Haunted

by Randy Wayne White

  “After what you did—good. And don’t call them monkeys.”

  “You weren’t even around. All I did was compliment her on her pretty pink—”

  Theo hissed, “Shut up,” then his voice softened. “Hey . . . what’s that over there?”

  I felt Belton squeeze my knee when the light found the overhang where we were hidden. A bright wafer of white that probed and expanded, steam rising off the water where moths collected, then the light swung away.

  Carmelo continued talking. “As if that damn animal understood what I said. Shit, just crazy to let them two loose. You can hide a dead body every few years or so and get away with it. Fine. But more than two in one night, man, it’s us they’ll send to prison. You keep them damn monkeys on a leash or I’m done with this business. I mean it this time.” He hacked, hacked again and spit. “That’s not to say I won’t find that gold and silver on my own.”

  Theo snapped, “Shut up. Just shut up,” then got control of himself and spoke in a more careful way. “I think you’re right. They’re not in a boat. Let’s head back.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What’s got into you? I thought you wanted to head upriver. Might as well since we’re here.”

  “I’m worried about Oliver. He wasn’t in his room and goddamn snakes everywhere. There’s no telling what else that bitch did to him.”

  “Lucia—yeah, good riddance. Total bitch.”

  Theo said, “No, you idiot, that hick with the smart mouth. I’d like to see what Savvy does to her if Oliver’s hurt. In fact, that’s what I’ll do—let Savvy handle it.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to do with that, I just told you.” The engine clanked into reverse. “Shit . . . Hang on . . . Sit yourself so I can see.”

  The creek was so narrow, the boat had to back all the way to the river. Several minutes later the engine revved and powered southward. It left a wake of squawking birds, a wash of waves that dissipated as the engine faded, then suddenly went silent. Belton waited to speak. “Theo wanted us to hear that.”

  “I know. I lost track of their engine. Did they stop?”

  “He wasn’t convinced we’re here, though. More of a just-in-case thing. He’s afraid you’ll shoot. Me, I wouldn’t hesitate. Are you sure you don’t want me to take the gun?”

  I said, “I’m wondering if he dropped Carmelo at the point, then stopped downriver to see what happens. What else explains why it took them so long to leave?”

  Belton slapped a mosquito on his cheek and stretched his legs. “Stay here for a while and listen, I guess. What do you think? It’s not quite ten-thirty.”

  I returned the pistol to the backpack and left the bag open. “I want to disinfect those cuts on your arms. We’ll give it half an hour. If it was Theo who stayed behind, he can’t keep quiet that long. Roll your sleeves up.” I used the flashlight for a moment—several deep gouges beneath dried blood—then switched it off and went to work from memory.

  He said, “Don’t worry about me, how are you feeling?”

  “The Benadryl pills made me a little sleepy. Otherwise, fine . . . Belton?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Now would be a good time to tell me that secret you’ve been holding back.”

  • • •

  A FEW MINUTES after eleven I drifted the boat clear and paddled toward the river, the water shallow enough that I used an oar as a pole. For the first time in my life, I despaired of moonlight, because the moon flung my shadow ahead like a warning to anyone who might await. Belton and I had agreed no talking, so we traveled in a hush of insects with a northwest breeze that tasted of smoke. He sat with his back to me, hollow-eyed, heavier for the history he had shared, me standing in the stern so I could use the tiller to rudder.

  How do you comfort a man who, after four years’ searching, is finally convinced his missing son was murdered? Worse, two men who at the very least had played a role in that murder were now chasing us.

  “I was a poor excuse for a father and a worse husband. Kenneth was only twelve when we divorced, so he naturally sided with his mother. She remarried, so did I. That began a twenty-year estrangement.” Belton, sitting in darkness, had kept his voice low, spoke matter-of-factly as if time had distanced him from events.

  “After police notified me of Ken’s disappearance—this was four years ago—I sat down and counted the times I’d made a serious effort to reconcile. There was once when he graduated from high school, then another after he got his master’s. That’s it. Both times, he refused. And, know what? Secretly, I was relieved. Relieved. Can you imagine? All the awkwardness, I guess, that comes with patching up a relationship, he spared me that. I was fixated on building my business, living the new life I’d planned. Selfish, an overachiever. It’s strange how people like me rationalize the damage we do. We’re convinced there’s plenty of time to make amends, but that’s a lie. It’s a lie that postpones guilt and buys us freedom. You won’t be able to understand, Hannah. I’ve met damn few who are genuinely good and decent. People like you stand out.”

  Belton’s story did not mesh with the person I had believed him to be, so I could only respond, “We all do mean things. You’ve changed or you wouldn’t be here. When did you start looking for Kenneth?”

  A year after police had tracked all leads to a dead end, Belton had sold his business and gone to work on the case on his own. As police knew, the son had an addiction problem—painkillers after a skiing accident, oxycodone his favorite. Because drugs were the focus of the investigation, the disappearance was dismissed as an unfortunate but all-too-common side effect. Belton was willing to believe what seemed obvious but wanted details.

  Then everything changed. A year ago, he had found Kenneth’s hidden hard drive and paid an electronics expert skilled enough to decrypt what it contained. Gleaning the names of more drug dealers was the objective, but Belton discovered something else. He was aware that his son had embraced a hobby while in rehab—metal detectors and the American Civil War—but until then did not realize the significance. Kenneth was as driven as his father. Florida, with its little-known and often untouched battlefields, soon became an obsession. He spent a month at the National Archives, where he accessed forgotten diaries and letters. By the next winter he had unique files on the Battle of Natural Bridge near Tallahassee and battles fought at Olustee and Santa Rosa Island and Fort Brooke, Tampa. He visited them all as a devoted hobbyist. So far, nothing to hide. What the hard drive revealed, though, was that Kenneth returned to those sites at night with his metal detector and dug for artifacts that he sold on the black market. It was criminal behavior that meshed with his addiction to unscripted drugs.

  “Four months ago Ken’s notes led me to a collector who lives outside Labelle. A nice guy, once I’d convinced him I was an artifact hound and knew a young collector from Virginia named Kenneth. He had no idea why I was really there, didn’t even know that Ken had disappeared. It’s the way that business works: don’t ask, don’t tell. Stick to dollar amounts and small talk. He gave me an e-mail address for Theo Ivanhoff—identified only as T.I. in my son’s notes. And he said Ken had asked him where he could rent a motorboat to do some bass fishing on the Telegraph River.”

  “The canoe we found,” I said, “which could have had a motor.”

  “I don’t want to believe that, but I’m afraid so. Anyway, that was my big break. Know why?” Belton had to gather himself before he could explain, “Ken hated fishing. Too impatient. Like father, like son—my god, I wish I had gotten to know him better.”

  For some losses, there is no comfort. Even so, I tried by saying, “Once we’re out of this mess, I’ll help in any way I can. Promise.”

  Find the killer or killers of the missing Kenneth Matás, I meant, but felt certain we alre
ady had.

  • • •

  THE MOUTH OF the feeder creek was deeper, but I waited until we had drifted into the river to use both oars and turn the boat north. It would have been just as safe to start the engine if Theo or Carmelo was watching from nearby—safer, probably—but that didn’t dawn on me until Belton suddenly stirred and looked behind us. “Was that the wind?”

  Oarlocks creaked when I folded the oars inboard and let the boat glide. To the southwest, the sky was a charcoal sketch of trees, moon, and a sky that boiled with slow-motion clouds. “There could be a squall building. Some of those look like they hold rain.” I placed the pistol on the seat beside me. “Rowing’s a waste of time. I should’ve started the engine to begin with.” Then hollered toward the bank, “Carmelo . . . Theo. If you’re here, let’s get this over with. We’re not going back, so if you’ve got something to say, say it.”

  Belton cupped hands to his ears and whispered, “Listen.”

  Far, far in the distance, I heard what sounded like a school of fish feeding. No . . . one big fish that crashed the surface, waited, then crashed the surface again. The rhythm varied but was so relentless I soon changed my mind. “Could be a waterspout. I heard a tornado once. It sounded like a waterfall coming through the trees until it got close, then it was more like a diesel truck. A loud, roaring noise.”

  “Trees,” Belton repeated, thinking about it. “Yes . . . something coming through the trees. But still a long way off.”

  I cocked my head and concentrated. Gradually the roar of a waterfalls became the rhythmic crash of what might have been an animal swinging through the forest canopy, growing louder as it traveled toward us from the southwest.

  I said, “Oh my lord,” and got to my feet. “We’ve got to move.” I started the engine and put the boat in gear.

  Belton said, “We’re imagining things—it’s just the wind. Before a rain, the wind does that. You don’t really think it could be—”

  “Of course I don’t,” I said. “But there’s no point in sitting here.”

  “It’s because of Theo, the power of suggestion. That chimp is a damn monster—you don’t have to tell me. Out here, though, he wouldn’t know where to look. Animals will attack, sure, but they don’t follow people for miles. The whole notion is absurd.” Belton seemed satisfied yet soon added, “I’ll watch behind us while you steer. Give me the gun.”

  I couldn’t do that. He was an old man with a guilty conscience who believed he had nothing to live for, therefore nothing to lose—a dangerous combination. That’s what I told myself anyway, although in truth my reasons were too personal, too complex, to understand, let alone explain. The Devel had been owned by my late Uncle Jake. Entrusting it to someone who was not afraid was an admission of my own self-doubt. Jake would not have approved.

  I replied with an evasion. “If you see something I don’t, the gun is all yours.”

  The aluminum boat’s top speed was 15 mph, perhaps less, but over the range of a mile it was faster than the fastest man or animal. I wanted to believe that so argued the case in my head until I was satisfied.

  Yes, it was true . . . on land anyway. In the ocean, it was possible that dolphins or killer whales or a fish that was all muscle, such as a tarpon, might be able to match our pace. But dolphins and killer whales weren’t pursing us. Thinking this raised my spirits, so I shared my thoughts with Belton.

  He didn’t comment, instead kept his eyes fixed on the moonscape of trees as we carved our way through switchbacks that veered east or west, then straightened northward. Soon we came to the fork he had described. I asked, “Think we should go to the right?”

  “Definitely,” he answered.

  We were both thinking what could not be said: a chimpanzee would have to cross the river to follow us if we veered right. It didn’t worry me that Theo had mentioned swimming with Oliver as a child. Even if a chimp was pursing us—which was difficult to believe—it would be impossible for him to keep up if he had to take to the water. I said, “Good choice,” and swung the boat northeast.

  Like a funnel, the river narrowed. Shadows spattered the water with moonlight. Frogs trilled a seesaw chorus and fish boiled at our approach. After a few minutes, I began to relax a little. So did Belton. He said, “I think we’re in the clear. They might watch the highways, but they can’t catch us here.”

  I hefted the gas tank. It was half full, which I told him.

  “Plenty of fuel,” he said. “That’s something else in our favor. How are you feeling? Still sleepy from the Benadryl?”

  I had been stifling yawns, was desperate to close my eyes, but said, “We’re not stopping until we run out of river. And if we do, I think we should hike north on foot. There’s a road somewhere to the north.” I wasn’t sure that was true but tried to come across as confident.

  Belton, sounding tired himself, said, “It’s almost eleven-thirty.”

  “I’m fine,” I replied. “The numbness in my arm is totally gone. It’s doesn’t seem that late to me.”

  His head drooped for a moment—no, it was a nod. “I was thinking about the spot I mentioned. The one Carmelo wouldn’t risk his propeller to see? If memory serves, it should be a mile or so ahead. The remains of another homestead, although god knows if there’s anything left. Google Earth doesn’t show much, but people lived there. Kenneth found the spot on a map from 1858. I have no idea if he ever made it there to search.”

  “Who owns the property now?”

  “It’s part of a huge private tract. Cattle or sugarcane, something like fifty thousand acres. That much land, it’s possible no one has been there for years. Just cows, maybe the odd boater. But no roads to it.”

  “Do you remember anything else from the maps? What about ranch houses? The road to Arcadia has to pass somewhere close to here.” I motioned east. “Doesn’t that look like cattle pasture through those trees? And the smoke is getting stronger. Most big ranches do controlled burns to avoid forest fires come summer. I’m guessing a ranch house can’t be far.”

  “Hannah,” he said gently, “I don’t care what you say, you’re exhausted. Why not curl up on the deck and let me steer for a while? I’ll wake you if I see something.”

  I shook my head. “Not until we’re out of this mess. I wish we had a chart or something. It’s ridiculous how much I’ve come to depend on a GPS. I think it screws up a person’s natural sense of direction. Our dependency, you know? The biologist I was dating, I don’t know how many times he told me the same thing.”

  Belton looked at me. “You don’t trust me with the gun or the boat, do you? Why?”

  “I’m a decent shot and I’m not afraid to use it,” I said. “It’s not a matter of trust because—”

  That’s as far as I got. A boat length ahead, an animal surfaced—a manatee or alligator, its back a yard wide, glistening like tar. I shoved the tiller hard to the right but too late. The boat jolted beneath us while the outboard kicked itself free of the water, propeller screaming, and I was nearly thrown overboard. Belton shouted something and fell forward. He would have tumbled off if I hadn’t grabbed his shirt. I jerked the tiller clear and held tight until the boat settled under us.

  “What the hell was that?” The man got to his knees, a little dazed. “My glasses? Where’d they go? Damn it.”

  I shifted into neutral and studied the water. A series of oily swirls would have meant we’d hit a manatee, but the surface remained flat, pale. “An alligator,” I said. “We must have hit a gator. That thing was huge.” I took my flashlight from the bag. “I hope your glasses didn’t go overboard. I don’t want to blind you—watch your eyes.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Move your feet,” I said. “I don’t see them.” A second later, though, I did, the frame and lenses in good shape. I cleaned the glasses on my blouse and placed them in his hands.

  Belton, after squinting e
xperimentally, said, “Maybe it was a log. I damn near went over the side. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Logs don’t surface, then submerge. Or maybe a manatee, but I doubt it. In a river this narrow, yeah . . . a gator, it had to be a big gator.”

  “Well, at least the engine’s running. There can’t be any serious damage.”

  I thought so, too, until I shifted into forward gear and twisted the throttle. The outboard revved with plenty of power yet we continued to drift sideways toward the bank. I switched the engine off.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I said, “We must’ve sheared a cotter pin—the thing that holds the propeller to the hub. Sometimes people keep an extra pin taped under the cowling. Hang on, I’ll check.” I tried not to sound nervous but was. The ramifications hadn’t hit me fully, but enough to realize we were in the middle of nowhere, nothing to drink, no food, and it would be a long hike out if I didn’t get the boat running.

  “Can you fix it? I mean, if there’s not an extra whatever.”

  “Cotter pin,” I said. I hunched over the engine and held the light under my chin while I removed the cowling. Nothing hidden inside but a spare starter rope. I reseated the cowling and locked it. “We’ll have to row until we find a spot to land. Look around for a piece of wire. That’ll sometimes work instead of a pin.”

  Belton muttered, “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “Or a fish hook that’s the right size. I’ve got a few in my bag. But I’ll have to snip off the barbs, then get out of the boat to see if one fits. That’s why we need a place where we can pull onshore.” I took another look around, seeing trees and clouds, the river milky white. “Otherwise, I’ll have to get in the water—and I don’t want to do that.”

  “Not if you’re right about what we hit,” he said, then helped me fit the oars into the oarlocks so we could take turns rowing. A few minutes later, I realized we had another problem: water sloshed from the stern forward with every stroke of the oars. I suspected the cause: aluminum boats are riveted and welded, the collision had opened a seam in the hull.