As I was texting, I caught a glimpse of someone down by the rocky shore but, absorbed by my phone business, it took a few moments for my brain to catch up to my eyes.
Wait.
It was a little boy. What was a child doing on the island? Major Williston had mentioned a son in Boy Scouts; could that be him? No, dressed in a cute pirate outfit—a red-and-white striped shirt, a little black pirate hat—this boy was too young.
When I looked directly at him, he vanished.
I blew out a long breath. Another ghost.
Child ghosts were the most wrenching apparitions, of course. What could have happened? What was he doing here?
I glanced back at my phone but continued to focus on my peripheral vision, which was no easy task. And there he was again, hopping from one rock to the next, a bucket in one hand and a shovel in the other. He seemed very young, probably no more than four or five. Too little to be out all alone, jumping along the rough, slippery rocks dangerously close to the water. As I concentrated, I could make out a very faint, piping voice chanting a singsong rhyme. “Yo ho, yo ho . . . over the big blue sea!”
I glanced over again, but though I could still hear the boy’s voice, he had disappeared. Should I try to talk to him?
And then he materialized right in front of me.
A chill washed over me, and I forgot to breathe. He stared at me, a grave look on his little face. Wordlessly, he pointed toward the top of the tower, and my eyes followed to where he was pointing.
And then I heard the clanking of the metal steps, and saw a light passing by one of the narrow stairwell windows, visible even in the day.
Alicia screamed.
Chapter Five
“Alicia?” I yelled.
The door at the base of the light tower stood open. I ran through it, then stopped dead in my tracks at the bottom of the circular stairs as a man came tumbling down head over heels, arms and legs out of control, flailing, until at last landing on the hard stone floor with a sickening thud. The awful echoes of the body striking the metal steps filled the tower long after the man had come to rest.
He was covered in blood, a knife protruded from his chest, and his arm was folded under him at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide open, gazing up at me in an uncomprehending stare.
Thorn Walker: ex-husband of Alicia, née Amy; wife beater; and self-proclaimed Palm Project success story. Gingerly, I stepped over his body to reach the spiral staircase.
“Alicia?” I yelled again, peering up into the center of the spiraling steps.
My words echoed: “Alicia . . . ? ‘licia . . . ? ‘licia . . . ?”
Fear seized my heart. Where could she be? Was she all right?
I started climbing. After only a few steps, my heart was pounding and I broke out in a sweat. Enclosed staircases didn’t bother me, but anything with an open center that could potentially suck me in, or with a railing I could tumble over, caused a paralyzing fear. I pressed my back against the tower’s stone wall and tried to keep my eyes level.
Don’t look up, I told myself. And don’t look down. Look straight ahead and keep climbing. You can do this.
I managed a few more steps before my vision started to swim. Dizziness washed over me, followed by nausea.
“Alicia!” I closed my eyes and yelled again. “Are you all right?”
With my hands on the curving stone wall to guide me, I forced myself to keep going, inch by inch, around and around. The stones were rough and damp under my palms; the old tower smelled of must and rust and brine. My legs trembled, and I could hear my own breath, loud and ragged, amplified by the acoustics of the tower.
Who are you kidding, Mel? said the damning little voice in my head. Even if you manage to get all the way to the top, you’re in no shape to help Alicia if she needs you. You’re in no shape to help anyone.
At last, I heard something.
“Mel?”
It was Alicia’s voice, shaky and small.
I stopped, kept my hands on the wall, took a deep breath, and looked up.
Alicia was slowly descending the stairs, her hands at her sides. They were covered in blood, and her sweater and purse were dotted with deep red spots. Her clipboard was gone.
“What happened?” I asked quietly as she approached. “Alicia, are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “It’s not my blood. It’s Thorn’s. Is he . . . ?”
I nodded.
Lord forgive me, but I was finding it tough to get too worked up over the death of a man who had so brutalized my friend. I hoped never to become so hardened by life that I would find pleasure in the death of another, but I wouldn’t shed any tears over the demise of a wife beater, either. I was just glad Alicia wouldn’t have to worry about him any longer, that she was free of the constant threat he posed. Nor would he be able to refocus his violent obsession on a new target.
Still, I wasn’t sure the police would agree. Had Alicia . . . ?
Too dizzy to stand, I sank onto the tread. I had managed to climb only about fifteen steps.
Alicia sat beside me, sniffed loudly, and took a deep breath. “For years I dreamed Thorn would somehow disappear—drive off the road, fall off his sailboat, pick a fight with someone who could fight back—so I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder anymore, live in the shadows, be afraid all the time. Do you have any idea what that kind of constant fear does to a person?”
I shook my head.
“I wished him dead,” she said quietly. “So many, many times.”
“That’s understandable, Alicia, given what he put you through.” I paused, still concentrating on steadying my breathing and avoiding the view of the stone floor below. “So . . . is that what happened? You were arguing, he threatened you, and you pushed him down the stairs?”
She looked shocked. “Of course not! How could you think such a thing?”
“Um . . .” I trailed off. Maybe because you were at the top of the stairs with blood on your hands, and your abusive ex-husband is dead at the bottom of said stairs with a bloody knife stuck in his chest?
“You think I would deliberately harm someone?” she asked, looking bewildered. “Even Thorn?”
“Well . . .” I remembered the rage with which she had responded to the murderer who terrorized us at the project in Marin, and thought, yes, given sufficient motivation she was capable of harming someone. So was I. “It would be natural, Alicia, even justifiable if he threatened you, made you fear for your life.”
She shook her head vehemently.
“That’s not what happened. Please, Mel, you have to believe me. I climbed up and found him in the watch room, covered in blood. He had been beaten, and there was a—” Her voice faltered for a moment. “There was a knife in his chest, but . . . he was still alive. He stumbled toward me, and I tried to catch him, tried to take the knife out, but he was . . . slippery with blood. I couldn’t hold him and he . . . fell. Just tumbled over. Over and over and over.”
Down seventy-four metal treads.
The image hung for a moment in my mind.
“Mel, do you believe me? I . . . part of me hated him, it’s true, but I would never have . . .” She cleared her throat and shook her head. “No. That’s not true. You’re right; if he tried to harm me again, I would have done whatever was necessary to protect myself. But it wasn’t like that.”
“I believe you. But . . .” Suddenly it dawned on me that if Alicia hadn’t murdered Thorn, then whoever had must still be up in the tower. Where else could he—or she?—be?
“Let’s get out of here,” I said in an urgent whisper.
As we got to our feet, Buzz burst in through the lighthouse door below. His gaze took in Thorn’s bloody body, and then the two of us on the stairs, a silent question in his dark eyes.
“We’re fine,” Alicia told him.
“Ahhhh j
eeeeez,” Buzz breathed as he grabbed Thorn’s wrists and started to pull.
“Buzz! Stop!” I said, standing. “You shouldn’t move the bo—”
Before I could finish my sentence, Buzz had dragged Thorn’s body outside, repeating all the while, “Ah jeez, ah jeez, ah jeez . . .”
I collapsed back onto the step. We weren’t very far up the tower stairs, but even so I was overwhelmed with dizziness and nausea.
“Take my hand, Mel,” Alicia said calmly. “Focus on my hand. Here we go.” And together we made our slow way down the winding steps and out of the dim stone tower into the gray light of day.
Buzz had dragged Thorn over to a small patch of grass at the side of the lighthouse and was kneeling over him, performing CPR. Attempting to revive a dead man with a knife in his chest. It was a gruesome sight. Every time Buzz compressed Thorn’s chest, more blood oozed out.
“Buzz . . . ,” I said. “That’s not going to work. He’s gone. Seriously, Buzz,” I continued as the bodyguard kept pumping Thorn’s chest. “I’m no expert but he looks awfully dead.”
Buzz shook his head and continued with his lifesaving procedure. “We cannot have a man die out here, not officially. It would be terrible for business.”
“Um, okay, but . . .” I glanced at Alicia, who was gazing at the bay as though unaware of what was happening. None of us was at our best. The shock of sudden violence—much less death—paralyzes some people and spurs others on to action, no matter how pointless.
“Have you called the police?” I asked.
He shook his head.
I tried my phone. No signal.
Dammit.
So I texted my buddy, my pal, my ersatz spouse, homicide inspector Annette Crawford. Annette worked for the city of San Francisco, so most likely she had no jurisdiction out here, but she was the only police officer for whom I had a private number.
On Lighthouse Island, I texted. A man is dead. Phones not working out here. Please send help.
I hesitated, then added, And yes, I’m involved in another murder and no it’s not my fault.
“You didn’t—did you see anybody up there, Alicia?” I gazed back at the lighthouse spire, tall against the gray sky. What was I looking for: a clue of some sort? A murderer hanging out one of the windows, gloating? I could easily imagine someone like Thorn having a lot of enemies. But whom did he know on Lighthouse Island who might have wanted him dead—other than Alicia?
Alicia kept staring at the water, not saying a word.
Buzz pressed two fingers against Thorn’s neck, checking for a pulse, then sat back on his haunches and released a great sigh. Alicia collapsed onto a rock ledge and put her head between her knees.
“Mr. Elrich is not gonna like this,” Buzz said, shaking his head. “He’s not gonna like this one bit. I really wish she woulda asked me first. We coulda made it look like an accident, maybe.”
“Buzz, Alicia didn’t do it,” I said in a quiet voice. “There must be someone else in the tower.”
“What?” Buzz jumped up, grabbed a gun from his shoulder holster, and charged toward the tower.
“Buzz, wait!” I called out. “Let’s just guard the door and wait for the police!”
Buzz ignored me and disappeared around the side of the tower. The murderer had probably slipped out while we were focused on Thorn. But what if he—or she—hadn’t?
“Come on, Alicia. Let’s go down to the harbor. We need people around us right now—safety in numbers. Maybe the phones will work down there, or we can borrow someone’s marine radio.”
I felt bad for leaving Buzz, but what was I going to do—offer myself as backup? He had a gun, after all, while I was plagued with vertigo. If I tried to help, he’d probably end up having to rescue me, too. And besides, Buzz was a trained security guy; he could take care of himself. I hoped.
What we really needed was the police. And soon.
• • •
There was no sign of life at the harbor. Only two boats remained.
“Hello?” I called out as we approached the docks. Unsure of boating etiquette—did sailboats have doorbells?—I called out, “Ahoy there! Anybody home?”
No one appeared.
Alicia trailed me wordlessly. In shock, probably. She kept staring at her blood-streaked hands.
She lingered on the dock while I climbed onto one small craft, hoping I might be able to use the radio to call the Coast Guard. I flicked buttons and got some static, but couldn’t figure out the high-tech equipment. I peered through a window into the hatch, but saw nothing but a bright orange life vest, two dirt-caked shovels, some photography equipment, and a paper bag full of empty beer cans.
I tried the next boat, but its radio was just as bewildering. High tech, I wasn’t.
And anyway, Inspector Crawford had no doubt already notified the local police. Best do what everyone always told me to do: wait and leave this to the professionals.
“Hey, Alicia, let’s wash up,” I said, leading her over to the outdoor sink that was attached to the shack near the docks.
As Alicia and I washed our hands, the water ran pink with Thorn’s blood. It was pretty ghastly, but I’d been through this before. I wiped the blood off Alicia’s leather purse, but her white sweater was a dead loss.
Using a rough brown paper towel from a rusted dispenser, I dried her hands as if she were a child. Then I put my arm around her and led her to a small bench. Alicia hadn’t said a word since we’d left the tower, and her silence was beginning to worry me.
“Let’s sit,” I suggested. “I’ll try the police again.”
I checked my phone. Annette had sent a message:
Why am I not surprised? Richmond PD en route. A friend, Detective Santos. Be nice to him. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be in touch.
No point in calling again, Annette was on the case. Sort of. I wondered what her friend Detective Santos was like, and if he was aware of the whole ghost-talking thing.
Just as the thought crossed my mind, the temperature plummeted. Again.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Thorn standing in a little wooded area to the side of the harbor, staring at us. Covered in blood, he had a knife in his chest.
I blew out a breath.
Great. A third ghost on this small island, and this one was a creepy wife-beating ghost. I shuddered at the thought of Thorn trailing me around, spouting Palm Project platitudes for the rest of my days.
I knew from experience that the dear departed—or not so “dear,” but still departed—rarely know much about their own deaths. It’s wildly frustrating for me, and I can only imagine how it is for them as homicide victims.
Still, I figured I had nothing to lose by asking Thorn what had happened. And while I wasn’t sad he was gone, I thought at least I should give him the heads-up on his current situation. It was possible he didn’t realize he was dead, much less know how to go about navigating the afterlife.
I have had to break this news to a ghost on more than one occasion. “I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, but you’re dead” is a very weird thing to say. And the worse people were at handling life on earth, the harder it seemed to be for them to understand what was happening in the afterlife. It made sense, in an odd sort of way.
Just then, Buzz trotted over to us. He looked winded but, I noted with relief, there were no bullet holes or stab wounds on his person.
“Anything?”
“Nothin’. I don’t understand it. I searched every inch of that tower. I mean, there aren’t that many places to hide.”
“We were outside with Thorn. Maybe the killer escaped while we were busy . . .”
“Busy tryin’ to revive a dead man,” Buzz said. “My bad. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just . . .” He swayed slightly on his feet, and I jumped up and led him over to the bench. Buzz was a large,
square-jawed man built like a tank, but he was only human. “Ah jeez, I’m embarrassed. Truth is, I never seen a dead body before.”
“Is that right?” I said, wondering what it meant that little old me had more experience with corpses than big bad Buzz. Still, it came as something of a relief. Buzz’s earlier suggestion that he could have taken care of Thorn more discreetly had made me wonder if he had experience as a hit man. I was happy to learn that was not the case.
Alicia shivered, and Buzz pulled his suit lapels tighter. Our breath made little clouds in the air; it was unnaturally cold for the Bay Area, even in January.
I glanced at the woods. Thorn still stood there, staring, watching us.
“Buzz, the Richmond police are on their way,” I said. “A Detective Santos, who’s a friend of a friend. I couldn’t find anybody aboard their boats, but it’s possible one of them might be involved in this. We should keep our guard up. I’ll be right back—will you two be okay here for a minute?”
Buzz started to stand. “I should go with you.”
“No, really, it’s all right. I won’t go far. I need to go alone, and you need to protect Alicia.”
“We should stay together,” he insisted.
“I’ll be right over there.” I pointed toward the little copse of trees. “You’ll be able to see me the whole time.”
Alicia put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Buzz. Let her go.”
He sat back down, a look of relief on his face.
“Alicia,” I asked. “Do you have a mirror with you?”
She was the type to carry such a thing, just as I could usually be counted on to have a tape measure somewhere on or near my person. She reached into her purse, and handed me a compact.
A Ghostly Light Page 4
