by Ghost Night
Their hands moved upon one another. They found the soap, used it, lost it, crashed into one another finding it again. Suds covered them, making their flesh slick and sleek, and then the water rinsed off the suds, and they were together again, just holding each other for a moment beneath the spray. She laid her head against his neck and felt the throb of his pulse. She felt his hand slide down her hip, between her thighs. He lifted her, with the water still sending out spray and steam; he held her high, then brought her down, guiding her down on him. She wound her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and he balanced against the fiberglass of the shower as he eased completely into her, his eyes on hers. Then he began to move.
She didn’t know if it was him, if it was the simple fact that they were there, just as they began, with the pounding sound, water and steam, but nothing had ever seemed more erotic to her, and the way that he moved was an arousal unlike any other. She clung to him, arched and writhed to his lift and fall, and gave herself over to the pure carnal rawness of the experience. Far too soon she realized that she was burning and frantic and climaxing. She felt a final great thrust from him, shuddered, and eased slowly down on him, but he held her against the fiberglass until the sound of the water was just that again and the spray and the mist kept them warm, even as they cooled.
His lips found hers again, wet, hard, wonderful. He kissed her deeply, her wet hair entangled in his fingers.
He groped for the faucet at last, stopping the spray. Still nearly on top of her, his lips just inches away, he said, “Try and get me out of bed at night, hmm?”
“I think that you’re quite lovely in bed, actually,” she said.
“I hope you’ll think I’m even lovelier now.”
She nodded.
“Towels,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“I’ll get towels.”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, too.”
He stepped from the shower and produced two towels, large towels, with sailing motifs. She wrapped hers around herself and stepped out into the bedroom. His private quarters were neat. He had books stacked on his bureau, most of them sea charts, or books on great sailing ships, some on diving, and one or two fiction. His furniture was solid mahogany without Victorian carving, more in an old west Mission style. It was a personal place, too, though. Not just bare. There were pictures of dive trips and sailing and foreign shores. On the dresser, too, sat a family photo: Katie and Sean, their mother and father. It was a wonderful room. Probably because she had just decided sex with Sean was wonderful, everything in the world about him was wonderful, as well.
“How’s the room?” he asked. “Am I passing muster?”
She laughed. “The room, let me see. Solid, manly furniture. Good photos. Good reading material. Sparse and neat—belongs to a man, most obviously, accustomed to tight spaces on a boat. It’s really unbelievable that he still messes up his laundry, but hey, in the list of could-be faults, that is quite a small one.”
“What about the bed?” he inquired.
“Oh, definitely macho. Studly, even. A lovely bed. Something I’d actually love to try out tonight.”
“Why wait for tonight?” he asked her.
Why wait?
Words coming from his lips were as arousing as the most provocative touch….
And it would be rather senseless at this point to argue the feeling…
She turned into his arms. Towels were lost. What was lost from the steam and spray of the shower was found in slow discovery, touch after touch, complete intimacy. There was the wonder of finding every little scar and wound upon his body, learning where it had come from—a dive into shallow water when he had been a kid; a cut from a catfish, oh, so dumb and he knew it; the only fight he’d gotten into in junior high, and, of course, she should have seen the other guy. There was so much laughter, so much sensuality as she kissed each little wound, as he returned the questionnaire, as they lay entwined until the touches and kisses became breathless and ever more predetermined and purposely provocative, hot and wet and aimed at erogenous zones. They melded together again, holding still for that perfect moment as he thrust deeply into her, then letting basic instinct come into play, the renewed desperation for fulfillment. The sheets became entangled and damp, and still they lay locked together, ever moving, writhing, arching, until the sweet moment of climax burst upon them, and they fell into one another’s arms, damp, depleted, sated and smiling breathlessly. Vanessa listened to the thunder of his heart as it slowed and felt her own, and they seemed to meld, as well.
She rolled away from him and jumped to her feet, heading for the door.
“Hey!” he called.
“We have to start the day,” she replied.
“So we do—but we could lie here a moment quietly, couldn’t we?” he asked.
She caught the door frame and looked back at him. “Maybe you could,” she said softly, and ran out, heading for the shower in Katie’s room.
When the water came down on her this time, it came with the memory of joining him, and she burned beneath the water, both amazed and glad for what she had done, and yet horrified. She wasn’t sure what had possessed her, but she was certain she had never done anything that had felt more perfect and right as it had progressed. It was new, it was magnificent, and all that she wanted to do was be with him, hear his voice and the laughter, and discover again and again how easy it was to lie with him, what an absolute wonder it was to get to know him.
It was crazy. She had just seduced the man who was more or less her employer, a good friend’s brother and someone with whom she was about to embark on a strange mission. Not good.
Oh, yes, good, very good, but…
He was showered again and dressed for the boat when she came down. Coffee had brewed and there was a cup waiting for her by where he sat at the counter, perusing the newspaper. He signaled to it as he saw her. “I just talked to David. He’s gotten hold of Jay, and we’re going to do some more footage at Pirate Cut. Are you a vegetarian?”
“What? Um, no.”
“Good. Bacon is in the microwave and I’m about to put the eggs on. We have about half an hour, then we meet them down at the docks.”
“Okay, sounds good,” Vanessa said.
He stood and walked around to the oven, tested his fry pan and poured the egg mixture into it, then added chopped onions, peppers, mushrooms and tomato.
“So, you are a cook,” she said.
He turned to her. “And you might pop that bread in the toaster, if you like.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
“Ah, such a reply is necessary only on a boat!” he teased.
Vanessa popped the toast into the toaster. As she did so, she had the strange sensation that something cold passed behind her.
And Sean was looking in that direction, frowning.
“Is there a draft in the house?” she asked.
He shrugged. “A ghost—so I’ve been told.”
Vanessa smiled. “Really?”
“It’s actually a very old place, you know. But I think there was a structure here before, long, long ago, when the pirates were at their heyday. Real butter? Or the fake spray stuff?”
“What?”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Real butter.”
“In the refrigerator. I heard it’s not really that bad for you unless you consume the whole stick.”
“All things in moderation, so they say.”
He added cheese to the omelets while she got the butter and spread it on the toast. There was orange juice in the refrigerator, and she poured a glass for each of them. He directed her to the microwave as he flipped the omelet, slid it onto a plate and separated it to slide half onto a second plate. They set it all on the counter and took their seats again.
“Do you have a copy of your original script with you?” he asked her. “The script you wrote for the movie.”
“Sure. It’s still in my computer,” she told him.
/> “Can you give me a rundown?”
“We started from Key West, with three couples meeting up to take a trip out to Haunt Island. The usual college-age crew—Jay was hoping to reel in the seventeen-to twenty-one-year-old crowd. There was the good girl, the one you liked, the nerd…you know, the usual slasher cast. We had permits, of course, and filmed them getting together at the dock. They went diving at Pirate Cut, and they made fun of the story of Dona Isabella, and drew up silly pictures of Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass. Then they did this ridiculous thing, like a game of Bloody Mary, but they called up Mad Miller. The first death occurs when one of the kids sees a woman floating in the water and goes to help her, but when he turns her over, her face is skeletal and eaten away. When he shrieks and tries to get away, the sea ghost of Mad Miller drags him down, cutting him up in the water. We’re talking true teen-slasher flick,” she said, grimacing apologetically.
“I understand someone trying to break in—and make a living,” Sean said. “Many a director has cut his teeth on a slasher flick, and some have made very respectable livings on that alone.” He seemed thoughtful as he munched on his toast. “Go on.”
“Well, the rest on board are terrified, of course, and they try to perform a ritual that will let the poor murdered Dona Isabella rest—and send Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass to hell. One by one they end up dead as the boat limps toward the closest land—Haunt Island. Of course, the heroine, Georgia Dare, is something of a scholar and she discovers that Haunt Island was where everyone was massacred. In the script, Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass come after them, but Georgia and her boyfriend—Travis, of course—find a way to raise the massacred dead, and they come to life and destroy Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass, and then sink back into the sand. Simple, basic—some history, some ridiculous witchery, even if I did write it myself—good, gory teen fare.”
“What schedule did you follow filming?” he asked.
“I have that in my notebook, too. Oddly enough, most of the scenes were in order, and that was because we were so cost-conscious that we didn’t want to pay actors when we didn’t need them,” Vanessa explained. “Obviously, we filmed the scenes at Pirate Cut first, and then we filmed at a few of the reefs up by Key Largo, and then made our way over to South Bimini and finally Haunt Island. When Carlos and Georgia left on the night she was killed, they were supposedly heading straight for Miami.”
“And you don’t believe that Carlos Roca was a brilliant psychopath, pretending to be a great guy and savoring all the possibilities when Georgia went nuts and wanted to go home?” Sean asked.
“No. If he were that good an actor, he would have been in front of the camera, would have been there for years, and garnered a few Oscars,” Vanessa said with certainty. “But here’s the thing, of course—he’s gone. He can’t defend himself. I don’t know what I really even think that we can get out of this, but Carlos is another reason I’d so desperately love to find the truth. He might be a victim, too, and stand accused for this in the memory of his family and loved ones. It isn’t right.”
“We may do this and wind up with nothing more than an interesting documentary that merely gives rise to more questions,” Sean warned.
“It’s more than anyone else is doing right now,” she said.
“True. But, objectively, I can’t blame the Coast Guard, the Bahamian police, the FBI or any other law-enforcement agency. They’ve hit a brick wall. It’s impossible to drain the ocean—by today’s technology, at any rate. I’m sure that all over the Southeastern United States and at Caribbean ports, people are still on the lookout for the boat.”
“Right—and how hard do you think they’re looking now? People forget, and they move on. Other crimes happen. It’s sad, but true,” Vanessa said. “And by the way, you do make an excellent omelet.”
He grinned. “Yep, I do dishes well, too. It’s only the laundry thing that escaped me. But how about you clean up for me, I’ll get David on the phone, gather some supplies and meet you down at the dock. We’ll get your buddy Jay out there as well today, and I’ll interview both of you while we’re on the Conch Fritter.”
“I’m great at dishes,” she assured him.
He set his in the sink. He carefully kept his distance from her. He wanted the day to be productive. At this moment, touching her would be counterproductive.
It was a beautiful day. Calm seas, bright sun, cool air.
Jay was called upon to act as cameraman, though David and Sean set up the shot. They spoke about beginning their documentary. They were both excellent speakers, and it was a really good and casual segment, explaining that they were going to follow the legend and speaking about the events that had occurred on the recent film shoot. They talked about the fact that Vanessa was Katie’s friend and had come to them, and how they were they hoping to shed some light on the mystery.
Sean then repositioned himself and the camera so that he in turn could interview Jay about the film. Sean explained to David where he would want sea charts and other visual aids edited in, and they all seemed to be getting along quite well.
Katie had come on board with David, so there were five of them out. When they were ready to go into the water, Katie determined that she was just going to lie in the sun—she was tired. It was a busy time at O’Hara’s, and she was trying to make sure that Clarinda would be ready to take over for her when they set out through the Bermuda Triangle for the Bahamas.
On film again, Sean explained that they were looking for good footage of the “bones,” or the wreck field of the Santa Geneva. Over the years, with storms and currents, wreckage could move for miles. The initial sinking or breakup of a ship could begin the process, and time could keep it going into eternity. The site was fairly shallow, and it was popular with divers; you would think it had been picked clean by salvage divers in the eighteenth century, and yet still more relics had been found in the present, including the mermaid pendant Vanessa had discovered.
Jay paired up with David, and Vanessa naturally paired up with Sean.
It was cool in the water, but Vanessa’s skin was still enough for her. Sean and the other men also opted for skins.
Vanessa was thrilled that the sea was clear that day and the visibility was amazing. She hovered with Sean just below the surface, trying to capture the enormity of the spread of the wreck over the years, and the size and shape of the ship itself. Overlays could be edited in that would describe the Santa Geneva when she was afloat—and how she had been blasted by the pirate ship and came to sink and break up, forced onto the reef now known as Pirate Cut.
The ship had sunk north to south, and it was actually from a position of about five feet below the surface that Vanessa discovered she was getting the best long shot of the bones of the ship. It was amazing to see the shape and tragically disjointed outline of what had once been a regal and majestic sailing ship. She moved slowly and smoothly over the bones of the wreckage, keeping a straight sweep of the site, and then panning in slowly to show what divers saw as they got closer. If it wasn’t known that a great ship had gone down, a diver might have explored the wreckage for a long time without knowing what it was when he got too close.
She adjusted the zoom, and it was then that she saw something from the periphery of her eyes. The figurehead.
A chilling sensation burned through her as cold and hot as dry ice.
She drew the camera away and looked down at the site. The Santa Geneva seemed settled, at peace, in her sunken graveyard.
How many had died in this area? The pirates had given the ship a vicious cannon salvo; they had boarded to kill and maim with cutlasses and pistols, and kidnapped Dona Isabella for the ransom she would bring. Those who had fought, who had perished in the water, were here somewhere, now long gone, flesh eaten, bones bleached and disarticulated, food for the creatures of the sea. Ghosts and memories were all that remained.
Vanessa looked through the lens again.
And there she was, hazy at first, seeming to look up from jagged c
oral and sand, the myriad of fish in their amazing colors—and the remains of the deck of the Santa Geneva far below.
Vanessa wanted to scream but knew she’d choke, spitting out her regulator. She wanted to give a swift kick with her flippers, burst up the few feet to the surface, leave the water and never come near the reef again.
But it went against everything she had been fighting to do!
Maybe she had let it all play on her mind too much; the nightmares were always tearing into her life, and she wasn’t crazy at all, she was simply finding ways to seek and find anything that she could.
The image of the figurehead was probably some other minor clue that went into the fantastic computer of the human brain and manifested in an eerie manner.
She had to believe that, and she had to follow the figurehead, because, so far, it had led her to a mermaid pendant, and it might lead her to…
She couldn’t let it scare her. She had to believe in a logical explanation.
She kicked, and her body surged into the depths rather than surfacing.
She was about fifty yards west of where she had found the locket. She eased more air out of her BCV to settle on the bottom. It seemed that she was near the body, or actual remaining structure of the wreck. Jagged and beautiful coral rose to her right—the drop-off pitched to a hundred feet and then two hundred feet to her left.
She began to move the sand, not knowing what she was looking for. There wasn’t a spark of light—the reflection of the sun on an object—or anything to suggest that she would make a find.
She felt Sean come down near her, concerned—she had made a swift descent, but they were still no more than fifty feet down.
