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39

“Her age changes. The way she looks. It’s because she’s a ghost.”

Chestra, Tomlinson meant.

I replied, “You keep saying that.”

I had taken two puffs on the joint, then refused when he offered again. Felt no effect, zero, and it tasted like an ashtray. Tomlinson smoked the rest as we sat in the boat’s cabin, him inhaling deeply, making hissing inhalations, savoring marijuana he called Seven Mile Bridge because it was from the Keys.

Already high, too. He got on the subject of ghosts and wouldn’t let it go.

“Ghosts aren’t like the ones in cartoons. They have bodies, they eat food, make love. But they’re empty people because they’re just visiting. Trying to finish unfinished business. Most of them died too early. I meet ghosts all the time. Everyone does.”

I said, “I don’t doubt it,” aware I had to be patient.

There were things I wanted to discuss: POWs with enough clout to summon a submarine. A diamond death’s-head, and German expats on an island interacting with some of America’s most powerful figures. Ford, Firestone, and Thomas Edison’s search for synthetic rubber. A black man drenched with his own moonshine, and set ablaze. An old woman who radiated sexuality.

There were powerful dynamics at play on that long ago October night. How had the story remained a secret?

I listened to Tomlinson tell me, “Some of the lonely-looking people you see in train stations? They’re ghosts. A lot of hitchhikers; pilots in small planes. Certain areas of the country attract them. Louisville—loaded. Same with your New England states, the Carolinas. Hollywood and Manhattan, the old hotels are full. Sometimes ghosts don’t even know they’re not real.”

I said, “Unreal reality. I’ve had that feeling. Actually, I’ve come to associate it with this boat.”

“No Mas? Ghost ships, oh yeah. There are lots of those. When you see a boat at night and there’s only one person aboard?”

“He’s a ghost?” I guessed, playing along. “Spirits come back to earth.”

“Now you’re catching on. But ghosts and spirits are very different manifestations. Spirits are energy. Ghosts are empty. Unfulfilled lives, man, and they’ve returned in search of whatever it is they missed. Searchers. They’re everywhere.

“You want an example of spirits? The difference, I mean. When we were diving the wreck in the murk. There were spirits down there, man. Dark spirits; a very heavy mojo. One of them banged into me. Like a warning.”

I leaned toward him. “You got bumped? I got bumped twice.”

“I’m not surprised. It scared the hell out of me, man. At first. Then I just figured, Hey, stay cool. It wasn’t the first time evil spirits have blindsided me. You know, follow the drunk tank’s safety rules: Keep your mouth shut and your butt cheeks closed.”

I said, “I think it was a shark. Or sharks. Not evil. Just big fish doing what they’re coded to do. Probing, deciding if we were protein.”

“No. It wasn’t a shark. Not the thing that hit me. I would’ve known. It was a spirit. Darkness. The real deal. Which is a very different thing than a ghost. As I was saying, talking about empty souls. Searchers…”

Yes. The man was stoned, getting higher. Fixated on the subject.

I sat listening for a while longer before I stood, careful to duck my head. This was going noplace. In fact, the more Tomlinson talked, the more I became convinced that I was mistaken about Chestra. She wasn’t Marlissa Dorn. It was as implausible for her to be Marlissa’s age as it was for Chestra to be a ghost.

It was a valid analogy. When I thought of it that way, my suspicions seemed ridiculous.

Genetic facial similarities. That had to explain it.

I continued to listen to Tomlinson, though, as I stood at the top of the companionway steps. My headache, mysteriously, was gone, I realized. Nice up there in the fresh air, feeling the breeze, gazing out: small marina in moonlight, parking lot empty, clouds wind-driven above dark trees, yellow windows of my stilt house and lab shimmering on the bay. Storm clouds over the Gulf, glowing like Japanese lanterns with each lightning blast.

It would be raining soon.

My eyes came to rest on my new skiff, which was tied off the stern. The deck was white, a slight incline aft to bow, all hatches flush. The deck seemed to glow in contrast to the black water. The hull, gray-blue, floated buoyant as a bubble.

I heard Tomlinson say, “I’ve been wanting to tell you about ghosts. But the time had to be right. Now, here we are, so I guess it’s time to lay the cards on the table. There are a couple of ghosts who live at the marina, you know. For years. I didn’t want you to be shocked.”

I said, “Ghosts living at Dinkin’s Bay? That explains all the trick-or-treaters at Halloween.” I continued to gaze at the boat.

It was my third twenty-one-footer built by the same manufacturer, but I had never paused to appreciate the skiff’s symmetry. Its lines were as elegant as an aspen leaf but functional. So simple in appearance that only an expert would recognize the engineered complexities. No cabin, no windshield. Cut a surfboard in half, sink a rectangular space for a console, steering wheel, and throttle. Add three swivel seats mounted low, and an oversized outboard that ensures velocity.

Clean. Efficient. Just looking at it gave me pleasure.

“Doc? Are you listening to me?”

“Oh sure.”

“Are you okay? You’ve been standing there for, like, ten solid minutes, man. Hey. How about some music? When’s the last time you listened to Buffalo Springfield? No. America! ‘Ventura Highway’, ‘Sister Golden Hair’—the classics, man. But close the hatch. It’s gonna be pouring rain here, like, in two minutes.”

I felt the walls of the boat move as Tomlinson went to the stereo.

I said, “Tomlinson? Have you ever noticed how…exacting my skiff is made? Seriously. Minimalism. It’s an art form. The way it’s designed, I mean. Clean.”

“It’s gorgeous, man. Yeah, and you keep it spotless.”

“The color, too. Gray-blue. I really like the color.”

“Gray-blue is not a color, Doc. It’s camouflage—your boat’s invisible on the water. Which…now that I think about it, makes gray-blue the perfect color for you. Like your birth-stone, or something. Boats, man”—he was now calling to be heard from the sailboat’s cabin—“don’t let yourself get lured off on a boat tangent, man. You’ll sit there catatonic for hours. I look at No Mas sometimes, I start bawling. Doc? Doc! Where’re you going?”

I was aboard my skiff, starting the motor. Beneath me, through fiberglass skin, I felt a familiar vibration, similar to riding bareback on a horse, the rippling muscularity.

I let go the line, touched the throttle—a slight nudge of the knees was all it took to get the animal moving. I idled into the night, toward my home. A man alone in his boat.

Y es, it was a cigarette case. That was evident, now…

I didn’t have the photo of Marlissa Dorn, but the cigarette case was similar. Silver, ornately embossed. On one side, a small medieval-looking cross, but with double horizontal arms, the upper arm longer than the lower. On the case’s other side were initials. The first letter now visible: M.

Marlissa.

I didn’t know the significance of a doubled cross. Tomlinson would.

I was standing in my lab, staring into trays of sodium hydroxide. The cigarette case was in the middle tray of three. The diamond death’s-head and the bronze eagle were in the tray to my left. The table was too small to push that tray out of my peripheral vision and so I finally covered it with a towel.

Much better.

The death’s-head was impossible to ignore. Drew my eyes as if transmitting an invisible tractor beam. Light discharged by the diamonds was so penetrating it made me wince. The laughing skull was like ice on a bad tooth.

I concentrated on the cigarette case.

More of the black patina was gone. The double-bladed cross was unmistakable, but there was something at the bottom that required more cleaning. The base of the cross tapered into a dagger’s point, touching something—a symbol? Couldn’t tell. It was undecipherable.

Same with the other side of the silver case. An initial: M. Black sulfide covered the rest.

I was concentrating on the cigarette case because…? Well, for no particular reason. The case was there. It meant something…what?

A woman.

Yes. But which one? That was the question.

I continued to stare, seldom blinking.

The first squall edge of tropical storm was over Sanibel. Outside, wind was gusting; rain pellets rattled at the windows. My laboratory lights flickered with each blast of lightning. Power outages were common of late. I might have to start the generator soon…

It was unpleasant, the prospect of starting the generator. The effort it required: rechecking oil and gas, priming the carburetor, then pulling the cord. Made me tired to think of it…

What’s wrong with sitting in the dark? Nothing! Big moon. Sit inside and…do what?

Nothing.

No, having light was better. I would rally. I would find the energy. Start the generator, fill oil lamps if needed. Make tea. Read. Listen to shortwave radio; find out what was happening in small places on the far side of the earth.

I liked that idea. It made me smile.

My head moved, eyes searching until they found my left arm, then my wrist watch: 11:15 P.M.

Had I been standing, looking at the cigarette case, for ten minutes? Impossible.

My eyes moved around the room until I found my wristwatch again. 11:16 P.M. No, it was possible.

Listen to shortwave radio, that’s what I would do. Delicious, the prospect of that. Make tea. Get some food—did I have potato chips? Sit and listen to radio broadcasts—Radio Singapore, perhaps—the storm outside, isolated on this island by the weather and…something else.

I found my watch again: 11:17.

Oh yeah. They closed the bridge at 10:30 because of the storm instead of midnight as usual. Mack had told me, not that I cared. That’s another way I was isolated. No car traffic, so Sanibel was cut off. Like being on a ship at sea, riding out a big blow. I would stay alone in my cabin, because no person in their right mind would be out in a storm on a night like this…

At the north window, there was a dazzling explosion of light, then another. Wind sounded passages through my windows that were reed-sized, a moaning pitch, warbling variations of oboes and flutes. My eyes, once again, were locked on the cigarette case.

Chestra.

The woman’s name was important for some reason. Why?

I thought about it.

She loved storms.

She could be out in a storm like this.

Yes, it was a possibility.

There was another lightning blast; wind screamed. Chestra’s voice came into my head. “I adore storms. Never miss one. I take energy from them!”

My mood changed from lethargy to slow panic.

Chestra would be out in this storm. Of course she would. She lived for this sort of thing. Insane. Fifty-knot winds were no reason to evacuate an island, but they were much too strong to risk a walk outside. A woman who didn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds? She would blow away like a palm frond…or be hit by a palm frond and killed.

I had to go get her.

I began to pace the room, searching for something—what?

My foul-weather jacket. I found it. The keys to my truck. I found those, too. And a flashlight—proof my brain was beginning to work again.

Panic had become fear; fear was becoming concern. My head was clearing, forced to focus…

The woman was probably on her way to the beach right now, indifferent to the danger. Fifty-knot winds from the southwest. What did that mean?

I processed it carefully: Water on the bay side of the island would appear calm because it was in the lee. Little wind ripples but no waves. The beach, though, could be fatal. Rogue breakers; tidal surges…

Yes. I had to find Chestra, then talk her into returning home.

Before I shut off the lights, the cigarette case caught my attention—something that would make her happy. I could use it to lure her back to her house. I’d planned on making a gift of it to her in a few days, anyway.

I wrapped the cigarette case in a towel, put it in my jacket pocket, and hurried out into the storm.

T he storm moved across Sanibel in bands, wind howling, calming for a few minutes, then howling again. The wipers on my old Chevy couldn’t handle the volume of sluicing rain as I drove Tarpon Bay Road toward the Gulf of Mexico. My headlights were feeble yellow cones. Lightning bursts illuminated the way. Trees wrestled in an agony of wind; debris tumbled. I passed a vehicle coming from the opposite direction. Then another. Water wakes battered my windshield.

Amazing that anyone was out tonight. Cops, probably, keeping an eye on the island.

I leaned to see through my windshield. Squinted to glance through side windows. A tree was down…a garbage can rolled randomly along the road’s shoulder. Was that a car in the public beach parking area?

Lightning flared.

No. It was a big pickup truck. Or SUV.

Yes. Amazing that people were out.

I turned on Gulf Drive, then turned into Chestra’s estate, my headlights a vague illumination: Southwind, mailbox swaying; family cemetery, a garden of stone beneath bare trees; gazebo, a darkened sanctuary to the left; house of gray shingles ahead, upstairs windows bright.

I swung out of the truck, splashed my way to the door. Rang the bell, then knocked.

No answer.

I rang the bell again, then used my fist.

Door was locked.

I remembered telling Chestra to lock her doors when she went out as a precaution. Did this mean she was outside?

I wore my foul-weather jacket, but was already soaked, the ocean-heated rain helping me sober. No, the locked door didn’t mean she was outside. She could be outside, but she could also be inside playing the piano, listening to music.

I banged on the door again. No response.

If she was inside, she was safe. But if she wasn’t outside…?

I looked toward the beach. Saw a lightning bolt touch sand, the explosion instantaneous.

I rang the bell again. Nothing.

I turned the knob and threw my shoulder against the door, a last attempt…