But the uneasiness persisted. Allowing herself to feel the aura of fear, she lightly rubbed her upper arms as if a chill breeze had crept across her skin, even though the musty air was close and warm compared with the cool ocean temperatures topside.
The fear she felt was not her own. There was no threat to her personal safety. This she knew without question. She also knew she was on the threshold of a breakthrough. Something was different in this cabin. Something unsettling. Off balance. From somewhere in her mind came a solid conviction that she was definitely on the right track.
At twilight, a one-dish supper of beef stew was served to all except the captain and the adult chaperons, who had been invited to be his guests. Cara had declined, choosing instead to walk around the ship in hopes that her solitude would help her make a psychic connection with Andrew. And yet she had a moment of regret when the captain’s dinner of roast chicken was ceremoniously paraded past the line of hungry sixth graders, reenacting the vast differences between the paltry crew and their superior officers. Cara watched the young faces turn sour at the sight of their own meal of cubed carrots, potatoes, and mystery meat in a pale-gray gravy. She felt the same way as she held out her tin plate.
After dinner, the children and their parent chaperons gathered in the between decks for a few of the captain’s yarns, told by the light of a single lantern. As Cara headed for her cabin to catch a few hours of sleep before taking her turn on the night watch, she overheard two of the mothers whispering to each another.
“It gives me the creeps,” said one, “to think of the poor kid who disappeared. I bet I don’t close my eyes all night.”
“Why did you volunteer to chaperon?”
“I couldn’t let my daughter come alone.”
“She’s not alone. She’s with her whole class.”
“So was that Charles boy.” The fretful mother caught sight of Cara. “Do you know what really happened to that child?”
As part of this living history experience on the nineteenth-century brig, every person on board—male and female—was regarded as an able-bodied seaman. Staying in character as a crew member, Cara addressed the woman accordingly: “What child might that be, sir?”
“Andrew Charles,” offered the second one. “His disappearance was in all the papers.”
Cara affected a swarthy tone. “There warn’t no papers on me last ship, sir. I just made port b’fore signin’ on the Mystic. Can’t say I heard nary one word about a . . . boy, y’say?”
She stayed her course, playing it to the end. Those were the rules in her training class. The instructor had been adamant. No matter how much a visiting class might tease or pressure the actors to slip out of character, they were expected to maintain the illusion of the adventure at all times.
The first woman didn’t seem to grasp the concept, however, and patiently explained in detail about the disappearance of Andrew. “I have my own theory that the gravitational alignment of the planets on the winter solstice might have something to do with all this.”
The other mother spoke up with a skeptical laugh. “You may as well say that kid vanished on a spaceship. Or, better yet, blame it on those offshore earthquake tests! The subterranean explosions might have knocked him overboard.” Cara was more than a little amused and intrigued by the direction of the conversation.
“There might be some truth to those possibilities,” said the first mother. “What if the explosions disturbed the electromagnetic field?”
“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Cara with a waning smile. “I was about to turn in. I ’ave second watch, y’know.”
“Oh—yes, of course,” stammered the mothers, apologizing for keeping her too long.
Moments later, Cara pulled out a small penlight she’d hidden in a deep pocket. After hanging it from the same hook as her gear bag, she shucked the wool jacket and boots issued to her as part of her costume. Cara’s watch would be the same as Andrew’s had been, starting at midnight, or eight bells. Instead of the regular four-hour watches described in Dana’s book, the Mystic observed “anchor watch” of two-hour shifts.
The short, narrow bunk seemed barely large enough for Cara’s five-foot-six height, let alone a man of larger size. She wondered if sailors in the 1800s had been smaller in stature than today’s standards or just more adaptable to tiny spaces. She shifted to her side, then yanked the top of the sleeping bag over her, leaving it unzipped.
Listening to the gentle creaks and moans of the floating antique, she contemplated the conversation between the two women. Centuries of superstition surrounded the change of seasons in many cultures. What if the winter solstice had played a role in the disappearance of Andrew? Stranger things had been known to happen.
Like private investigators who used psychic senses to solve cases.
Cara couldn’t turn her back on any possibilities, no matter how far-fetched. Could the approaching spring equinox next week be a factor? If so, tonight might be a waste of time and she would need to return on the twenty-first.
Then again, there were fault tests to consider. She had read about them. Some people were afraid the underground explosions would trigger an actual seismic tremor, perhaps even a full-scale earthquake. So far, not so much as a geological hiccup had occurred, at least not anything that registered on the Richter scale. But what if the electromagnetic field had been disrupted? Cara wasn’t a scientist, but she had long ago learned to open all mental doorways to let in any ideas, giving them equal importance. Nothing was ever discarded. Not until the case was closed.
The quiet knock came through the dark recesses of her sleep.
“Eight bells, sir,” said a young male voice in a loud whisper, despite the order of total silence when rousing the next watch.
Instantly awake and alert, Cara quietly answered, “Aye-aye, mate.” She knew from training that the new crew had ten minutes to relieve the sailor on the previous watch.
After switching on the flashlight that dangled overhead, Cara slipped her legs out of the sleeping bag and dropped them over the wooden lip of the berth. Sitting hunched over, she plowed her fingers through her hair, then took down her gear bag and pulled out a knit watch cap and a pair of leather gloves. As a thin-blooded native of Southern California, she didn’t like the slightest drop in temperature. To her, March was one of the coldest months of the year. Especially on the water. And especially in the dead of night.
Turning to stow her bag, she was startled by a sudden image out of the corner of her eye. She swiveled to her left and pointed the halogen beam at the dark wood panel.
Nothing was there.
The skin on her arms prickled. Without a doubt, she had seen something a moment earlier. But it had been too fleeting to even register in her brain. Maybe she wasn’t as awake and alert as she’d thought.
She stared at the blank wall. It was old and worn, scarred and scratched. Stretching toward it, she traced a long gash in the wood with her fingertip. White-hot heat radiated up her hand.
Anger.
Fear.
Terror.
She yanked her hand away from the marred wood, severing the painful sensation of the heat as well as the wrenching emotions. An adrenaline rush of anticipation quickened her heart rate. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and let the air slowly leave her lungs. With each deliberate exhale, she emptied her mind of all thought, all preconceived ideas, all speculation about Andrew’s disappearance. When she opened her eyes again, she felt a strange sense of weightlessness, as though her body was floating.
Staring at the bulkhead, she let her gaze drift slightly out of focus. A glimmer of light blossomed into shapes and shadows and images. The outline of a figure appeared, too small to be a grown man. He was dressed in dark, baggy clothing, and a misshapen oversized floppy hat covered his head. The momentary vision vanished. Gone. Winked out in the time it took to blink.
Damn it.
She heard only the creaking of the ship as it gently rocked with the roll of low waves in t
he sheltered harbor. Disappointed with the brief, inexplicable image of a faceless boy, Cara sighed in resignation and dropped to her feet. As she reached down for her shoes on the floor, the cabin tilted, pitching her off balance. She reached out to brace her fall, grasping the berth rail with one hand while flinging the other toward the bulkhead.
Her fingers disappeared through the solid wood panel.
She yanked her hand back and stared at her fingers, then at the panel. First the vision. Now this? And where had that rogue wave come from? The ship was anchored inside a protected marina.
Another wave tossed her violently toward the bulkhead. Her hand shot out in front of her and again disappeared into the wood. Only her grip on the berth kept the rest of her body from falling into the unknown.
Instinctively, she knew to remain calm and let her mind listen for the still, small voice inside her head—the voice of wisdom and insight. It guided her to close her eyes to her physical surroundings. She mentally pictured her upper arm, then let her gaze travel to her elbow, through the wood to her wrist, hand, fingertips, and beyond.
Her view of the other side was of the captain’s quarters, which she recognized from her previous visits to the Mystic. And yet the decor was clearly different. Gone was the sparse elegance of museum-quality restoration. Instead, a cluttered disarray of papers and clothing was scattered about the floor and over furniture. The dining table set for two was littered with platters of uneaten food. An unmade bunk was strewn with yellowed sheets and gray blankets.
It was another dimension. Another time.
For the first time since boarding the brig, Cara sensed Andrew’s presence. She knew he was over there, somewhere. She was sure of it. But if she were to follow her gut instinct to go after him, she might not find her way back.
Slowly withdrawing her arm back into the second mate’s cabin, Cara reluctantly opened her eyes.
You’ve got to go, her conscience prodded. You’ve got to do this.
Fear rose up inside her. It was one thing to climb over a security fence or face a couple of guard dogs while in pursuit of information on a case. She knew how to deal with those circumstances—and quite successfully, she admitted proudly to herself. But she had never, ever taken a leap of faith that came anywhere close to this one.
Maybe she needed to rethink the solstice theory. Maybe she needed to come back next week on the spring equinox. Yeah, that was it. Waiting a few days would give her time to pack a bag of necessities for whatever she might confront in the past. A gun came to mind, though she had a definite aversion to firearms.
A feeling of urgency pressed heavily on her. If she postponed her decision to go through the mysterious portal, she might find it closed next time. Now might be her only chance.
Battling her own instinct for self-preservation, Cara glared at the scarred wood panel, deceptively solid in its appearance. Suddenly, a muddied image of the rumpled child returned. He was lying on his side, bound and gagged. Two men stood over him, exchanging a leather pouch. One of them hauled the boy to his feet. Cara tried to see the face beneath the brim of the hat, but the boy was quickly shoved toward a door.
As the picture vanished, Cara could not be sure it had been a vision of Andrew. Yet she suspected the child had been bought and paid for. But why?
A sinister chill rippled down her spine. Even if the child was not Andrew, she’d been shown this vision for a reason. Perhaps the two boys were together. Or perhaps this child could lead her to Andrew.
Go, Cara!
But what if—
Go! Now! Before it’s too late!
Cara crammed her feet into the shoes and shoved her arms into the sleeves of the jacket. Snatching the flashlight and bag off the hook, she stepped toward the bulkhead. Then stopped. She glanced down at her toes, inching one forward until the tip of the leather shoe almost touched the wood panel. Her heart hammered in her chest.
Praying she wasn’t about to make the biggest mistake of her life, Cara forced herself to walk through the invisible portal.
MARCH, 1833
CALIFORNIA COAST, OFF SAN PEDRO
The flogging was merciless.
Despite his anger at the unwarranted punishment, Blake Masters held no authority to intervene. He was merely a guest aboard the Mystic. It was not his ship. These were not his men. He could do nothing but watch as the burly sailor was stripped to the waist, seized up, and whipped until he cried out for divine intervention. Captain Johnson clearly savored inflicting pain with each strike of the thick rope clenched in his hand, much as he had savored his dinner only a short while ago.
The meal had been interrupted by the first mate, a rat-faced, scrawny fellow who had reported an incident in the hold. Johnson had excused himself to deal with the situation. Blake should have taken his leave then and returned to his own ship, the Valiant. But he had accepted the invitation to dine with the captain, and they were barely midway through the meal. Or rather, he was. The portly Johnson had all but inhaled his first platter with great noise and had begun a second when news of the scuffle had been delivered. Shortly thereafter, Blake had been summoned to the quarterdeck to witness the punishment, though for what infraction he didn’t know. Nor did he care to learn. Whipping a man within an inch of his life was abhorrent to him. Even though flogging was accepted punishment on most vessels, he’d vowed not to use such brutality on any ship he captained. No one challenged his leniency, however. Not if they knew of his own stripes of degradation, emblazoned across his back.
The rodent of a second officer called out the number of the final lash, drawing Blake’s attention back to the scene before him. As the blond sailor hung limp and unconscious, the captain ranted and raved like a damn lunatic, challenging any of the seven remaining sailors to cross him as their crew mate had done. The cowering men hung their heads, unable to look into the wild eyes of their captain. Johnson laughed with a high-pitched cackle that sounded more like a deranged crone than a man, if one could even call him a man.
Sickened by the entire vile performance, Blake could not bring himself to return to the captain’s table. Determined to depart at once, he saw the ominous signs of an approaching squall. The blood-chilling drama on deck had kept him from noticing the darkening night sky or the shifting wind.
Blake glanced across the water toward the Valiant. She was gone. During the commotion, she must have slipped anchor and made for open sea to ride out the storm. He trusted his men. They would save his ship, of that he had no doubt.
“Captain Johnson, sir.” Blake spoke in a polite yet loud voice to capture the raving man’s attention. The sorry excuse for an officer fell silent, clearly startled that anyone would dare usurp his authority while he castigated his crew.
When he realized that the impudence came from his guest, his contorted face relaxed into a deceptive smile. Had Blake not witnessed the preceding episode, he would not have known what sort of odious monster captained this merchant ship.
“Ah—yes, Captain Masters.” Johnson swept his hand in a grand gesture toward his quarters. “I believe our dinner still awaits us.”
Couldn’t the fool see that the wind had grown stronger? Couldn’t he fathom the severity of the storm bearing down upon them? Blake resisted the urge to bark orders to the men standing together in the middle of the ship’s deck, awaiting commands from their deranged captain.
“I believe our dinner will have to wait, sir,” said Blake, his patience strained to the limit. “Might I suggest that necessary precautions be taken for the weather?”
The full import of the innocuous statement seemed to register in the officer’s mind. He suddenly blinked as if coming out of a trance, glanced about at the starless sky and the turbulent seas, then turned upon the line of seven men.
“You!” Johnson bellowed at one sailor he had singled out from among the rest.
The young fellow stared at the accusing fingertip as if it were a sword point at his throat. “Me, sir?”
“You should have informe
d me of the southeaster. What sort of sailor are you?”
“But, sir—”
“Don’t argue with me,” barked the captain, closing the short distance between them. The young man’s eyes widened with fright. “It will be on your head if we lose a man tonight. We’ll be lucky if we come out alive.”
Blake saw the lad’s lower lip tremble. Good God, he barely looked old enough to shave, let alone stand up for himself against the captain.
“It warn’t my fault, sir. I dinna know—”
Backhanding the sailor’s cheek, Johnson shouted, “Shut up, you bastard.”
The cracking sound could have been a jawbone snapping, but it would have been hard to say with absolute certainty. For it was the lad’s cry of pain that pealed loudest through the blustering wind.
Blake could not reach the captain in time to stop the brutalizing of another member of the small crew. A larger vessel would have carried enough able-bodied seamen to sustain the loss of two. As it stood now, there were barely enough left to make sail.
“Captain Johnson.” Blake placed his hand on the man’s arm before he could hit the young sailor again. “I urge you to give orders before we lose all your men. We will be hard-pressed to get under way with only the six you have left, sir.”
“I have a full crew on board this brig. And the entire lot of them will do the work or they will all be flogged.” The man was beyond reasoning with. As the wind whipped at their clothing and the first raindrops began to fall, the young sailor clutched his jaw, sucking back sobs of pain and fear. The flogged sailor still hung unconscious from the shrouds, unaware and incapable of following any orders from the captain of the Mystic.
Staring at the seaman’s bloodied back, Blake shucked his coat and tossed it to the cook. “Stow this for me. And get me an oilcloth.” He then turned to Johnson. “I am taking that sailor below. When I come back, I will be his replacement. You shall have your full crew, sir.”
Mystic Memories Page 3
