by David Wood
“Not entirely.” Nomi flashed him a sly grin. “I’m actually here on business.”
“Now you’ve got Maddock’s attention,” Bones said. “Dude has no idea how to vacation. I invited him to Vegas and he wanted to know if there were any good museums.”
“I like museums.” Nomi flicked a grin Maddock’s way.
“I see how it is,” Bones grumbled. “So, what’s this business you’ve got?”
When Nomi hesitated, Maddock said, “I assume it has something to do with the dive today?”
She nodded. “I wasn’t honest with you about why I was there. Understand, I didn’t know you at all. Actually, I still don’t know you, but I’ve done some digging and your story checks out. You truly are former SEALs, quite accomplished, in fact. And you’re treasure hunters. And then there are your more eccentric pursuits,” she said to Bones. “The skunk ape? Honestly.”
“No imagination.” Bones winked at her.
Maddock hid his smile behind his bottle of beer. If the woman only knew half of what they’d seen and done.
“In any case,” she went on, “I need to fully explore the passages connected to the spring and I can’t do it alone. Will you help me?”
“What are we looking for?” Maddock asked.
“What’s the pay?” Bones said at the same time.
“Let’s say we’re looking for my inheritance,” she said carefully.
“We’ll need a bit more information than that,” Maddock said. He didn’t like the woman’s cagey style, but he’d been in the treasure hunting game long enough to know that suspicion ran rampant, and with good reason. It was a cutthroat business. Other treasure hunters thought nothing about scooping a find out from under your nose.
Nomi took a deep breath. “Have you heard of Black Caesar?”
Maddock sat up straight. Having been raised by a man who was obsessed with pirates, he had, indeed heard of the former slave turned buccaneer. “I have, but I don’t know a great deal about him.”
“He was Haitian, wasn’t he?” Bones asked.
“You’re thinking of Henri Caesar,” Nomi said. “Some did, in fact, call him ‘Black Caesar,’ but he came along almost a century later. The man of whom I speak was a fearsome pirate who was hanged in 1718.”
Maddock knew the general outline of Black Caesar’s life. A fearsome warrior and charismatic leader during his days in Africa, he was enslaved through an act of deception. On his way across the Atlantic, he befriended one of the crew who later freed Caesar. The two made their escape on a lifeboat and began a life of piracy. Caesar eventually joined forces with the famed Blackbeard aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge, and served among the crew until his execution.
“So, Caesar’s Spring is named after Black Caesar?” he asked.
“Yes. The name survived but the story behind it did not. The Florida Panhandle has not always been the sort of place where a site named for a black man would be something to crow about.”
“And you think he hid treasure here?” Bones asked.
“Treasure and more. That he maintained a headquarters on Caesar’s Rock near Key West is common knowledge, at least among those familiar with pirate lore. But my research indicates he also had an underground headquarters in this area, very close to Caesar’s Spring. I’ve done enough searching to be satisfied that the main entrance has collapsed.”
“What makes you think we can get to it by water?” Maddock asked.
“The few stories I could find all mention a spring-fed pool in the headquarters. One large enough for him to drown his enemies in.”
Maddock nodded, considering. “I don’t know. The bedrock in this area is porous, so it’s not a given that the pool, if it exists, would necessarily be connected to the spring.”
“This land was privately owned until very recently, when the owner passed away,” Nomi said. “The man who owned it was a scuba diving enthusiast in the 1980s. He privately claimed to have found a few gold coins in the spring. I did some checking and he did, in fact own three gold coins from the proper time period.”
“You think a few bits of treasure drifted down the passageway over the centuries,” Maddock said. “I suppose it’s possible. Certainly worth investigating.”
“So I ask again,” Bones said, “what’s the pay?”
“Half of any gold and jewels we find. I keep all artifacts of historical importance, plus any personal effects we might discover. If our search turns up nothing, we’ll find a local bar and drown our sorrows on my dime.”
“What do you say, Maddock?” Bones asked.
“Well, we did come here to do some diving.”
“Works for me.” Bones drained his beer and reached for the cooler. “There’s one thing I don’t like about this.”
“What’s that?” Maddock asked.
“I was really looking forward to heading to the beach and scamming on the college chicks.”
Chapter 4
Glastonbury, England
Agnes Baxter, the widow of the deceased Charles Baxter, lived in a small cottage on a residential street in Glastonbury. It hadn’t taken much searching for Isla to track her down. It had been a simple matter of getting her name from her husband’s obituary, then looking her up in the local directory. Bless old people and their devotion to landlines.
She had decided not to call ahead. It was easier to tell someone “no” over the phone than in person. She’d simply do her best to charm the old woman. Painting on a smile, she rapped twice on the door.
“Who’s there?” a sharp voice called.
“Isla Mulheron,” she replied.
“You’re a heron?” the voice asked. “What foolishness is that?”
“My name is Mulheron.” This time she spoke slower and louder. “I’m here about your husband’s research.”
Silence.
Bloody hell. I’ve made a botch of it already. But then doorknob turned and the door opened a crack.
Rheumy blue eyes, unnaturally magnified by thick eyeglasses, peered up at her. “You say you’re here about Charlie?”
Isla nodded. “I’m a writer for Scottish Adventure magazine. I’m doing a piece about Glastonbury Tor and Arthurian legend. I understand your husband was something of an expert.”
Mrs. Baxter pursed her lips, her owlish gaze seeming to penetrate Isla. “I don’t much care for the Scots. Difficult to understand you people.”
Isla resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I understand. I’ve lived in London and in New York, so my accent hopefully isn’t too heavy.”
“Don’t much like reporters, either. Always misquoting you.”
Isla was quickly losing hope. Over Mrs. Baxter’s shoulder, she saw a television flickering. She recognized the person onscreen immediately.
“I’m working in conjunction with Grizzly Grant. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“Grizzly” Don Grant was a television personality known for investigating ancient mysteries, legendary creatures, and bizarre conspiracy theories. Isla had recently written a series of articles about his investigations. Through that process she’d discovered that, in addition to being famous, he was also a buffoon. But Agnes Baxter did not know that.
“You know Grizzly?” Agnes shot a glance back at the television.
“I do. Let me show you.” She took out her smartphone and called up a photograph. It was taken on the shore of Loch Ness. Isla stood by the water, flanked by Grizzly on one side and two men on the other—a handsome blond and a massive Native American. Dane Maddock and Bones Bonebrake. The sight of Maddock’s blue eyes caused the back of her throat to pinch, and she hastily stretched the image so that only she and Grizzly were visible. She held it up for the old woman to see.
Mrs. Baxter’s countenance changed in an instant. She smiled, shuffled backward, and opened the door.
“Please come inside. Grizzly is just wonderful, don’t you think?”
“He is quite the character,” she said.
The house was brightly lit, an
d smelled of lemon-scented cleaner. Agnes, as she insisted Isla call her, ushered her to a dining room table and busied herself preparing tea.
“How long have you known Grizzly?” she asked. “I have been watching his programs for years.”
“Only a few months, actually. We did an investigation of the Old Gray Man, and another of Loch Ness.”
“Scotland.” Agnes’ tone underscored her opinion of the Scots. After several minutes of preparation, she served up strong tea and a plate of biscuits. Isla hadn’t eaten today and had to restrain herself from devouring them.
“What is it you want to know about Charlie’s work?” Agnes took a sip of her tea and stared intently at Isla.
“My readers and Grizzly’s viewers are interested in local legends that connect King Arthur or any of his knights to the tor. I was told your husband was an expert on such things.”
Agnes smiled. “Some might call it expertise; others called it eccentricity. But yes, he gathered many such stories.”
Isla drank her tea while Agnes summarized the familiar legends surrounding the tor. Arthur once freed Guinevere from a fortress at the summit. Arthur was brought to the tor to heal after the final battle. Glastonbury was the site of Avalon. She had heard all of these before but wanted Agnes to warm up to the subject and hopefully let down her guard, so she smiled, asked a few questions, and took notes.
“Have there been any archaeological finds connecting the site to Arthur?”
“You mean aside from the discovery of the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere?”
The story rang a bell with Isla, but she wanted Agnes to keep talking. “I haven’t heard about that.”
“In 1191, acting on information given to King Henry II by an elderly bard, the monks at Glastonbury excavated a spot between two stone pyramids. Far below the surface they uncovered a hollowed-out log containing two bodies. One was a large man with a severe head injury, the other a woman with long hair. Along with it they found a stone slab, or a cross, depending on which story you believe, naming the deceased as Arthur and Guinevere.”
“Inside a log, you say?”
“That was not unusual for Arthur’s time period. At least, that’s what my husband told me. There’s a marker showing the site where the bodies were found.”
“What happened to their bodies?” Isla asked.
“No one knows. They were removed sometime before the dissolution of the abbey in 1539.”
“You said the bodies were buried between pyramids? Odd, isn’t it?”
Agnes dismissed the question with a wave of an arthritic hand. “That’s not the oddest bit.” She lowered her voice, as if afraid someone might hear. “My husband says the bodies were not those of Arthur and Guinevere. In fact, they were not human at all. At least, no human he’d ever seen.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“The skeletons were exceptionally tall; taller than the tallest man, and their eyes were huge and widely spaced.”
Isla nodded, her thoughts racing. If the skeletons were alien, then the artifact she sought could be alien in origin. But there was something else that had caught her attention. “At least, no human he’d ever seen.” Charles Baxter had seen these skeletons, and if she did not miss her guess, that meant they were still somewhere in the area.
“Did your husband mention any legends about a secret passageway beneath the abbey? Perhaps one that led to the tor?” When Agnes didn’t reply, she pressed further. “Or any legends about Launcelot?”
Agnes set her cup down on the table and slowly sat up straight. “You are looking for the Sword Bridge.”
Something about her demeanor told Isla to proceed with caution. In the background, the television flickered. She heard Grizzly droning on about a monster in New Jersey.
“It’s just something Grizzly wanted me to ask about. He didn’t go into any detail.”
Once again, the mention of the television host put Agnes at ease. “The villain, Maleagant, abducted Guinevere and took her to an island made of crystal, accessible only by the Sword Bridge. Some legends say Glastonbury Tor was that island. The Celtic name for it translates to Isle of Glass.”
“What happened to Guinevere?”
“Launcelot came to her rescue. He used a magic ring to defeat Maleagant and save the queen.”
It took all of Isla’s will to maintain her composure. This was exactly what she had been sent to find.
“Did your husband ever find a magic ring?” She’d blurted the question out before she’d realized what she was doing. But it had the desired effect.
Caught off guard, Agnes blurted, “Yes, but he didn’t keep it.”
“What did he do with it?”
“He put it back where it belonged. It was a holy object.”
Isla frowned. “Holy to whom? Pagans?”
Agnes shook her head. “My dear, you have the wrong idea. The ring was brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea.”
Isla’s head spun as she tried to connect the legends of the Red Spring with the Arthurian myths. Was Agnes conflating myths, or had Nineve sent Isla off in search of a Biblical artifact?”
“This is all fascinating. Can you tell me where he put the ring? I’d love to see it.”
Agnes shook her head.
“Did he put it with the skeletons?” She hoped another direct question might rattle some useful information out of Agnes, but this time it did not work.
“I will not tell you where it is.”
“I promise I’m not out to steal it. I won’t even tell Grizzly about it if you don’t want me to.” She hated being forced to drop Grizzly’s name, but it was the last bullet in her gun.
“It’s not a matter of trust or secrecy. It’s about keeping you alive. The Sword Bridge killed my husband.”
“What do you mean?”
Agnes took a long time to answer. Tears, magnified to pearlescent marbles, welled behind her lenses and spilled down her cheeks.
“He was a young man when he found the ring, and he managed all right. But when he decided to replace it...” She shook her head. “I told him he was too old, but he insisted. When he came home there was something different about him. Died in his sleep that very night.”
“I’m so sorry.” Isla reached across the table to take the old woman’s hand, but she pulled away. “This probably won’t make any sense to you, but I have to at least try and find the ring. I can’t explain why, but I’m going to do it. Can you tell me anything that can help me?”
Agnes sighed, and then fixed Isla with a pitying look that said the woman expected she’d never see Isla again.
“I only know what my husband said. He used to repeat it, like a mantra. ‘Follow the stony path. The bridge is real. The lions are not.’ That’s all I know. Now I would appreciate it if you would leave.”
Isla thanked Agnes, who saw her to the door in stony silence. Outside, Isla took a moment to consider what she’d learned. The ring was real, and she had a feeling she knew where to look for it.
Chapter 5
Caesar’s Spring, Florida
The tunnel was pitch black, the confines cramped, but to Maddock it felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket. He loved these sorts of places, free from the distractions of the real world. Perhaps that made him odd, but what of it? It was a quality that allowed him to plumb depths that many would not risk. Countless times he’d seen others turn back or even panic due to claustrophobia or the inability to tolerate the utter lack of light and sound.
Bringing up the rear, he paused to secure a directional marker to their reel line. This was, in fact, their third line. It was a risky proposition, delving this deep, but this was the only passage that hadn’t become impassable after a short distance. Perhaps this one would be a winner.
He clipped the arrow-shaped marker onto the line, then turned to follow Bones and Nomi. He didn’t have to follow far. Up ahead, the two had come to a halt.
Bones turned toward Maddock, shook his head, and drew a finger across his t
hroat. Another dead end.
Maddock raised his palms as if to say, are you sure?
Bones held his hands a few inches apart. Too narrow.
For some reason, this did not sit well with Maddock. Ordinarily, the confines would gradually constrict until a diver could no longer squeeze through. This change seemed sudden. Curious, he swam forward to take a closer look.
The opening up ahead was, in fact, too narrow for any of them to squeeze through. But as he scrutinized it, he realized the way was blocked by fallen chunks of stone. Silt and debris had accumulated in the cracks—enough to give the illusion of solidity. Getting the others’ attention, he shone his light on a spot and gently probed it with his knife, being careful not to stir up too much silt.
Bones nodded in understanding, then pointed at the ceiling and cocked his head. The question was clear. Will we cause a collapse if we try to move it?
This was new. Bones being the cautious one?
Nomi appeared to understand. She pointed at the rocks and nodded.
Maddock now gave the spot a second look. Bones’ caution had caused him to reconsider. Perhaps it was too risky. What if nothing lay beyond except more darkness? He directed his light through the narrow opening and his breath caught in his throat.
Not more than ten meters beyond, a pile of skulls grinned back at him.
They needed no more convincing. Carefully, he and Bones began removing the debris. It wasn’t long before minute particles filled the water, rendering visibility nil. They labored as if working in a blizzard, only able to see a few inches in front of their faces. After three very long, tense minutes, they had cleared enough of a path for the three of them to swim through.
Maddock went last, playing out the last of their line. It was a tight fit. Bones had scarcely squeezed through, and Maddock, though not as massive as his friend, was broad of shoulder. He proceeded with caution, trying not to knock anything loose. As he slipped through, he heard a dull knocking sound, and something grabbed him by the fin.
He looked back to see that a large chunk of rock had fallen, catching the tip of his fin and partially blocking their way out. Nomi could probably squeeze through, but it would have to be moved before he or Bones could pass. Carefully, he worked himself free and rejoined his companions.