“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.” Belton 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.
“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.