Haunted (10 page)

What had the ground-penetrating radar discovered? That was the obvious question, which Birdy, the smart cop, postponed by asking, “You said Theo is a digger, sort of a treasure hunter. How did you know?”

Spreading his arms to indicate this weedy field and trees, the old house screened by distance, he said, “Ask yourself how he happened to dig here in the first place. He wasn’t looking for Civil War materials. For one thing, there’s no record of a battle. And certainly no mention of a graveyard from that period. He doesn’t own the property. No, he was trespassing. But that never stops people like him.”

Belton, who hadn’t said much, asked, “What do
you
think he was looking for?” In reply to Babbs’s chilly stare, he attempted to explain, “When you get to be my age, even obvious answers aren’t obvious. Sorry if I missed something.”

Dr. Babbs thawed slightly. “Theo knows next to nothing about methodology, but he has a working knowledge of excavation techniques—sizes of screening mesh, that sort of thing. And he’s well versed in Florida history, I’ll give him that. That told me he’s a digger—a pot hunter, most likely. Right away, I was on my guard.”

Birdy asked, “Are there pre-Columbian archaeologies in the area?” Her articulate question earned a nod of respect.

“I hope you’re assigned to this case. You seem to know
something about the discipline. But, no . . . there are no indigenous sites that I know of . . . How does that work? Who decides which officer is assigned to this case?”

“I’ll talk to my sergeant, then whoever is in charge would have to request me. But back to Theo’s behavior . . .”

“I didn’t trust that man from the start. How many people in their late twenties volunteer full-time to do anything? I knew for sure when we were having a drink one night in my RV and out of the blue he brings up some old-time bank robber who buried a sack of money. At first I was relieved. It seemed to explain how he’d stumbled onto a Civil War archaeology. I should have known better.”

Birdy and I considered that, eyes locked, before she asked, “You think he was lying?”

“He played me for a fool.” Babbs had retrieved his briefcase from under a tree and was stowing the waivers we had signed. “That’s off the record, of course.”

“I’m not on duty, Dr. Babbs. Anything official I write I’ll ask you to make deletions or additions before I submit it. That’s not procedure, but I respect the position you’re in. Why are you so sure Theo was lying?”

The man appeared relieved. He asked who his department should contact to request Deputy Liberty Tupplemeyer by name. Then stored her business card away before he answered, “Because his story was so unbelievable—again, in hindsight. He claimed the bank robber—the name will come to me—that he was a direct descendant. That he—Theo, I’m saying—was a direct descendant. The clear implication was that that somehow made him
the rightful heir to stolen money that was buried here”—another gesture to the field—“or on the other side of the river. Which is ridiculous, when you think about it.”

“How much?”

“How much money? Wait—it gets stranger. Then Theo came right out and said he’d give me ten percent if I helped him find it. He wanted to use the GPR, in other words. Something like thirty-five thousand dollars in silver when it was stolen back during Prohibition days. Treasure hunters, they always have some bizarre story. I didn’t take him seriously.”

Belton smiled, “Ten percent? He’s certainly a cheap bastard.”

Dr. Babbs didn’t see the humor. “It made him seem harmless. With Civil War diggers, it’s different. They’re always after a payroll in gold that sank. Or was thrown overboard—that’s the most popular story in Florida. I don’t know what Theo’s true intent is, but he’s not going to make a member of the science academy look like a fool and get away with it.”

Birdy saw that as her opening but prefaced it by saying the property owner’s attorney had mentioned a bank robber from the 1930s. “I believe in being up front with the facts, Dr. Babbs.”

“Call me Leslie,” he said. “That’s good news, actually. Knowing there’s a kernel of truth might help when I have to explain this mess later.”

Birdy decided it was time. “Okay, then. Now . . .
Leslie
,
do you mind showing me where Theo did this unauthorized dig? If he stole something, depending on the value, we might get a felony charge.”

“Just you?” The archaeologist made his meaning clear by looking from Belton to me.

Birdy said, “That’s up to Hannah. I want to pursue this, but we had plans for later.” She sought me for permission.

The whole time, I’d been wondering about Dr. Babbs and his credibility. I didn’t doubt his credentials, but was disturbed by how easily he’d been taken in. His story didn’t make sense. Trust Theo because he was hunting stolen money, not Civil War treasure? There had to be another reason. Birdy might find out.

“We’ll meet for dinner later,” I told her, then partnered up with Belton while Birdy and the archaeologist continued to talk.

Dr. Babbs, as we walked away, said, “Know what’s sad? That young man had everything going for him. He was a decorated Army Ranger and a commercial pilot. Did you know that? But then got laid off. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, he said. But I think drugs might be an issue.”

Birdy, managing to keep a straight face, replied, “Really?”

“Do a background check on him, that’s what I suggest. The night we had cocktails? I might have gotten a little carried away, I admit it. But if Theo claims . . .”

I didn’t hear the rest, but did hear Birdy respond,
“Really?”

A mile south of the old railroad bridge, where cypress and mimosa trees draped moss over the river, Belton switched places so I could see the boat’s sonar screen. Carmelo, at the wheel, jabbed a finger and said, “
Fish,”
while I shaded my eyes.

Cartoonish fish icons, which always make me wince, appeared in pixelated yellow around a red rectangular object. The river bottom had varied in shades from white to gray in the shallows, but here, in this shaded oxbow where depth dropped to fourteen feet, it was black.

“Hard bottom,” I told Belton.

“I think it could be a sunken boat,” he said, meaning whatever was below us. “Or the remains of a dock. But wouldn’t that have rotted away years ago?”

“Floated away, more likely,” I said, then asked something I’d
been wanting to ask. “You said you did a lot of research. Was this always called Telegraph River? I can’t find it on old maps.” I was thinking of Capt. Summerlin’s journal. In summer of 1864, he and friends had explored a north branch off the Caloosahatchee in the twenty-five-foot dory
Sodbuster
.
Summerlin’s concern about spies had caused him to scribble out the tributary’s name. When the page was held up to a light, however, I could make out four letters—JOPO. Possibly JOPE, or even TOPE, because Summerlin’s old-time penmanship placed triangular stems on some letters. I was tempted to get the journal from my backpack and show Belton but wasn’t ready to risk that quite yet.

Belton replied, “That’s because the river’s not on maps before 1900. Not named, I mean. The telegraph service to . . . well, it’s a town north of here . . . wasn’t completed until the 1880s.”

“Arcadia?” I suggested.

“Yes . . . No . . . Wait, I can’t remember for certain. I used to have a good memory, but I lose things so quickly now.” He told Carmelo to swing the boat around so we could have another look at the bottom, annoyed with himself. He used a handkerchief to wipe his face. Soon the rectangular object reappeared, along with cartoonish fish icons. “A failing memory is bad enough,” he said, “but when your body falls apart, it’s downright humiliating—especially when I’m with a beautiful woman.” He looked at me to see how that was accepted.

I laughed. “Stop flirting and tell me why you think it’s a boat.”

He put his hand on my shoulder to study the sonar but removed it when he stood. “I’m going to trust you with something—but not right now. Okay?”

“A secret?”

He motioned me away from the console and spoke into my ear. “Just between us. Carmelo doesn’t know and I don’t trust him as much as you think. I’ve got to be careful.”

I said, “I think you’re still flirting. If you are, it’s a pretty good approach.”

He smiled, a man with bright blue eyes who had been muscular and good-looking in his day. “Let’s just say I hope it’s a boat. Wouldn’t that be fun? I wish to heavens I was a better diver—or not so damn old.” He sounded wistful.

Carmelo, riveted to the screen, repeated, “Lots of fish. You want the girl to fish, Mr. Matás?”

Three times he’d asked that question over the engine noise but this time seemed to think it was a fresh idea now that we were idling in water that was black as oil but clear when I looked straight down if the sunlight hit it just right.

“No, thanks,” I told Carmelo, then reconsidered. I had never met a simpleminded person who owned an expensive red Bass Cat skiff outfitted with dual electric trolling motors that could pull the boat along as fast as some gas engines. It crossed my mind that a captain didn’t have to be smart as long as he produced results. I didn’t want to believe that. If I was right, Carmelo was either acting or the boat did not belong to him. As a test, I asked, “What kind of fish are we talking about?”

“Big-assed.” Carmelo laughed. “See?” He pointed to the fish icons that stacked and rematerialized like targets in a video game.

Had our guide said
big-assed
or
big bass
? I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Bass are fun on top of water plugs. Not that I’ve
caught many. Is it best to anchor? Or do you use the trolling motors and cast into eddies?”

“Yes,”
Carmelo replied.

Belton chuckled at that. “We’ll go ashore same place as yesterday.” He pointed. On the east bank, two jagged pilings, black as dinosaur teeth, showed where there had been a pier. Presumably, it had serviced the homestead I’d seen in photos. The pilings were only a few boat lengths upriver from the sunken object.

I remarked, “If a boat sunk at the dock, it could have drifted down. You might be right. But, Belton, this water’s not that deep. You don’t need tanks to find out, just a mask and fins. Doesn’t Carmelo free-dive?”

Carmelo, who had a tough-guy face to begin with, became positively fierce. “Nope. Ain’t gonna swim. Don’t tell me again.”

I said, “I wasn’t ordering you, it was a question. Are there gators around?” I hadn’t seen any, but there had to be a reason.

Belton, getting impatient, said to Carmelo, “I’ll take the wheel. Why don’t you untangle some of those ropes so we can tie up?”

Carmelo did, but I heard him mutter, “Girl . . . stick your hand in that water, you find out.”

•   •   •

A
FTER EXPLORING
the bricks and boards and fences of a homesteader’s vanished dream, I did it—stuck my hand in the river. I am too comfortable outdoors to be spooked by the power of suggestion, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. First, I stirred the water with a stick. It was black as a winter night, clear as gel.

I looked around. No alligators . . . no snakes. Bull sharks liked
to swim up rivers, but they had those cartoon fish to eat if they were after food. Same with piranhas, if some deranged person had smuggled them in—Theo came to mind. I pushed my sleeve up and made some false attempts, then decided
If someone’s watching, they’ll think you’ve lost your mind. Just do it.

I did. Plunged my arm deep, but just for a moment. Then checked the path leading to the fallen homestead. I had left Belton there with Carmelo, Carmelo knee-deep in muck searching for bottles in a cistern that did indeed resemble a crypt. Most of the cistern’s roof had fallen in, the whitewash had faded. But a graceful brick arch remained to disprove any thoughts of sloppy work or ignorance.

A competent bricklayer had left his mark on this lonely place.

That meshed with something I’d read in the journal. The entry had motivated me to return to the boat and refresh my memory as well as to test the water. But I couldn’t open my backpack until I was alone, so I had roamed the property enjoying a polite interval of time. Holding Belton’s elbow, I had steadied him while we paced the distance from the chimney to the first fencerow. From the way the earth undulated, he guessed this quarter-acre patch had once been a garden. I asked, “What about salt pans?” Threw it out there in a breezy way to see how this amateur expert reacted.

All he said was, “Salt was hard to come by in those days. But you can’t make salt from a freshwater river.”

Was he right? That was something else I wanted to check privately. My biologist friend and sometimes lover had several types of salinity meters in his lab. But my lips would serve almost as
well, as would the knowledge that saltwater is heavier than fresh so it sinks to the bottom.

Again, Capt. Summerlin’s journal had fired my curiosity.

As I moved around the boat, I heard Carmelo yell out a complaint or celebrate a discovery, his voice garbled by distance. Closer, somewhere inland, I heard branches cracking—the clumsy weight of an armadillo or feral hog, I assumed. I pushed my sleeves higher, leaned off the boat, and breached the surface with both hands. Water was cool, a slick, weightless feel, then I tasted it—fresh, but a hint of brine. That was encouraging.

I decided to find out if it was saltier on the bottom.

With my help, Carmelo had tied the boat’s bow to a tree after dropping a stern anchor. I hauled the anchor, sloshed the flukes clean, then opened my backpack in the hopes of finding something useful. Along with the journal, I had things I carry on my own boat in case I break down. There were extra clothes, bug spray, a sewing kit, flares and sunscreen, but nothing that could be used to collect water from the river’s deepest spot.

Finally I chose an empty Coors bottle from the Igloo and used fishing line to clove-hitch it to the yoke of the anchor. I wanted the bottle to sink fast. Air pressure, I hoped, would prevent it from filling until it got to the bottom.

When the bottle was secure, I pushed the boat away from the tree and waited for the line to pull taut. The drop-off was many yards astern. Too far to heave a ten-pound anchor. I realized I’d have to balance myself on the transom and use the engine as a knee brace to add distance when I tossed the thing. That was
risky. So, before I went to work, I placed my phone on the console, along with my backpack and the journal, which I’d removed from its watertight bag—and couldn’t help reading a few passages before getting my hands wet.

It was a wise precaution. My first throw, I stepped on the anchor line. The next try, I checked my feet, got a good pendulum motion going, then heaved the anchor hard. Too hard. The engine, instead of supporting my weight, gave way, spinning to the left, and I went overboard. It is possible I hollered
“Damn!”
just before I hit the water.

But no harm done. I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved blouse, and Nikes, not boat shoes, because I knew we’d be hiking. Fishing guides are used to soggy clothing. I’d also brought a towel. So I was smiling at my clumsiness when I surfaced. I combed hair out of my face and decided to enjoy the situation. It had been hot in the stillness of the homestead’s wreckage and the water was cool. So I sculled toward the middle of the river, seeing mimosa trees, dragonflies, the reflection of a passing egret from a duck’s perspective. Several hard green fruit that resembled apples, too, afloat like golf balls, and a flotilla of seedpods, long and brown. They parted at my approach. I continued on, only my eyes and nose, periscope-like, breaching the surface.

Thankfully, my ears weren’t submerged—which is why the sound of breaking branches caught my attention again. I listened briefly, gauging the size and weight, and decided I’d been wrong about the armadillo or some other small animal. Something big was pushing its way through the brush . . . not fast, but definitely headed my way.

I swung my legs around and sculled toward the boat, all senses alert. If it was a feral hog, normally no problem. I had once been confronted by a big boar in attack mode, however, and some memories are forever fresh. My real fear was that a large gator had gone inland for some sun and was now plowing its way back to the river for an afternoon meal.

I sculled faster. The temptation was to stretch out and swim hard. In high school—not a pleasant period in my life—my happiest moments were playing clarinet in the band and being on the varsity swim team. Breaststroke was my specialty, but I can flat-out fly doing freestyle, too. Trouble was, if I swam, whatever was approaching might enter the water unseen. I found the prospect unsettling. Better to know what was coming and deal with it.

And that’s exactly what I had to do. Now bushes were moving along the path that led to the old homestead, the heavy snap of branches still clumsy but moving faster and with purpose. Finally I understood: the splash of me hitting the water had traveled through the trees. Something had heard me and was on its way to investigate. I might make it to the boat first, but whatever it was would be right there waiting.

To hell with caution. I swam—long, strong strokes—my clothes a dragging weight, my shoes useless as fins. Then my hands were on the boat’s transom, but my foot somehow snagged the anchor line. I fell back in. Bubbles boiled around my eyes. I was terrified of what might grab me from beneath—the water so black and clear. I resurfaced with a yelp and lunged for the boat again. This time I made it, floundered up over the transom and skidded like a wounded seal.

I was winded but immediately looked up—and there was Belton Matás. He was grinning but had a concerned look on his face. “You should have told me you were going in for a swim. Isn’t there something called the buddy system?” He removed his glasses and squinted. “Are you all right?”

There was no recovering my poise. That had vanished when fear took control. “Oh, Belton, some expert I am. I fell in. Then I thought you were a . . . I don’t know what I thought. My lord, I almost never scream like that.” I sat up and pulled my blouse away from my chest—still prim and proper despite everything else.

The man said, “I didn’t hear a scream—I assumed you were having fun. In fact, I was going to ask . . . Well, never mind.”

“Fun?”

“Yes, you made a sort of laughing sound. That’s what I heard anyway.”

“Well . . . good . . . Ask me what?”

“Just an idea I had because you were already in the water. And swim beautifully. Are you hurt?”

I got up and took a peek downward to confirm my wheat-colored blouse wasn’t see-through. I still had my shoes, too. “I’m used to bruises from falling over my feet. I
was
enjoying myself until I heard you coming through the bushes . . . And after what Carmelo said about the water—”