Randy White - Haunted

Carmelo, listening to every word, said, “I’m a good shot. And lotsa big fish.”

My attention sharpened. “But you weren’t fishing.”

“No, of course not,” Belton said. “There’s a deep spot there. Almost fifteen feet deep, which is unusual in a river this narrow, and he happened to mention hunting. Then he remembered the house, so I said let’s have a look. I didn’t expect much. But isn’t that the way it always happens?”

Carmelo moved to a spot on the ground while Belton opened a new photo. Vines curling through its bricks, the structure was rectangular, shaped like a loaf of bread. The vaulted cover had collapsed, but enough bricks remained to form a graceful arch.

“It’s a rain cistern,” I told him. What I wanted to ask was, What did you find on the bottom of the river?

Belton concentrated on the photo. “Are you sure? Hannah, I’ve seen photos of cisterns from that period. They’re usually big wooden barrels held together with iron hoops.”

I said, “People used bricks if they knew how to do it. I’ve seen cisterns the same shape in Key West and some other places. How far is the house from the river?”

“Only fifty yards or so. They had plenty of water.”

I said, “Not if you had to carry it in a wooden bucket. That’s far enough back to avoid flooding, but they would’ve needed a cistern. Fifty yards is a long walk through heat and mosquitoes.” Then I did ask about what they’d found in the river, but indirectly. “Is the boat equipped with a fish finder? Or an actual bottom-reading unit? One is a lot more detailed and expensive.”

“Hannah Smith, the fishing guide,” Belton reminded himself. Cautious again. No… he was suspicious.

I said, “I’m not interested in catching bass. I’m wondering what might have sunk there during the Civil War. Why else would you be interested?”

“Why, indeed,” the man said. On his face was a mild smile. He seemed to be waiting for me to elaborate. I was tempted to come right out and tell him that Capt. Summerlin had scuttled a boat somewhere in the area-possibly this river. My great-great-uncle’s journal had yet to reveal details.

But I, too, have a suspicious streak, particularly when it comes to strange men. So I reached and pulled a map of Florida closer. “Explain to me why Union troops would be this far south?”

“Ale bottles from Massachusetts,” he said. “Smart girl. But that’s no guarantee the beer was drunk by Union soldiers.”

“Maybe not. But soldiers from the North would’ve come by boat. You can carry a lot more supplies in a boat than on horseback. Bottles of beer are too heavy to carry more than a few on horseback.”

That was only a partial explanation. I knew Union soldiers had been here because the attorney had shown us photos of their uniform buttons. Belton Matás sensed I was holding back but played along by offering an overview of the Civil War-or started to-when I noticed Birdy walking my direction.

I got to my feet. “I think my friend’s ready to go. Can we talk tomorrow?”

He stood at gentlemanly attention and signaled for Carmelo to stand, too. “My pleasure, Miss Hannah Smith. But how about this? Come with us in the morning and I’ll show you where we found the bottles. Carmelo has to get gas for the boat first-that means driving to a gas station-so how about nine-thirty?”

I didn’t want to bring up Theo’s name or the plans we’d made. “It would have to be later. I wouldn’t want to hold you up.”

“Let’s say noon, then.” His eyes found Birdy. “Invite your friend along.”

“That’s nice of you. I’ll ask her on the walk back.”

“You didn’t come in a car?”

“We were told it’s faster to come across the old railroad bridge.”

Belton cleared his throat. “Some advice from an old man: I wouldn’t wander around here alone at night.”

That caused me to look at Tyrone’s double-wide. No reason, I just did. Once again, there was a face at the window, a shadow that watched Birdy approaching or watched me. I felt sadness for the person inside, not fear. I held up a hand and waved to acknowledge his existence.

The blinds snapped closed… then opened. A single hand polished the window in slow motion, two brief strokes-a reply.

The blinds closed.

From the way Birdy suddenly went quiet, I knew we would be sleeping in a motel tonight, not the house, so I beat her to it, saying, “Let’s find a place in Labelle and come back in the morning with bug bombs. We’ll set them off before Theo shows us the dig site. By evening, it’ll be okay to sleep.”

Birdy, her mind somewhere else, said, “Huh? Oh-I can’t. You know I work Sunday mornings, so I can’t stay tomorrow night.” She peered ahead, unsure of something. Several steps later, she took my arm and whispered, “Someone’s coming.”

“Where?”

“A person. See?”

No. The moon was to our left. Enough light pooled on the road so that we didn’t need our flashlights, but not enough to make out details. When I reached for my flashlight, Birdy, voice low, ordered, “Don’t. Keep moving,” then slipped the purse off her shoulder; a purse that contained a semiauto pistol loaded with police man-stopper rounds.

“Whatever you say,” I replied-both of us whispering-but then changed my mind when I saw movement near the sign we’d seen earlier: Slew Vaccine and Herpetile .

I planted my feet, which dragged Birdy to a halt. “Mr. Matás pulled in there by accident the other night and a big dog or something charged his car. I don’t want you to shoot someone’s dog.”

Her purse was open but she hadn’t taken the gun out. “I wouldn’t-unless I had to. Even out here, dogs should be on a leash.” She thought for a moment. “What do you mean or something ?”

I said, “Shush,” because details were emerging from the trees. It was a person carrying something heavy, a formless shape that breached the entrance to what Theo had described as a small, modern facility. The object looked like an oversized trash can; the person, male, was wide-shouldered, strong, but as short as a child. He squatted, placed the can by the road, then reversed his course, walking with the odd teeter-totter strides of someone who is muscle-bound or on stilts. There was a gate. He pulled it closed behind him.

Birdy gave it a long, uneasy minute before saying into my ear, “A dwarf. That’s another dwarf… isn’t it?”

I sniffed the air flowing toward us, a light breeze from the north. Garbage… fermenting fruit… and a fecal musk that forced my head to turn.

Birdy’s, too. “My god, what’s that stink?”

I said, “Mr. Matás could have been wrong about the dog. At first he said it was something else, maybe a-” I hesitated.

“A what?”

“At first he thought it was a chimpanzee.”

“A chimp ? Jesus Christ, how do you confuse a dog with a chimp?”

I shushed her again. “That was his first impression. It was dark, he was in that rental RV of his. Then an old man came out, yelling, and Mr. Matás is close to eighty himself. Anyone that age would’ve been confused. Now he thinks it was one of the large breeds like a Saint Bernard.”

“A chimp!” She reached into her purse. “Those things are monsters. Did you read what a chimp did to that poor woman? She had to have a face transplant.” Birdy had her pistol out, a flashlight in her other hand. She stood taller to scout ahead. “Come on, let’s have a look.”

“A look at what?”

“Footprints. The road’s mostly sand. That’ll tell us. Special permits are required to keep dangerous pets. I’ll have the owner’s ass if there’s an illegal chimp roaming around here at night.”