Haunted (7 page)

Carmelo was surprised. “Your
map
?”

“You heard me.”

There were already maps and satellite photos on the table. Belton saw my confusion and, after hesitating, patted my hand in the same friendly way I had patted his. “I consider myself a good judge of character, young lady. I’m going to show you where we found these bottles. You enjoy history. You seem to know something about it. No”—I had started to thank him—“this is to my advantage, not yours. I want your opinion on some photos I took. However, I will ask one favor in return. It has to do with—”

From the RV, Carmelo interrupted, “Should I take my boots off, Mr. Matás?” He was standing at the door, the door open.

Belton made the sound people do when frustrated but patient. “
Always
, Carmelo. That’s the rule. Oh, and please bring the magnifying glass. It’s on the desk.”

He turned to me. “It has to do with Dr. Ivanhoff. I’ve met some fine archaeologists. I’ve also met one or two who are egocentric thieves and their position gives them a license to steal. I don’t know the man. Until I do, I’d like you to keep this just between us.”

“Sure,” I said. Already, I was hoping to be invited along on his next bottle expedition. However, I also reminded myself,
You don’t know this man any better than you know Theo. Take it slowly.
Which is why I didn’t offer collateral in the form of information about my uncle, the blockade-runner.

Carmelo placed a briefcase on the table: leather and tarnished buckles. Belton removed a laptop, which he opened, then a cardboard tube that contained another satellite photo. As he arranged things, I looked at more bottles. They had been rinsed but not cleaned. Muck and sand clung to the inside. They had a distinctive odor familiar to me.

He noticed. “What are you thinking?”

I took another sniff. “Sulfur. Where I grew up, well water tastes like this. My mother still prefers it. Not as strong as the smell of mangroves or some spots in the Everglades. That could be because you rinsed them. Otherwise, I’d guess you found these underwater.”

Raised eyebrows, a boyish pretense of shock on his face. He slid the photo in front of me. “I think
you
might be the witch. Have a look.”

The satellite photo could have been shot from a helicopter, the details were so clear. It showed a river switchback, cattle pasture on the west side, which might have been part of the old Cadence estate. To the east were old-growth mimosa trees—feathered
leaves gave them away—then dense cover, brambles and palmettos and bayonet plants. Stamped into the chaos was a vague rectangle, a pile of bricks or rocks at one end. A squarish pile of something else was nearby and the faintest hint of pathways, one through trees to the east and a narrower path that vanished before it got to the river.

“Use this.” Belton handed me the magnifying glass.

It didn’t help much. After a while, I sat back. “There was a house here with a chimney. Not a big house. Maybe an outbuilding or two and fencerows. This is what I can’t figure out.” I indicated a spot on the photo. “It looks like a stack of bricks. Part of the chimney, maybe, after it fell, but that doesn’t seem quite right.” I tried the magnifying glass again.

No need. Belton pulled his chair around and used the computer, which neither of us could see until he dimmed the lantern, its hiss dropping an octave. Moths fluttered, one hammered against the screen. He swatted it away and opened a file while our eyes adjusted.

“I don’t know what it is either,” he said. “If it was smaller, I’d think some kind of brick oven. Now I’m thinking a root cellar, a cool place to store things. It’s coffin-shaped but too big for that. And why would anyone build a crypt way out here anyway? It’s eight-by-four and at least five feet deep, with an arched cover that’s falling in. But still solid. The bricklayer who built this really knew his trade.”

Right away, from the photo, I knew what the structure was but let him click through more images, Belton saying, “Carmelo shot deer there as a kid and remembered the foundations of what had
been a house. Yesterday afternoon, on the river—he’s got an electronic fish finder on his boat—we passed over something interesting on the bottom. That’s why we went back today.”

Carmelo, listening to every word, said, “I’m a good shot. And lotsa big fish.”

My attention sharpened. “But you weren’t fishing.”

“No, of course not,” Belton said. “There’s a deep spot there. Almost fifteen feet deep, which is unusual in a river this narrow, and he happened to mention hunting. Then he remembered the house, so I said let’s have a look. I didn’t expect much. But isn’t that the way it always happens?”

Carmelo moved to a spot on the ground while Belton opened a new photo. Vines curling through its bricks, the structure was rectangular, shaped like a loaf of bread. The vaulted cover had collapsed, but enough bricks remained to form a graceful arch.

“It’s a rain cistern,” I told him. What I wanted to ask was,
What did you find on the bottom of the river?

Belton concentrated on the photo. “Are you sure? Hannah, I’ve seen photos of cisterns from that period. They’re usually big wooden barrels held together with iron hoops.”

I said, “People used bricks if they knew how to do it. I’ve seen cisterns the same shape in Key West and some other places. How far is the house from the river?”

“Only fifty yards or so. They had plenty of water.”

I said, “Not if you had to carry it in a wooden bucket. That’s far enough back to avoid flooding, but they would’ve needed a cistern. Fifty yards is a long walk through heat and mosquitoes.” Then I did ask about what they’d found in the river, but indirectly. “Is the
boat equipped with a fish finder? Or an actual bottom-reading unit? One is a lot more detailed and expensive.”

“Hannah Smith, the fishing guide,” Belton reminded himself. Cautious again. No . . . he was suspicious.

I said, “I’m not interested in catching bass. I’m wondering what might have sunk there during the Civil War. Why else would you be interested?”

“Why, indeed,” the man said. On his face was a mild smile. He seemed to be waiting for me to elaborate. I was tempted to come right out and tell him that Capt. Summerlin had scuttled a boat somewhere in the area—possibly this river. My great-great-uncle’s journal had yet to reveal details.

But I, too, have a suspicious streak, particularly when it comes to strange men. So I reached and pulled a map of Florida closer. “Explain to me why Union troops would be this far south?”

“Ale bottles from Massachusetts,” he said. “Smart girl. But that’s no guarantee the beer was drunk by Union soldiers.”

“Maybe not. But soldiers from the North would’ve come by boat. You can carry a lot more supplies in a boat than on horseback. Bottles of beer are too heavy to carry more than a few on horseback.”

That was only a partial explanation. I knew Union soldiers had been here because the attorney had shown us photos of their uniform buttons. Belton Matás sensed I was holding back but played along by offering an overview of the Civil War—or started to—when I noticed Birdy walking my direction.

I got to my feet. “I think my friend’s ready to go. Can we talk tomorrow?”

He stood at gentlemanly attention and signaled for Carmelo to stand, too. “My pleasure, Miss Hannah Smith. But how about this? Come with us in the morning and I’ll show you where we found the bottles. Carmelo has to get gas for the boat first—that means driving to a gas station—so how about nine-thirty?”

I didn’t want to bring up Theo’s name or the plans we’d made. “It would have to be later. I wouldn’t want to hold you up.”

“Let’s say noon, then.” His eyes found Birdy. “Invite your friend along.”

“That’s nice of you. I’ll ask her on the walk back.”

“You didn’t come in a car?”

“We were told it’s faster to come across the old railroad bridge.”

Belton cleared his throat. “Some advice from an old man: I wouldn’t wander around here alone at night.”

That caused me to look at Tyrone’s double-wide. No reason, I just did. Once again, there was a face at the window, a shadow that watched Birdy approaching or watched me. I felt sadness for the person inside, not fear. I held up a hand and waved to acknowledge his existence.

The blinds snapped closed . . . then opened. A single hand polished the window in slow motion, two brief strokes—a reply.

The blinds closed.

From the way Birdy suddenly went quiet, I knew we would be sleeping in a motel tonight, not the house, so I beat her to it, saying, “Let’s find a place in Labelle and come back in the morning with bug bombs. We’ll set them off before Theo shows us the dig site. By evening, it’ll be okay to sleep.”

Birdy, her mind somewhere else, said, “Huh? Oh—I can’t. You know I work Sunday mornings, so I can’t stay tomorrow night.” She peered ahead, unsure of something. Several steps later, she took my arm and whispered, “Someone’s coming.”

“Where?”

“A person. See?”

No. The moon was to our left. Enough light pooled on the road so that we didn’t need our flashlights, but not enough to make out details. When I reached for my flashlight, Birdy, voice
low, ordered, “Don’t. Keep moving,” then slipped the purse off her shoulder; a purse that contained a semiauto pistol loaded with police man-stopper rounds.

“Whatever you say,” I replied—both of us whispering—but then changed my mind when I saw movement near the sign we’d seen earlier:
Slew Vaccine and Herpetile
.

I planted my feet, which dragged Birdy to a halt. “Mr. Matás pulled in there by accident the other night and a big dog or something charged his car. I don’t want you to shoot someone’s dog.”

Her purse was open but she hadn’t taken the gun out. “I wouldn’t—unless I had to. Even out here, dogs should be on a leash.” She thought for a moment. “What do you mean
or
something
?”

I said, “Shush,” because details were emerging from the trees. It was a person carrying something heavy, a formless shape that breached the entrance to what Theo had described as a small, modern facility. The object looked like an oversized trash can; the person, male, was wide-shouldered, strong, but as short as a child. He squatted, placed the can by the road, then reversed his course, walking with the odd teeter-totter strides of someone who is muscle-bound or on stilts. There was a gate. He pulled it closed behind him.

Birdy gave it a long, uneasy minute before saying into my ear, “A dwarf. That’s another dwarf . . . isn’t it?”

I sniffed the air flowing toward us, a light breeze from the north. Garbage . . . fermenting fruit . . . and a fecal musk that forced my head to turn.

Birdy’s, too. “My god, what’s that stink?”

I said, “Mr. Matás could have been wrong about the dog. At first he said it was something else, maybe a—” I hesitated.

“A what?”

“At first he thought it was a chimpanzee.”

“A
chimp
?
Jesus Christ, how do you confuse a dog with a chimp?”

I shushed her again. “That was his first impression. It was dark, he was in that rental RV of his. Then an old man came out, yelling, and Mr. Matás is close to eighty himself. Anyone that age would’ve been confused. Now he thinks it was one of the large breeds like a Saint Bernard.”

“A chimp!” She reached into her purse. “Those things are monsters. Did you read what a chimp did to that poor woman? She had to have a face transplant.” Birdy had her pistol out, a flashlight in her other hand. She stood taller to scout ahead. “Come on, let’s have a look.”

“A look at what?”

“Footprints. The road’s mostly sand. That’ll tell us. Special permits are required to keep dangerous pets. I’ll have the owner’s ass if there’s an illegal chimp roaming around here at night.”

I said, “A person who makes snake vaccine probably knows more about permits than either one of us. Let’s go back and ask someone to drive us.”

She kept walking. “Then whoever owns the thing can, by god, show me the paperwork.”

I grabbed her arm, but Birdy remained focused on the gate. “Stay here, if you want. Tell me you didn’t read about the woman who had her face chewed off.”

“You are
off duty.
And what if the dog or whatever it is bites? Call your office and tell them about this once we’re safe and in the car. Let’s get a few deputies out here.” Another tug, but it was the wrong thing to say.

“I
am
a deputy sheriff,” she reasoned, but spoke to herself. “Off duty or not, I’m still an officer of the court. Let’s at least look for tracks.” She pulled away and walked toward the drive, pistol at her side.

I followed along. The sign posted at the driveway glittered with yellow reflective tape, oaks formed a cavern above. Cicadas buzzed a seesaw chorus until we were near the mouth of the drive, then suddenly went silent.

Birdy stopped. “That thing has to weigh a ton.” She was referring to the trash can. It was industrial-sized and stuffed with pruned tree limbs, pieces of furniture, and broken tile. “It would take both of us to lift it.”

“Seriously—let’s come back in a car.”

“Stop worrying. This is what I’m trained to do.” Pistol ready, she continued walking.

I didn’t share her confidence. In my pocket was an LED flashlight, small but dazzlingly bright. It was a gift from the biologist I had dated, a man who, I suspected, had traveled to many dark places and was particular about light. When I switched it on, Birdy said, “Wow, that helps,” but then crouched and said, “What the hell was
that
?”

The light had spooked something in the bushes to our right. We heard the heavy crunch of breaking limbs. The noise started at ground level, then seemed to ascend higher into the trees.

I whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

Instead, Birdy hollered toward the driveway, “Sheriff’s Department. Come out and identify yourself.” With the pistol pointed at the ground, she walked toward the whip and crackle of branches.

I couldn’t run off and leave her, so I used the flashlight—painted the tree canopy and tracked the sound—but was always a second behind. All we saw were moving branches and a cascade of falling leaves. I stabbed the beam ahead at a massive oak. I hoped to intercept whatever it was. When I did, the tree exploded with a thumping, squawking cloud of birds . . . birds the size of vultures.

Birdy, the cop, ducked and said,
“Shit,”
while I kept the light steady.

That’s what I thought they were—vultures—until one soared toward me, its clumsy wings struggling to stay airborne and follow the others, who also appeared too large for flight. The birds scattered overhead. The sound of falling rain pattered around us, then they regrouped and crash-dived toward the river while I chased them with the flashlight.

“What the hell!”

I responded, “My heart damn near stopped!”

“Are they pelicans?”

“Turkeys,” I said. “Wild turkeys. My lord, they scared the fire out of me.”

Birdy took a deep breath and made a whistling sound. “I hope you noticed not once did I point my weapon at them. That’s training—wait until you’ve identified your subject.”

My reply was equally off topic. “My uncle took me turkey hunting two or three times, but this is the first time I was ever close
enough. There had to be at least a dozen. Wild turkeys, they’re very smart.”

We went back and forth like that—nervous talk—until I saw a glob of gray goo on my shoe that matched a streak of gray on my jeans. Birdy noticed something on her shoulder . . . then in her hair. She touched it and sniffed.
“Bird shit.”
She made a queasy noise.

“Turkey shit,”
I amended, my vocabulary still out of control while my beating heart slowed.

“What a night. First, a scorpion bites me, then my hundred-dollar blouse gets turd-bombed. A foot of snow and Boston is sounding pretty good right now.” Birdy found hand wipes in her purse, then proved my instincts right by adding, “No way in hell am I going to bed without a shower. We either get a hotel or I’m following you home. What time is it?”

It was ten-twenty, which I told her while my brain settled and began to work again. I wanted to believe my flashlight had tracked turkeys clattering through the trees. But I didn’t believe it. The turkeys had been roosting. Something else bothered me: I had smelled fermenting fruit and garbage, not limbs and broken furniture. To confirm the incongruity, I swung my light to the trash container ten yards away. It was piled high with wood.

Birdy sobered. “Yeah . . . let’s check for tracks.”

“
Why?
That’s not what I was looking for.”

“Stay here, if you want.”

I couldn’t do that, so only muttered, “Lucia must’ve slipped a crazy pill into your drink.”

I dreaded what we might find but felt better when Birdy knelt
by the can and used her index finger to trace a deep impression in the sand. “It was a man wearing shoes,” she said. “See? He turned around here—the tracks aren’t as deep—and walked back to the vaccine place. Size seven or eight in ladies’ shoes, I’d say. Tiny for a man, so he’s short but wide and strong as hell.”

“Sandals,”
I corrected her, “no heel prints.” I wanted to share my friend’s relief but couldn’t muster the conviction.

Birdy sensed it. “Chimps don’t wear sandals
or
heels. Let’s find a Holiday Inn.”

“After I get Captain Summerlin’s journal,” I replied.

•   •   •

W
HAT WE FOUND
was better, the River’s Edge Motel on Old County Road 78, just across the bridge from Labelle, a pretty little town with a friendly cowboy flavor. The motel had large, clean rooms that overlooked the Caloosahatchee River and a dock where three trawlers and a houseboat were moored among smaller boats.

“Screw sleeping with scorpions,” Birdy said after she had showered and joined me on the porch. “I like this place. How about we book two rooms for the week and bill my aunt? It’s only thirty minutes to the old house and no more than forty for me to get to work on Sunday morning. That way, I can stay tomorrow night.”

I agreed it was a nice motel but was in a foul, suspicious mood. “There’s less chance of being robbed, at least, or people snooping,” I said. I was referring to what I’d found after returning to the Cadence house. The door was still padlocked and Capt. Summerlin’s journal was on the mantel, but not exactly as I’d left it. I’m particular about how I place things. Right away, I knew. The
box lid was sealed; I’d left it ajar so air could circulate. Further proof was a torn page and new cracks in the binding; the cracks could have been caused by flattening the book to photograph the contents.

Birdy, whose room was three doors down from mine, said, “We’re off duty. We’ve got clean sheets and bathrooms, so stop with the paranoia. What you need is a drink.”

There was no nearby bar to provide mojitos, so we’d bought a bottle of red wine at a 7-Eleven, a store not known for fine wines. That didn’t seem to matter at eleven-fifteen on a Friday night, the two of us eager for a shower and beds to sleep in.

I replied, “You said yourself that Theo disappeared long enough to break in. I don’t trust him. Was he still hitting on you?”

Birdy, fussing with her buttons, nodded. “He put his hand on my ass. I told him it was a little early in the game for heavy petting, but maybe after the doctor took his cast off.”

“That’s all you said?”

“Threatening to break his arm wasn’t enough? Besides, being a pompous prick isn’t a deal breaker with me. Not if he’s got nice bone structure and nice hands. Did you notice Theo’s? Kind of delicate for a man his size.”

“There’s a word for that kind of behavior,” I told her. “Are you sure the witches didn’t drug you?”

Birdy smiled, “Hold that thought,” and returned with the wine and two glass tumblers, the River’s Edge being a mom-and-pop motel with kitchenettes and cupboards fully stocked. She poured the glasses, handed me one, then offered a toast—“To separate
bathrooms”—before telling me about her time alone with Theo and the three women.

“They knew that my aunt sent us. And she knew way too much about me for it to be a series of lucky guesses. I’d like to say I don’t believe in paranormal powers, but . . .” Birdy sipped her wine, made a face, and said, “God, this is awful.”

“You’re talking about Lucia?” I asked. “What did she say?”

Birdy sniffed her glass and focused on the dock, where the trawlers were buttoned up for the night but the houseboat’s windows were bright. On the roof deck, two long, lean silhouettes listened to Garth Brooks, the music softer than male laughter. “I bet those men have an extra cold beer or two. If there’s a God in heaven, maybe even some decent tequila and a lime.”

I replied, “It’s too late to go begging drinks from strange men. Answer my question.” I was tired—another reason I wasn’t in good humor. This was the first chance we’d had to talk because Birdy had followed me in her BMW rather than leave one of our vehicles unattended at the Cadence place.

“You’ve got a prudish streak in you, Smithie.”

“It’s a good thing one of us does. Maybe this wine needs to breathe a little. Tell me what happened while we wait.”

“C-P-R and a respirator can’t change vinegar into merlot. How much did you pay for this?”

I said, “About the same as a gallon of gas. Now, tell me what happened.”

What happened was, Lucia had done a good job of proving—in Theo’s words—that she could
splice into the thoughts
of certain
people, especially those who also had psychic gifts. That made Birdy an especially difficult subject, according to Lucia, an insult my friend fumed over while explaining, “I don’t know how the bitch did it. She told me things about my childhood that no one—I mean,
no one
—knows. I’ve gone over and over it in my head. It’s an act, a fortune-teller’s act, but how did she do it?”