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.
5
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.
Theo 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.”