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 and 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.