Haunted Page 11

  “Yes, Belton,” I replied, “she is.”

  He grinned. “Good,” he said, then used his cell to call Carmelo and remind him, “Don’t forget to buy gas. We’ll have two extra passengers in the boat this afternoon.”

  It wasn’t until he’d hung up that he asked, “Do you still want to see where we found the bottles?”

  “I brought mosquito spray and a change of clothes,” I answered. I’d also brought Capt. Summerlin’s journal. It was sealed in a watertight bag that added weight to my pack, but I wasn’t going to leave it unattended again. Not while Theo and Lucia and her witch friends were still around.

  • • •

  LESLIE BABBS was a nice man but distracted and lacked energy—Belton was right about that—and he wasn’t comfortable bending the rules. When I asked, “Would you mind if I stood here alone for a few minutes?” he tugged at his collar and said, “Sorry, the waiver you signed requires visitors to be accompanied. And I really do want to get this Ivanhoff matter settled.”

  He and Belton and Birdy had turned away from an excavation where human bones nested in dirt that had been carved with the delicacy of an artist’s brush. No discernible order to the scattered vertebrae, several femurs that were scorched black by fire, and at least four partial skulls and one that appeared complete. That skull, one eye socket still buried, had a bullet hole in the forehead the size of a nickel. It lay near shards of tobacco pipes and brass uniform buttons and what might have been an iron hoop protruding from the soil—but also could have been the rim of a huge boiling cauldron.

  For rendering salt? I wondered. What I had read in Capt. Summerlin’s journal last night, plus new entries I’d deciphered this morning, had created an emotional tie with men who had lived and died during desperate times. These were the bones of many people, not just a few. At least one had been shot, the skulls of the others were crushed. Their remains appeared to have been burned, then covered in a rush under only a few feet of soil. It was unlikely that either prayers or respect had been offered. That’s one reason I wanted a private moment to stand there alone and contemplate. A chance to sneak photos was another. But I minded my manners and said, “Rules are rules,” and followed Dr. Babbs and my friends toward the road.

  The archaeologist had rushed us through a tour of two of the three dig sites and we were done for the day. No mention of ultraviolet light. And only a few remarks about the significance of scorched bones or finding Union buttons issued in 1864. He was more interested in setting the record straight on his dealings with Theo Ivanhoff. It was Theo who had alerted state archaeologists that he’d found a Civil War burial site on property that would soon be developed if Tallahassee didn’t act fast. State officials had contacted the feds. The feds had sent a one-person team: Leslie Babbs, a man of slight build and nervous mannerisms who relied on volunteers wherever his job sent him. Theo had volunteered full-time.

  “It’s because we’re so damn underfunded,” Babbs said to Birdy. He had opened up to her because she was a deputy sheriff and because she had also witnessed Theo unlocking Dr. Babbs’s camper, pretending it was his own. “I knew what Ivanhoff was right away—a digger, an artifact hound. We see them all the time in my field. But he is charming. And quite smart. He caught on fast when the GPR arrived, once I showed him the basics. That’s something else that concerns me.”

  “Ground-penetrating radar,” Birdy translated. She was in cop mode. Not making notes on paper but storing information in her head until on-duty officers arrived.

  “Precisely. To a layperson, the unit resembles a lawn mower. You know, a machine on tires that you push. But that’s where the resemblance ends. It uses microwaves to penetrate the subsurface—radar that sees through the ground, in other words. Three-dimensional tomographic images that can be saved on a laptop. Very expensive. He had no right to do what he did.”

  “The GPR is missing?” Birdy sounded hopeful.

  “No, but he used it while I was away. It’s a calibrated system that requires tuning, so the computer keeps track. I left last Monday—an illness in the family. Since then, he’s put almost twenty hours on the thing.”

  Birdy, walking shoulder to shoulder, said, “That’s a misdemeanor at best. And only if someone saw him—unless you gave Theo permission. You didn’t give him permission to use the GPR, did you, Dr. Babbs? Or your RV?”

  “No,” he said. But tugged at his collar. “Well . . . not written permission anyway. That’s not what worries me. Theo was along last week when I made a remarkable”—he paused, aware that Belton, yet another amateur, was listening—“well, a rather interesting discovery. This was two days before I left for Louisville. Of course Theo expected me to say ‘Grab a shovel and let’s start digging,’ but that’s not the way archaeology works.”

  “You wanted more images, to do some core samples,” Birdy suggested. Said it in a helpful way, but was, in fact, softening the man up.

  “Precisely. No one was to touch that site until I got back. But . . .” He looked from Birdy to Belton, ignoring me, the quiet tagalong. “I don’t think I should say anything more until the police get here.” Hands in pockets, he shook his head. “My supervisors in D.C. will want answers.”

  Birdy said, “He dug up the spot, didn’t he?”

  Dr. Babbs grunted and ducked under the rope with signs that warned Federal Antiquities Site. Access Prohibited. “We’re so damn underfunded,” he said again. “Whoever handles this case, I hope you make sure that’s mentioned in the report.”

  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 positi
vely 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.”

  • • •

  AFTER 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.