THE GHOST SHIP

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  She could stay well behind Poblo as he drove to the maritime museum. Not surprising, a television crew greeted him. She watched as they miked Pablo, who looked dandy as ever, and wondered if the museum's personnel were watching the spectacle behind opaque windows, rolling their eyes, wondering why us? The interview lasted ten minutes, after which the crew packed up, and Poblo walked to his car. She had a mind to call out to him, but what would be the use? She knew his position, he knew hers, and she wasn't quite ready to reveal where she was staying, nor to provide him with any quotes for the reporters.

  Poblo gunned the car around the corner and took off down Sir Walter Raleigh Street. She followed to a local hardware store and parked across the street in a diner's lot. Fifteen minutes later he came out carrying a shopping bag. What did a man need in a hardware store when he lived in a motel? The anticlimax came when Poblo drove to his hotel, locked his car and went inside. Ann lost her yen for playing private eye and drove back to the Sweeney's. She parked in the driveway. Mrs. Sweeney was talking on the telephone, so she waved and ran up the steps. For two hours she did internet research and then closed the laptop and came down stairs. Waving again at the conversing Mrs. Sweeney, she skipped down the steps, out the gate and headed for Manteo Booksellers.

  The bookseller inevitably had a prominent display of local authors' works. She picked up Charles H. Whedbee's “Outer Banks Mysteries and Seaside Stories.” She read the blurbs for “The mysterious affair of the Brownrigg miller, who met a stormy death after marrying a stranger of haunting beauty. Then there was the one about fragile, beckoning hands, often seen in the window of a mansion near Edenton. And let's not overlook the pitiful sobs of the Core Point ghosts or the strange and unexplained phenomenon of the Maco lights.”

  To Whedbee's book, she added David Stick's “Graveyard of the Atlantic: Shipwrecks of the North Carolina Coast”, and “An Outer Banks Reader” to her collection, and paid the clerk.

  She took the books down the street to the coffee shop. Settling in with a muffin and the books, she opened the first page. She couldn't read the words for hearing Rod's voice: I was going to call you when – everything died down. I felt maybe I was too hard on you. I felt something for you – that night.

  She also heard him in her mind saying, But you being back here, I know you'll always bring disaster whenever you show up.

  Tears dimmed the words and she closed the book, left the shop and hurried to the Sweeneys. She climbed into the Buick and headed for Nags Head where she parked at the edge of a barrier dune. Getting out, she walked to where the sea lapped the sand. Drawing salt air deep into her lungs, she thought of a Shakespeare line: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange.

  Something rich and strange.

  At the horizon, there was an undulating silver line over the dark water, and it looked like the sky and sea were carrying on a conversation. Then all of a sudden the sea turned, ran toward her, its breakers rushing forth like embracing arms. It whispered with indescribable yearning, sending its waters to caress her, coiling her soul, causing aching enchantment while singing an unbearable song.

  Suddenly, something bounced against her legs.

  Startled, she heard a voice. “Sorry, Miss.” A teenaged boy reached down and picked up a volleyball. “Really, I'm sorry. It got away.” He bounced it back and forth from hand to hand.

  He'd lifted her from the sea’s grasp. “I – that's quite all right.”

  “We came down for a pick up game after school,” the boy said.

  “The sea – the beach is a fine place …”

  He looked at her wet boots. “Cold this time a year.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, stepping back from the froth at her feet.

  “Yeah, well, stay dry.”

  He turned and ran back to his buddies who were stringing a net. He said a few words, and they slanted their heads and cast what they thought were surreptitious glances her way. She laughed aloud at the idea that they were watching the lady who looked like she was thinking the unthinkable.

  Maybe in some realm she had reached out to embrace the rippling waters – they, with a devil's song on their lips. But they weren't going to get her today or ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  --

  No Missi's People column today with their mocking words and sexy suggestions. Saturday newspapers carried overnight news and a ton of ads. She finished breakfast, which was mostly coffee to purge a headache and packed her books in her backpack. She headed out to the village of Duck for a day at the beach. It was a lovely day, almost windless for the islands – the oat grass waved gently while the waters colored themselves a friendly blue. She walked and read, and thought of Rod's words, but they didn't hurt today. Iron Ann, her friends and colleagues called her when she willed herself to be strong. This happened to be one of those days when she kept her tumultuous thoughts at bay with a will that could stop a thirsty vampire in his tracks at midnight.

  After a dinner that would feed six hungry sailors, she sat on the Sweeney's back porch and called her parents.

  “Sugar, darlin', where are you?”

  “I'm not far, Mama.”

  “That's good to know. Are you coming home tomorrow?”

  “No, not tomorrow.”

  “Evah?”

  “Of course.”

  Silence hummed between them. Ann said, “I saw you on television yesterday.”

  “Your daddy, too?”

  “Yes, I saw daddy, too.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Did we do okay?”

  She watched white fragments of clouds troop across the blue sky. “Yes, Mama, you did just fine. I felt proud the way you took up for me.”

  “Sugah, we've always stood by you. Boyd was such a sweet man. He's still in your dreams, I see. But one day, he'll fade, and you'll find yourself a nice Southern gentleman who will love you just as dearly. You mark your mama's words.”

  “Yes, Mama, I will.”

  “Come home to us, sugah. Come to the bosom of your family.”

  She went to sleep feeling a deep love for her folks. She'd never go home, of course. Love was one thing. Living with two people who were out of this world was another.

  --

  What the hell was she going to do with Spence?

  Missi felt her legs stretching as she kept stride with him. Beach-walking at night wasn't her thing. God, this place. Nothing to do.

  Spence said, “Rod was eyeing me funny at breakfast. He even asked me if I was doing anything interesting.”

  “Did you – tell him?”

  “Not the right time, sugar. But he's hinting, wondering where you're getting this stuff for your articles.”

  He'd put her on the defensive. “Wasn't it obvious that I talked to Poblo? I don't make this stuff up, you know.”

  “I have to tell Rod about us. He's going to find out sooner than later.”

  “Go ahead. I'd like to meet him.”

  “It wouldn't be a good idea while you're writing about his ancestor.”

  “So? Maybe it'll get him talking. I'm serious about getting Poblo off the hook. He's a mess, but he doesn't deserve this. With one decision, Rod can restore his reputation.”

  “What about Rod's reputation.”

  “I got a feeling our Mr. Curator can handle himself and his reputation.”

  “Don't write about him anymore, sweetheart. He's touchy.”

  “I'm touchy. Look, Spence, I said I wouldn't quote you, or use stuff you've confided to me. But when I get info on him from other sources, he's copy, pure and simple.”

  “You're ruthless.”

  “I'm a reporter.”

  “I love you.”

  “Yes, and – I love you, too.” She found she meant it. “Why else would I sit on a real inside story?”

  “I heard Poblo was on TV looking and sounding pretty lame.”

  “I told the little shit not to make a f
ool of himself,” Missi said. “Would you hire somebody who stood outside your building and said you were being unfair to him?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Poblo's idea of pressuring folks must be some Latino super macho thing.” Missi stopped in midstep. “Spence, what's those lights up there?”

  “Where?”

  “Up ahead.”

  Spence stopped and squinted. “Ghost crabs.”

  “Where'd I hear about them before?”

  “They're all over the place.”

  “What the hell are ghost crabs?”

  “It's a crustacean. They're scavengers which mean they'll eat anything that crosses their path. They've got these periscope eyes that see 360. Buggers can run up to ten miles an hour.”

  “What makes them glow?”

  “It's an illusion due to phosphorous in the water. They go into the sea to wash water over their gills to get oxygen. Not too long ago Rod and I were looking after new sea turtle hatchlings and came upon a baby turtle with its poor flippers flapping. Well, Rod picked it up. It had its head in a ghost crab hole in the sand. The crab had either dragged it to his hole or ambushed the little fellow when it crawled over the hole. When Rod saved it, man, that crab came out of the sand looking mad as hell. You can imagine, these crusties aren't shy.”

  “They certainly are spooky. I'm not stepping on one now, am I?”

  “Could be. Always wear shoes, then you won't get your toes pinched.”

  “God, those lights, so eerie.”

  “Yeah, but kids love 'em.”

  “Spence – what's that – who's that up there?”

  “Where?”

  “Somebody's mixed in with those – the ghost crabs.”

  “Naw, it's an illusion created by phosphorous ions.”

  “Like hell. It's a person.”

  “I don't see anyone.”

  “I do. He's – he looked back suddenly, and now, I …” She trotted toward whatever she saw.

  Spence took off after her. “Hey, wait up.”

  She called loudly, “Who's up there spying on us?”

  She pointed at the figure that was no more than fifty feet from her. “See him now?”

  Searching the darkness, Spence said, “No.”

  “He's right there. Go see what he's up to.”

  “I don't see anyone, sweetheart.”

  “Damn Spence, you blind or what?” She hurried forward. “Mister, what's your name? Who are you?”

  Stumbling, she nearly fell, and when she regained her balance and composure, he was gone. “Where'd he go?”

  Spence put his arms around her. “I didn't see anyone.”

  When he tried to kiss her, she backed her head away from his lips. “He had on a hat, like sailors wear.”

  Spence looked at her funny, and asked, “You seeing ghosts, too?”

  “What do you mean, 'Seeing ghosts, too?'“

  “I was born here and I've never seen one damned ghost,” he said, shaking his head. “But people come here and see these figures walking on the beach and then just disappear. They all look like seamen.”

  “I didn't see a ghost. It was a flesh-and-blood person.”

  “How come I didn't see him?”

  “I don't know.”

  “What'd Ann's ghost look like?”

  “Like you describe. But that describes more than a thousand men that went down in the Atlantic over the centuries.”

  “Somebody's playing tricks. I don't believe in ghosts.”

  “I'll tell you what, my sweet. This is not the place to make that declaration.”

  She teased, “And you said you've never seen one.”

  “Yes, but I'd never say I don't believe in them. That's when they'll get to you.”

  She looked at the dark water, sensed the icy doom in it, and said, “Let's get the hell out of here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  --

  Ann braced to read dynamite in Missi's column this morning. It was mostly rehash, but Missi freshened it with new info. Poblo was quoted as saying that he was planning to go to Washington in the coming days to research the National Archives and thus begin an investigation into the mystery of the Carroll A. Deering. “I am sure there is much more in the archives than is currently contained in the internet search engines. Miss Gavrion told me a few details that I might locate in the archives. For instance, she told me the name of the bar in Rio de Janeiro where she met Captain Wormell and his friend. If I can substantiate a few details like that, I feel I will be exonerated. Right now, I can see the doubt in the people's eyes. I am fearful of my reputation and I must exonerate my story.”

  Callejon de Gato Ann smiled at the memory as she thumbed Spence's number on her cell.

  “Hello.”

  “Spence, Ann.”

  “Ann, how's it going?”

  “As you might expect. Nobody's real happy with Missi McNamara.”

  “That reporter? What's she doing ?”

  “Keeping that bozo Poblo in the news. Now he's going to Washington to the archives to do research – using my information.”

  “That bar in Rio? Isn't that what you wanted?”

  “Poblo isn't the one to do the research. Like conspiracy theorists researching the JFK assassination.”

  “Why aren't you in Washington. Or are you?”

  “I'm in contact with the right people. Requests take time to get approved and to get the material together. There are many sources.”

  “Are you afraid Pablo will get there before you and grab the info?”

  “No, he must file his own requests. How's Rod?”

  “Roddy's hiding out like me.”

  “Did you read Missi's column this morning?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Has she tried to contact you?”

  “She called at the office. I didn't have nothing to say to her.”

  “I thought you might have read The Atlanta Courier online?”

  Dead air. Then, he said, “I don't have time to read newspaper columns online.”

  “How'd you know about the bar in Rio?”

  “Somebody told me, maybe the TV.”

  Ann had a mental picture of him sitting naked on the bed while Missi pounded on her laptop, and then said, “Sugar, listen to this while I read it to you.”

  Missi used to call Ann just to read the upcoming column. Missi was one of those who liked the sound of her own voice, and the approval in the voices of others when she'd turned a colorful phrase.

  Spence had nothing more to say apparently, and her parting words to him were, “You need to stop talking to Missi. If Rod finds out – let’s just say, I know what his scorn feels like.”

  She packed and got off to Buxton before the Sweeneys returned from church. Along with a hundred dollar bill, she left a note of thanks. She knew she'd find the hundred under her pillow when she got back. The Sweeney's were givers, not takers.

  --

  Meandering along the shore in the damp sand, the humid air reeking of brine, she sensed something strange in this dark night. A sliver of the moon showed when the clouds broke apart, and she saw something ahead, protruding in the surf. A long mound. Another shipwreck? She hastened her steps and glanced up and down the deserted beach – no Lawrence, no C. P. no lighthouse. How silly of me. There never would be again. The closer she came to the mound, the oilier the fear in her stomach. No, it wasn't the ragged jutting bones of a shipwreck. It was long, and rounded, like an upturned boat. Closer now, she heard the indistinct sounds of distress and of something slapping the water. There was a sudden flash of white, a thrash of body! A whale.

  She stared as though in a trance then shook her head clear. She searched the beach for help. Keep your wits. The whale, perhaps sensing her nearness, beat its fins and tail more forcefully. What must I do?

  She stepped to the surf line. It looked like the whale's eyes were open and its head moved like it was trying to rear out of the water.

  Where to go? Who to c
all?

  Rod. No. Yes, Rod. Who else? Spence. No. Rod.

  She made up her mind and whirled away from the water, calling to the whale, “Hold on. Please. Hold on.”

  Checking the beach for a marker, she saw the sign warning against riptides and ran south to her hotel. Inside, she grabbed the keys, locked up and started the Buick. She had it roaring down Highway 12. At Rod's cabin, she spotted his Jeep and braked. Before she got out of the Buick, she asked herself if this was the right thing to do.

  Yes!

  A dim light burned in the timbered cottage. He was in the back room.

  She picked up the brass circle. Wavering, she knew that she could still run somewhere else for help.

  The Coast Guard? Spence?

  She banged the circle on the brass plate three quick times.

  There was no sound from within.

  He gets up early, he probably goes to bed early. He's sleeping. Get out of here, call Spence.

  Suddenly the door opened. Looking bewildered, Rod backed up and shoved hair off his forehead. “Ann.”

  Surprised by the warmth in that one syllable – her name – she said, “A whale. Beached, half way in the water.”

  “What?”

  “I was on the beach. A whale is in the surf. It's pounding the water. It's …”

  He looked like he would sneer if he spoke.

  Ass. Turning away, she said, “Sorry I bothered you. I'll call Spence.”

  “No,” he said, and grabbed her arm. Pulling her inside, he asked, “Where was it?”

  “Where I walk, the other night, when I met you, between my motel and the lighthouse.” By the riptide sign.

  “What did you observe about the whale?”

  She felt stupid. “It was dark.”

  “Black?”

  “I think. I didn't have a flash light.”

  “How big?”

  She shook her head.

  He threw another question. “Was the head rounded?”

  She searched her mind and hated to tell him that it just looked like a whale.

  He ran into the back, and then re-emerged with a pen and paper. He drew a whale head that was thick and rounded.

  She said, “No, it wasn't that thick, and I didn't notice the under jaw there.”