Haunted Page 5

  Theo, who claimed he’d stopped by because he saw fire flickering in the windows, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his Birkenstocks beside him. Size fourteens, was my guess. He’d already told us he had rum and tequila in his camper—hinted he had some grass, too, but shut up fast when he learned my friend is a sworn officer of the law. I expected him to repeat the invitation a few times before trying to cut Birdy out of the herd. That was his intent: cause a spat, or sufficiently offend me, and it would be just the two of them. Scorpions, however, interested the man. He sat up a little straighter. “How many have you seen?”

  Birdy told him what had happened.

  Theo, getting to his feet, said, “I can get rid of those, no problem. I’ve got just the stuff in my camper. While we’re at it, I’ll introduce you to the mysterious stranger Hannah saw.”

  Birdy, annoyed, said, “What?”

  “I knew who it was from the start.”

  “Why didn’t you just come out and tell us?”

  Theo grinned, “You wouldn’t have believed me,” while he threaded a foot into his Birkenstock, which he used as an excuse to throw an arm around Birdy for balance, having fun with the situation while he hopped on one foot. “Seriously, you tell me about a hunchbacked guy with a limp and I say, ‘Oh yeah, that’s the Roswell Man—half human, half alien—he’s a nice guy,’ what’s your reaction going to be?”

  “That you’re full of shit,” Birdy said.

  “Exactly, but it’s true. His name’s Tyrone. The RV park, carnival people, they’ve wintered there for years. He takes walks at night because of the way his face looks. I’m not making this up. That’s how he bills himself, Roswell Man, the place in New Mexico where his mother was probed—you know, screwed—by an alien.”

  Birdy said, “Oh, please.”

  “That’s Tyrone’s act, for christ’s sake. Or sometimes he’s a chuman—half chimp, half man. That’s the scientific term, by the way. He’s got posters on his walls.”

  “Chimp-man?”

  “CHU-man. He has some kind of skin condition, like scales instead of skin, but it sort of looks like fur. There are country hicks willing to believe anything, apparently.” After a beat, Theo added, “Maybe Hannah’s heard of him.”

  I held my temper but countered, “I didn’t say he was hunchbacked,” while Birdy staggered beneath Theo’s weight, laughing, no longer annoyed.

  The good-looking archaeologist hooted into her ear, “Well, now!” and flashed me a look to sharpen what came next. “I love proving amateurs wrong.”

  • • •

  WHEN THEO WENT inside his pop-up camper, Birdy whispered, “The guy’s a total prick.”

  It had taken him a while to get the door open. And when I’d asked, “Where’s your car?” he had snapped at me, “A friend’s using it—is that okay?”

  No, it wasn’t. The camper sat alone in a clearing, the trailer tongue on a cement block. It caused me to wonder Is the place really his?

  Birdy was suspicious, too. “His girlfriend probably has the car. Or wife. Let’s play along and see who we meet at the RV park. Are you okay with that?”

  So far, but I feared she was rationalizing a way to spend more time with Theo and enjoy the strong Rum and Cokes, which his long arm now presented us from the door. The door closed, Theo saying, “Gotta find some stuff and powder my nose, ladies. Make yourselves at home.”

  I took a sip. “I can’t imagine the sort of life a person has calling himself Roswell Man. Makes me sad even to think about. In grade school, there was a boy who had skin so scaly, he finally stopped coming. Real scales—a medical condition that was incurable.”

  Birdy made a cooing noise to empathize, but her mind was on the night sky. “You know . . . camping might be the way to go out here. Even with this moon, the stars are bright.”

  I said, “Supposedly, the condition gets worse with age. Ichthy . . . I can’t quite recall the name, but it’s ichthy-something. An ichthyologist studies fish, which has to do with scales, that’s why I remember. It’s a terrible disease for a child. I had a problem with acne in my teens and thought it was the end of the world. I always went out of my way to be nice to that boy.”

  “Pimples?” Birdy acted as if that was funny until she noticed me glaring. “Sorry, forgot about your temper,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Somehow Theo guessed you’re here to prove the ghost stories are bullshit. That’s why he’s passive-aggressive. He doesn’t want the property developed, so he sees you as one of the bad guys. Not in those words, he’s too smooth. Or thinks he is.”

  Theo and Birdy had done some whispering while they walked ahead of me through the trees, through the gate, down a one-lane asphalt road to the Telegraph River, which didn’t look like a river because it was so narrow, cloaked by moss and shadows.

  I took another sip: Coca-Cola on ice, but mostly rum. “Your aunt is more interested in legalities than the truth. You could have told him that. She doesn’t care about ghosts any more than she does asbestos or mold.”

  “Hell with him. Always keep men and crime suspects guessing. He’s pompous, that’s all. When I told him Dame Bunny has a million bucks invested in this project, he shrugged it off like it was no big deal. But he is kind of amusing.”

  Replying to Birdy’s tone, not her words, I said gently, “If you want him to take you out for a drink, that’s okay. I’ve got work to do.” I had left Capt. Summerlin’s journal on the mantel, hoping the hot, dry air would loosen some pages.

  Birdy exhaled a derisive “Hah! What, he’s been here only three weeks? Like he owns the place already. He’s not even the lead archaeologist on this project. Notice how he glazed over that?” A moment later, she added, “But he is young. And he does have an interesting face.”

  I thought, Uh-oh.

  A small generator, quiet as a sewing machine, surged, brightening the lights, while we waited, including a yellow bug light hanging from a limb near a charcoal grill and a fire pit and a hammock strung between trees, but the kind made in Mexico, not a jungle hammock with netting like mine.

  Birdy considered the outdoor orderliness of the place, the little pit and potted plants, before observing, “He’s made a comfy little nest for himself, hasn’t he?”

  I said, “If it’s actually his.”

  When Birdy replied, “Oh, please,” I again thought, Uh-oh.

  Theo ducked out the door, carrying a sack and an oversized light with a battery pack. “Let’s deal with your bug problem first,” he said.

  We returned to the house.

  • • •

  I WASN’T ENCOURAGED by the man’s spider-killing technique. Inside the house, Theo built the fire higher and closed the fireplace flue. I had already lugged Birdy’s suitcase, air mattress, sheets, and a pillow into the room, pausing to smash a few scorpions en route.

  Birdy was behaving unusually girlish, even with a 9mm pistol in her purse, a Glock loaded with hollow-points. She stayed on the porch until Theo called her in.

  “Chrysanthemum resin,” he announced, opening the bag. “It’s a trick I learned from one of the campground regulars. Mosquitoes and chiggers were driving me nuts until I used this. She’s an amazing woman—studied with some tribe in the Amazon. A regular witch.”

  He sifted a handful of powder into the fire, the flames blue-edged when they flared, but then were smothered by more powder.

  “You’re studying witchcraft, too? You could be a psycho, for all we know.” Birdy was flirting again—or was she?

  Theo enjoyed the humor. “Half the women in the RV park claim to be witches. And not just the carnie women. I don’t care what they are as long as there’s something they can teach me. Natural remedies are a hobby. Early battlefield surgeons, that’s all they had. One of my favorite professors used to say that alchemy is chemistry’s Dutch uncle. But it’s medicine’s grandfather.”

 
He emptied the bag. Smoke boiled into the room. A pleasant incense odor at first, like a burning mosquito coil that was soon overpowering.

  “Hurry up, I want to check something,” he said. “Where were you sleeping when you got stung?”

  Birdy had covered her nose and mouth. “You can burn the place down, I wouldn’t go back in that room.”

  “You’ll get a kick out of this, promise.” He appealed to me. “Hannah?”

  I said, “If we don’t suffocate first,” and walked toward the hall, Theo behind me carrying the light, which looked high-tech, a rectangle of LEDs with a battery pack.

  When he turned it on inside the room, the darkness became eerie blue velvet with a glowing fringe. “Ultraviolet light,” he explained. He held the thing like a shield and entered, panning it across the ceiling.

  I have seen scorpions under ultraviolet light before, but always with cheap flashlights or neon tubes, nothing like the unit Theo carried. The ceiling, the walls, glittered with emeralds. The room moved, its skin alive. When several clattering green comets fell to the floor, Theo stomped them with his Birks.

  “Scientists don’t understand why some insects react to UV light,” he said, backing away. “That’s why I brought this. When we come back later, we’ll know if they’re gone or not.”

  I called to the hallway, “Birdy—you need to see this.”

  No, she didn’t. The three of us went coughing out the front door. The smoke, or holding my breath, caused me to feel oddly separated from my body, a slight buzz that added a blue corona to my flashlight’s beam.

  On the steps, Theo explained to Birdy, “Pyrethrum is the active ingredient in the resin. How are you feeling?”

  “Like the only time in my life I tried mushrooms, sort of . . . nice. How about you, Hannah?”

  “I think he should have warned us,” I replied. I needed air so kept walking.

  “Pyrethrum isn’t dangerous. It was one of the first insecticides. Persian soldiers depended on it. I wish you’d have seen those scorpions under UV. We use it a lot in the field, but for finding bone fragments and pottery shards, not insects. They fluoresce, too.”

  Birdy’s girlish streak vanished, but only I realized it, knew it because she used his remark as an opening. “In Guatemala, my professor would have killed for a lab-grade UV light. I did three weeks on a Maya project there. I’d love to see the techniques used by someone who really knows what they’re doing.”

  Theo stopped as if to return to the house. “Then let’s go back.”

  “No, I mean the archaeological applications. I want you to show us your dig site. It’s on the way, isn’t it? And you’re already hauling that light around.”

  Theo balked, saying it was late.

  Birdy used psychology by addressing me. “Most people don’t understand how disappointing a dig site can be. You can excavate for years and not find anything significant. Poor Theo’s been here only for a few weeks, so I totally understand.”

  Theo, who was leading the way, turned to block our path. “That’s not the reason.”

  Birdy pretended to empathize. “You never told us the name of the lead archaeologist. Is it too late to call and ask permission? I’m a cop. I understand the chain of command.”

  It worked.

  After a detour, Theo used a flashlight to guide us under a rope onto the dig site. Mosquitoes greeted us from the shadows while a night bird screeched, its wings black against the moon.

  A sudden thought stopped me—or paranoia caused by the smoke. I let the other two go ahead, but they backtracked. Birdy asked, “Something wrong?”

  “I left the journal on the fireplace mantel,” I said. “What if the house burns down?”

  Theo snickered at the improbability. “She keeps a journal?” Journals were for teenagers. It was in his tone.

  I shot back, “If you have a question, it’s faster to ask me directly. No, I don’t keep a journal—well, I do, a fishing journal, but that’s for business reasons. I was talking about something else.”

  “Oh, you’re a fishing guide, too, huh? Along with being an expert on history.” Taunting me now.

  Birdy told him, “Back off, boogaloo. As a matter of fact, she is.”

  Theo grinned. “Oh?”

  “Hannah is fifth- or sixth-generation Floridian. She’s named after a great-aunt who chopped wood for a living. Look up Hannah and Sarah Smith—they’re in the history books. But it’s her uncle’s journal. He was a blockade-runner. What was his name again? Captain Summerlin. But I forget his first name.”

  My friend, by intending to bruise Theo’s ego, had let a confidence slip. The man’s attention zoomed. He stared at me. “Captain Jake Summerlin?”

  Theo was referring to another distant relative who had exported cattle to Cuba, not Ben Summerlin, who had expanded beyond cattle into blockade-running and also dabbled in rum. The error allowed me an out.

  “A different man,” I said. “I’d better go back to the house.”

  The expert on Civil War battlefields didn’t believe me—or didn’t want to believe me—but his demeanor changed. “Hannah and Sarah Smith,” he repeated.

  Birdy started to say she would return to the house with me, but Theo interrupted. “Well, now! I think we got off to a bad start, Hannah. I didn’t realize you’re related to the Summerlins and the old-time Florida Smiths. Seriously, Sarah Smith?” Then he proved his knowledge of history by explaining to Birdy, “She was the first woman to drive an oxcart across the Everglades. This was back in like 1910, 1911.”

  The temptation was to correct him—the first person to do it—but I remained cautious because Theo, I realized, wanted to get his paws on Ben Summerlin’s journal. So I played dumb. “Was she really?”

  Theo saw through my lie. His certainty was in an absurd bow, a gentleman deferring to a lady’s reticence. He checked the time while his mind retooled. “You know . . . instead of rushing, why not wait until morning? I’ve got three excavation sites going. And UV light works just as well in sunlight. Really spectacular, what you’ll see.”

  He suggested we freshen our drinks and go straight to the RV park. “I’m late, as it is. There’s a Civil War hobbyist—he’s giving me some kind of award. And don’t forget about Tyrone.”

  “I don’t need to meet Tyrone,” I said. Truth is, I didn’t want to intrude on a stranger who walked around at night to avoid gawkers.

  Theo ignored me. “Have you ever used ground-penetrating radar, Bertie? Tomorrow, I’ll show you how to operate one of the best units made.”

  My friend, as if enjoying a sudden estrogen spike, replied, “That is so sweet. But if we go to the campground, will we still have time for a drink later?”

  I was thinking, The journal—I should go back and get it?

  I didn’t.

  A mistake.

  What the Palm Beach attorney had described as a mom-and-pop RV park wasn’t. The strangest combination of people I’d ever seen inhabited the other side of the river, down a private road where campers and RVs were nestled near dockage for boats and canoes.

  According to Theo, getting there would have taken twenty minutes by car, so we walked. Followed him across a defunct railroad bridge, the moon behind us. Every few minutes, I looked over my shoulder, worried the old house was ablaze, but the sky remained a steady onyx-silver above the trees.

  We exited a path onto the private road. Two signs were posted. One was a warning to those entering the campground: No Rednecks, Gypsies, Boom Boxes, or Close-Minded Nabobs. Cash Only.

  Nabobs? I could guess what the word meant.

  The other sign was smaller, posted at a gated gravel drive:

  SLEW VACCINE AND HERPETILE

  TRESPASSERS RISK ENVENOMATION

  BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

  The signs were stenciled in red, made by someone with an ego.

  T
heo confided, “A processing lab, supposedly,” and didn’t look back.

  My mind was on the journal in the house that was fuming with vapors, the front door padlocked, not that I was comforted by that. Thieves could easily break a window or shimmy up to the balcony and through the French doors.

  Birdy said, “Gyspies,” as if she found that interesting yet disapproved. “I know ‘Herpetile’ means snakes, but is slew the owner’s name or slew as in swamp?” She turned to me. “That’s another word for swamp, isn’t it?”

  Theo had been talking nonstop but tolerated the interruption. “Call it anything you want, it’s still a snake farm. Can you imagine milking snakes for a living? The guy has to be twisted. Or hung up on the money thing.”

  “I doubt if hospitals care one way or the other,” Birdy replied.

  “Oh? I guess you’d like handling snakes—you know, real thick, long ones.”

  Theo thought that was funny. Birdy didn’t. So he tried another approach. “I do what I do because I love it. I have a commercial pilot’s license, too, but it’s my life, you know? Jesus . . . dealing with reptiles all day sounds sort of freakish to me.” Odd, his response—a mix of contempt and hubris.

  Birdy picked up on that. “Three weeks here and you haven’t met the owner?”

  “‘By appointment only,’ the sign says, but I’ve seen the place from the outside. There’s not much, three buildings and an old Land Rover. One of the classics, though—an old Defender, like in the jungle movies. At least we’d have something to talk about—if I bothered.”

  I was thinking, This man is nuts, while Birdy asked, “Did you try calling?”

  “Businesses don’t take calls anymore. It’s all Internet-driven. There’s money in raw snake vaccine, I don’t doubt that. But, from those signs? He’s got to be a pretty strange animal.”

  Finally Birdy agreed. “A pompous prick, is what he sounds like. ‘Envenomation’—why not just say poisoned?”

  Theo replied, “Because they are two very different things,” sounding like a pompous prick himself. “It’s not like the RV park gets a lot of traffic. A dozen trailers and a few tents, is the busiest I’ve seen it. And that was yesterday.” Then he resumed talking about the man he was supposed to meet and the award he was receiving—a subject I had tuned out ten minutes ago.