Haunted Page 13

  A final option came into my mind: If you can’t go forward, reverse your course.

  The idea was reasonable, even though I was beyond reason. My heart pounded, burning oxygen, and I was nearly out of air. With exaggerated calm, I did it—pushed toward the bottom, then scrabbled backward until I felt the rope, or whatever it was, graze my leg.

  So far, so good. I clamped my fingers around the thing—yes, a slimy length of rope. I followed it upward and soon my eyes fixated on an onyx glow that blessedly, blessedly, I knew was sunlight.

  I had escaped. But escaped what?

  Fortified by my new freedom, I indulged myself by confirming that the rope was attached to; actually paused to note a few details. Only then did I rocket to the surface and inhale big, balmy, wonderful gulps of October air.

  Belton had started the engine—how had I not heard a 225 horsepower outboard fire up? It didn’t matter. I was alive. And only midway through another lazy, uneventful day in Florida. I felt like laughing but didn’t. It was because of the gentlemen rushing to my rescue. Belton’s face was white with a fixed look of terror until he spotted me. Then he visibly sagged and let Carmelo take the wheel.

  I shouted, “Is Belton okay?”

  Carmelo, standing with his hard, stunted eyes fixed on me, tapped the throttle forward and didn’t respond.

  I watched for a moment, then yelled, “Slow down,” because the boat was already so close, I would soon disappear under the bow. Run me over, I’d be lucky to escape the skeg or spinning propeller.

  Carmelo didn’t seem to hear. I shouted again: “Put the engine in neutral!” That’s when a horrible thought entered my head: Carmelo had done something to Belton. Now he was coming for me. He wanted to hurt me, perhaps kill me, for no other reason than I had whapped him in the face with a plastic snorkel.

  But I was wrong—half wrong, at least—because Belton rematerialized at the wheel and switched the engine off while the stern swung so I could climb aboard. His coloring was still bad, but he showed some life by scolding me. “Young lady, you stayed under way too damn long. My heart can’t take that sort of thing.”

  With a weak smile, he tried to make light of the comment, but what he had said was true and I knew it. That changed everything. I wanted to confront Carmelo and demand an explanation, but I couldn’t risk more upset. So I, too, made light of what had happened. I replied, “I must have lost track of time. But I know what’s down there now.” I tossed the mask into the boat and got my rump on the transom.

  From the way Belton rambled on about how worried he’d been, I feared he actually had suffered a stroke, but then he regained his composure. “Carmelo—help the lady up and into a dry towel. I think a cup of that red wine is in order. Hannah, then and only then can you reveal the mystery to the old fool who should have never let you dive to begin with. My god, girl, I stopped keeping track at ninety seconds.”

  Only ninety? I felt like I’d been trapped underwater for five minutes—and a full minute is a long dive for me. But I only laughed and waited until I was aboard to say, “Don’t get your hopes up, Belton. It’s not a boat from the Civil War.”

  I expected a theatrical groan of disappointment. Instead, for an instant, his old blue eyes glittered with the focus of a younger man. It was those eyes that bore into me when he responded, “Really? That’s too bad. Then I suppose it’s one of these hopped-up bass boats. Or a motorboat. Probably stolen, so we’ll make a pile when we tell the insurance company.” A joke, but something cold at the source of it.

  “Not even close,” I said.

  His expression asked Are you sure?

  I nodded. “What’s down there is—”

  Belton interrupted, “Not until you’re seated with a towel. I can wait for the big news.”

  His indifference was a lie, I sensed that. He’d already told me he didn’t trust Carmelo, but this was different. Something had happened, an incident or reckoning that had taken place recently. So I made a few glib remarks while I dried my hair and sought Belton’s eyes for an explanation. Within seconds, though, those youthful eyes faded into the face of an eighty-year-old man who had suffered a fright.

  He asked, “Didn’t you say you brought a change of clothes? You can’t stay in those wet things. Carmelo”—Belton, from his chair, was giving orders again—“we will stand with eyes to the front while Hannah changes. And if you so much as peek, I will have you arrested and thrown into prison for the rest of your unnatural life.” An old man’s laughter should have dulled the sharpness of his words but it didn’t.

  If it was an act, Carmelo accepted it. Or pretended to. He handed me an inch of wine in a plastic cup and said, “Right away, Mr. Matás,” but started the boat as if he’d misunderstood.

  Now I didn’t know what to do. What I had found anchored to the bottom wasn’t shocking, but it was unusual. Was there a reason he didn’t want Carmelo to know?

  Belton’s behavior became more confusing when he made the decision for me. “Shut off that damn engine. Maybe Hannah wants to take another look before she tells me. Or”—he remembered his recent offer—“would you rather change into dry clothes and forget it?”

  I decided to share a half-truth. “It was a big chunk of pipe,” I said. “That’s what it looked like. But it must have flotation because it’s anchored about six feet off the bottom or maybe snagged on something. I banged into it as I was surfacing.”

  Carmelo busied himself getting a beer from the cooler, but Belton was concerned. “Did you hit your head? Let me see.”

  I was thinking about what I’d actually found: a canoe—an aluminum canoe—old with dents. “No, it couldn’t have snagged,” I amended. “It’s floating parallel to the bottom, so there has to be at least two anchors. Which means someone sunk it intentionally.”

  “A chunk of drainage pipe? That makes no sense whatsoever.” Finally Belton looked at me long enough to understand what I was doing. “On the other hand . . . I guess it could be some kind of fish trap or turtle trap, possibly. Damn bad luck, it not being a boat.”

  I said, “Fish collect around structure, don’t they, Carmelo?”

  Our guide was smart enough to know drainage culverts don’t float. Even so, he replied, “Lots of junk in this river.”

  I looked toward the spot where seedpods and twigs were gathering. “One thing’s for sure, it’s not worth going back in the water.”

  Belton picked up on that, too, and changed the subject. “What about that bottle you found? It looked like it was covered with coral. But not in fresh water, I wouldn’t think.”

  The bottle was gone, but I patted my pockets anyway. I didn’t mention the salt spring either. All I said was, “Sorry.” That’s how uneasy I felt.

  “Then the two of us should drown our sorrows in wine.” He touched a plastic cup to mine. “One of these days I’ll make a major archaeological discovery—but not here, I’m afraid. And not today.”

  “You don’t want to come back here no more, Mr. Matás?” Carmelo was testing for something else. I sensed that, too.

  The older man shook his head. “We didn’t find any more unbroken bottles either. The whole darn day is a bust—but thank god Hannah wasn’t hurt. All for a lousy piece of junked pipe.”

  We made small talk after that, but I kept an eye on Carmelo, who had gathered a bagful of mimosa seeds. I wasn’t going to ask why. But when he felt me watching, he leaned over the side and pointed at one of the apple-sized fruits. “Them things is bad. ’Bout bad as it gets. But these things here”—he held up a mimosa pod—“they good. Not to eat. But they still good.”

  Belton had already asked about the seeds, apparently. “He starts seedlings and sells them. I guess the trees here are unusual. Expensive, if you’re a landscaper.”

  That’s not what Carmelo meant. “No, them little apples is poison. And them apple trees, you touch them, they burn you bad.” H
e checked with me to see if I understood.

  Suddenly, I did. Behind us were two waxy-leafed trees mixed in with towering mimosas. I had noticed them peripherally but hadn’t made the connection with the apple-sized fruit. I asked, “Is that why you wouldn’t get in the water?”

  “Not at this place, girl. It burn the hell out of some people. Burnt the hell out of me once.”

  Belton was lost. “What’s he talking about?”

  I said, “I owe Carmelo an apology. When he warned me about getting burned, I took it as a threat.”

  “Of course you did. He shouldn’t have spoken in that tone. I told him so when we were looking for bottles, didn’t I, Carmelo?”

  Carmelo shrugged and glowered, which seemed to explain the tension between the men. Or did it? I attempted to clear the air anyway. “He was doing me a favor, Belton.” I pointed behind us. “There’re only a couple, but see those trees with the low-sprawling limbs? I think they’re manchineels. I should have realized.”

  “What kind?”

  “It’s a Spanish name that means little apple—or something similar. But they’re not really apples. Manchineel trees are common in the tropics. Since you’re from Richmond, I wouldn’t expect you to know.” As I spoke, it crossed my mind that Charles Cadence had also moved south from Virginia.

  “Burn the damn hell out of you,” Carmelo said, pleased he’d finally gotten his point across.

  Belton wondered, “Is that true?”

  “The fruit’s poisonous and so is the bark. If you stand under one in the rain, it’ll blister the skin off you. I’ve been told that anyway. And . . . Well, here’s an example: Indians dipped their arrows in the sap and that’s supposedly what killed Ponce de León.”

  “The Spanish explorer?”

  “That’s what I’ve read. He died in Cuba, but he was wounded somewhere near Sanibel. It takes the poison a while to work, I guess.” After considering a moment, I added, “It’s the beginning of the dry season, but the sap might float on the surface after a lot of rain. Maybe that’s why I was okay.”

  Carmelo said, “Don’t touch them apples either,” and plopped down behind the wheel, a bag of seedpods at his elbow.

  About the waxy-leafed trees, I said, “I guess we ignore the things we don’t expect. Usually, they grow closer to a beach. And I’ve never seen manchineels that big—they’ve got to be a hundred years old. But those apples should have warned me.” Now I was thinking of the Brazilian who had planted exotic trees before the Civil War and the schoolteacher who had written about blistered skin. The mimosa trees were different here: tall, lean, with lichen-splotched trunks, their seedpods longer and thinner than the mimosas in my mother’s yard.

  I spoke to Carmelo. “Can I see one of those?” He had lost interest and was focused on the sonar again. When I reached for his sack of seeds, though, he came to life and blocked my hand.

  “Mine,” he said. He spoke like a simpleton, but his eyes were sharp and sure and seemed to taunt.

  The look on Belton’s face told me Let him have his way. So I did, no problem. There was a seedpod on the deck I could cover with my foot, then pocket later. Belton acknowledged that option with a nod.

  During the return trip, we discussed harmless things—an unspoken agreement to wait until we were alone to talk. It proved to me that Belton’s distrust of Carmelo ran deeper than a misunderstanding.

  • • •

  WALKING FROM the flimsy docks and fish-cleaning table toward the RV park, I nodded hello at the tiny blondes who didn’t look like twins but did look stoned. Belton waited until they were past to ask what I’d found underwater.

  I said, “Maybe it was silly keeping it from Carmelo,” then, without including how frightened I’d been, told him about the canoe.

  He was disappointed. “Was there a motor on it?” That sounded important for some reason.

  “I only saw one end and didn’t get a very good look. You were hoping it was a bass boat, weren’t you?”

  His mind was focused on what he’d just heard. “An aluminum canoe with obvious dents. Like someone used an axe to punch holes?”

  “I’m not sure, but whoever did it went to a lot of trouble. If they’d used just one anchor, the bow or stern would stick out of the water.”

  “Then it was stolen. They’d probably knock holes. You just didn’t see them.”

  “I don’t know what canoes have for flotation, but it’s generally riveted into the forward and aft bulkheads. In fact, whoever did it had to get in the water and force it under before they tied off. Weird—why would thieves care enough to bother? They’d either keep it or sell it or cut the thing loose when they were done.”

  Belton said, “It certainly wasn’t to collect insurance.”

  I shook my head while thinking I should have mustered the nerve to do another dive.

  “A damn canoe,” he muttered. “But on the fish finder the thing looked a lot bigger to me. Rectangular, sort of, you know?”

  I said, “The water is murky once you get down. There could be something else on the bottom. Maybe the canoe is next to another boat.”

  Thinking aloud, Belton said, “A rental boat—a canoe with a motor. They rent canoes everywhere.” He glanced back to where a kayak and a square-stern canoe lay upside down on the bank. Nearby were two small aluminum boats with kicker motors. Also rentals.

  I said, “The odd-looking one is called a Gheenoe. If you hoped to find a boat from the Civil War, why is a motor so important?”

  The old man’s focus had shifted to the miniature blondes. They were on a dock, walking single file, while Carmelo, on the next dock, hosed his boat. He appeared to be in a hurry.

  Belton said, “That man’s not as stupid as he pretends.”

  “No, he’s not. I sensed you two had a falling-out. I hope it wasn’t because of me. I didn’t mean to hit him in the face with that snorkel. And it was just dumb of me not to notice those manchineel trees.”

  He replied, “We should call the police,” which startled me until I realized he was referring to the sunken canoe.

  “I was going to tell Birdy about it first. But I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “It would be nice to know more before we bother the police. Do you think there could have been a . . . well, something inside the canoe?”

  I said, “Like a registration, you mean? I didn’t check for hatches.”

  “No, you said it was floating upside down. Something could be jammed under there. Stuck, if it was buoyant.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. The image of a dead body came into my mind, floating in darkness, while I battled to find my way out.

  Belton put it more delicately. “A cooler with identification, possibly, or a bag. If credit cards are missing, that would mean something. Unless you searched from one end to the other—you were certainly down there long enough—I hate to scramble the police for something that has a benign explanation.”

  I said, “I should have done a couple more dives. Or thrown an anchor, we could have snagged the thing and pulled it up to get registration numbers.” I hesitated before adding, “I’ll go back, if you want—but what about him?” Carmelo had pushed his boat away, ignoring the two tiny women who watched him start the engine.

  Belton understood my meaning. “Your intuition is uncanny, my dear. What to do indeed.”

  “I knew there was a problem between you two.”

  “Oh, there is. But he doesn’t know yet. This morning, I saw him talking to Theo. This was before Theo’s big scene with Dr. Babbs—but after I told him to stay away from the guy.”

  I said, “Told Carmelo to stay away from Theo.”

  “That’s right—him and anyone else who might take advantage of what I found in that cistern. I suspected those two have some kind of private deal going. Now I know. I was taking my morning walk and there they were,
sitting like kings, on his bass boat. That guilty look people get sometimes? I pretended like I didn’t see, just kept walking. Don’t forget, I exchanged several e-mails with Theo before coming here.”

  “You surprised them?”

  “Not intentionally. Let’s call it a stroke of good luck.”

  I agreed with Belton’s instincts but not his reasoning. “I’m not taking sides, but I don’t see anything wrong with people talking to whoever they want. And, without Carmelo, you wouldn’t have found the cistern, let alone those bottles. On the other hand, I see your point—there is something about Theo that—”

  “I lied to you about the cistern,” Belton said, then softened it with a sigh. “Well, I didn’t exactly lie. Carmelo was the one who was lying. He didn’t know the place existed until I showed him satellite photos. The deep spot on the river? Yes, he knew. But not the old homestead. Even then I had to help him with the GPS. He made up that story about deer hunting when he realized I might have found something valuable. His way of staking a claim, I suppose.”

  “But he didn’t make up the story about the manchineel trees,” I said.

  “About being burned? He might have. He’s a lot smarter than he lets on—and he does know that river. He tried to scare you, Hannah. That’s what I think. He used those little apples as an excuse. A double entendre, hidden meaning. See? The man’s shrewd.”

  “Because he didn’t want me to go into the water? Then why take us there in the first place?”

  “Carmelo thinks I’m a naïve old man, which is to my advantage. Being underestimated is always an advantage, so I’m happy to keep him happy. That’s why I passed along his deer-hunting story.”

  We were on a path that would soon exit into the clearing where RVs and campers were parked. I stopped. “You’re paying him? A guide should keep his clients happy, not the other way around. What’s this really all about?”