Ghost Night

She couldn’t change things, and she was exhausted. She changed into a giant T-shirt, scrubbed her face and teeth and headed to bed.



She turned off the lights and tried to listen to the revelry from Duval Street.



It wasn’t enough.



She turned on MTV—music and videos. The two just might lull her to sleep.



She did fall asleep. And for a while, it was wonderful.



And then the dreams came again.



There was Georgia Dare’s head and sand.



Georgia’s lips were moving. She was talking.



“Oh, please! Listen. If you’ll just pay attention! You know now that I wasn’t being silly and hysterical and there were no jokes being played!”



One of Georgia’s disarticulated arms moved in the sand; she waved her well-manicured fingers in the air.



“Listen…pay attention, oh, please, Vanessa, you can do it!”



“Please!” Travis begged, his mouth moving. He moaned as his head rolled in the sand.



“There’s nothing I can do!” Vanessa protested.



She felt as if she were in a wind tunnel then, being sucked away from them. She was out on the sea, and then she was in the water, and she had a camera in her hand.



The figurehead appeared before her. It seemed that it, too, had arms, and that the head was real and the entire thing was an animate object—a person.



She saw the face on it that she had always seen.



That of Dona Isabella.



The figurehead was smiling and beckoning to her.



She protested, speaking, or telling the figurehead how she felt in her mind, she wasn’t even sure.



“No. I don’t want to find more bodies.”



“But you want the truth,” the figurehead said to her.



“There should be justice.”



Suddenly, the image of the face began to change. It morphed, and it seemed that its cheeks struggled to stay cheeks.



Brows became higher and more arched and changed again.



The nose and mouth went through transformations.



The figurehead had changed. It held a different face. But she knew that face, too.



She had seen it that afternoon. She had seen it on the woman who had tried to talk to her. The pirate woman who had been sitting at the table on the patio.



The woman who had disappeared.



“Stop, please, stop, you’re being led, you must take care, you don’t understand the innocent!” the figurehead told her.



Then she thought she heard a terrible laughter.



“I’m trying to help you! I have helped you. Listen…listen…listen…your friends have pleaded with you, you must listen. Once you didn’t pay heed.”



The face on the figurehead began to morph again.



Then she saw…



The horrible, mummified, darkened, distorted and decaying face of the woman they had found in the sunken chest.



10



“Here’s another one,” David said. He tapped on his computer screen. “Another incident that might prove that what happened to the film crew wasn’t so bizarre. Bring up the Herald, December twentieth, last year.”



Sean typed in the key words and waited for Google to bring up the paper and the date, and glanced over at David. They were working together at the Beckett mansion, computers at opposite ends of the table, maps and charts spread out between them.



“Any particular page?”



“Front page. You can’t miss it.”



David’s eyes quickly scanned the bold-type headline. “Modern-Day Pirates at Work? Islanders Claim Devil’s Play.”



“Ah, I see,” Sean said. He read the article aloud.



“On December tenth, a charter boat, the Delphi, captained by Tom Essling, an experienced seaman, USN, disappeared while on route to the Bahamas. Captain Essling left Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on December tenth with his first mate and wife of thirty years, Sharon Biddle Essling, and four passengers for a cruise down the Keys due south and southwest, with stops at Islamorada and Key West. As per plan, Captain Essling docked in Key West for a two-day stay, and began his journey east and across the Straits of Florida, an area that’s also known as the New Bahama Channel, the body of water that connects the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic and continues eastward, beginning the Gulf Stream and separating Florida and the Keys from the Bahamas, the Great Bahama and Little Bahama banks. The length of the straits extends for more than three hundred miles and enters through the region known as the Bermuda Triangle. The width is 60 miles in areas and approximately 100 in others. The greatest depth of the channel has been sounded at 6,000 feet.



“On December 18, all contact with the charter boat was lost soon after the Delphi sailed due east of Miami, approaching the southern Bahamas. Relatives were concerned because the captain excused himself in the middle of a phone call and never came back on. None aboard answered cell phones, and radio contact could not be made. American Coast Guard and Bahamian officials began a search that continued with daybreak. Many speculate that the Bermuda Triangle has taken more victims, while others rationalize that traffic has been heavy through the straits since the beginning of the passage of Spanish treasure fleets, has always been heavy, naturally accounting for more misfortune. Until early in the nineteenth century, the region was constantly plagued by pirates, a rising concern among seamen and carriers as piracy resurges in contemporary times, even within such heavily traveled waters.”



Sean glanced at the sea chart spread out on the table between them. He stood, glancing at his computer, checking latitude and longitude on the charter ship’s last known location.



“This disappearance—last contact with the boat was right about where the Mad Miller’s pirate ship went down, right where the pirates met their demise,” Sean told David.



“Interesting. I thought I had another, but they caught the culprits. Idiots pirated another charter boat and threw the crew overboard. They wanted to hijack it to Cuba. They didn’t realize it needed gas,” David said, shaking his head.



“Maybe,” Bartholomew mused, twirling a lock of ghostly hair—great hair at that—as he leaned against the table, “there is something to be said for the Bermuda Triangle. Maybe it emits…evil,” he suggested. “Evil creates a vortex, and men become mad in that vortex, and begin to rip one another asunder.”



“Bartholomew, Mad Miller’s ship went down in a storm,” Sean reminded him.



“I believe that something happens in that area,” David said. “But I don’t think it’s evil oozing out of the earth. There is a scientific explanation.”



Bartholomew studied his fingers and said dryly, “Yes, of course. And I’m here—through the effects of man’s science. You see me, some people don’t. Ah! There’s a genetic trait that allows certain eyes to pick out roving ectoplasm in the air!”



Sean sat back in chair, nearly grinning. “Bartholomew, you may have something there. It is possible that some people are born with something within their genes that we haven’t discovered as yet.”



Bartholomew threw his hands into the air. “Something that can be developed? Such as a talent? My friend, ye of little faith, who could not see or hear me for the longest time? Ah, trust is something that cannot be touched, either, and you needed proof rather than trust your own sister for a very long time. Everything is not science, indeed, it is not, my ever wary and doubting friend. Take faith—faith is belief in the unseen. If you have any kind of faith, you already believe in the unseen. We all believe in good—and trust me, I believe in the evil that lies in the hearts of mankind! Anyway, here’s what throws me. I knew Kitty Cutlass, and I knew Mad Miller, and yes, Mad Miller turned to piracy, but the legend that has come down about him is pure bunk—which I’ve told you. If he slaughtered men in the water and murdered Dona Isabella in a rage, it would be a surprise to me. And Kitty! The most naive harlot I ever did come across!”



“Naive harlots can be jealous and vengeful,” Sean commented.



“True, maybe,” Bartholomew said.



“You saw the chest—tell me something, Bartholomew. Was that Dona Isabella? You may not have known her as an acquaintance or even a friend, but you saw her around town,” Sean said.



“We did not socialize,” Bartholomew said. “I spent my time with the English and Americans, while Dona Isabella was the elite of the remaining Spanish society. But yes, I saw her.”



“So?”



“So?” Bartholomew shuddered. “I didn’t stare into the chest, my good fellow! That was a horrendous sight, what was once life…so heinously destroyed and mangled and…ghastly! And if I had stared and stared, the way that the decay had set in and the bones had mummified and the fabric of the clothing had clotted with blood and ooze…I’d not have recognized my own dear mother!”



“Have you heard any more from Jaden and Ted?” David asked Sean. “When is the forensic anthropologist due?”



“Later today, I believe,” Sean said. “I talked to Ted earlier—a Dr. Tara Aislinn is due in with her colleague, Dr. Latham. I believe they’re planning on bringing the body back to a lab in Gainesville. They have the facilities for all the testing they want to do. They’re extremely excited, they can find out about dental hygiene, diet, health, parasites—all manner of information.”



“You saw today’s paper?” he asked Sean.



Sean nodded.



Neither of them had accepted an interview, and to Sean’s knowledge, neither had Katie, Jay or Vanessa. But it had been apparent yesterday that they had made a discovery, and there was an article stating that local divers had found a historical artifact and the object was under investigation now.



That afternoon, one of them would take an interview so that the concept that they were “treasure hunting” would not be taken out of context.



David’s cell phone rang and he picked it up. He listened for a moment and looked at Sean, nodding.



He hung up.



“That was Liam. They checked out—the film crew, that is. The two grad students, Bill and Jake. And Barry Melkie has worked for several major motion-picture companies, and Zoe, though not as well-known, has certainly had an excellent employment record. There’s not so much as a night in jail, a dismissed charge or a single mark.”