Devil Ship: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Devil Ship Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “Mr. Hansen, I presume,” said Theresa, her tone distinctly cool. “I hope your friend hasn’t taken a turn for the worse?”

  It took Joe a second to realize what she meant, and Sara felt relief.

  “Ah, no,” he said, “Keri’s doing fine. Ryan called to say she’s making a good recovery. That’s not what I came here for.”

  He turned to Sara.

  “I just found out what all this is about—the legends, the voodoo crap, the ship off the reef, Laplace.”

  Sara smiled apologetically at Theresa and suggested to Joe that they go outside. A couple of local ladies came in at that moment and looked at the Americans with curiosity. Joe calmed down a little then and lowered his voice. He led Sara aside, behind a rotating stand of audiobooks.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not cracking up. Very much the opposite, in fact. It turns out that there’s nothing supernatural about any of this. Far from it. This is about money.”

  “You mean the boucaniers blackmailing Laplace?” Sara asked.

  Joe shook his head, looking slightly smug.

  “That’s peanuts to what’s really going on,” he said. “No, this is not about paying a few thousand bucks to a bunch of hoodlums. This is about gold. It’s about sunken treasure.”

  Sara looked at Theresa Mountjoy.

  “Maybe we’d better leave,” she said. “This isn’t a place to talk business.”

  Chapter 6: Gold Fever

  It soon became obvious that Sara and Joe would struggle to find anywhere quiet to sit and talk in Port Louis. The bars, restaurants, and coffee shops of the small town were now packed with tourists.

  The reason was clear enough. A huge, white and gray cruise liner was moored off the port’s only pier. It was a floating hotel, but to the locals, it was also a treasure ship. The Hansens knew that the ship’s visit would be half a day at most. But during that time, Port Louis’ population would treble, maybe quadruple. And every other tourist was looking for somewhere to sit and have a drink or a meal.

  “We can just walk and talk,” Joe suggested.

  They turned off the harbor boulevard into a shady side street.

  “Okay,” she asked. “What’s all this about gold?”

  Joe smiled, and she recognized it as his clever smile, the one he produced when he thought he had been smarter than the other guy. It was not his most endearing quality. They walked on and came to a miniature park, a kind of public garden with a statue and a drinking fountain. There was a vacant bench. Once they sat down, both took out their bottles of water and rehydrated. Then Sara waited for Joe’s revelation.

  “That ship off the reef?” he began. “It’s a salvage vessel, the Deep Star. Registered in Liberia but owned by an American outfit. It’s got state of the art gizmos on board, including those remote-controlled mini-subs.”

  “Gold,” Sara reminded him. “Are we talking pirate treasure?”

  “No,” said Joe, sounding slightly irritated. “Forget pirates and all that crap. This is real history. A British ship sank somewhere around here during the First World War. It was carrying half a ton of bullion from the Bank of England, a bribe to the Mexican government.”

  Seeing Sara’s frown, Joe went on hastily.

  “Yeah, I was surprised, but I looked it up. Mexico was negotiating with the Germans for much of the war. If German U-boats had been able to operate from Mexican ports, it would have been a disaster for the Brits. So, they paid off some top generals and the like. Or they tried to. But the ship, a cruiser called the Sunderland, disappeared in a hurricane. Most people think it went down in deep water, out in the Atlantic. But there’s another school of thought that says the Sunderland tried to reach Refuge Bay and damn near succeeded. Some claim that, at the height of the storm, a ship was seen near Wreckers Reef.”

  Sara protested at that.

  “But somebody must have looked for it since then.”

  Joe shrugged.

  “Firstly, there are similar stories told on other islands, and none of them seemed particularly credible. Secondly, the water gets really deep off the reef, the bottom falls away fast—we’re perched on the very edge of the continental shelf. Old-fashioned salvage gear couldn’t cut it, but this high-tech stuff can. However, the best evidence for what the Deep Star is up to comes from this.”

  He held up his phone to reveal a picture. It was a satellite image, mostly consisting of blue. Sara could just make out a pale, rectangular shape with one pointed end. A ship at sea. It was alongside an irregular band of white.

  “So that’s the Deep Star?” she hazarded. “Off Wreckers Reef?”

  “Correct!”

  Joe put his phone away and glanced around, though there was nobody within earshot. Sara automatically followed suit. She glimpsed movement in a clump of flowering bushes nearby. A roaming cat, probably, watching the small birds that perched on the statue or hopped near their bench.

  “Anyhow,” Joe continued. “Satellite images show the Deep Star began by cruising along the reef, that’s maybe three miles. That was about a month ago. But lately, it’s been zeroing in on a much smaller area. If there’s nothing there, fine, but it seems to me that they think they’re close to the Sunderland. The gossip in the bars says they are, too. These salvage guys have to get a drink somewhere, after all. They’re tight-lipped, but somebody always tends to drop a heavy hint after his fourth beer.”

  Sara thought this through.

  “Okay, I get it,” she said after a few moments. “If this was a legit operation, we would all know about it. So, what’s shady about it? They have no permit?”

  Joe shrugged.

  “So far as I know they’re not breaking the law, but they are risking bad PR,” he said. “Because that cruiser is legally a war grave. The British don’t take kindly to people disturbing their heroic dead, any more than we do, and this island is still one of Her Majesty’s colonies. I haven’t checked with the governor’s office here, but if a permit to salvage was issued, it was done on the quiet. There has been precisely zero publicity. The island has one newspaper and two radio stations, and there’s been not a peep out of either of them.”

  Sara felt a twinge of genuine excitement at that. Joe’s rational explanation was coming together. She realized that she wanted it to make sense so she could reject any paranormal element. It would simplify things, keep their problems in the realm of the known. And wasn’t that the sensible approach to what was, after all, a problem with a business venture?

  “That suggests important people—locally, at least—are in on it,” she said slowly. “They expect a paycheck, if they haven’t already been bribed.”

  Joe nodded, then looked past her, frowning.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking around but seeing only a group of Catholic schoolgirls walking by.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just thinking that our friend Laplace is probably one of the guys in bed with the salvage outfit. Think about it. And frightening people away, pulling a stunt like the one that scared Keri—that would be consistent with a project that’s in a legal gray area, at best.”

  Sara thought, asked a few more questions, and realized Joe was probably right. Laplace had no incentive to keep people working at Pirate Cove, in sight of the Deep Star. The fewer witnesses to a sketchy operation the better. And maybe the boucaniers had been bribed to disrupt the work, not keep away. Perhaps some kind of dummy with fake blood capsules had been dropped to frighten Keri, exploiting the island superstition about Lemaitre and the ghost ship. The more they talked it over, the more sense it made. Greed was at the heart of the matter.

  “So, what can we do about it?” she asked.

  “First, challenge Laplace,” Joe said firmly. “Second, go to the authorities, maybe via that detective, Lomax. And if we don’t get satisfaction, maybe we generate some bad publicity, or threaten to.”

  Sara felt uncertain about this approach.

  “Do we want to get entangled in island politics?” she asked. “We�
��re outsiders here, we don’t know how things work.”

  Joe shrugged irritably.

  “We already are involved, like it or not,” he declared. Taking out his phone again, he started to scroll through numbers. “I’m going to give Laplace a chance to explain himself. You agree we should challenge him?”

  She nodded, still not entirely happy with his combative approach. But Joe made a lot of sense. If some important people were involved in the treasure hunt, bad publicity might be a potent threat.

  Yet despite her relief at finding a rational explanation, something nagged at her. Sure, Keri was a bit flaky, but would she have been fooled so easily? And why didn’t Ryan see the thing that scared her? Would the boucaniers let themselves be roped into a conspiracy involving local bigwigs and foreign treasure hunters? It seemed improbable.

  “You okay?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, “sure. Let’s do this.”

  ***

  Theresa Mountjoy tutted as she tidied up the Romance shelves. Her volunteer assistants were well-meaning but tended to be a little sloppy. Standards everywhere seemed to be slipping. Rarely a day went by when she didn’t correct some grammatical error in the local newspaper, and the days when dining out required gentlemen to wear a suit and tie were long gone.

  But, she reminded herself, there have been some changes for the better.

  The library windows were large, reaching from a foot above the floor to near the ceiling. They admitted plenty of light, so much in fact that blinds were essential. Some architect back in London had, she suspected, produced a British plan for the library of this remote colony, forgetting that some islands do not languish under gray clouds for most of the year. Today was typically sunny, and Miss Mountjoy adjusted the blinds, then turned back to check that she had not overdone it. It seemed that, at the far end of the nearest aisle, the shadows were remarkably dense.

  In them, something moved. The distinctive sound of a book falling to the polished floor echoed in the stillness. The library, Miss Mountjoy knew, was empty. Not even a small child could be lurking among the shelves. And yet, she felt herself observed and again saw a hint of motion. The shape was small and moved close to the ground.

  “You’re here again?” she said, trying to sound confident.

  She clutched her crucifix, recalling the brave old priest who had challenged evil so many centuries ago. Another book fell. Then came a sound that mocked her, a kind of high-pitched chittering.

  “Go away!” she hissed. “Get out of here! This is a place of learning and truth, and you are an agent of the Father of Lies!”

  She stood, not daring to walk down the aisle, but unwilling to retreat to her desk, to give any ground. A flicker of red appeared briefly, and two small eyes glared at her, then vanished. The shadows at the far end of the aisle were not nearly so deep, now. After a few moments, the librarian walked along the rows of shelves and picked up the fallen books.

  It had been quite a while since she had been visited in this way. On one previous occasion, a disreputable person who had harassed one of her young female volunteers had vanished shortly afterward. She hoped this latest manifestation was not connected to Sara, who seemed like a pleasant enough girl.

  “But then there’s that husband of hers,” she muttered, shelving the books neatly. “Not so sure about him. A little too cocky, perhaps. Doesn’t pay to be too sure of oneself, not on this island.”

  ***

  Laplace proved to be as elusive as before, so Joe and Sara agreed to split up again and try to Get Stuff Done. Joe decided to go and see Charity Lomax and ask her point-blank if she knew about the Deep Star. Sara’s task was to return to Pirate Cove and see if any work was going on. She texted Rudy, apprehensive that he might not be available given the volume of tourists thronging Port Louis. But she need not have worried.

  “No, Sara,” he explained as she got into his cab. “The cruise ship folk seldom venture outside the town. It’s a captive market—no big attractions elsewhere, no theme parks or anything like that.”

  Seeing her expression, he grinned broadly.

  “Don’t worry! I know when Pirate Cove is up and running, there’ll be plenty of holidaymakers,” he said cheerfully. “This island needs a shot in the arm, a place people will visit all year round. You are doing a fine thing. Now, let’s try and get out of Port Louis without running down too many people.”

  They chatted in a desultory fashion as Rudy drove them out of the crowded town center and through the outskirts, where poorer locals lived in shanties with no water or sewage. This was one reason why the island’s economy needed a boost, he explained.

  “So people can afford better homes, and the island council can spend money on infrastructure. Lovely word, infrastructure,” he laughed. “Especially if you’re in the building trade.”

  “I hope our own infrastructure is getting some attention,” Sara said. “I’m half-expecting nobody to have turned up.”

  They passed the old mansion on the coast, last vestige of a once-fine estate. Sara had not noticed it before, but now she could make out an overgrown nameplate on a crooked gate post.

  “Castlereagh,” she said, sounding out the unfamiliar word.

  “‘I met murder on the way, he had a face like Castlereagh’,” said Rudy. “Shelley. Castlereagh was a British politician who repressed the poor. But he was much admired by the rich, including slave owners out here. That poem, ‘The Masque of Anarchy’, is one of Miss Mountjoy’s favorites. She used to teach English literature part-time at my school. Scary lady, sometimes, but very knowledgeable.”

  Sara nodded glumly. The last thing she needed was to be reminded of the cruelties and injustices of the past. She wanted to reject the notion that some atrocity committed centuries ago could echo down the years, that the dead hand of some sorcerer-pirate might reach out and kill people today.

  But the dream she had had, the tiny footprints on the beach, the way the boatman had acted when they asked him about Randy Hobart…

  Could it all be just superstition and coincidence?

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Rudy asked, overtaking a cyclist who swore after them in French as the taxi threw up a choking cloud of yellow dust.

  “I’m worried, is all,” she said, smiling over at him. “But we’ve all got worries.”

  “Oh yeah,” he agreed. “My second cousin, Adele, she is in a whole mess of trouble, you would not believe what that wild girl did…”

  He regaled her with snippets of juicy family gossip until they reached the cove. As they crested the ridge, Sara looked down to see a half-dozen vehicles parked by the unfinished buildings. A few men in orange hard hats were standing around, apparently consulting plans. As they got closer, she looked in vain for signs of actual work going on, but at least workers were present.

  “See?” said Rudy. “Go and kick their lazy backsides. Get them working!”

  They pulled up by the parked vans and trucks. Sara paid Rudy, got out, and walked over to the cluster of men.

  “Hi guys,” she said. “Who’s in charge here?”

  ***

  Joe found one underworked constable at the police station of Port Louis. The man looked up as Joe walked in, sighed, picked up a form, and slid it over the counter.

  “Please fill in details of the stolen items,” said the cop. “Insurance companies will be informed within five working days of the theft being reported.”

  It took Joe a second to grasp what he was being asked to do, then he laughed.

  “I’ve not had anything stolen,” he said. “I guess that kind of stunt makes up ninety percent of your time, right?”

  “Right,” said the officer. “So, what can I do you for?”

  “I’d like to speak to Detective Sergeant Lomax.”

  The young policeman’s eyes flickered off to one side for a moment, and his weary expression vanished, replaced by a blank stare.

  “She’s not here.”

  “So, where is she? Out on a case
?”

  “No,” came the reply. “She’s in the gym. She works out every lunchtime.”

  The constable refused to tell Joe which gym Lomax used, but a moment’s Googling showed there were precisely two in Port Louis. He struck lucky the first time. The gym was in one of the streets that led away from the harbor and the tourist-trap businesses. It seemed to Joe the kind of place more well-to-do islanders would frequent, which made sense. Few people went on a cruise ship to exercise and those who did could use the on-board facilities. When he asked the girl on reception for Charity Lomax, he was directed to a room where about a dozen people were doing weight training, riding stationary bicycles, or running on treadmills.

  All except Charity Lomax. The detective was kickboxing. Joe watched her for a few minutes as she pummeled a free-standing punching bag. She was focused on landing kicks and blows, and to Joe—who had done some regular boxing in his time—she was in peak physical condition. The punching bag, he decided, might not survive till the end of the month at this rate.

  Lomax stopped her rapid-fire moves and stood for a moment, then turned to face Joe. She did not smile but gave him a calculating look instead.

  “You found another dead chicken?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “But I found a motive for the guy who killed it and left it on our property. I think it’s a serious matter. And kind of urgent.”

  She nodded thoughtfully while he outlined his suspicions, then told him to wait while she got showered and changed. Joe took the opportunity to text Sara, then call Ryan and bring him up to speed on developments. Ten minutes later, Lomax reappeared in plain clothes that accentuated her stocky, athletic physique.

  “Okay, we need to talk this over in detail. There’s a bar I know near here, we can talk without being overheard. They know me.”

  As he followed her into the street, Joe felt slightly more optimistic. Lomax was tough, no-nonsense, and apparently honest. There was a chance that she would be able to do something about the Deep Star venture, thereby perhaps taking the pressure off the Pirate Cove development. She led him along the street for about thirty yards until they reached a bar called the Swordfish.