Ghost Shadow

13

Craig Beckett wrote a wonderful log. It was personal, but she assumed that he had gotten accustomed to keeping such a diary because he’d been a ship’s captain.

He had lived a long life, dying at the age of ninety-six in eighteen ninety-five. He painted a vivid picture of when Key West had been little more than a trading post with a hardy group of settlers working to turn it into a place that would boast, in the Victorian era, the highest per capita income in the United States.

It was the early pages she turned to first. He wrote about being a young sea captain in the navy and his decision to leave the navy and work for David Porter as a civilian.

He described the events she had learned about from Bartholomew in detail. Of course, he hadn’t seen the attack that had taken Victoria’s life-the attack that Eli Smith had blamed on Bartholomew-but described it from imagination and experience. The canons firing and fire streaking through the sails of the ship, men and women screaming as smoke, fire or the tempestuous sea threatened their lives. Pirates killing everyone in their path with their broadswords. It was an unprovoked attack, and one that shocked the town, because David Porter had all but eliminated piracy a few years before it had taken place.

Craig Beckett wrote about his friendship with Bartholomew. “A man of my heart; a man who loved the sea, and his country. He might have remained a brigand, but he knew that I spoke to him truly, that I understood how he had taken enemy ships and no others. In the city, he was a model citizen, but also a man, who came to love too deeply if not with sense. I sincerely doubt that the rascal Smith could have ever started such a rumor, one so vile as to take a life, if Bartholomew had not so deeply loved Victoria. It was with the heaviest of hearts that I learned of the crowd that formed, a lynch mob, one with no more sense than that of a school of fish, darting here and there at the whim of one, that burst in upon that good fellow and dragged him to the hanging tree. They say that he died with dignity, claiming his innocence and showing no fear.”

Katie was surprised to feel her eyes stinging, and then she realized that tears were dampening her cheeks.

She wished that she could hug Bartholomew.

Not that she knew where he was!

Ah, well, she would do her best when she did see him next.

When he had seemed so taken with the woman in white-the one he now knew to be Lucinda, whose brother had died in a storm-he had told her with a certain wistfulness that Victoria had moved on. She was not among those walking the streets of Key West in any spectral way. She must have been a very strong woman-killed so ruthlessly, and yet able to move on to the higher plain of heaven, or wherever it was that the souls of the dead finally found peace.

Katie turned a page in the book, careful to dry her hands so as not to smear the ink or hurt the delicate pages.

Bartholomew’s story was a sad one. She could certainly understand it if he was to walk around near the hanging tree, still crying out his innocence.

She started reading again. The days of the bold wreckers came into play. Sponge divers, builders, settlers…

After a while, she felt a presence near her. She looked up, thinking that Sean might have awakened, even if he had said that he could sleep for a week. But it wasn’t her brother.

Bartholomew was back. He was perched on the edge of the table.

“I was reading about you,” she told him. “I’m so sorry.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Yes, it was quite unjust, but a very long time ago.”

“Where have you been this time?” she asked.

“Police headquarters. Apparently, Lieutenant Dryer has been combing the streets, and he’s quite irritated by all the shenanigans for Fantasy Fest. Seems he can’t get in the questioning he wants at various bars because there are so many people in the streets. Anyway, that’s left most of everything at the station in the hands of Mr. Liam Beckett, who is dealing with all competently, even if his frustration level is quite high.”

“Did you learn anything new?” she asked him.

“Not at the station,” Bartholomew said.

“Then?”

“Well, I can tell you this-Danny Zigler is dead.”

“I know.”

“You’ve seen him, too?” Bartholomew asked.

“He was here-for a split second. He pointed at the book,” Katie said.

“And the book is?”

“Captain Craig Beckett started it, and other Becketts over the years have kept it up. It’s not exactly a family bible, but it’s history as the Becketts saw it over the years,” Katie explained.

“There we are-back to the past,” Bartholomew said, deep in thought.

“Where did you see him?” Katie asked.

“Down on Duval. He was looking up at the strip club. He faded to nothing the minute he saw me.”

“I think that, unlike our other ghosts, Danny may know who killed him,” Katie said.

“Have you told anyone that he’s dead?” Bartholomew asked.

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

Katie sighed deeply. “Who is going to believe me? What am I going to say?”

“Well, that is a problem. You might suggest to someone that you believe that he’s dead.”

“Yes. But I don’t think they need me for such a suggestion. No one has been able to find him.”

Bartholomew waved a hand in the air. “They might believe that he killed Stella Martin, and that he’s in hiding. I’m pretty sure that’s what the lieutenant believes. When he left the station, he told Liam Beckett that he was sorry, but that he was going to damned well take care of the whole Danny Zigler disappearing act.”

“Katie!”

The sharp sound of her name startled her. She glanced up the stairway.

Sean was awake. He hurried down the stairs, his hair tousled, a worried frown twisting his features. He came to her at the table, looking around.

“What are you doing?” he asked her.

“I’m reading the Beckett family book,” she told him.

“Who were you talking to?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t talking.”

“Katie, I heard you-loud and clear.”

“No one, Sean.”

“Katie?”

She was suddenly weary of the doubt from her own brother. “Isn’t that what you taught me to say, Sean? People will think that you’re crazy, don’t ever tell them that you speak to ghosts?”

Sean groaned. “Oh, God, Katie, please!”

“Sean, I’m telling you the truth!”

He walked away from her, slamming his palm against his forehead. “I should never leave you. Screw the whole career thing. My only sister is going to wind up locked away in a nuthouse.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence!”

“Katie, the dead are-dead.”

“Fine. As you say. Therefore, I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

He stared at her and walked to the end of the table.

Right where Bartholomew was sitting.

He walked by Bartholomew, pacing. “All right, Katie, you talk to the dead. If you talk to the dead, why don’t you mumbo jumbo up one of the murdered girls and ask her who killed them?” Sean demanded.

“They don’t know who killed them.”

“Right.”

“The killer walked up behind them with some kind of plastic bag, slipped it over their heads and then strangled them.”

“How convenient. They never saw his face.”

“Well, it’s true,” she said stubbornly.

He reached for the chair at the end of the table. “Call one of them. Let me ask a few questions through you.”

He started to sit. She gasped as Bartholomew stood and angrily tugged at the chair. To Katie’s amazement, it moved.

And Sean plunked down on the floor.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Katie cast Bartholomew a glance and hurried to help her brother to his feet, but Sean was already up.

And confused. He gripped the chair hard before sitting in it again.

He stared at Katie, folding his hands slowly before him. “Katie, you’re beautiful. And brilliant. And you have the voice of a lark. You love it here, you want to live and work here, and that’s all great. But maybe you shouldn’t be here. Maybe you’re just too steeped in the history-and water sports,” he added dryly.

“Sean, I talked to ghosts when I was in school, in New York, and in Boston,” Katie said.

“Is there a ghost in here now?” Sean asked.

“Yes.”

“One of the dead women?”

“No.” Sean was waiting. “A pira-a privateer named Bartholomew,” she said. “He moved the chair because you were mocking me.”

“Bartholomew. Bartholomew, can you hear me?” Sean called out loudly in a deep voice.

“Will you tell him that I’m dead-not deaf?” Bartholomew demanded.

“He said that he’s dead, not deaf,” Katie said.

Her brother shook his head. “Katie, I want to believe you. If he’s here, why can’t I see him?”

“Why can’t he see you?” Katie asked Bartholomew. “By the way, you can ask the questions yourself. I don’t need to repeat them.”

“He can’t see me the way some people can’t hear a tempo, the same way some people have no empathy for others, the same… He doesn’t have the right sense for it, and he just isn’t willing to try,” Bartholomew said. “No insult-most people don’t.”

“He says that you don’t have a sixth sense,” Katie said.

“Why is he here?”

“To protect you, of course!” Bartholomew said.

“He wants to protect me,” Katie said.

“Tell him that I’m home now.”

“He can see that.”

“So why won’t he leave?”

“Because he’s got the sense and intuition of a peg leg!” Bartholomew said.

“You’ve got the sense and intuition of a peg leg,” Katie told her brother.

“Lord help us all!” Sean muttered.

“All right, Katie, he’s your brother, but he’s just about daft,” Bartholomew said. He walked to the book. She saw him concentrate.

Then he picked it up; it floated in the air.

He let it fall with a heavy thud.

Sean leapt out of his chair, staring. He looked at Katie, then at the book. Naturally, he picked up the book, searching it for wires.

“I told you,” Katie said, “I am good friends with this fine fellow, Bartholomew.”

Sean set down the book. “Katie… Look, whatever this was, whatever you see…hear, you still have to keep it quiet. Do you understand? A man like David will think you’re crazy.”

“I didn’t think that you were happy about David to begin with,” Katie said.

“David was my friend. An all-right guy. But he’s bitter, tainted. Life hit him hard, and now he’s back, and there’s been another murder. It’s almost like someone is trying to frame him-or he is a murderer and brilliant and I’ll have to shoot myself when I haven’t saved you from him.”

“He’s not a murderer.”

“And how do you know that for a fact?”

“Because he was sleeping with me when the last murder was committed.”

Sean groaned. “Oh, good God, I don’t want details.”

“You asked!”

“All right, then. Here’s the truth of it. He’s gone off and gotten rich on his own, and pretty damned famous and respected in his field, as well. He isn’t going to stay here. He hates Key West. He’s going to care for you-and leave you.”

“When he leaves, I’ll be glad of the time we shared,” Katie said stubbornly.

Sean looked around the room. “Bartholomew, talk some sense into her.”

Sean started for the stairs.

“Sean,” Katie said.

“What?” he turned to look at her, a hand on the banister.

“Danny Zigler is dead.”

Sean let out a long, low groan. “Do you happen to know who killed him? I mean, does he happen to know who killed him? Or where he is, for that matter?”

She shook her head. “He-he doesn’t really know how to be a ghost yet.”

Sean just continued up the stairs.

Katie sat back down at the table. Bartholomew perched on the edge of the table again, grinning. “Actually, your brother is not wretched. After all, he’s an O’Hara. They usually knew how to drink, and how to fight-and all in all, remain honest men!”

David was glad of the phone call when it came. He’d been reading computer screens for so long, his eyes were blurring. He was going to find the truth. Where Mike Sanderson had been and when.

Thanks to Liam-and the fact that everyone knew Pete tolerated him, and he’d gone to school with half the force-he was able to hang around the station and make use of it.

“David, it’s Sean.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, everything is fine.” Sean hesitated a minute. “I just wanted to check in. Any word on Danny? Katie is really worried about him. She thinks he might be dead.”

David was quiet a minute. “I think he might be dead, too. I don’t think he could have been the killer. I think Pete does, though. He’s been out most of the day, hunting for Danny. I’m not sure if he thinks Danny was guilty, or if he’s angry that he’s disappeared. Or if he’s worried. He’s getting a search warrant for Danny’s place, and he’s going to serve it himself.”

“All right, well…I’ve known Danny a long time and I was just thinking about him.”

“Thanks.”

When he hung up, David stood and stretched. He closed the files and glanced at his watch. It was eight o’clock, and he was getting hungry. He thought about stopping for takeout, but decided that though he could call, he’d just walk back to Katie’s house and find out what she wanted to do for dinner.

What they wanted to do. Her brother was home now. Sean would be included.

He stuck his head into Pete’s office, where Liam was still working. “Do you ever go home?” he asked his cousin.

Liam looked at him bleakly. “I want to be on the street. Can’t-not with Pete out. Sure, I get to go home. I usually have it pretty easy. But, sweet Mother Mary, this is just not good. Fantasy Fest-in the midst of all this.” He sat back and tapped a pencil on the desk. “Mike Sanderson is back out there now, and Tanya’s brother is out on the street, as well. No one seems to care too much about Stella Martin, other than her friend Morgana. She’ll wind up in a pauper’s grave.”

“Did you follow through on the location where I found the charge card?”

“I did. Couldn’t find anything else. Here’s what’s sad, really sad. This guy is good. He doesn’t leave evidence. He leaves the bodies in an exposed place-seriously exposed. They’re posed almost as if he’s fooling around, as if he’s using the most bizarre local story. I talked to one of our police behavioral profilers today. He’s convinced that the killer has to be local and uses the scenarios to prove that he’s local, that this is his place.”

“Great.”

“I’m hoping we find something soon. Before he strikes again.”

“Me, too,” David said. “Well, thanks for letting me pry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Katie goes back to work,” Liam said.

“I’ll be there. Oh, and Sean got home today.”

“He did?” Liam seemed surprised.

“Yeah. Katie knew he was coming. She didn’t know exactly when,” he said dryly, remembering how Sean O’Hara had come upon them.

“I didn’t think he was expected for another few weeks,” Liam said.

“What’s wrong with him being home?” David asked.

“Nothing. I was just thinking that it is all so odd. You’re back. Sam Barnard is here. Mike Sanderson has apparently been coming back for years, and now…Sean O’Hara, too.”

“Maybe it’s the tides,” David said.

“It’s odd. That’s all-it’s odd. Hey,” Liam said, changing the subject. “If I don’t hear from you during the day, I’ll see you at O’Hara’s tomorrow night.”

“It’s Fantasy Fest starting up,” David said.

Liam nodded, and let his head fall to the desk.

David left then, deciding to walk home and see what was going on. There were throngs on the sidewalks everywhere. Music blared from the clubs. He passed the giant effigy of Robert the Doll. It appeared to be anchored at the feet by a large weight, covered by plastic.

A woman walked by him, snorting. “It smells almost as bad as Bourbon Street!” she told her companions.

It did smell, David thought. He paused for a moment. It wasn’t bad booze, it wasn’t vomit. There was something dead somewhere. The Keys weren’t immune to rats, and Lord knew, there were roosters everywhere. He couldn’t pinpoint the odor; there was too much perfume in the air, too much smoke from the fellows hanging outside with cigars, and too much alcohol. Someone had just broken a bottle of bourbon somewhere nearby.

He kept walking. He was outside O’Hara’s when he suddenly heard shouting. Frowning, even though he knew Katie wasn’t working, he felt his heart pound. He rushed in. Clarinda was there; she had just jumped back from a table because the two men who had been seated at it were now standing.

“Fellows, you’re going to have to sit, calm down or take it outside or I will call the police!” Clarinda said.

They didn’t hear her.

One of the men was Mike Sanderson.

The other was Sam Barnard.

“Hey!” David said with deep authority.

The busboys were backing up. Jon Merrillo was coming around the bar nervously.

“Hey, you heard Clarinda,” David said.

Sam looked at him, and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, but screw this!” he said. And he turned on Mike Sanderson with a wicked right hook.

David dove in, shouting for Clarinda to call the police. He tackled Sam Barnard down while Mike Sanderson made it back to his feet. Sanderson then tried to punch Barnard, but all he managed to do was fall on the man’s abdomen.

They were both drunk as skunks.

David dragged Sam from beneath Mike, and by then, uniformed cops were spilling in. They dragged up both men, and assured them both they could discuss it all at the station. Clarinda turned to David, thanking him.

“That might have gotten really ugly,” she said.

Jon had joined her by then. “Oh, man, they’re both huge. They could have really torn this place to pieces.”

“I don’t think so-they’re drunk. They’d have passed out before they’d gotten too many hits in.”

“Well, thanks. Can I get you anything on the house?” Jon asked him.

“Sure. Actually, doesn’t need to be on the house. What didn’t we eat last night? I’ll take three of anything different to go,” David said.

“You got it,” Jon told him.

Jon headed to the kitchen. He helped Clarinda right the chairs that had fallen. The other customers seemed disappointed that the show was over. They had turned back to their own conversations.

“Well, I guess it’s good in a way,” Clarinda said.

“What’s good?”

“That those two got into a fight. That means that they’ll be locked up for the night, and no one will have to be afraid of them.”

“Afraid-of Mike Sanderson or Sam Barnard?”

“Let’s face it, Mike Sanderson seems a little whacko. He’s spent years-with no one knowing it-dressing up like Robert the Doll. And Barnard…well, he was Tanya’s brother. He might be out for some kind of revenge, or God knows, he’s here, and there’s another murder…who knows? Maybe he secretly hated his sister. Maybe he strangled her in a rage. Stranger, more bizarre things have happened in Key West.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to get back to work. Thank you, David.”

Then she made a face. “Fantasy Fest.”

“Hey, it can be great.”

“So you say-that’s because guys love to see women with nothing but paint on their breasts.”

“Ouch!” He grinned at her. “Okay, so women see male chests all the time. Sadly, that means the thrill is gone.”

Clarinda laughed. “I repeat-” She made a face. “Fantasy Fest!”

He went to the bar to pay for the food, but Jon wouldn’t let him. He thanked him, took his to-go bags and headed back out.

He paused. So many sounds and scents in the air.

And yet…

Underlying it all…

There was the scent of death.

The knock on the door startled Katie.

She had left the kitchen to curl up on the sofa, the Beckett family book in her hands. Bartholomew was seated on the curve at her back.

“It’s just Beckett,” Bartholomew said.

She didn’t have to get up to answer the door; Sean got it.

“Cool. Dinner. I was thinking I’d have to start cooking, since Katie has had her nose in that book all day.”

Katie rose slowly, stretching. She saw David and smiled. “It’s shepherd’s pie from O’Hara’s, right?”

“Good nose,” he said.

“Oh, Katie has amazing senses,” Sean said dryly. “Set her all down in the dining room. I’ll get plates and utensils.”

Sean did so. Katie met David in the hallway. He reached for her, pulling her close, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

Sean made a point of clearing his throat. “If you two don’t mind? I’m not quite accustomed to this yet, if you could show a little restraint.”

“Sean, I hardly attacked the man,” Katie said.

Sean ignored her, as David opened the bags on the table.

“Anything at the station?” Sean asked.

“I told Liam that Katie thinks Danny is dead. He agrees. But Pete is on a tangent, looking for him, convinced that he’s going to find him, and that he either killed the women, or had something to do with it.”

They sat and passed around the tossed salad and entrées that David had brought. Sean went to the kitchen for beer, while Katie opted for a bottle of wine.

David wound up with a beer and a glass of wine.

“So, what’s up here?” David asked.

“I slept most of the day. I’m figuring that by tomorrow, I’ll be functioning again,” Sean said. “And, naturally, tomorrow night, I’ll be hanging out at the old family bar.”

“I read that book all day. David, your family was fascinating. You know, your aunts have kept records in it since the nineteen forties. They were children here during the Elena de Hoyos death and reburial. They remember the Otto family-they’re really fascinating.”

“You read the book all day?” David asked.

She nodded. “I’m convinced that… Oh, I don’t even know why. But museums preserve the past. That’s why a murderer might leave a body in a museum, right?” she asked.

Sean stared at her. “They have to find the guy this time,” he said.

“They will,” David said. “Someone will. So what else was in the book?”

“A lot was written by Craig Beckett, sea captain, a fellow who arrived in the area along with the first American settlers,” Katie said.

“Your family showed up around the same time, right?” he asked.

She laughed. “Yes, so we’ve always heard. But we don’t have anything like that great book your aunts have preserved so well.”

“‘The truth is out there,’” Sean quoted wearily.

“So what is going on tomorrow, do you know?” David asked Katie.

“Tomorrow, for us, it’s business as usual, with three extra servers. The first of the big pirate parties is happening tomorrow, and one of the bars is also throwing something it’s calling the Vampire Bite. I know that Mallory Square is supposed to be crazy, and that a lot of acts from elsewhere have already been out staking their ground.”

“It will be a long day,” David said thoughtfully.

“I agree.”

When they finished, Sean yawned. Katie told him to go back to bed. He gave her a kiss, bid David good-night and went up the stairs.

Katie was going to pick up, but David stopped her. “I’ll take care of it. You were yawning, too, and you have a really long day tomorrow. Go on up.”

“But-”

“I insist.”

She had left the book on the sofa in the parlor. She went back in to make sure that she had closed it, so that the delicate pages wouldn’t be damaged. She thought that Bartholomew might have kept reading it, but he was nowhere to be seen.

She sat, reading the page that had been left open.

It was about the legal execution of Eli Smith, brought about by Craig Beckett, and the witnesses he had dragged into court.

As she was looking at the page, David came behind her. He moved aside her hair with a gentle brush and kissed the back of her neck.

“Tomorrow will be a long day for you. You need your sleep.”

She turned in his arms. “Are you really thinking about sleep?”

“No. Yes. Eventually. I mean, if we get started early enough…”

“I do believe it’s early.”

“Great.”

She went up the stairs quickly, letting him follow her. That night, she closed her door carefully, and had to turn on the lights to keep from tripping when they went in. With the lights still on, she saw him lying like a lion awaiting his due on the bed, and she started to laugh, and jumped down on him.

And once again, it was the most natural thing in the world to become naked and intimate. They made love with laughter, and then with passion, and then with tenderness.

It was late when she rose at last to turn out the lights, and they finally fell asleep.

The city was like something that breathed, as real and vital as any man or woman who had ever lived. It was the tempest of the past, the craziness of the present, the promise of the future.

It was his city.

He loved it as a parent loved a child.

And his people had borne the injustice of others, when they should have had free run. What was fair, and what was not? Beckett had fired many a cannon, he had set many a ship afire, he had killed time and time again…

And yet he had been so self-righteous!

Ah, well…

The bitterness assailed him as he watched the house, and yet he continued to do so, despite the torture it brought him. His muscles were clamped tight, his jawline hurt, his teeth hurt, he was grating on them so hard. And still he stood, covered by the shadow of the trees, and he watched.

He saw her silhouette.

Saw as she disrobed.

The drapes were drawn, but she was there, curved and lean and glorious.

And he saw Beckett. Saw him rise to take the naked woman into his arms.

Saw them fall down together.

Saw them rise…

In his blood, he could feel them writhing, feel the thunder of their hearts.

Hatred burned through him.

It was his city.

It had been his city throughout time. Some fools didn’t see it; they didn’t realize that things never really changed, nor did people. Beckett had been self-righteous and superior years ago, and he was the same now. But time came round and round, and the evils done in the past could and would be rectified now.

Beckett had brought death and destruction to his people. But he knew that it was all one. He knew that it was his duty to bring real justice to his city.

And the time was coming.

He was suddenly filled with pride; subterfuge was a game he played perfectly. There was simply not the least suggestion that he was anything but completely mentally fit; his calm, cool action and meticulous machinations proved that. That he could wait, that he could play the game of life so easily, and others never saw…

He nearly laughed aloud. There were those who might think him insane, when, in truth, he was simply a genius-a man with an agenda as deep and important as the spirit and the universe itself, and the brilliance to move about as if he were invisible. He knew more about life and death and time and pride than anyone, and he was so damned good that it was almost-criminal.

Katie O’Hara was so beautiful.

She rose, and he could see the perfection of her silhouette on the drapes, the curve of her breasts, the lean length of her torso, the exquisite stretch of her legs…

He imagined her, as she would be.

And his fingers itched to touch her.

Her death would be spectacular. She deserved the true immortality.

The light went off at last, and he turned away.