to fill the valley and cover the hotel.”

Zavala walked over to the water’s edge and gazed out at the lake. He judged that it was about a mile wide and two miles long, and surrounded by thickly wooded hills. “How deep is it?”

“Nearly a hundred feet at its deepest point,” Saxon said. “The lake is spring-fed.”

“Standard dive procedure is to plan the dive and dive the plan,” Zavala said. “It’s a big lake. Any idea where we should start?”

“I’ll show you,” Saxon said.

Back at the Suburban, Saxon extracted a file marked HOTEL GOLD STREAM from his bag and handed Zavala a yellowed brochure that touted the features of the hotel, shown as a two-story flagstone building.

A walkway led from the hotel to stairs that went down to the cave entrance, where the tour boats were lined up. A sketch showed people in Victorian attire panning sluiceways for gold. Zavala looked from the hotel layout to the lake, trying to visualize what lay under the surface.

“No one could find the mine when the hotel was high and dry,” he said. “What makes you think it will be any easier under water?”

“The same question occurred to me,” Saxon said. “I was about to call off the expedition when I came across a magazine article about the lost hotel. One of the former kitchen staff described a trapdoor in the kitchen. It had been locked, but the kitchen staff broke the lock and dropped something down to see how deep it was. No one could hear it hit bottom. The management put a stronger lock on the trapdoor because the kitchen people were dumping peelings down the shaft.”

Paul said. “The air shaft could have been dug to ventilate a mine.”

Saxon opened a sketch pad to a page where he had made a reasonable copy of the hotel from the tourist brochure. Double vertical lines marked the air shaft.

“I think the hotel was built
over
the mine,” he said. “The cave may have been part of the mine entrance before the ceiling caved in. The cave-in blocked access but not the flow of gold-laden water. If we go down that shaft, we can get into the mine. Do you think it’s doable?”

Zavala studied the drawing for a moment, going through each step of the dive in his mind. “Any idea how big the shaft opening was?” he asked Saxon.

“No dimensions were given in the article.”

Zavala was a careful diver. He proposed a two-stage plan. He and Gamay would explore the cave first, then check out the shaft. Gamay was a highly skilled diver who had explored many wrecks in the Great Lakes and, later, worked as a nautical archaeologist. With their slim builds, they might be able to navigate the shaft.

While Paul inflated a rubber raft, the divers got into their scuba gear. Saxon had charted out the hotel location on a topographical map enclosed in waterproof plastic.

Trout paddled Gamay and Zavala out into the lake. They dropped a weighted marker buoy into the water. All was ready. The divers rolled over the sides of the raft and disappeared into the depths, with only ripples to mark their passage from one world to another.

AUSTIN WOKE UP FEELING as if he’d been mugged. He had foolishly expected to be fully conscious until the time he met with Baltazar. Instead, he’d let himself be sucker-punched.

A man’s face came into focus less than a yard away. The face was heavily bandaged on the right side.

“Feeling better?” the man said in a disinterested tone that suggested he didn’t care one way or the other.

Austin’s head ached, his tongue was fuzzy, and his vision was blurred.

“Compared to roadkill, not bad,” Austin replied. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Squire. I work for Baltazar.” He offered Austin a glass of clear liquid. Seeing Austin’s hesitation, he spread his lips in a crooked grin that showed missing teeth. “Don’t worry. If Baltazar wanted you dead, you’d be pushing up daisies. It will counteract the effect of the chemical they used on you.”

Austin took a sip. The liquid was cold and had an artificial sweetness. The pounding in his head lessened, and his eyes regained their focus. He was lying on an army cot. His newfound friend sat on a folding chair. They were in a large rectangular tent. Sunlight filtered through the translucent red-and-white stripes.

“I’ve been unconscious all night,” Austin said.

“You must make them nervous. They gave you enough happy juice to knock out a steer.”

Austin drained the glass and handed it back. The man had the husky build of a professional wrestler and wore blue denim coveralls. A pair of aluminum crutches leaned against his chair.

“What happened to your face?” Austin said.

The left-hand side of the man’s mouth jerked downward in a half frown. “
Stuff
happened to it,” he said. “Get up.”

Squire used his crutches to push himself to a standing position. He leaned on the crutches and watched as Austin slowly swung his legs over the side of the cot and got to his feet. Austin was slightly dizzy, but he felt his strength rapidly returning. He clenched and un-clenched his fingers into fists.

Squire caught the subtle motion. “In case you’re thinking about trying something funny, there are two guards outside the tent, and they’re not friendly guys like me. Mr. Baltazar gave me the authority to have them work you over. Understand?”

Austin nodded.

Squire gestured toward the door. Austin stepped outside and blinked in the bright sunlight. The guards were posted on either side of the door. The medieval tunics they wore didn’t match the automatic weapons pointed at Austin. The men had a deceptive lazy look in their eyes, as if they would be glad if Austin gave them a chance to relieve their boredom.

The tent was one of a dozen drawn up in two rows on a large open field bordered by woods. At the center of the opposite row was a raised reviewing stand. The structure was roofed, and closed in on the sides. The corners were built in the shape of towers. Pennants bearing a bull’s-head emblem snapped in the wind.

An open space around fifty feet wide separated the lines of tents. A low wooden rail divided the space in half for most of its length. At each end, separated by the rail, two men in full armor were mounted on gigantic horses. They held wooden lances that had blunt metal points. The huge animals were equally covered with armor, which reflected the morning sunlight.

Someone in the stand waved what looked like a green handkerchief. The armored men spurred their mounts and charged toward each other with lowered lances. The earth shook from the impact of the hooves. The riders met at midpoint with a mighty crash of spears against shields. The wooden lances shattered. The horsemen rode to the end of the rail, spun their horses around, and charged each other with upraised swords. Austin didn’t see the second phase of the fight because his guards herded him between two tents.

He glanced around and saw fields and woods. A flicker of red materialized at the edge of the trees. It was a car moving at a high rate of speed. At the last minute, the driver hit his brakes and the Bentley skidded to a halt, with the heavy bumper inches from Austin’s knee.

The door flew open, and Baltazar got out from behind the steering wheel. The sunlight gleamed dully off the coat of mail he wore under a tunic emblazoned with a bull’s head. He had a wide grin on his broad face. “Nerves of steel as usual, Austin.”

“I’m just moving slowly after the cocktail your men gave me, Baltazar.”

Baltazar clapped his hands. The Squire brought over two leather-covered chairs, which he placed so they were facing each other. Baltazar sat in one and offered the other to Austin.

“What do you think of our little joust?” he said.

Austin gave Baltazar’s armor and tunic the once-over. “I thought I was on the set of
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
”