After shaking hands, I said to the older gentleman, “Yes, please, cold tea would be nice.” His name was Belton Matás. Adjusting the gas lantern was Carmelo, a hard-looking man, early thirties, with a vacant smile.
“I’ll get it,” Carmelo said and hurried to an Igloo cooler next to a tent. Something about his eagerness suggested that his mind was stunted.
Mr. Matás had waved as I walked past. I’d assumed he was waving at me. In fact, he had been signaling Theo that they were still waiting. It was one of those silly social errors I make too often. But the man put me at ease, saying, “You’re even lovelier up close. Please, sit. Do you live nearby?”
On the table, instead of a board game, were maps and a few books. I explained about the old house while I settled into a canvas chair, then said, “Theo—Dr. Ivanhoff—told us about the award he’s getting. But he didn’t say what it’s for.”
Carmelo, from the cooler, called, “More wine, Mr. Matás?” He spoke the name with a Spanish inflection.
Belton Matás, a blank expression on his face, asked, “Award?” then bought a few seconds by telling Carmelo, “A bottle of water, please.” He waited until he’d opened the bottle, taken a sip after miming a toast. “Dr. Ivanhoff had to be talking about someone else. We’ve exchanged a few e-mails, but I didn’t meet him until this afternoon.” He addressed Carmelo. “Help yourself to another beer, my friend.”
“Thanks, Mr. Matás!”
The older man watched him go. “Carmelo’s a local and not very bright. But there’s an honesty about people like him I find endearing—plus he knows this river like the back of his hand. And please, dear, call me Belton. I’ve given up correcting him.”
“He works for you?”
“Almost a week now. I’m what you would call an amateur historian–slash–self-published author”—a nod at the two books—“which is another way of saying I’m a retired bum. But it’s better than dehydrating in some home for old farts.” He smiled, the lantern reflecting off his glasses. “Excuse my language.”
I touched one of the books. “May I . . . Belton?” It felt okay using his first name.
He placed his hand on the book to delay me. “I didn’t write these. I brought them as—” Carmelo had returned, realized we were talking, so sat cross-legged near the tent. Belton suggested he find a cushion, asked if Carmelo wanted snacks—there were peanuts in the RV—before he returned to the conversation, saying, “Where was I?”
I asked, “Are you writing about the battle that took place here? I wish someone would. I couldn’t find a word about it on the Internet.”
The man was way ahead of me. “Fascinating, isn’t it? That’s why I came down from Richmond. Carmelo, he’s got what they call a bass boat and we’ve been up every creek and canal north of the Caloosahatchee. Maybe I should explain. The Caloosahatchee is a bigger river—more of a canal, really. It runs from—”
“I’m a fishing guide not far from here,” I said, giving him a pat on the wrist to apologize for interrupting. “Mostly out of Captiva Island. I fish the mouth of the Caloosahatchee some, but I’ve never been farther than the locks above Fort Myers. I’d love to read one of your books.”
Belton, a roly-poly man in his late seventies, was delighted. “Carmelo,” he called, “I’ve met my second native Floridian in a week.”
Carmelo gazed at the moon while he chewed peanuts. “That very cool, Mr. Matás.”
I hadn’t said I was born in Florida, but it was okay. I have a slight accent, I’ve been told, the Florida accent being milder and different than others who are raised in the South. I continued to listen, after a glance at the picnic table where, within shouting distance, the two witches and Lucia tended to my friend. But where was Theo?
Belton noticed, picked up on my uneasiness. “People come and go here. It’s worse than a bus station.”
“It’s an unusual place,” I agreed.
That gave him confidence. “At the risk of offending, I’ll just come out and say it. Three nights here is more than enough for me. I don’t mind people using drugs, it’s none of my business. But the smell is so strong, I think everyone goes a little crazy after sundown.”
“A little earlier, I felt sort of strange myself,” I said. “But I did have a rum drink.”
“It’s not your fault. Something’s in the air. Night before last, I made a wrong turn—didn’t see the Serpentarium sign—and this animal came charging out. I’d swear to God it was a chimpanzee or, I don’t know, some crazy person in a costume.”
I sat forward. “What?”
“It couldn’t have been, I know. I’d been driving for twelve hours, so it was probably a big dog—a Saint Bernard or mastiff. Something that size. Then an old man with a flashlight came out, screaming at me. Have you ever tried backing up a rig like that in a hurry?” He meant the RV camper.
“Did the man threaten you?”
Belton, on a roll, didn’t hear the question. “Then, last night, the gentleman who lives there”—he indicated Tyrone’s single-wide—“went galloping off when I said hello. It was dark, I must have surprised him. Truthfully, I felt like running myself when I got a look. Today, I found out he works in a sideshow. But when you’re unprepared for a face like his—my lord.”
“His face is that . . . unusual?”
“It was dark. I don’t want to be cruel, but . . .” Yes is what Belton was implying.
“It can’t be an easy life for him,” I said. “Is he a tall man?” I was wondering about the Peeping Tom.
“Hard to say, but I can’t get out of here soon enough,” he said and cleaned his glasses, his expression humorous. “If I want to get high, I’ll hop into a nice dry martini. And you’d be welcome to join me. Hannah, I think we might be the only normal ones around here.”
I laughed, but it was nervous laughter as I sipped my tea. “What time were you supposed to meet Theo?”
“We left it open.” Matás looked at his watch. “Only ten o’clock. Feels later. Tomorrow at one, he’s going to show me around the dig site. Trust me, he took some convincing. Dr. Ivanhoff is . . . well, let’s say he has a very robust ego.” The man stopped to think about something, then snapped his fingers. “That award—I know what he was talking about. A historian friend in Atlanta gave me a box to deliver. He didn’t say what it was. Research material, I assumed. I’m sure that’s what Dr. Ivanhoff was referring to.”
I said, “Oh.” My mind was on Theo, but not because of an award. I was connecting his absence with the journal I’d left behind.
I stood to go. Belton’s face showed disappointment. “Not yet—there’s something I want to show you. Carmelo, bring that box of bottles.”
“Bottles?”
“They can be quite valuable, you know. This afternoon, we found a bunch that are circa Civil War period. I think you’ll find them interesting. Or . . . am I boring you?”
I said, “I’ve got a small collection myself.” Which was true—snorkeling the bays around Sanibel and Captiva, my Uncle Jake and I had found bottles and crockery that dated back to Spanish times. Matás asked for details. He appeared delighted by what I had to say. Even so, I was uneasy about leaving Birdy alone. Finally I said, “Excuse me for a minute,” and walked toward the picnic table to check on her.
Birdy saw me. She attempted a long-distance message by setting her jaw, with a slight swing of the head. I didn’t understand until she added a private thumbs-up, did it in a forceful way that told me she hadn’t been drugged or poisoned and wanted more time with the witches. When Theo reappeared from nearby trees, I was convinced.
I turned back, interested to see what Belton Matás had discovered.
• • •
BELTON—I was comfortable saying his name now—pulled the lantern closer and chose a map, which he flattened. “This afternoon, Carmelo led me to a spot not far from here—the guy’s fished an
d hunted this country since forever.” He placed a thick finger on the map, which was actually a satellite photo. It showed a chunk of land, miles and miles of wetlands, cypress and grazing pasture, and a curling ribbon of blue that was Telegraph River.
“This map doesn’t narrow it down much,” I said.
“I’m afraid it’ll have to do for now,” he replied—being cautious, which I could appreciate. I wouldn’t have asked a fisherman exactly where he had caught such and such a fish. Bottle hunters deserved the same courtesy.
“I don’t blame you.” I smiled and focused on the satellite image. The river, hidden by trees, was seldom visible as it snaked south toward the Caloosahatchee River, but a telltale swath of green traced its path. The river’s headwaters narrowed into the creek where we had crossed the railroad bridge, but neither the campground nor the old Cadence house were large enough to see. North of us were more wetlands and swamp, all undeveloped. Miles of nothing, fenced cattle range and wilderness preserve.
I said, “You were smart to hire a guide. I wouldn’t want to get lost in this area. But why were you hunting bottles?”
Belton heard glass clattering in the tent. “Carmelo! Please try not to break another one.” Then a patient pause before he replied to me. “Think of it as amateur carbon dating. Find a bottle embossed with a date—let’s say, 1860—you can be absolutely certain it wasn’t placed there in 1850. Obvious. But let’s take it a step further. If the bottle is buried under a few feet of muck, whatever lies in the same strata can be linked to a similar date. Give or take a decade, of course. And the type of bottle: groups of men drink rum and ale, babies and old people need medicine. Bottles were rarer back then but still disposable. They had a shelf life.” He looked up. Carmelo was carrying a Tupperware box that clanked.
I enjoyed the next few minutes inspecting dozens of glass shards and several unbroken bottles. One was a rectangular medicine flask, Sassafras Tonic embossed above the manufacturer’s mark and location, Vicksburg, Tenn.
“Confederate?” I asked.
“Not necessarily. It’s not dated, so I have to research the maker. The bottle is seamed”—he held it to the lantern—“it’s flat-based, so it could have been made after 1865. I try to stay objective, but”—his smile was more like a wink—“I think you’re right. And here’s why.”
From a separate box, he placed a green translucent bottle that was heavy-lipped and out-of-square. “Pontilied” is how he described the bottom, which was sharply concave. The front was embossed:
XXX
PORTER ALE
WALTHAM, MASS.
“Check the back,” he suggested, then watched, having fun because I was interested.
Before the glass had hardened, a date had been etched: 1864. The color and shape were so unusual, I said, “I’d love to photograph this.”
“You’re a photographer, too?”
“Just learning. A friend loaned me a camera with a lens that’s good for low light. It sees colors most people don’t.”
“Drink enough of this Porter Ale, you’d see all kinds of things,” he grinned. “And someone did.”
From the same box, he removed a dozen shards that were similar. “They had quite a party. Or stayed in one place for a while. This came from just downriver—a mile, I’d say.”
I scooted closer to the lantern and held up the bottle: thick green glass; air bubbles trapped within—air from the lungs of a long-dead craftsmen. I said, “This is more like art. What I appreciate most? Besides you and Carmelo, the last person to touch this might have been a soldier during the Civil War. It creates a sort of closeness, you know? Makes me wonder about him. Was the man lonely? Did he survive? I once found part of a Spanish demijohn that gave me the same feeling, and—” Suddenly, an unexpected thought popped into my head.
“Is something wrong?”
I held the bottle out for him to take. “What about fingerprints? I shouldn’t be touching this if the soldier’s prints might still be—” I stopped again, shook my head, and laughed. “What am I saying? They didn’t know about fingerprints back then. I’m usually not so dense.”
Belton Matás didn’t consider me dense. “There’s no way to match them, but fingerprints on one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old glass isn’t silly. I’ve found thumbprints in handmade bricks from that period, ceramics, all sorts of things. You’re actually very perceptive.”
I asked a few questions. He asked about the old house. “Why not sleep in a hotel?” I offered a partial truth: My friend’s aunt owned the property and wanted to know if rumors had turned the place into a sideshow attraction.
“The only one way to find out,” I explained, “is to stay there for a night or two and keep notes. Plus, being this close to Halloween, we thought it might be fun.” Which had been true—until the sun went down.
“Fascinating,” he said. It was a word he used to nudge my story along. The whole time, through his thick glasses, he studied me with pleasant approval that could have been mistaken for fondness. Soon, he nodded as if he’d made up his mind about something and said, “Carmelo, please bring my briefcase. I want to show Hannah our map.”
Carmelo was surprised. “Your map?”
“You heard me.”
There were already maps and satellite photos on the table. Belton saw my confusion and, after hesitating, patted my hand in the same friendly way I had patted his. “I consider myself a good judge of character, young lady. I’m going to show you where we found these bottles. You enjoy history. You seem to know something about it. No”—I had started to thank him—“this is to my advantage, not yours. I want your opinion on some photos I took. However, I will ask one favor in return. It has to do with—”
From the RV, Carmelo interrupted, “Should I take my boots off, Mr. Matás?” He was standing at the door, the door open.
Belton made the sound people do when frustrated but patient. “Always, Carmelo. That’s the rule. Oh, and please bring the magnifying glass. It’s on the desk.”
He turned to me. “It has to do with Dr. Ivanhoff. I’ve met some fine archaeologists. I’ve also met one or two who are egocentric thieves and their position gives them a license to steal. I don’t know the man. Until I do, I’d like you to keep this just between us.”
“Sure,” I said. Already, I was hoping to be invited along on his next bottle expedition. However, I also reminded myself, You don’t know this man any better than you know Theo. Take it slowly. Which is why I didn’t offer collateral in the form of information about my uncle, the blockade-runner.
Carmelo placed a briefcase on the table: leather and tarnished buckles. Belton removed a laptop, which he opened, then a cardboard tube that contained another satellite photo. As he arranged things, I looked at more bottles. They had been rinsed but not cleaned. Muck and sand clung to the inside. They had a distinctive odor familiar to me.
He noticed. “What are you thinking?”
I took another sniff. “Sulfur. Where I grew up, well water tastes like this. My mother still prefers it. Not as strong as the smell of mangroves or some spots in the Everglades. That could be because you rinsed them. Otherwise, I’d guess you found these underwater.”
Raised eyebrows, a boyish pretense of shock on his face. He slid the photo in front of me. “I think you might be the witch. Have a look.”
The satellite photo could have been shot from a helicopter, the details were so clear. It showed a river switchback, cattle pasture on the west side, which might have been part of the old Cadence estate. To the east were old-growth mimosa trees—feathered leaves gave them away—then dense cover, brambles and palmettos and bayonet plants. Stamped into the chaos was a vague rectangle, a pile of bricks or rocks at one end. A squarish pile of something else was nearby and the faintest hint of pathways, one through trees to the east and a narrower path that vanished before it got to the river.
“Use this.” Belt
on handed me the magnifying glass.
It didn’t help much. After a while, I sat back. “There was a house here with a chimney. Not a big house. Maybe an outbuilding or two and fencerows. This is what I can’t figure out.” I indicated a spot on the photo. “It looks like a stack of bricks. Part of the chimney, maybe, after it fell, but that doesn’t seem quite right.” I tried the magnifying glass again.
No need. Belton pulled his chair around and used the computer, which neither of us could see until he dimmed the lantern, its hiss dropping an octave. Moths fluttered, one hammered against the screen. He swatted it away and opened a file while our eyes adjusted.
“I don’t know what it is either,” he said. “If it was smaller, I’d think some kind of brick oven. Now I’m thinking a root cellar, a cool place to store things. It’s coffin-shaped but too big for that. And why would anyone build a crypt way out here anyway? It’s eight-by-four and at least five feet deep, with an arched cover that’s falling in. But still solid. The bricklayer who built this really knew his trade.”
Right away, from the photo, I knew what the structure was but let him click through more images, Belton saying, “Carmelo shot deer there as a kid and remembered the foundations of what had been a house. Yesterday afternoon, on the river—he’s got an electronic fish finder on his boat—we passed over something interesting on the bottom. That’s why we went back today.”
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.
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