Haunted (9 page)

You lecherous old man,
I thought yet smiled. The sketches breathed life into my long-dead relative. He wasn’t old when he’d taken pen in hand—early thirties, which was my own age. He had found a way to entertain himself when he was alone. No harm in that. Better still, the sketches proved that indecent thoughts weren’t new to our family’s bloodline.

That alone provided some comfort after the thoughts
I
had been battling.

No wonder. I was lying in the chill of a wall air conditioner, wearing only a T-shirt, while Birdy and her cowboy guest did god-knows-what just three rooms away. The marine biologist was on my mind. Officially, we had stopped dating, but he was still an occasional late-night visitor—a
welcome
visitor—and it had been a while since he had come tapping at my door. He was out of the country or I might have called him to talk.

Restless
didn’t accurately describe my current state of mind.

I had no physical interest in the airline pilot or the attorney I’d been seeing. No commitments either. There was no reason in the world I shouldn’t replace my sleeplessness with harmless
conversation if, say, someone within walking distance was also awake—aboard the houseboat, for instance.

I was rationalizing. I knew it but didn’t care.

So far, I had refused to allow myself to go to the window and check. Captain Summerlin’s bawdy sketches, however, seemed to grant full permission. I laid the book aside and opened the curtains: a light was still on in an aft cabin of the boat.

Joe Egret.
I thought the name softly, trying to nail the connection. The window didn’t provide sufficient motive, so I cracked the door and used my ears: trilling frogs and wind cloaked the river’s silence, but Garth Brooks would have been easy enough to hear. There was no music.

Damn . . . damn it to hell.

I felt free to say whatever I felt because I was alone. Several sharp comments later, I decided,
Instead of complaining, do something productive.

I returned to the journal.

Theo—or someone—had found the entry about the missing hundred silver dollars. I was certain because the book opened naturally to the place as if it had been butterflied open and mashed flat. That angered me, angered me enough to push biologists and cow hunters out of my mind.

Men—nothing but trouble.

Yes, they were, especially with none around to show an interest in me.

I turned the air down, got back in bed, and tried to put myself in Theo’s place if he had, indeed, copied entries from the journal. The Civil War and the missing silver dollars would have been his
only interest. So I referenced dates and tried to create a bare-bones time line that might point me to where Capt. Summerlin had scuttled his dory, then buried or hid or dumped a box of coins.

Back and forth between the pages I went. First, I had to work out the man’s abbreviations and odd spellings. At times, he inserted numbers for letters which seemed a form of code. I soon gave up trying to figure that out. Then I focused on content. Between August 1861 and December 1862, only three of the forty-some entries mentioned the war. These were vague or sardonic references to shortages of salt and coffee, and a jab at the Confederate Navy’s inability to take St. Augustine. Between 1863 and 1865, however, the war received more of my great-uncle’s attention.

What had changed?’

The answer, I decided, was in a file on my laptop, which I had already summarized in longhand after stringing my hammock that afternoon:

From the war’s start, Florida’s 140,000 residents had mixed sympathies. The Union depended on locals to control Key West, Tampa, Pensacola, and Jacksonville. Only 14,000 Floridians joined the Confederate Army.

In 1863, the Battle of Vicksburg changed everything. It closed the Mississippi River as the South’s main supply conduit. That left only Florida to provide cattle, salt, and other staples of war. Cattlemen and mariners, whatever their sympathies, were caught in the middle. The Union had to cut off supplies. That meant killing Florida’s cattle where they
stood and controlling waterways. It sparked the cattle wars and salt wars of inland Florida. Blood began to flow.

The Caloosahatchee River, which connected two oceans (aided by a short overland trail), was a major prize. The Union took Ft. Myers at the mouth of the river. But control of Ft. Thompson—an outpost near Labelle—varied. There was heavy fighting, especially near Tallahassee, Jacksonville, and also at Lake City where 10,000 troops engaged. After six hours of fighting, 3,000 lay dead.

By 1864, the Cattle Wars had shifted and hardened sympathies. Union sympathizers formed a unit called the Florida Rangers. Those who sided with the South formed the 1st Battalion “Cow Cavalry.” Men without politics but who owned boats and cattle could get rich if they wanted. Or they could risk their lives by aiding a cause they hadn’t believed in from the start.

A few cow hunters and captains did both. Even for them, times were hard. Beef on the hoof was valuable, but worthless without salt to cure and preserve the meat. In the end, it was salt, not gunpowder or gold, that controlled the fates of Florida and the South.

After I’d reread the summary, I sat back, wondering about the accuracy of what I’d written.
Salt . . .
Such a common item. My eyes moved to the kitchenette, where a plastic shaker sat on the counter. For me, a dollar would buy a year’s supply. Not during the Civil War. Salt was mentioned in historic references, but it was
Ben Summerlin’s journal that proved its value in a world without refrigeration. Those same entries also provided clues to where he might have scuttled his dory
Sodbuster
—and why he was on the run from Union soldiers.

I yawned, glanced at the window, then buckled down to copying the entries, but used ellipses to skip over sentences that did not apply. When Capt. Summerlin omitted a location or date, I included a question mark. When his writing was illegible, I noted that, too. The code he’d used began to make sense: the first letter of a word followed either by hyphens that approximated the number of letters the word contained or sometimes by a number. Because of the man’s poor spelling and his whims, translation required guesswork. S with three hyphens could mean
sail
or
seed
or
salt
, while S4 was a profanity—
shit
. I chose words that seemed to fit but added a question mark when dubious.

The temptation was to jump straight to the scuttling incident in December 1864. But I stayed on task, determined to finish entries from 1863 before turning out the light.

7 August, 1863 (Sanybel): The Blues has blowed up rum stills from Pensacola to Key Marco without no whimpering but has now burnt all saltworks along the coast. This will win them a bullet from many if a chance given. Shooting cattle aint won them no friends nether. Nor will their looting gerillas when they come ashore drunk . . .

21 August: Thank the Lord for green turtle meat cause of the fix we are in. Damnt if I know how to make salt & who does cause salt is like breathing air. Them that do know quick
find the attention of the Blues & whatever dynamite needed. This is because saltworks is always built on the coast which is handy but aint smart. Men such as Captain Gatrell & brothers has been studying this matter & we will meet soon.

12 September, 1863 (Sanybel): Yankees from Juseppa Island found salt pans on La Costa Beach & threatened hanging. Damnt spies is among us. I will never again run away after such sneaky business as this. Acourse the Yankee bastards accused me with nary proof. Prove this in court I told their snot nosed lieutenant. I am both judge & jury which you would do well to remember sir, he says. Addressing me as sir saved the snot nose a licking for I will not tolerate rude behavior from them sech as he. As to my expenses for them salt pans & other supplies, they are as follows . . .

24 February, 1864 (Key West Turtle Kralls): News is that pony horses is sellin for $2000 in Confederate paper but you kant buy a hogshead of salt for 10 times that. This was tolt to me by a Yankee officer at Ft. Taylor. He come aboard to inspect for contraband but cut things short after asking about the name Widow’s Son. He had never seen a 40’ sloop bilt of yeller pine & rigged with leeboards that can be razed in shoal water. I’ll bet she’s fast, he reckoned. I gave him the handshake & says, She’ll float on fog & nary cut a mark.

It is a smart name I chose cause 18 demijohns of rum was stowed among cigars & molasses under the man’s feet. But no salt. Even Habana aint got no salt.

15 April, 1864 (Old Tampa): Off loaded molasses & seen the worst with mine own eyes. People muddy as hogs is digging
up floors of meat houses & leaching salt that has leaked into the soil. They shovel dirt into hoppers & fire the mess with a blacksmiths furnace. Cheesecloth is dear so it is rank burlap they use as a filter after water boils. 50 people stand in line for a days filthy work & come away with a cup of something that grinds like sand in the teeth but has the tang of salt. Damnt this war & damnt an ocean that won’t part with its salt unless you’re a drowning man. Or own a furnace the size of a steam engine for rendering . . .

19 April (off Manatee River): Salt Famine! These are words I could not imagine 3 years ago but is now spoken in every port & it is time to act, by God. Gerilla fighting is what is left us. But how to bait a trap when bait is the prize? Gatrell & brothers has voted & not 1 black ball against . . .

Salt Famine!
My great-uncle had underlined the phrase twice and added the only exclamation mark I’d found thus far. He had also underlined steam engine, but did not explain his reference to a vote.

What did it all mean?

In my notes, I underlined the same words, then stretched and went to the restroom before I resumed reading.

20 May, 1864 (Cattle Docks at Punta Rassa): Gatrell & brothers has packed axes & tackle & smudge pots cause we will have to cut our way through the skeeters. It aint far from the bridge but a long stretch of river up [NAME BLOTTED] which runs
north off the Caloosahatchee. There be the place to boil salt or so I recollect. As to my Cuban wife, not one word from her as to me spending next Christmas in Habana . . .

His Cuban wife? I didn’t know which thread to pursue. Many of the entries were new to me and this was the first mention of a wife. But I was also riveted by Capt. Summerlin’s unfolding plan. Or what I perceived to be his intent. He, a man named Gatrell, and Gatrell’s brothers wanted to manufacture salt. They were seeking a source inland which wouldn’t be spotted by the Union Army—and they were willing to fight to do it. This all seemed evident.

Gradually, as I burrowed through the early months of 1864, I understood the seriousness of Ben Summerlin’s plans. I also began to suspect he
might
have something to do with Civil War graves on the Cadence property. If true, it was one of those weird bonding coincidences that hinted at the orderliness of family destiny and fate.

Captain Summerlin and I had something else in common: he, too, had been worried about spies getting into his journal. More and more, he protected himself by scribbling out words—names, usually. Names of associates and also the name of the river he had visited that summer, a river that fed into the Caloosahatchee from the north, which couldn’t be far from Labelle. It was here, I suspected, that he, Capt. Gatrell, and Gatrell’s brothers were setting a trap or laying bait—I wasn’t yet certain.

Was it the Telegraph River? I combed some of the illegible
entries for meaning but stopped when I heard voices outside. Birdy was saying good night to Brit. A minute later, she tapped at my door.

It was one forty-five in the morning, but she’d seen my light. I expected her to have a devilish smile on her face when I answered.

No . . . my friend the deputy sheriff was scared.

“You won’t believe what he just told me,” Birdy said, pushing her way into my room. “I’m surprised you’re still up, but this is important.”

“Who, Brit?”

“Of course. That’s why I made him leave early.”

“
Early?
Did he do something stupid?”

“Brit’s not the problem.” Birdy looked at the bed, saw the journal, then noticed her own bare feet and legs and the baggy Red Sox T-shirt she was wearing. The shirt was on backward, which we both realized at the same instant.

“Shit,” she muttered.

I said, “At least you had some quality time.”

“Not as much as I wanted. Are you ready for this?”

“I’d prefer not to hear details, if you don’t mind. Well . . . maybe a few.”

“Lock the door and use the dead bolt,” she told me, then plopped down on the bed, full of nervous energy. “Remember when Brit mentioned a crazy person but he wouldn’t tell us the name?”

I was fiddling with the lock, my back to her. “He’s not a gossip. Good for him.”

“It’s Theo.”

It was so late, I had trouble processing that. “What do you mean?”

“Theo—he’s not really an archaeologist.”

“What?”
I spun around, then rechecked the dead bolt because of what she’d just said.

“Theo Ivanhoff. He’s the neighbor Brit said is
slap-ass crazy
. Those were his exact words. Do you remember?”

“Is he sure?”

“You were right about him from the start. Or maybe he
is
an archaeologist—Brit doesn’t really know him—but Theo has lived in the area his whole life. Not ten minutes ago, I happened to mention the name Ivanhoff. Talk about putting the brakes on a fun evening. Christ, Smithie, now we have to figure out how to handle it if Theo shows up for our tour in the morning. Or maybe we shouldn’t go. Brit offered to come along, but he’s got some sort of class in Port Charlotte.”

I was still a little dazed. “You mean everything Theo said was a lie?”

“That’s what he’s known for. Pretending to be someone he’s not.”

I said, “I didn’t trust him. Right off, I didn’t trust him, but this is hard to believe.”

“I’m still working it out myself. The feds wouldn’t hire someone local to do a a local archaeological survey. I know enough about government to know that. And remember the nasty way he talked about the head archaeologist? Brit says Theo has told people he’s a heart surgeon and a commercial pilot, an Army Ranger, all kinds of crazy things. That’s what he does—he’s an egomaniac. Not dangerous, exactly. The locals put up with him and all. Theo’s . . .
functional
,
you know? Plus he’s a druggie, the type who experiments. Brit was worried enough to set me straight.”

“Experiments?”

“I’m not sure what he meant by that either.”

I checked the door again before taking a seat. “Theo knows you’re a deputy sheriff. It was stupid of him to lie to us.” I looked at her. “I don’t think he’ll show. And if he does? Well, your Aunt Bunny owns the property. He’ll be trespassing.”

Birdy muttered, “What’s stupid is me having the hots for a freak like that,” then thought for a moment. “Trouble is, he didn’t actually do anything illegal. Unless . . . unless he doesn’t own that camper trailer. Brit only knows him by reputation, so I didn’t bring that up. But the thing about owning a chimpanzee? That’s a definite possibility—dangerous animals of some type. Maybe we can nail him for that.”

I was lost again. “You’re talking about the snake place?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t get it. Does Theo live nearby? The RV park makes more sense. I picked up on that—everyone knows him there.”

The look on Birdy’s face:
Whoops, I left out something important.

Yes, she had. Theo owned the RV park
and
the Slew Vaccine
company. Actually, Theo’s father owned it all, but Theo had grown up working there. His father was old now and seldom left the property.

“Theo won’t admit what his family does,” Birdy said. “That’s another weird thing about him. Like he’s ashamed. Remember the nasty things he said about anyone who would go into the vaccine business? But all the locals know the truth. The only thing Theo’s an expert at is getting high and taking care of the RV park—and snakes.”

“There was something creepy about him from the start. A snake handler, good lord.”

“I should either start trusting your instincts, Hannah, or find myself a nice, dependable score buddy. This is no way to live. Seriously, I think my hormones are out of whack.”

I asked, “A score-
what
?”

Birdy looked at me and waited until I said,
“Oh.
Well . . . I’ve been a little antsy myself.”

“Never mind. Point is, I all but threw myself at a strung-out psycho or just an egomaniac—not much difference. Part of me doesn’t ever want to see him again, but I also wouldn’t mind cuffing the bastard and reading him his Miranda rights. So what do we do in the morning?”

We talked for a while longer before I said, “Your aunt is paying me to do a job. I think I should be there with a camera and hope Theo shows up. The attorney wants pictures of Civil War artifacts and bones. I don’t mind going by myself if you’re not comfortable.”

Birdy said, “Not a chance. I’ll carry my Glock in my purse.”

•   •   •

B
ELTON
M
ATÁS,
standing outside the rope at the dig site, morning dew and an equipment bag at his feet, called to me, “If you’re looking for
Dr.
Ivanhoff, he just left. Almost like he was avoiding you, the way he ran off.” He motioned toward trees that sloped toward the river. A glimpse of Theo’s shoulders was what I saw, a man in a hurry, head slouched low.

I replied with a careful, “Good morning, Belton,” then waited until I was close enough to speak in a normal voice. “I’ve got some news about Theo—if you don’t already know.”

Matás knew, but not in a guilty way. I could tell by the way he smiled. “Did you figure it out yourself? Or did you run into the real archaeologist? That’s what I did.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Leslie Babbs from Louisville. Just now, he walked back to his truck for something. Don’t worry—we’re going to get our tour, but he’s not enthusiastic.” Then, confidentially, Belton added, “He strikes me as a fussy old codger for a man not even my age. But he’s no fraud. I’ve read his papers—Leslie Babbs knows his Civil War.”

I said, “Why didn’t you tell me about Theo last night? That’s why you got flustered when I mentioned his award, isn’t it? If my friend Birdy hadn’t found out—”

“Now, now,” Belton said. “Delicate situations require delicacy. I didn’t know your relationship with the young man. And I wasn’t a hundred percent certain he was a fraud until this morning. Ivanhoff didn’t expect Dr. Babbs to arrive until tomorrow. If you’d
been twenty minutes earlier, you’d have witnessed quite a scene, Hannah.”

I said, “I wish I could have seen his face.”

“Maybe you will. Dr. Babbs called the police.” Matás moved to peer around my shoulder. Birdy, carrying a shoulder bag, a sweater knotted around her waist, was walking toward us.

“She is the police,” I informed him.

He chuckled at that, but then said, “For real?”

“A deputy sheriff. And she is seriously . . . Well, I’m not going to use the term, but she’s already mad at Theo. And for good reason.”

“Seriously pissed off, you think?” The man lifted his face to the sun and savored the possibilities. He looked rumpled, in his jacket with elbow patches and with his slacks tucked into his boots, but spry. I got the impression he hadn’t slept well but was used to tolerating the aches and pains and rough mornings that accompanied old age.

“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.

•   •   •

L
ESLIE
B
ABBS
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.”