Ghost Night

Page 12

He let her go on her own.
She buckled into the vest and rose carefully, her mask on her head, her regulator ready. She proceeded carefully to the edge, slipped her regulator in her mouth and entered in a smooth backward flip. She had managed the weight on her slim body without any difficulty. All right, so she was trying to be one of the guys, not a hindrance, not someone on a crew who couldn’t manage basic tasks.
She surfaced, and he handed her the camera equipment. She removed her regulator and asked him, “What am I filming?”
“Something artistic,” he told her. “And I’m right behind you.”
She nodded, but she wasn’t waiting around at the surface. She could handle the camera housing fine while releasing air from her BCV. She sank below the surface.
“What a woman!” Bartholomew said. “Why, if I were only flesh and blood…”
“But you’re not,” Sean told him.
He hurried into his own gear and followed in her wake.
Pirate’s Cut was a beautiful place to dive. The water was clear, and visibility was amazing. Staghorn coral rose and wafted in the movement of the water, while torch and pineapple coral in dazzling shades grew around it. Tiny fish darted here, there and everywhere, while a large grouper, at least three hundred pounds, decided to swim at her side.
It did make for beautiful filming. She shot the coral with the tiny fish and panned slowly around to the giant grouper.
There was a drop-off near the shallow area of the reef, and she followed it down; she knew that the ocean went to no more than a hundred feet at the drop-off. She eased down about another twenty feet, aware that Sean was near her then, watching her. He came to her, motioning for the camera. She frowned behind her mask but handed it to him. He indicated her side, and she saw that the giant grouper was still following her, like a pet dog. She shrugged and swam slowly alongside the fish while Sean took footage. She reached out and stroked the side of the fish. He circled her—hoping for a handout, she was certain. Divers must have recently come to the reef with food to encourage the creature to come near. It was amazing that he hadn’t wound up on a dinner plate himself.
He lingered a little while longer, and then swam off.
Sean returned the camera to her. She decided to go to the bones of the old sunken ship that was assumed to be the Santa Geneva. She’d been a wooden-hulled ship and had broken up, however it was that she’d gone down. She was really nothing but wooden bones now, since the sea had caused the disintegration of most of the hull. Vanessa still loved the wreck. It was possible to imagine the size of the ship, where the masts had been, the hold, the cabins, the quarters.
She looked through the camera as she neared a section of the remains.
She almost choked, and started in the water.
Through the lens, she saw a figurehead.
Impossible. The figurehead was long gone.
She looked again, and for a moment, she could have sworn that she was seeing a woman’s face—and the sleek lines of a beautifully crafted figurehead.
She blinked, and it was gone.
She moved the camera away for a moment and lowered herself down to the ruins. She shook the image of the figurehead and filmed the length of the ruins, taking in the fish, the barnacles growing on those sad bare bones that remained.
Something crusted rose from the bed of sand on the floor of the ocean that held the wreck. It was just a dot on the sand, but through the lens, it seemed to be something. Vanessa moved down and reached out, gently swishing sand from the object. She wasn’t sure what it was, it was so encrusted, but it was odd, so she picked it up.
Sean was behind her. He eased himself down on his knees and she showed him what she had discovered. He took the camera from her and pointed upward. He was ready to surface.
They had moved a good hundred feet from the boat and stopped at thirty-three feet to pressurize. Sean reached the dive platform and ladder before she did. He set the camera down on the platform and threw his flippers on board as she grasped hold of the platform. The sea rocked around them, but Sean ably drew himself up and turned to reach for her. She hesitated only briefly and then accepted his hand, throwing her flippers up as well and climbing up the ladder.
They came through the little custom hatch to the deck of the Sea Ray and he spun her around without asking, unlatching her tank.
“I’ll get yours,” she said.
He didn’t protest but accepted her help and stowed the tanks. He came back to her and asked for the object she had picked up from the ocean floor.
He turned it around and around in his hand. “I have friends to take this to,” he murmured.
Vanessa felt a sudden, eerie sweep of air around her. She spun around, looking for…
Something.
But there was nothing around her.
Still, she was suddenly cold. She could remember the figurehead she had seen through the camera lens with a frightening clarity—since it hadn’t really been there. And now…
This. This chilling sensation that…
They weren’t alone.
Sean looked at her suddenly. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Nothing. A goose walked over my grave, I guess. What do you think it is?”
“A coin…or a pendant. I think you’ve found a real relic,” he told her.
“Really?”
“Well, we could find out it’s a 1950s Timex or something…I don’t know enough to take a chance trying to get the ocean crust off it, but as I said, I have friends who do this professionally. We’ll bring it to them. I’m driving in. Want water, beer, soda? They’re in the cooler, over there, portside. Help yourself.”
He pulled down the dive flag and drew in the anchor—it was automatic, all he had to do was push a button. The Sea Ray was definitely nice.
He went to the helm, starting the motor, taking the wheel. She still had the crazy feeling that they weren’t alone, that the air was charged.
She grabbed a couple of bottles of water out of the cooler and hurried back to the companion seat.
“So—did I pass inspection?” she called to Sean, more to start a conversation than because she was really ready for an answer.
He didn’t reply; he was looking straight ahead with a small smile on his face. The wind had ruffled his hair, he was in board shorts and nothing else, and his chest was gleaming bronze and powerfully muscled. She was startled to feel a stirring of admiration or something worse, even—attraction.
It was the smile, she thought.
He reached for sunglasses, and leaned casually against the captain’s seat rather than sitting.
She eased back in the companion chair, tired from the night before. She closed her eyes and allowed herself just to feel.
The figurehead had seemed so real…
Her eyes flew open. She almost bolted out of the chair.
The figurehead! The figurehead with its beautiful face…
The same face she had in her own possession, her copy of the artist’s rendering of Dona Isabella.
4
Vanessa Loren knew how to work and how to move. She seemed familiar with every aspect of equipment and the importance of rinsing off their dive gear and his camera rigging as soon as they got back to the dock. When they were done, she slipped her oversize T-shirt back on and looked at him expectantly.
“Tell her she’s hired,” Bartholomew said. He was stretched out on his back on the aft seat, hands crossed behind his head, hat over his eyes, as if he still needed to shade them from the sun. One leg dangled over the other in lazy comfort. “Tell her that she’s hired, and you’re doing the story. You know you’re going to do it. She’s a scriptwriter, she knows cameras, she knows boats, and she sure seems to have a great work ethic. Not to mention great legs as long as a yardarm and…well, nothing wrong with the rest of her, either.”
Sean ignored Bartholomew. He smiled at Vanessa. “You know we’ll do a background check,” he told her.
“Go for it,” she said, looking off into the distance. She seemed distracted.
He nodded. “Oh, the object you found—I’m going to take it to friends who have a small shop on Simonton—they usually work privately, but they have a little storefront. It’s called Sunken Treasures. You’re more than welcome to take it yourself, if you prefer. You discovered the piece.”
“I trust you to take it—I’m not after treasure,” she told him. Her hair was still damp; her eyes seemed the most brilliant blue he had ever seen, filled with honesty. There was something as she stood there, her answer to him filled with trust and disinterest, that seemed to catch at his throat. Or his heart.
Or, admittedly, other parts of his anatomy. Even wet, she was stunning. And yet beauty itself never created such an appeal. Maybe it was her energy or vitality. Or the way she seemed filled with warmth and vibrant, sleek movement—even when she stood still. He wanted to step closer to her, as intrigued by the woman as the mystery she brought.
He stepped back.
“All right, but you’ll know where it is,” he told her.
She smiled. The smile seemed a little distant. She looked around him and seemed confused, then shrugged, as if returning to the subject. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, talk to you later, then?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ll talk to you later,” he assured her.
“Thank you.”
She was sincere.
And yet it was odd. She still seemed distracted as she walked away. Sean watched her go, puzzled.
“She senses me—that’s what’s going on,” Bartholomew said, rising and adjusting his hat. “She’s got the sense—it’s not developed, but she’s got something. I know—trust me. I spent a few of my early years in this rather awkward state playing tricks on people. There are those who will never sense a thing, and there are those who always get a feeling…but don’t really know what it is. She’s gifted, I’d say.”
“Wonderful. She’s tracking a murderer—seriously, that’s what she wants to do—and you’re doing your best to make her jump at every whisper of breeze,” Sean said.