Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

“Our friends from the bar are following us,” I said.

“Plot thickens,” Truck said.

The mystery men followed us all the way back to Lorient, but kept going through the village when I turned left toward La Banane. I pulled into the shopping center across from the hotel and watched over my shoulder as they accelerated past.

“The hell’s that all about, cuz?” Truck said.

“Good question. The bartender at La Plage did mention a couple big Puerto Rican guys were looking for Jerry, and Marius told us about two men from the Dominican Republic. Could be one and the same.”

Truck and I went into the grocery store. If the two men in the Land Rover came back, they’d see our Jeep here and wouldn’t be searching down the street for our hotel. We bought some cheese and crackers, a few liters of water, and Truck wanted candy.

We walked outside and kept looking up and down the small strip center until the men drove slowly back past. They must have spotted us—they picked up speed and kept going.

We hopped in the Jeep and drove down the narrow lane into the walled parking area of the hotel.

“If they come back, maybe they’ll think they lost us,” I said.

“What the hell, man? Who are those guys?”

“Could be the treasure hunters, and if they think Jerry Atlas knew something about the Concepcíon, they might have beat Gisele Atlas looking for answers.”

“Maybe they staked out her hospital room and followed us from there,” Truck said.

I pulled my long hair back and tried to tie it into a ponytail—not quite long enough.

“I need to think.”

Female laughter drifted from the open bar and we both glanced over to see a pair of women seated on one of the plush couches with a bottle of champagne in front of them.

“I’ll be over there,” he said.

Restless, I made my way back down to the drainage ditch that led to the beach, but rather than walking along the shore I climbed the rocks up to a break in the fence, squeezed through, and continued up the loose gravel driveway toward the mass of green trees and overgrown shrubs at the top. Cactus and a variety of wildflowers grew the length of a stone wall that bordered the washed-out road that circled up the hill to the ruins of the l’Autour du Rocher. The building had been abandoned since a fire destroyed most of it one New Year’s Eve some twenty years ago.

The hotel had been built on the peak of a bluff, and a huge rock formation dominated the center of what had once been a courtyard encircled by rooms, a bar, and a dance floor. The view out over the sea and back across the length of the beach some three hundred feet below was breathtaking in all directions.

Inside I saw evidence of a fresh demolition effort. I was amazed it had taken this long for someone to rebuild the one-time magnet to the likes of Joni Mitchell and Mick Jagger.

The sun was on its way down, and long shadows stretched out like giant roots overtaking their surroundings. A cool breeze gave me a chill as I sat on the edge of the small building in the back, past where the hot tub had been. I stared out over the bay that led to St. Jean and considered the findings of the day.

I checked the phone—there was a message.

“Got your update, Treasure Hunter,” Lou Atlas said. “Not surprised about Jerry. Better a Jet Ski than crashing his car into a sidewalk full-a people.” He paused. “Didn’t know about Gisele, so thanks for telling me. And I agree, keep at it. In fact, I’ll still pay you the $250,000 bonus if you can produce the body. Habeas corpus, as they say. I’ll keep the Visa card loaded and I’ll be waiting on your next update toot sweet.”

Click.

Habeas corpus? How the hell can I produce the body if he drowned out there? Why does it feel like Lou Atlas knows more than he told me? Nothing but the vast silver sea spread out before me, accentuating the absurdity of Lou’s statement.

A distant vibration caused me to sit up. I turned my attention to the sky—the sound—it was unmistakable.

Radial engines.

I jumped to my feet and rushed to the wobbly railing that was the only barrier between me and a steep drop into the water. I scanned the sky as the sound grew louder.

There!

A plane appeared from behind me—floats hanging from the wings, that unmistakable fuselage—a Grumman flying boat.

My stomach clenched. Had someone stolen the Beast?

I peered at it in the fading light. No, too small.

That left only a Widgeon. I swallowed, hard.

It was just a silhouette, so I couldn’t make out the color scheme. Based on its gradual descent and course, I could tell it was headed for the airport here. The sound faded into an echo across the bay, like the cry of a T-Rex across the span of time.

The pit I’d felt in my stomach twisted more tightly. People were already here in search of the Cousteau-de Haenen connection to the Concepcíon, and if they were connected to Jack I’d be in trouble.

I rushed back toward the hotel through the darkness that enveloped the hillside, my mind churning. Harry and Lou had sent me down here under the premise of easing Lou’s conscience. I’d been lured by the destination, the money, and the hope of getting Harry to back me going forward, but things weren’t adding up.

Maybe because I had no idea what the equation was.

Confusion and concern kept Truck and me within the confines of the hotel for the night—that and him being half in the bag from spending the evening chatting up the pair of British divorcees at the bar. They were here to celebrate their new freedom and financial independence after catching