Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”

—Publishers Weekly

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy

with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading

with your romance, be sure to read

Heather Graham’s latest…Graham does

a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal

with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“Eerie and atmospheric, this is not late-night

reading for the squeamish or sensitive.”

—RT Book Reviews on Unhallowed Ground

“The paranormal elements are integral to the

unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are

likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of

Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction

of a lost city is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller

sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance

and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Vision

“Heather Graham will keep you in suspense

until the very end.”

—Literary Times

“Mystery, sex, paranormal events.

What’s not to love?”

—Kirkus on The Death Dealer

Ghost Night
Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Scott Perry, Josh Perry,

Frasier Nivens, Sheila Clover-English,

Victoria Fraasa, Brian O’Lyaryz

and the great and fun folks

with whom I’ve been on some strange

and entertaining filming expeditions.

Also by Heather Graham

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

The Bone Island Trilogy

GHOST SHADOW

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST MOON (September 2010)

Key West History Time Line

1513—Ponce de Leon is thought to be the first European to discover Florida for Spain. His sailors, watching as they pass the southern islands (the Keys), decide that the mangrove roots look like tortured souls and call them “Los Martires,” or the Martyrs.

Circa 1600—Key West begins to appear on European maps and charts. The first explorers came upon the bones of deceased native tribes, and thus the island was called the Island of Bones, or Cayo Hueso.

The Golden Age of Piracy begins as New World ships carry vast treasures through dangerous waters.

1763—The Treaty of Paris gives Florida and Key West to the British and Cuba to the Spanish. The Spanish and Native Americans are forced to leave the Keys and move to Havana. The Spanish, however, claim that the Keys are not part of mainland Florida and are really North Havana. The English say the Keys are a part of Florida. In reality, the dispute is merely a war of words. Hardy souls of many nationalities fish, cut timber, hunt turtles—and avoid pirates—with little restraint from any government.

1783—The Treaty of Paris ends the American Revolution and returns Florida to Spain.

1815—Spain deeds the island of Key West to a loyal Spaniard, Juan Pablo Salas of St. Augustine, Florida.

1819–1922—Florida is ceded to the United States. Salas sells the island to John Simonton for $2,000. Simonton divides the island into four parts, three going to businessmen Whitehead, Fleming and Greene. Cayo Hueso becomes more generally known as Key West.

1822—Simonton convinces the U.S. Navy to come to Key West—the deepwater harbor, which had kept pirates, wreckers and others busy while the land was scarcely developed, would be an incredible asset to the United States. Lieutenant Matthew C. Perry arrives to assess the situation. Perry reports favorably on the strategic military importance but warns the government that the area is filled with unsavory characters—such as pirates.

1823—Captain David Porter is appointed commodore of the West Indies Anti-Pirate Squadron. He takes over ruthlessly, basically putting Key West under martial law. People do not like him. However, starting in 1823, he does begin to put a halt to piracy in the area.

The United States of America is in full control of Key West, which is part of the U.S. Territory of Florida, and colonizing begins in earnest by Americans, though, as always, those Americans come from many places.

Circa 1828—Wrecking becomes an important service in Key West, and much of the island becomes involved in the activity. It’s such big business that over the next twenty years, the island becomes one of the richest per capita areas in the United States. In the minds of some, a new kind of piracy has replaced the old. Although wrecking and salvage are licensed and legal, many a ship is lured to its doom by less than scrupulous businessmen.

1845—Florida becomes a state. Construction begins on a fort to protect Key West.

1846—Construction of Fort Jefferson begins in the Dry Tortugas.

1850—The fort on the island of Key West is named after President Zachary Taylor.

New lighthouses bring about the end of the golden age of wrecking.

1861—January 10, Florida secedes from the Union. Fort Zachary Taylor is staunchly held in Union hands and helps defeat the Confederate Navy and control the movement of blockade-runners during the war. Key West remains a divided city throughout the Great Conflict. Construction begins on the East and West Martello Towers, which will serve as supply depots. The salt ponds of Key West supply both sides.

1865—The War of Northern Aggression comes to an end with the surrender of Lee at Appomattox Courthouse. Salvage of blockade runners comes to an end.

Dr. Samuel Mudd, deemed guilty of conspiracy for setting John Wilkes Booth’s broken leg after Lincoln’s assassination, is incarcerated at Fort Jefferson, the Dry Tortugas.

As salt and salvage industries come to an end, cigar making becomes a major business. The Keys are filled with Cuban cigar makers following Cuba’s war of independence, but the cigar makers eventually move to Ybor City. Sponging is also big business for a period, but the sponge divers head for waters near Tampa as disease riddles Key West’s beds and the remote location make industry difficult.

1890—The building that will become known as “the little White House” is built for use as an officer’s quarters at the naval station. President Truman will spend at least 175 days here, and it will be visited by Eisenhower, Kennedy and many other dignitaries.

1898—The USS Maine explodes in Havana Harbor, precipitating the Spanish-American War. Her loss is heavily felt in Key West, as she had been sent from Key West to Havana.

Circa 1900—Robert Eugene Otto is born. At the age of four, he receives the doll he will call Robert, and a legend is born, as well.

1912—Henry Flagler brings the Overseas Railroad to Key West, connecting the islands to the mainland for the first time.

1917—On April 6, the United States enters World War I. Key West maintains a military presence.

1919—Treaty of Versailles ends World War I.

1920s—Prohibition gives Key West a new industry—bootlegging.

1927—Pan American Airways is founded in Key West to fly visitors back and forth to Havana.

Carl Tanzler, Count von Cosel, arrives in Key West and takes a job at the Marine Hospital as a radiologist.

1928—Ernest Hemingway comes to Key West. It’s rumored that while waiting for a roadster from the factory, he writes A Farewell to Arms.

1931—Hemingway and his wife, Pauline, are gifted with the house on Whitehead Street. Polydactyl cats descend from his pet, Snowball.

Death of Elena Milagro de Hoyos.

1933—Tanzler removes Elena’s body from the cemetery.

1935—The Labor Day Hurricane wipes out the Overseas Railroad and kills hundreds of people. The railroad will not be rebuilt. The Great Depression comes to Key West, as well, and the island, once the richest in the country, struggles with severe unemployment.

1938—An Overseas Highway is completed, U.S. 1, connecting Key West and the Keys to the mainland.

1940—Hemingway and Pauline divorce; Key West loses her great writer, except as a visitor.

Tanzler is found living with Elena’s corpse. Her second viewing at the Dean-Lopez Funeral Home draws thousands of visitors.

1941—December 7, “a date that will live in infamy,” occurs, and the U.S. enters World War II.

Tennessee Williams first comes to Key West.

1945—World War II ends with the Armistice of August 14 (Europe) and the Surrender of Japan, September 2.

Key West struggles to regain a livable economy.

1947—It is believed that Tennessee Williams wrote his first draft of A Streetcar Named Desire while staying at La Concha Hotel on Duval Street.

1962—The Cuban Missile Crisis occurs. President John F. Kennedy warns the United States that Cuba is only ninety miles away.

1979—The first Fantasy Fest is celebrated.

1980—The Mariel Boatlift brings tens of thousands of Cuban refugees to Key West.

1982—The Conch Republic is born. In an effort to control illegal immigration and drugs, the United States sets up a blockade in Florida City, at the northern end of U.S. 1. Traffic is at a stop for seventeen miles, and the mayor of Key West retaliates on April 23, seceding from the U.S. Key West Mayor Dennis Wardlow declares war, surrenders and demands foreign aid. As the U.S. has never responded, under international law, the Conch Republic still exists. Its foreign policy is stated as, “The Mitigation of World Tension through the Exercise of Humor.” Even though the U.S. never officially recognizes the action, it has the desired effect; the paralyzing blockade is lifted.

1985—Jimmy Buffet opens his first Margaritaville restaurant in Key West.

Fort Zachary Taylor becomes a Florida State Park (and a wonderful place for reenactments, picnics and beach bumming).

Treasure Hunter Mel Fisher at long last finds the Atocha.

1999—First Pirates in Paradise is celebrated.

2000–Present—Key West remains a unique paradise itself, garish, loud, charming, filled with history, water sports, family activities and down-and-dirty bars. “The Gibraltar of the East,” she offers diving, shipwrecks and the spirit of adventure that makes her a fabulous destination, for a day, or forever.

Prologue

South Bimini

September

The sound of the bloodcurdling scream was as startling as the roar of thunder on a cloudless day.

Vanessa Loren immediately felt chilled to the bone, a sense of foreboding and fear as deep-seated as any natural instinct seeming to settle into her, blood, body and soul.

So jarring! It brought casual conversation to a halt, brought those seated to their feet, brought fear to all eyes. It was the sound of the scream, the very heartfelt terror within it, which had been lacking during the day’s work.

The ocean breeze had been beautiful throughout the afternoon and evening; it seemed almost as if the hand of God was reaching down to gently wave off the last dead heat of the day, leaving a balmy temperature behind as the sun sank in the western horizon with an astonishing palette of crimson, magenta, mauve and gold.

The film crew had set up camp on the edge of the sparse pine forest, just yards away from the lulling sound of the ocean. The Bahamian guides who had brought them and worked with them had been courteous, fun and knowledgeable, and there was little not to like about the project, especially as night fell and the last of the blazing, then pastel, shades faded into the sea, and it and the horizon seemed to stretch as one, the sky meeting the ocean in a blur.

A bonfire burned with various shades from brilliant to pale in the darkness, and the crew gathered around as it grew dark. South Bimini was sparsely inhabited, offering a small but popular fisherman’s restaurant and little more, unlike the more tourist-friendly North Bimini, where numerous shops, bars and restaurants lined what was known as The King’s Highway in Alice Town.

They had taken it a step further than South Bimini, choosing to film on one of the several little uninhabited islands jutting out to the southwest. One with a name that had greatly appealed to Jay.

Haunt Island.

A long time ago, there had been a pirate massacre here. Over the years, truth and legend had merged, and it was this very story that Vanessa had used in her script for the low-budget horror film they were shooting.

So infamous years ago, Haunt Island was currently just a place where boaters came now and then. An island filled with scrub and pines, a single dock and an abundance of beach. Out here, tourism wasn’t plentiful—the terrain remained wild and natural, beloved by naturalists and campers.

There had been more people in their group, but now they were down to ten. There were Georgia Dare and Travis Glenn, the two actors playing the characters who remained alive in the script; Jay Allen, director; Barry Melkie, sound; Zoe Cally, props, costumes and makeup; Carlos Roca, lighting; Bill Hinton, and Jake Magnoli, the two young production assistants/lighting/sound/gophers/wherever needed guys; their Bahamian escort and guide, Lew Sanderson; and Vanessa herself, writer and backup with the cameras and underwater footage.

It was all but a wrap. The historical legend filled with real horror that was sure to be a box-office hit on a shoestring budget had been all but completed, and they’d been winding down, crawling out of their tents to enjoy the champagne, laughing and lazing against the backdrop of the sunset and the breeze.

And then the sound of the scream, so much more chilling and horrible than any sound Georgia Dare had managed to emit throughout the filming.

Until that moment, Vanessa Loren had enjoyed the project. It was simple enough—a low-budget horror flick that actually had a plot. She had written the script. In addition, she and Jay were financially committed to the project, which made them both willing to work in any capacity. She was ready to do instant rewrites as needed because of the actors and the environment, and she could film underwater shots and even pitch in as second camera for many of the land shots.

Jay, the director, was planning on making a bundle; he was counting on the success of such films as The Blair Witch Project and Paranormal State. Vanessa and Jay had known each other forever, and had both gone to film school at NYU. He’d contacted her while she was working back in Miami after she’d gotten her master’s degree at the University of Miami. He’d talked the good talk on getting together and finding a few investors to finance a really good low-budget flick.

Luckily, she had just been nicely paid for work she had done writing and filming an advertisement for dive gear. It had been one of the few projects she had worked on that hadn’t been rewritten by a dozen people before coming to fruition—and it had been a sixty-second spot.

Jay agreed with her that if they were going to do the project, an independent endeavor, it had to be done really well. However, they were also looking for commercial success. So the script was well written but also included the usual assortment of teen-slasher-flick characters—the jock who counted his conquests with scratches on his football helmet, the stoner guitar boy, the struggling hero, the popular slut coming on to the hero and the good-girl bookworm. So far, two characters had been killed in the water, two had disappeared from the boat—and two had to fight the evil, reborn pirates on land and sea and somehow survive until help could come to the patch of sand where they’d been grounded in the Atlantic.

The scream.

Vanessa had been sitting by the fire, sipping a glass of champagne and chatting with Jay, Lew and Carlos. They’d broken it open just a few minutes earlier, taking a minute to relax before they all gathered to cook dinner over the fire and the camp stoves they’d brought and finish off the rest of the champagne.

At the scream, she, like the others, stopped what she was doing. They looked at one another in the eerie light produced by the flames in the darkness, then bolted up and started running toward the sound.

Vanessa was in the lead when Georgia came tearing down the beach toward them. Vanessa caught the young woman, trying to hold her, trying to find out what had happened. “Georgia! Stop, stop!” Georgia Dare, a stunning twenty-one-year old blonde, stared at her with eyes as wide as saucers. “Georgia, it’s me, Vanessa. What’s wrong?”

“Nessa…Nessa…oh my God, oh, no, no…!”

Georgia started to scream again, trying to shake Vanessa’s hold.

“Georgia!”

By then, everyone had come, bursting out of their camp tents, forgetting whatever task they had been involved in.

The others gathered behind her while Jay came forward. “Georgia, damn it, what the hell kind of a prank is this?” he demanded. Once, Georgia had tried to pretend that a stunt knife was real and that she’d been stabbed by a woman from the Retirees by the Sea trailer park back in the Keys.

“The bones, the bodies…they are alive, they don’t like us, they’re going to kill us…they’re angry…we’ll all die!” Georgia blurted.

“Damn it, I’ve had it,” Jay said with disgust, turning away. Most of the others did the same.

Vanessa didn’t. Georgia was shaking violently. And that scream! The sound of that scream still seemed to be chilling her blood.

“They’re going to kill us all. Kill us all,” Georgia said. Her eyes fell directly on Vanessa’s then, and she was suddenly as strong as a sumo wrestler, breaking free from Vanessa’s hold and gripping her shoulders instead. “They’re real! They’re going to kill us, don’t you understand, we have to get out of here! They’re coming out of the sand. I saw them…the arms, the hands, the skulls…I saw them, coming out of the sand.”

“Georgia, Georgia, please, stop it. Hey, come on, we’re filming a horror movie, remember?” Vanessa asked gently. “The guys probably set up some of the props to scare you,” She frowned suddenly. “What were you doing alone, way down on the beach?”

“Travis and I…Travis and I…Travis is gone.”

Travis Glenn was the male lead, an exceptionally beautiful if not terribly bright young man.

“Okay, where is Travis?”

“Gone. Gone. The pirate took him.”

“The pirate?”

Georgia shook her head. “Maybe he wasn’t a pirate. I didn’t see him very clearly. But he was evil—he was like an evil shadow, skulking in the darkness. Travis was yelling, and he went after the shadow. He was mad. He thought you all were playing tricks. And then this monster came out of the sand, but he wasn’t right, he seemed to jerk around, like his bones were put back together wrong. And he took Travis and I started screaming and ran.”

Jay came back, hands on his lean hips, chest glistening in the darkness. “Slap her! Nessa, don’t look so damned concerned. She’s jerking us around and it isn’t funny. Damn you, Georgia. Look, I realize this isn’t anything major-budget, but the crew has worked hard and everyone is tired—and you’re acting like a complete bitch! It’s just not the time for practical jokes. Slap her, knock her out of it, Vanessa!”

Vanessa glared at him and shook her head. Georgia wasn’t that good an actress. She had disagreed with casting the young woman, but she had looked phenomenal on film.

“Let’s go down to the beach and see what scared her,” Vanessa suggested. She looked back at Lew, a big, broad-shouldered Bahamian man who had been one of their guides. “Do you think there’s anything down at the beach, Lew?”

“Sand,” he told her.

“Let’s go see.”

Georgia jerked away from her, shaking her head vehemently. “No, no, no! I am not going back there. I am not going back!”

Carlos Roca, their lighting engineer, came toward them. He’d been close to both actors, and Georgia liked him. Vanessa did, too. He was a nice guy—eventempered and capable. He took Georgia’s hands. “Hey, hey. I’ll stay here with you, and we’ll sit by the fire with the others while Lew, Jay and Vanessa go check it all out. How’s that?”

Georgia looked up at him. Huge tears formed in her eyes and she nodded. “Travis is dead,” she told him. “Travis is dead.”

Jay looked at Zoe, who worked with the props, makeup and buckets of stage blood they’d been using. He glared sternly at her, then turned to Bill and Jake, the young production assistants, earning credit from the U of Miami. “Hey, you guys didn’t rig anything, did you—any practical jokes?”

Zoe looked at him with incredulous disdain. “No. No, we did not.”

Jay looked from face to face and was obviously satisfied with the chorus of denials.

“All right, we’ll check it out,” Jay said.

“Yes, yes. Come on, let’s do this,” Lew said with his pleasant and easy Bahamian accent. “We’ll find Travis and see what’s going on. Miss Georgia, you’re going to be just fine, honey.”

But Georgia shook her head. “Travis is dead,” she repeated.

“I’ll light some torches from the fire,” Lew offered.

“I don’t believe we’re doing this,” Jay said, tired and irritated as they started down the beach. “I made a mistake in casting, that’s for sure. We’re filming a legend, a horror flick, for God’s sake. She’s letting it all get to her. This is crazy.”

Lew chuckled softly. “Ah, yes, well, that’s the way it is with American slasher flicks, eh? Two young people drink and wander off into the woods or the pines to make love, and then the monster comes upon them. They are mistaken. This is Bimini. There are no monsters.”

Vanessa stopped. They had come to the edge of the beach. A pine forest came almost flush with the water after a rise in the landscape.

“Nothing,” Jay said. “There’s nothing out here at all.”

Vanessa raised her torch to look around. She froze suddenly. There was nothing there now, but just feet from her, the sand looked as if it had been raked, and it was damp as well, as if someone had dumped buckets of water twenty feet inland from the shore.

“Look,” she said.

“Someone was playing a joke on her—on her and Travis, maybe,” Jay said. He swore. “We’ve got one more day of filming to tie up loose ends, and I guess it’s natural that someone just feels the need to play practical jokes.”

“But where is Travis?” Vanessa asked.

Lew was hunkered down by the disturbed sand. “Interesting,” he said.

“What?” Jay asked.

“It does look like something burst outward from the sand—more than it looks as if someone were digging in it,” Lew said. “As if it erupted, and was then smoothed over.”

“We work with great props and special-effects people,” Jay said dryly. “Let’s get back. I’m tired as hell. Someone has to have some kind of sleeping pill Georgia can take.”

“I’m not sure she should be taking a pill—” Vanessa began.

“I am,” Jay interrupted her. “I need to sleep tonight!”

“I’ll take Georgia in with me,” Vanessa volunteered. She surprised herself. She hadn’t disliked Georgia; she just found the woman to be a little…vapid. But that night, she felt sorry for her. Georgia had dropped out of high school, certain that an actress didn’t need an education. She’d spent several years working as a model at car and boat shows, and Jay had discovered her because she’d gotten a local spot on television promoting a used-car dealer. Vanessa had to admit that Georgia might not be the most talented actress she knew, but she had been professional and easy to work with. She was pretty sure that Georgia had never gotten a lot of support from her parents or anyone else.

She also knew that she had been lucky. She had been raised by parents who had cared more about their children than anything else in life. Her mother and father had been avid historians, readers, writers and divers, and they had done everything in their power to put their two children through college. She loved history and she loved diving. Her actual forte was in script writing, but in Hollywood, that was a difficult route, with scripts being rewritten so many times that you seldom recognized your own work at the end, and you seldom received credit for a project, either. It had been necessary, in her mind, to learn cameras as well, and with her background, underwater work was a natural. She was driven and she was passionate about her work, so she’d jumped at the chance to work on this movie when Jay called her.

Jay loved horror movies, and they had loved each other forever. Not as boyfriend and girlfriend—they had known each other since grade school in the small town of Micanopy, Florida. He had a chance with this movie, and she wanted him to have his chance. She wanted this chance for herself, too.

She had said from the beginning that she was in only if she got her own tent.

But tonight she’d bring Georgia in with her and be a mother hen.

Carlos had been settling the young woman down; the two were sitting by the fire with large plastic cups—Vanessa was pretty sure they contained something a lot harder than champagne. As Vanessa, Jay and Lew returned, Georgia jumped to her feet, staring at them. “See? See? I told you!”

Jay took Georgia by the shoulders and tried to be calm and reassuring. “Georgia, all I can think is that Travis is playing some kind of a trick on you, sweetie.”

“No, no! You have to go look for Travis!” Georgia said.

“I guess we should,” Vanessa said quietly.

Jay stared at her with aggravation. “Look for him? Oh, please! You know damned well that Travis is the one who played this ridiculous joke, or he’s in on it! And there’s nothing there, Georgia. No hands, no skulls, no monsters. Georgia, you’ve got to get some sleep. I need some sleep.”

“No, no, I saw it!” Georgia said, shaking her head in fear. She glared furiously at Jay. “I have to get out of here. I won’t stay here!” she insisted.

“You’ve got to be joking!” Jay declared irritably. “Georgia, you were touting used cars, for God’s sake! This could make you the new scream queen!”

Georgia was obviously terrified beyond caring. “I don’t care! I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life as a waitress. I have to get off this island—now. Now!”

“It’s dark!” Jay reminded her.

“Hey, hey, it’s all right, we’re fifty miles from Miami, and we’ve got a good speedboat. I can take her in and be back to help with any follow-up or backup shots that we need tomorrow,” Carlos offered.

“What if we need the actress?” Jay demanded. “I haven’t looked through the sequences we shot today.”

Carlos looked at Vanessa. “If Nessa doesn’t mind, she’s the same height and build and has long blond hair. She can fill in.”

“Yes, yes, Vanessa can fill in! You can be my stunt double!” Georgia said enthusiastically.

“For joy, for joy,” Vanessa murmured. But she was still disturbed by the young woman’s absolute terror. Georgia was ambitious. Was she really so terrified that she would walk away from what could be a big break for her?

She realized that everyone was staring at her.

“Sure. Whatever is needed,” she said dryly to Jay. Of course she would do it. They both had a lot of hard work—not to mention their finances—tied up with this.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Carlos promised. “Look, seriously, it’s what? Seven-thirty, eight o’clock now? I can make Miami in a few hours. I’ll get a night’s sleep and head back by five or six tomorrow morning.”

It was agreed. In another hour, Carlos and Georgia were off.

Vanessa found herself sitting by the fire with the others, sipping champagne once again, though it had lost its taste.

“I still think we should look for Travis,” she said.

Zoe let out an irritated “tsking” sound. “That jerk! He’s out there somewhere, laughing at everyone, and not caring that he’s put a real bug in the production.”

“And messing with the props. When he walks up laughing and swaggering in the morning, I think we should give him a good right hook,” Barry said.

Silence fell.

“Hey, we could sit here and tell ghost stories!” Bill suggested.

They all glared at him. Apparently, no one was in the mood.

For a while, they did reflect upon the many disappearances and oddities that had occurred in the Bermuda Triangle, but even that didn’t last long.

It was only nine-thirty when Vanessa opted for bed. She lay awake, watching the patterns of the low-burning fire playing upon the canvas roof of her tent. She thought about the ridiculousness of filming the movie—the hours of getting the characters into makeup and how, to save money, they had all taken on so many different tasks. Jay and Carlos had played the vengeful pirates, coming out of the sea, and she had supplied some of the sound effects and acted as the kidnapped and murdered Dona Isabella.

Her script was honestly good, based on history and legend. Once, the Florida Keys and the Bahamas had been areas of lawlessness, ruled by pirates. An infamous pirate captain, Mad Miller, and his mistress, Kitty Cutlass, had gone on a wild reign of terror, taking ship after ship, or so legend said. Then all had gone wrong. They had taken a ship bearing the beautiful and rich Dona Isabella. They had sunk her ship, killed most of the crew and, presumably, planned on ransoming Dona Isabella. She had been sailing from Key West to Spain, back to her wealthy husband, when she had been taken. But nothing had happened as planned. Legend said that Kitty Cutlass killed Dona Isabella in a fit of rage, and on Haunt Island, Mad Miller went really mad and massacred the remaining crew and many of his own men. Finally, his pirate ship had sunk off Haunt Island, caught in the vengeful winds of a massive storm. Vanessa had based her script on the legend, doing what research she could, with contemporary teenagers finding themselves victims of bitter ghosts risen from the sand and the sea. As a screenplay, the story provided amazing fodder for the imagination. Filming had actually been fun. There had been some amusing accidents along the way, but none that had caused any harm. Bill had fallen into one of the buckets of blood, and Jake had come bolting up out of the water once, terrified of a nurse shark. She liked the people she was working with, and so, for the most part, it had been enjoyable. A crash shoot—all of it done within three weeks. And Jay was right—it could hit big at the box office.

She still felt disturbed and uneasy, although she wasn’t alone. The tents were no more than a few feet apart. Jay, who had been bunking with Carlos, was next to her. Bill and Jake were on her left side. Lew, as secure a figure as anyone might ever want to meet, was just beyond Zoe.

But she was still afraid. It was as if Georgia’s gut-wrenching scream had awakened something inside her that knew something was coming, something that she dreaded.

At eleven o’clock, she was still staring at the canvas. She didn’t have anything really strong to help her sleep, but she decided on an over-the-counter aid. In another half an hour, she was asleep.

It might have been the pill. She slept, but she tossed and turned and awakened throughout the night. And she dreamed that Georgia was standing in front of her, giant tears dripping down her cheeks. “I told you, I told you there were monsters!”

Georgia’s image disappeared.

She dreamed of giant shadow figures rising over her tent and of seaweed monsters rising out of the ocean, growing and growing and devouring ships, boats and people, and reaching up to the sky to snatch planes right from the atmosphere.

She awoke feeling better, laughing at herself for the absurdity of her dreams.

She didn’t believe in seaweed monsters—sea snakes, yes, sharks and other demons of the real world, but seaweed monsters, no.

When she had nightmares, they were usually more logic-based—being chased in the darkness by a human killer, finding out she was in a dark house alone with a knife-wielding madman.

It had been Georgia. Georgia and that terrifying scream.

She blinked, stretched and rose. Taking off the long T-shirt nightgown she’d worn, she put on a bathing suit, ready to hit the beach. There were showers in the heads on both boats the crew had been using, the Seven Seas and the Jalapeño. Of course, one boat wouldn’t be back until Carlos returned. It was a bright and beautiful morning, and she felt that a good dousing in the surf would be refreshing.

She stepped out of her tent. The morning sun was shining, but the air retained a note of the night’s pleasant coolness. The sea stretched out before her, azure as it could only be in the Bahamas. Jay and Zoe were already up, and one of them had put the coffeepot to brew on the camp stove.

“Morning!” Jay called.

“Morning!” she returned. “How long till coffee?”

“Hey! As fast as it brews!” Jay told her.

Zoe giggled. “What? Did you think this film had a budget for a cook?”

Vanessa walked on out to the water. It was delightful; warm, but not too warm. So clear she could easily see the bottom, even when she had gone out about twenty-five feet from shore and the depth was around ten feet. The current of the Gulf Stream was sweeping the water around to the north; she decided to fight it and swim south, then let it bring her on back offshore from the campsite.

She swam a hard crawl, relaxed with a backstroke, worked on her butterfly and went back to doing the crawl, and then decided that she had gone far enough. She had angled herself in toward shore, so she paused a minute, standing, smoothing back her hair.

It was then that she looked toward the shore.

She would have screamed, but the sound froze in her throat.

She stood paralyzed, suddenly freezing as if she were a cube of ice in the balmy water.

The bones…the bodies…

Georgia’s terrified words of the night before seemed to echo and bounce in her mind.

Then she did scream, loud and long. And she found sense and logic, amazingly, and started shouting for the others to come.

The bones…the bodies…

They were there. There was no sign of the boat, but Georgia Dare and Travis Glenn were there—in the sand. Their heads, eyes glaring open, were posed next to one another, staring toward the sea. Inches away from each, arms stretched out of the sand as well—just as props had done in the filming. It was as if they desperately reached out for help as the earth sucked them down, leaving only those pathetic heads, features frozen in silent screams.

Jay had reached the scene. He was shaking and staring, in shock and denial. He shouted. “Travis, what is this, damn it! Georgia—no! No, no, no! Where is Carlos? What kind of a stunt is this?” Jerking like a mechanical figure, Jay went to touch the actor’s head, as if he could wake him up or snap him out of whatever game he was playing.

The head rolled through the sand. The body wasn’t attached.

Jay himself began to scream.

Frozen still, shaking from a sudden cold that threatened never to leave her, Vanessa remained just offshore. She didn’t move until Lew had gotten the authorities, until a kindly Bahamian official came and wrapped a towel around her shoulders, and led her away.

Chapter One

2 years later

Key West

Before him, frond coral waved in a slow and majestic dance, and a small ray emerged from the sand by the reef, weaving in a swift escape, aware that a large presence, possibly predatory, was near.

Sean O’Hara shot back up to the surface, pleased with his quick inspection of Pirate Cut, a shallow reef where divers and snorkelers alike came to enjoy the simple beauty of nature. It was throughout history a place where many a ship had met her doom, crushed by the merciless winds of a storm. Now only scattered remnants of that history remained; salvage divers of old had done their work along with the sea, salt and the constant shift of sands and tides and weather that remained just as turbulent through the centuries.

It was still, he decided, a great place to film.

He hadn’t opted for scuba gear that day—it had been just a quick trip, thirty minutes out and thirty back in, early morning, just to report to his partner, David Beckett, so they could talk about their ever-changing script and their plans for their documentary film.

Because Sean was an expert diver, he seldom went diving alone. Good friends—some of the best and most experienced divers in the world—had died needlessly by diving alone. But a free dive on a calm day hadn’t seemed much of a risk, and he was pleased that he had taken off early in the morning. Most of the dive boats headed out by nine, but few of them came to Pirate Cut as a first dive, and it wouldn’t get busy until later in the day.

And out in the boat, he wasn’t exactly alone.

Bartholomew was with him.

Climbing up the dive ladder at the rear of his boat, Conch Fritter, he tossed his flippers up and hauled himself on board. His cell phone sat on his towel, and the message light was blinking. Caller ID showed him that he’d been called from O’Hara’s, his uncle’s bar.

“I thought about answering it, but refrained.”

Sean turned at the sound of the voice. Bartholomew was seated at the helm of the dive boat, feet in buckle shoes up on the wheel, a National Geographic magazine in his hands.

Bartholomew was getting damned good at holding things.

“Thank you for refraining. And tell me again, why the hell are you with me? You hate the water,” Sean said, irritated. He pushed buttons on his phone to receive his messages, staring at Bartholomew.

“Love boats, though,” Bartholomew said.

Sean groaned inwardly. It was amazing—once he hadn’t believed in Bartholomew. Actually, he’d thought the ghost might have been one of his sister Katie’s imaginary friends. He realized he either had to accept that she was crazy or that there was a ghost. At that time, Sean couldn’t see or hear Bartholomew.

But that had been a while ago now. While solving the Effigy Murders—as the press wound up calling them—he’d ended up with his head in a bandage and stitches in his scalp.

It was the day the damned stitches had come out that he’d first seen the ghost—as clearly as if he had physical substance—sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed.

Sean listened to his messages. The first, from David Beckett, asking him what time he wanted to go out. Sean grinned. David was in love—and sleeping late. Sean was glad, since it seemed that his old friend was in love with his sister, Katie, and she was in love with him. They’d both seen some tough times, and Sean was happy for them.

The next message was from his uncle just asking him to call back.

He did so. Still, he didn’t learn much. His uncle just wanted him to come to the bar. Sean told him it would take him about forty-five minutes, and Jamie said that was fine, just to come.

“So what’s up?” Bartholomew asked.

“Going to the bar, that’s all,” Sean said. He was curious. Jamie wasn’t usually secretive.

“Can you keep a hand on the helm? Bring her straight in?” Sean asked Bartholomew as he brought up the anchor. Securing it, he added, “Jeez, am I crazy asking you that?”

Bartholomew looked at him with tremendous indignation.

“Really! That was absolutely—churlish of you! If there’s one thing I know, it’s a lazy man’s boat like this!”

Sean grinned. “I’ll be in the head in the shower for about fifteen minutes. That’s all you need to manage.”

“It’ll be great if we pass the Coast Guard or a tour boat!” Bartholomew cried.

Sean ignored him. He just wanted to rinse off the sea salt—his uncle had him curious.

He showered, dried and dressed in the head and cabin well within his fifteen minutes. In another twenty, he was tying up at the pier.

Duval Street was quiet.

As he walked from the docks to O’Hara’s, Sean mused with a certain wry humor that Key West was, beyond a doubt, a place for night owls. He was accustomed enough to working at night—or even partying at night—but he was actually more fond of the morning hours.

“What do you think Jamie wants?”

Sean heard the question again—for what seemed like the tenth time now—and groaned inwardly without turning to look at the speaker. Imagine, once he had wanted to see the damned ghost!

Oh, he could see Bartholomew way too clearly now, though when he had first come home to Key West—hearing that David Beckett was in town and worried for his sister’s safety—he had come with his longtime fear for Katie’s mind. She had always seemed to sense or see things. But that had been Katie, not him.

Bartholomew had apparently wanted to be known, though at first he proved his presence by moving things around.

Then Sean had seen him in that damned chair in the hospital room. Now he could see the long-dead privateer as easily as he could see any flesh-and-blood, living person who walked into his life.

He cursed the fact.

He had never believed in ghosts. He’d never wanted to believe. In fact, he’d warned Katie not to ever talk about the fact that she had “strange encounters” or had been “gifted” or “cursed” from a young age. The majority of the world would think that she should be institutionalized.

He wasn’t pleased that he saw Bartholomew. Now he had the fear that he would one day wind up institutionalized himself.

And he was far from pleased that the dapper centuries-old entity had now decided to affix himself to Sean.

“I will not answer you. I will never answer you in public,” Sean said.

Bartholomew laughed. “You just answered me. Then again, we’re hardly in public, you know. I think the whole island is still asleep. Besides, you’re a filmmaker. An ‘artiste!’ People will happily believe that you are eccentric, and it’s your brilliance causing you to speak to yourself.”

“Right. Don’t you feel that you should go and haunt my sister?” Sean asked.

“I believe she’s busy.”

“I’m busy,” Sean said.

“Look, I’m apparently hanging around for something,” Bartholomew said. “Others have gone on, and I haven’t. You seem to be someone I must help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You will, I’m sure of it,” Bartholomew said.

Sean kept walking.

“So what do you think he wanted?” Bartholomew persisted.

“I don’t know,” Sean said flatly. “But he wanted something, and that’s why I’m going to see him.” He cast a glance Bartholomew’s way. The privateer—hanged long ago for a deed he hadn’t committed—was really quite a sight. His frock coat and stockings, buckle shoes, vest and tricornered hat all fit his tall, lean physique quite well. In his lifetime, Sean thought dryly, he had probably made a few hearts flutter. Sadly, he had died because of the death of the love of his life, and an act of piracy blamed upon him. However, after haunting the island since then, he had recently found a new love, the “lady in white,” legendary in Key West. When they filmed their documentary, Sean meant to make sure that he covered Bartholomew’s case and those of his old and new loves.

He’d heard once that ghosts remained on earth for a reason. They wanted to avenge their unjust deaths, they needed to help an ancestor or they were searching for truth. There were supposedly ghosts who were caught in time, reenacting the last moments of their lives. But that was considered “residual haunting,” while Bartholomew’s determination to remain on earth in a spectral form was known as “active” or “intelligent” haunting.

Bartholomew had been around for a reason—he had been unjustly killed. But Sean couldn’t figure out why he remained now. His past had been aligned with David Beckett and his family, and Sean had to admit that Bartholomew had been helpful in solving the Effigy Murders, all connected to the Becketts.

Maybe he had stayed because of the injustice done to him and because he still felt that he owed something to the Becketts. All Sean knew was that he had been Katie’s ghost—if there was such a thing—and now he seemed to be with him all the time.

Sean liked Bartholomew. He had a great deal of wit and he knew his history. He was loyal and might well have contributed to saving their lives.

But it was unnerving from the get-go to realize that you were seeing a ghost. It was worse realizing that the ghost was no longer determined to stick to Katie like glue, but had moved on to him. He was a good conversationalist—and thus the problem. Sean was far too tempted to talk to him, reply in public and definitely appear stark, raving mad upon occasion.

Ghosts were all over the place, Bartholomew had informed him. Most people felt a whisper in the breeze, sometimes a little pang of sorrow, and if the ghost was “intelligent” and “active,” it might enjoy a bit of fun now and then, creating a breeze, causing a bang in the dark of night, and so on. Katie had real vision for the souls lurking this side of the veil. So far, thank God, he’d seen only Bartholomew, and maybe a mist of others in the shadows now and then.

Sean had been damned happy before he’d “seen” a ghost at all.

Pirate Cut, he noted mentally. A good place to begin shooting. They hadn’t known in Bartholomew’s day that the reefs needed to be protected. They had brought their ships to the deep-water plunge just off the reef many times. Bartholomew knew for a fact that the legend about the area was true—ships of many nations had foundered here in storms, been cut up on the reefs and left to the destruction of time and the elements. But there was treasure scattered here, treasure and history, even if it had been picked over in the many years since.

It would also make for beautiful underwater footage. The colors were brilliant; the light was excellent. And it was near the area where Bartholomew had allegedly chased and gunned down a ship and murdered those aboard. Falsely accused, in the days after David Porter’s Pirate Squadron had been established, he had been hanged quickly, and it had been only after his unjust death that his innocence had been proven.

It was a good story for a documentary. Especially considering the events of the recent past, when a madman had decided that it was his ancestor who had been wronged and that the Becketts were to pay.

The whole story needed to be told, and it would.

And perhaps, if he managed to get Bartholomew’s story out there, with any luck Bartholomew might “see the light” and move on to the better world he believed he would find.

It was true that Bartholomew was not a bad guy and that, if he were flesh and blood, he’d be great to hang out with. But with Katie engaged to David Beckett now and basically living at the Beckett house, it seemed that Bartholomew was really all his.

And no way out of it—it was awkward. Disconcerting. And he was starting to look as if he walked around talking to himself. So much for an intelligent and manly image, Sean thought dryly.

“Bartholomew, please, stop talking to me. You’re well aware that I look crazy as all hell when people see me talking to you, right?” Sean demanded.

“I keep telling you, you’re an artist. And a true conch,” Bartholomew said. “Born and bred on the island. Tall, with that great red hair, good and bronzed—hey, fellow, a man’s man as they say,” Bartholomew told him, waving a ringed hand in the air. “Trust me—you’re masculine, virile, beloved and—an artist. You’re allowed to be crazy. And, good God, man—this is Key West!”

“Right. Then the tourists will have me arrested,” Sean said.

They’d reached O’Hara’s, toward the southern end of Duval. Sean cast Bartholomew a warning glare. Bartholomew shrugged and followed Sean in.

Sean walked straight up to the bar. Jamie O’Hara himself was working his taps that day.

“Hey, what’s up?” Sean asked, setting his hands on the bar and looking at Jamie, who was busy drying a beer glass.

It was early in the day—by Key West bar standards. Just after eleven. Jamie, when he was in town, usually opened the place around eleven-thirty, and whoever of his old friends, locals, or even tourists who wandered in for lunch early were served by Jamie himself. He cooked, bussed and made his drinks, poured his own Guinnesses—seven minutes to properly fill a Guinness glass—and he did so because he liked being a pub owner and he was the kind of employer who liked people, his employees and his establishment. He could handle the place in the early hour—unless there was a festival in town. Which, quite often, there was. Starting at the end of this week, he’d have double shifts going on—Pirates in Paradise was coming to town.

At this moment, though, O’Hara’s was quiet. Just Jamie, behind the bar.

Jamie was the perfect Irish barkeep—though he had been born in Key West. He, like Sean’s dad, had spent a great deal of time in the “old country” visiting their mother’s family—O’Casey folk—and he and Sean’s dad had both gone to college in Dublin. Jamie could put on a great brogue when he chose, but he could also slip into a laid-back Keys Southern drawl. Sean had always thought he should have been an actor. Jamie said that owning a pub was nearly the same thing. He had a rich head full of gray hair, a weather-worn but distinguished face, bright blue eyes and a fine-trimmed beard and mustache, both in that steel-gray that seemed to make him appear to be some kind of clan chieftain, or an old ard-ri, high king, of Ireland. He was well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a seaman’s muscles.

Jamie indicated the last booth in the bar area of the pub, which was now cast in shadow.

He realized that someone was sitting in the booth.

He couldn’t help but grin at his uncle. “You’re harboring a spy? A double agent? Someone from the CIA working the Keys connection?”

Sean knew that bad things—very bad things—could happen, even in Key West, Florida, “island paradise” though it might be. He’d seen them. But someone hiding in the shadows seemed a bit out of the ordinary.

Jamie shrugged and spoke softly. “Who knows why she’s sitting in the dark? She’s a nice kid. Came in here, I guess, ’cause the world seems to consider it neutral ground or something. She heard about you and David and the documentary you two are going to film together.”

Sean frowned. “We’ve had ads in the papers for crews for the boats and the filming. David and I have been setting up for interviews at his place.”

“What do you want from me, son, eh? She came in here, knowing I was related to the O’Hara looking to film about Key West and her mysteries. I said yes, and she asked if there was any way she could speak to you alone.”

“She’s applying for a job? Then she should go about it just like all the others and ask for an interview,” Sean said, annoyed. He couldn’t really see the woman in the corner, but he thought she seemed young. Maybe she was trying to secure a position by coming through the back door, flirting, drawing on his uncle’s sympathies.

“I don’t think that it’s work she’s looking for, but I don’t know. She’s pretty tense. She wanted to know about the recent business down here—you know, all the nasty stuff with the murders—and she was mainly wanting to know, so it seemed, how you all coped with the bad things going on. Like, frankly, were you a pack of cowards, was it really all solved by the police, did I think that you were capable people—and did you really know the area.”

“Oh, great. She sounds like someone I really want to hire!” Sean said.

Jamie laughed. “She’s not that bad—she was dead honest in the questions she asked me. She didn’t use the word coward, that was mine. There’s something I like about her, Sean. Talk to her. She seems tense and nervous—and somehow, the real deal.” His uncle leaned closer to him. “There’s some mystery about this girl, and yet something real. Talk to her. Oh, and by the way, she is really something. She’s got every diving certificate, advanced, teacher, you name it. She’s gotten awards for her writing, and oh—hmm. She happens to have amazing blond hair, giant blue eyes and a shape to die for, nephew. Check it out. Go ahead. What’s the matter, boy, scared?”

Sean looked at his uncle in surprise and laughed. Scared? No. He was at least intrigued. Couldn’t hurt to talk to the woman. He and David were anxious to get started on their project because it was important to both of them—and it was also what they were best known for in their separate careers. But they were discussing just what bits and pieces and stories they would use for their documentary. Bartholomew’s situation was a must, Robert the Doll was a must, and the bizarre, true and fairly recent history of Elena and Count von Cosel was also a must. It wouldn’t be Key West if they didn’t touch on Hemingway and the writing connection. And there had to be pirates, wreckers, sponge divers and cigar makers, and how the Conch Republic became the Conch Republic. But as to exactly what they were using and what they were concentrating on, they were still open. They hadn’t made any hard-and-fast decisions yet, but since David was home and planning a wedding with Sean’s sister, they had decided that, at long last, they should work together. Friends in school who hadn’t seen each other in a decade, they had both gone the same route—film. Once the tension and terror of a murderer at work in Key West had died down, David had decided he was going to stay home awhile. That had a lot to do with the fact that he was in love with Sean’s sister, Katie O’Hara. But David was a conch, too—born and bred in Key West from nearly two generations of conchs. David belonged here.

Sean had stayed away from home a lot, too. But now he was excited about the idea of working with David—and working on a history about Key West and the surrounding area, bringing to light what truth they could discover that lay behind many of the legends. One thing had never been more true—fact was far stranger than fiction. But as he knew from living here, fact could become distorted. Tourists often asked which form of a story told by a tour guide was the true one. He and David meant to explore many of the legends regarding Key West—and, through historical documents, letters and newspapers of each era, get to the heart of the truth. Fascinating work. He loved his home. Key West was the tail end of Florida, an oddity in time and place. An island accessible only by boat for much of its history. Southern in the Civil War by state, Union by military presence.

Bartholomew suddenly let out a soft, low whistle, almost making Sean jump. He gritted his teeth and refused to look at the ghost.

“Pretty, pretty thing!” Bartholomew said. “I’d have been over there by now, not wondering if there was some secret agenda behind it all!”

Somehow, Sean refrained from replying. He even kept smiling and staring straight at his uncle.

“Are you going to stare at the shadows? Or are you at least going to let the girl have her say?” Jamie demanded. “I’ll bring coffee,” he added.

“I know where the coffee is, thanks, Uncle,” Sean said. He came behind the bar to pour himself a cup, trying to get a better look at the woman at the booth.

She was waiting for him. There was no looking at her surreptitiously—she was staring back at him. She was still in the shadows, but his uncle seemed to be right about one thing—she was stunning. She had the kind of cheekbones that were pure, classic beauty—at eighty, she’d still be attractive with that bone structure. Her hair was golden and pale and simply long, with slightly rakish and overgrown bangs. He didn’t think she spent a lot of money in a boutique salon; the shades of color had come from the sun and the overgrown, rakish look was probably because she didn’t spend much time getting it cut.

She was dressed more like a native than a tourist—light cotton dress with a little sweater over her shoulders. Down here, the days were often hot, tempered only by the ocean and gulf breezes that were usually present. But inside, it could be like the new ice age had come—because of the heat, businesses were often freezing. Jamie kept his swinging doors to the outside open sometimes—it was a Key thing. Trying to be somewhat conservative in the waste of energy, the air blasted in the back, not near the front.

Coffee in hand, he walked back to the booth at last. “Hi. I’m Sean O’Hara. We’re doing interviews tomorrow and the next day at the old Beckett house, because, I’m assuming you know, it’s a joint project between David Beckett and myself.” He offered her his hand.

She accepted it. Her grip was firm. Her palms were slightly callused, but they were nice, tanned. Her fingers were long and she had neat nails, clipped at a reasonable length rather than grown out long.

Her eyes were steady on his.

“I’m Vanessa Loren,” she said. “I have real experience and sound credentials, but that’s not exactly why I’m here, or why I wanted to meet with you here.”

He shrugged, taking a seat opposite her in the booth.

“All right.”

She suddenly lifted both hands and let them fall. “I’ve actually practiced this many times, but I’m not sure where to begin.”

“You’ve—practiced?” Sean asked. “Practiced an interview for a job?”

She nodded. “I’ve practiced trying to explain. This is really important to me.”

“All right. Start anywhere,” Sean said.

She lowered her head, breathing in deeply. Then she looked at him again. “Unless you’ve been under a rock, you must have heard about the Haunt Island murders.”

He blinked and tried to remember. He’d been filming in the Black Sea two years ago, but he had heard about the bizarre murders. Members of a film crew had been gruesomely slain on an island just southwest of South Bimini. Though uninhabited, the island belonged to the Bahamas.

He hadn’t moved into the booth and hadn’t left room for Bartholomew. However, the ghost had followed him to the booth, and leaned against the wall just across from them.

“Yes, I heard something about the murders,” he said carefully.

“I was with the film crew,” she said. “One of my best childhood friends was the director, and I was the scriptwriter. We both put money into the venture, and we were doing double duty. When I say low budget, I mean low budget. But we had it together—we knew what we were doing, and we worked incredibly hard. The film wasn’t going to win an Oscar, but we had hopes of having it picked up by a national distributor.”

“Don’t know much about that,” Bartholomew said sorrowfully, as if he were part of the conversation.

“You were making a film, and people were brutally killed,” Sean said, ignoring Bartholomew. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. Sadly, there were a number of unsolved mysteries that had little chance of being solved. He vaguely remembered some of the newspaper articles his sister had e-mailed him at the time—a lot of people were chalking the tragedy up to the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle. “What are you trying to tell me, or ask me?”

She took a deep breath. “It’s really all the same area—the same area you’re doing a documentary on. Do you know how many boaters go from the Intracoastal, South Florida, say Fort Lauderdale and Miami, out to Bimini and then on to Key West?” she asked. “Or vice versa. We’re all connected here.”

“I know that,” he said, feeling oddly irritated. “We always intended to do a documentary on the area.”

“This is a story that shouldn’t just be included, it should be the main focus,” she said somberly.

“Why?”

“Because it’s an unsolved mystery. And there’s a killer or killers out there.”

“Sadly, there are many killers on the loose at any given time. I’m not sure what we can do for you. David and I are not law enforcement,” Sean said. “And if we were, Haunt Island is still the Bahamas.”

“It doesn’t sound as if law enforcement has had much luck yet,” Bartholomew interjected.

“I was there when it happened,” she said quietly. “The truth must be discovered.”

“But we’re just doing a documentary,” Sean protested.

“You’re doing a documentary on history—and oddities and mysteries. You’ll never find a better mystery,” she said flatly. “I admit, the script was written for what would basically be a teenage-slasher-type flick,” she said. “But it was based on history. Key West and Bahamian history.”

He shook his head. “All right, I’m still getting lost here. You were filming a movie based on history, but it was a slasher film? Low budget? A historical slasher film? You’re talking big money there.”

She shook her head. “Not with the people we had working with us. The new digital age has helped a hell of a lot. And we had easy access to costumes—we bought most of them here, some from the shop on Front Street, and some at Pirates in Paradise. We refitted one of our boats, and with a little digital finesse, we had a pirate ship, which could become pirate ships. We knew what we were doing—I’m talking about people with real degrees in film and real experience—and more. It was our project.”

“I’m listening. Tell me more.”

“You’re from here and you’re working on history,” she said. “You must have heard of the Santa Geneva—and Mad Miller and his consort, Kitty Cutlass, and the murder of Dona Isabella.”

He nodded slowly. He knew the legend. All Key West kids knew the stories about pirates in the area. They made great tales at campfires. “A piece of pirate lore,” he said.

“Yes, and if you’re following pirate lore, you should be following that story. It was past the Golden Age of Piracy. It was after David Porter came here to clear out the pirates. There were still Spaniards living here, naturally. Dona Isabella was a wealthy woman, with homes in Madrid and Key West. She was married to Diego, a very wealthy Spanish merchant. She was kidnapped off a Spanish ship, the Santa Geneva. They say she was never ransomed because Mad Miller, the pirate, fell in love with her—and because of that, she wound up dead. Some say that Mad Miller murdered her in a frenzy, because she loathed him. Some say that Kitty Cutlass, furious over her lover’s adoration for another woman, was the one to kill her. At any rate, she supposedly wound up dead in the company of the pirates. It’s thought that she survived until the pirates reached Haunt Island, where they might have drawn in for ship repairs. Some of Mad Miller’s men then massacred the remaining crew members of the Santa Geneva, and members of their own crew who were in revolt over what had happened. Thus the name, obviously, Haunt Island, and the legend.”

“I still don’t see—” Sean began.

“Dona Isabella lived in Key West. Her ship, a Spanish ship, left from Key West. The pirates raided her in American waters. Off of Key West. Mad Miller came from Key West. Let’s see—Kitty Cutlass began as a prostitute in a shack on Duval. Mr. O’Hara, this is an amazing story that has everything to do with the documentary you want to film. You’re a fool if you haven’t already thought of using the legend—and the truth of what happened to the members of our film crew,” she said.

All right—that was aggravating. But there was something desperate in her voice that kept him from entirely losing his temper.

“Okay, Miss Loren. You have a good story. What, exactly, is it that you want? I’ve told you, we’re not any form of law enforcement. I can’t go over to the Bahamas and just solve your mystery for you.”

She inhaled again, staring at him. She let out a long breath of air. She seemed to physically square her shoulders, as if seeking strength and resolve.

“I know that, and…” She paused, wincing. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just passionate about my feelings on this. First, I need you to hire me. I’m good—really good. I swear. You can check all my references,” she said.

“I would definitely do so, no matter what,” he said.

“I’d bet good money that she has excellent references,” Bartholomew said.

Sean locked his jaw, determined not to turn, or respond to the ghost in any way.

“No one is hired unless David and I agree,” he said to Vanessa.

“That is certainly understandable,” she said. Again, she paused. “I know all about David Beckett, as well. I know that he was once accused of murder, and I know how desperate he was to find the truth. And the truth was discovered. I can’t believe that he wouldn’t understand how I feel, or be sympathetic to my cause.”

Sean felt tension steal through his body. The Effigy Murders had been bad, very bad. He still felt they were all recovering from the terrible things that had happened. He still had scars beneath his hairline.

David would be sympathetic, he knew.

“Go on,” he said quietly.

“Then—I think you need to make me your assistant. I’m excellent at managing a schedule, and I can write a scene, narrative, interview questions, anything you need, at the drop of a hat. I know you do a lot of your own scheduling and writing. That’s why I say assistant. I went to film school. When needed, I can handle any kind of a camera. I’m fit so I can tote and carry. The filmmaker in you must see what there is here—a legend that remains a mystery, historical and contemporary. You can look for the Santa Geneva, you can really follow the path of those who came before you. And if you leave out piracy, and the stamping out of the pirates, and the supposed massacre on Haunt Island, you’re doing a disservice to everyone.”

He leaned back. “If this is such a great documentary, why don’t you do it yourself?” he demanded.

She leaned back, biting her lower lip. “Well, for one, I don’t have the kind of money you need for a docu mentary. And…”

“And?”

She leaned forward. “Look, I’ll work cheap. I’ll work harder than anyone you ever imagined.”

He leaned back, shaking his head. “I’d like to help you, I’d really like to help you. But it seems as if you’re chasing something, and I’m not—I’m not what you’re looking for. If these murders haven’t been solved, you need a private investigator. You need—”

“Have you ever tried to look for a private investigator who specializes in water, legends and boats?” she asked irritably.

He hesitated for a moment. “Look, from what I understand, every agency possible was involved in that case. If there are no clues, there are no clues.”

“No one wanted to follow through on the legend—or the history,” she said, exasperated.

He felt his fingers tense around his coffee cup and he stared at her. “You’re trying to tell me that pirates returned to massacre your friends?” he asked.

Something about the tightening in her lips and the way that she stared at him caused him to feel as if he should be ashamed—as if he had spoken out of turn.

But he hadn’t. And he couldn’t explain to her that he knew what ghosts were capable of doing, and what they weren’t. As a matter of fact, he knew a few of them.…

“That’s not what I’m suggesting at all,” she said.

“Then?”

“I—don’t know, exactly,” she said, looking away. “Here’s the thing. We’ve had this movie stowed since it happened. But…people know about it. I’m afraid we’ll get an offer from a major distributor. My partner would gladly sell. I don’t want to sell—not unless I can get some justice for those who were involved. I don’t want to make money on sensationalism, on something…something unsolved. I’ve gotten Jay to agree that I can try one more time to discover the truth.”

“I—”

“Please. Please just tell me that you’ll consider doing it?” she asked.

He stared at her, not knowing what to say.

No. A flat-out no would be a great answer. He and David hadn’t set anything in stone as yet, but…no. This one had to be a no. They both had their individual exemplary careers, they knew what they were doing. They could write themselves.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t think my partner will agree,” Sean said.

“Will you ask David Beckett?” she queried stubbornly.

He smiled. “Will you quit asking if I talk to him and he says no?”

She smiled. “You’re—Look, I know I’m asking a lot without much to offer. But I am really good at what I do, and if you give me a few weeks, I promise, I’ll help to make anything you want to do come out as brilliantly as possible. I’ll be slave labor, I swear.”

“I don’t want slave labor.”

“I’ll be the best damned assistant you’ve ever had,” she swore.

“Take her up on it!” Bartholomew said. “Hell, my boy! Take her up on it just for the pleasure of having her upon your wretched little boat.”

“I’ll talk to David,” he said.

“You really will. And…and if he’s hesitant, if there’s any chance, will you let me try to persuade him, as well?” she asked.

He forced an even smile. No, just say no!

He asked himself if he would be so torn, so tempted, if the person asking him wasn’t this young woman, not just beautiful, but…strong. So confident in her ability that she would swear she could make his work the best ever.

Ability.

The way she looked.

The sound of her voice.

The mystery involved. Yes, he knew the damned legend. And hell yes, he was curious.

“Look,” he began.

But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the door. She let out a little cry of surprise and gladness.

Sean swung around. His sister had just come in the door.

He looked at Vanessa Loren.

Ah, hell.

Hell.

The young woman knew Katie. He should have figured.

He stared back at her, irritated, and suddenly certain that it was all over.

“You know my sister,” he said.

She glanced at him while rising. “Yes, I know Katie. I’ve been on a few dive boats with her, and of course, I bring friends in here for Katie-okie when I’m down.…”

She started to head out to see Katie. He set his fingers around her wrist, drawing her back.

She didn’t jerk away, but then his hold was pretty firm. Those huge, cornflower-blue eyes of hers lit on him.

He smiled coldly. “You know my uncle, too, don’t you? And my uncle knew just who you were and what you wanted.”

“I’ve met Jamie before, yes,” she admitted. “Katie can explain it all to David, if you don’t want to, but I know that she’ll convince him that I’m right. I came to you first, because Katie told me that David had said all the major decisions were going to be yours, so if you just agree—”

He stood, releasing her wrist.

“I don’t like being played,” he said flatly. “Good day, Miss Loren.”

She didn’t call after him.

Bartholomew did.

“Sean! Oh, come on, Sean. I can help you with this, I was around when it all happened,” the dapper buccaneer cried to him. “Sean, oh, do come on! If I were flesh and blood, I’d be on this like a mosquito at a topless bar! Sean!”

Sean passed Katie near the doorway. “Hey, sis,” he said, kissed her cheek, and kept on going.

They’d all just survived near death. They had dealt with total insanity.

He would have to be insane himself to get into something like this again.

“Mr. O’Hara!”

She had followed him out. The lithe and dignified Miss Loren had come rushing out, and now she stood on the sidewalk, staring after him.

Despite himself, he paused.

She walked to him, her chin high. “I never meant to play anyone,” she said. “I’m just desperate for help. You don’t understand,” she said.

“I think I do,” he told her.

“No, no, you don’t. I have reason to believe that someone must find out what happened, not just for those who were killed, but…”

“But what?”

“Other things have happened. Bad things. Not involved with filming, but with other boaters who disappeared near Haunt Island.”

“The sea can be huge and merciless, Miss Loren. And sadly, throughout history, many a boat and ship have disappeared without a trace.”

“There’s more to it. I know there’s more to it, and I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I’m afraid that if the truth isn’t discovered, more people will die. That there will be blood and death…a massacre again, and maybe this time, here, in Key West.”

Chapter Two

Vanessa walked back into O’Hara’s, trying to feel as if she hadn’t just been crushed in a major defeat.

Katie was sitting at the bar, talking to her uncle. She watched Vanessa as she came up and took the stool next to her. Vanessa had known Katie forever, or so it seemed. They’d met when Katie’s school had brought a group of Key West students up to dive the springs and Vanessa’s school had been hosting the week of camp. She wasn’t sure if she’d liked her at first, being ten and wary of kids who came from cool places like Key West. But she’d been paired with Katie, who had an exceptional voice, for the talent show, and Vanessa had been her harmony and backup act, and they’d won the grand prize—two new regulators for their scuba equipment. That had begun the friendship. Of course, they’d been kids living almost four hundred miles away from one another even if it was the same state, but they’d kept up as much as possible, visiting one another at their respective colleges and meeting whenever they could.

By the time they had been able to get together in Key West, or anywhere in the Keys, Sean had been gone most of the time, so it really wasn’t that strange that she’d never had a chance to meet him before.

It seemed odd that the O’Haras could so clearly resemble one another and yet look so different. When she’d asked Jamie O’Hara what Sean looked like, he told her that Katie was Sean in a dress. That wasn’t true at all. Sean was very tall, three or four inches over six feet, with a linebacker’s shoulders. Katie was slim and willowy. While Katie had auburn hair, Sean’s was lighter, though with the same streaks of red. Katie’s eyes were a hazel green while Sean’s were more of a golden color. He had almost classic features, just like Katie, but he looked like a man who had braved the wind many a time, and his jaw leaned toward the square side.

Maybe that had just been because he’d been talking to her—and she sensed that she’d irritated him.

“Maybe I should have mentioned first that I knew you both,” Vanessa said dryly to Katie.

Katie smiled and swirled a stirrer in her coffee cup. “Ha-ha. Perhaps he’s feeling as if we’re ganging up on him! Oh, well, Sean is just being—Sean. He’ll get over it. Really, I think the lure of the mystery will get to him, once he thinks it all out. I think.” She looked at Vanessa with concern. “But…are you sure you should be doing this? Maybe you should just leave it all alone.”

“You know I can’t do that—you know you couldn’t do that! Hey, I’ve talked to people around here. You plunged headfirst into finding out what had happened in David’s past, a pretty dangerous occupation, so I heard,” Vanessa said.

“Yes, but I didn’t realize at the beginning that there were going to be more bodies,” Katie murmured. “And David was determined.”

“All right, then, let me put it this way—could you just forget about it? Katie, I saw that poor girl the night she disappeared—and wound up dead. She was terrified. There was something on that beach. Other people go over there still, despite what happened.”

Katie frowned. “But nothing has happened since, right?”

“Not on Haunt Island,” Vanessa said.

“What happened otherwise?” Katie asked.

“In two years’ time? I don’t know everything, but I’m suspicious every time I hear about any bad things happening. I know about one boat that disappeared in that area. A charter boat on its way to Bimini about a year ago. Disappeared, as in vanished.”

“Things don’t really disappear in the Bermuda Triangle,” Katie said. “It was just that for years, we didn’t know what had happened. But they found the planes that went down years ago, after World War II. They finally found them. No one knows why they went down, but they certainly have educated theories. So a charter boat didn’t really disappear—it’s out there somewhere.”

“Well, one of Jay’s boats disappeared,” Vanessa said flatly. “It disappeared—and Travis and Georgia were found dead on the beach.”

Katie looked at her sympathetically. “The Bahamian authorities, Florida State authorities, and even the FBI got in on the investigation, Vanessa. There’s a problem with the ocean—when things go down, they may go down miles. There are storms, there are currents. There were no clues on the island.” She cleared her throat. “They, um, never found the rest of the bodies, right?”

Vanessa shook her head. “I’d say they actively investigated for months…maybe even a year. The torsos, hips and legs were never found. God, I can’t even believe I’m saying that!”

“But there was a suspect, right? Carlos…someone?”

“Carlos Roca,” Vanessa told her. “But he was a good guy. A friend.”

“Okay, so, no matter how you might think that he was a good guy, and even if he was a friend, you have to admit, Vanessa, it does appear as if Carlos had already killed Travis, and that when he said he’d take Georgia back to Miami, he was lying. What he did was kill her, get the boat down the beach, find where he’d stashed Travis’s body, and stage the heads and arms. Then he stole the boat and dumped the rest of the bodies into the ocean. Oh, Vanessa, I know you don’t want to believe that. But there’s no other explanation.”

“Carlos would have popped up somewhere. And the boat would have been found.”

Katie let out a long sigh. “Nessa, the boat could have gotten into trouble—and it might have sunk. And Carlos might have gone down with it. God knows where he might have tried to go from Haunt Island. But that boat’s out there somewhere. I don’t know about the bodies anymore—fish are ravenous little creatures, really—and not so little, often. Time, salt water…”

“Isn’t David’s cousin, Liam, a detective now? Could he know something?” Vanessa asked.

“Yes, I talked to him after you called me. He was never in on that investigation. He’d heard about it, of course, but he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Jamie O’Hara strode down the bar to where the two of them were sitting. “Don’t you be worrying, Miss Loren. If I know my nephew, and I think I do, he’ll come around.”

Katie arched a brow at Jamie. “Uncle Jamie, don’t go getting her hopes up, hmm?”

Jamie winked at Vanessa.

“You think he’ll come around, too, don’t you, Katie?”

Katie frowned. Then she sighed. “Yes, I started on David this morning, so…well, we’ll see. But, Vanessa, I don’t want you to be so—obsessed. I know my brother and David, and I know that they’re fascinated by mysteries like this, but…you have to understand,” she added quietly. “David came home determined to discover the truth behind a ten-year-old murder case because he had been accused of murder.”

“Yes, I know,” Vanessa said. She’d read all about the insanity that had first driven David Beckett out of Key West, and then home. Naturally. She had been friends with Katie O’Hara for years. She had read every word in the papers when the case had been solved, and that had brought her back here. Key West had two of its own native conchs—David Beckett and Sean O’Hara—about to embark on a film project that would bring to light many of the mysteries that surrounded the area throughout the decades and even centuries. David Beckett had a military background, and Sean O’Hara had filmed in many dangerous places, had received a great deal of defensive training and certainly knew how to take care of himself. Beckett also had a cousin who was a detective with the Key West police. They were the right people to at least explore the waters, and the story, and make her feel at the very least as if she were doing all that she could to find out just what had happened to Georgia, Travis—and Carlos Roca.

“Oh, I mean, David’s a great person!” Katie said, quickly defending the love of her life. “You have to understand, it’s not that he wouldn’t care, or that he wouldn’t be horrified—but he’s not FBI, a cop or any other kind of law enforcement.” She brightened suddenly. “Hey, I’ll set up a meeting with Liam. I mean, if Liam gets into it, maybe he could help us out.”

“That would be great—thanks, Katie. I’d like to meet him and hear what he thinks, because I’m sure he had to have heard about it, at least when it was all taking place.”

“Well,” Jamie said, “well and good. Now you can’t sit here in the bar, moping about all day. Go enjoy the fall. Beautiful days we’ve got going here now. Days that are the kind that bring people south. Get—get out of bar, go and do something.”

“Hey, I know that my friend Marty—big-time into pirates—is getting ready for his booth and show for the Pirates in Paradise performances this year. Let’s go give him a hand—he loves to talk pirates. I bet he knows all about that pirate you were using for your horror movie, Mad Miller. And I can almost guarantee you he knows about Kitty Cutlass and Dona Isabella, too.”

“Katie,” Vanessa said, “I did tons of research. And I love the history—love it!—but we’re talking about people murdered just two years ago.”

“But you were filming history, right?”

Vanessa grimaced. “Well, history—fractured beyond belief—that we were using for a slasher flick.”

“So I’ll call Liam. We’ll have dinner. We’ll have him over to the house.”

“David will be there, right? I mean—you are living with David at the Beckett house, right?” Vanessa asked her.

“David will be on your side,” Katie said. “I’ll call while we head over to Marty’s.”

“How do you know that you’ll convince David to be on my side?” Vanessa asked.

Katie laughed. “I can be very persuasive. No, all kidding aside, they should agree to follow your mystery. It’s good film. They’ll be delving into piracy, the founding of the area—and something that’s contemporary and horrible. People like justice and a satisfactory ending. No one can bring the dead back to life, but there is something to be said for closure. We don’t feel that we failed those who died if we can figure out a riddle and bring a killer to justice.”

“I may have you do all the talking,” Vanessa told her.

“It will work out,” Katie said.

Vanessa wasn’t at all sure that she believed Katie, but she had to keep trying. She had exhausted other possibilities. She had plagued many law-enforcement agencies, and people had been kind and they had said the right things. But the case, though open, was not being actively investigated. Her only recourse was filmmakers—and those with a preplanned budget and a plan. And a wealth of knowledge about the history of the area.

“Great,” Vanessa said. She smiled at the elder O’Hara behind the bar. “Thank you, Jamie. Katie, let’s go play with the pirates.”

Clear air turbulence in the Bermuda Triangle.

That was one of the main causes listed on a number of the flights—major commercial flights and smaller, private craft—that had plunged a thousand feet or more or had trouble in the last few decades.

There were other losses, however. A number of disappearances in the area known as the Bermuda Triangle. It wasn’t officially an area at all, and had only become so in latter history—the U.S. Board of Geographical Names didn’t recognize it as a place with a name at all. Superstition ruled a lot of what people believed about the area, and it had a doppelgänger on the other side of the world called “the Devil’s Sea” by Japanese and Filipino people.

The most widely accepted scientific explanation for the strange events in the area had to do with magnetism. In the Bermuda Triangle, magnets might point “true north” in contrast to “magnetic north,” which had to do with circumnavigating the earth. The compass variations could be as great as twenty degrees, which would definitely cause havoc when attempting to reach a destination.

Sean leaned back in his computer chair, studying the screen.

The next theory had to do with gas—gas from the sea itself. Subterranean beds shifting due to underwater landslides could cause a vast leakage of methane gas. An Englishman from Leeds University had proposed the theory as late as the 1990s that the weight of the gas in the water could cause a ship to sink like a rock and also that the gas in the air could cause instantaneous combustion of a fuel-filled jet in seconds flat. Boom.

The first odd occurrence went all the way back to Christopher Columbus, who, along with several of his men, reported mass compass malfunctions, a massive bolt of fire that suddenly fell from the sky into the sea and then strange lights on the horizon—all in the area of the Bermuda Triangle.

Switching from site to site on the Internet, Sean had to admit that he found what he was reading fascinating.

But from magnets and gas, the theories went off into other realms, ones he was certain he couldn’t buy himself.

Aliens. Apparently, the belief that aliens were responsible for the disappearances was more widespread than he’d wanted to know. Some people believed that extraterrestrials had brought down a massive ship hundreds of years ago. That ship was down below the ocean floor. Sometimes the aliens were angry and destructive. Sometimes, to perform their evil deeds in their evil laboratories, they would send out their own vessels to snag ships or planes and bring them down below the surface.

Some people believed that they made trips to earth only now and then to snatch planes from the sky and ships from the sea.

Another theory had to do with the lost city of Atlantis. The psychic Edgar Cayce, who passed away in 1945, had claimed that he—and many other people—were reincarnated residents of the doomed Atlantis. He said that the city had not been in the Old World at all but near Bimini, in the Bahamas. The people had been highly advanced and used fire crystals for their power—fire crystals that had gotten out of hand and exploded, thus causing the sinking of Atlantis. There were still fire crystals deeply embedded in the ocean, and their power surged sometimes, causing ships, people, planes and debris to disappear. He prophesied that Atlantis would rise again in 1968 or ’69.

In 1968, the Bimini Road or Bimini Wall was discovered—a rock formation of rounded stones beneath the sea near North Bimini that definitely bore the appearance of an ancient great highway. Some geologists argued that it was a natural highway; others were convinced that it might have been a man-made structure dating back three to four thousand years.

Sean had seen the Bimini Wall, and it was fascinating, but he wasn’t a structural scholar, so he couldn’t determine if the wall had been there forever, lurking beneath sand and the elements, or if it had been man-made.

He didn’t believe that Cayce had once been a citizen of the fabled Atlantis.

Another man had put forth a crystal theory—Ray Brown. While diving in the area in 1970, he had gotten cut off from his friends. He’d found an underwater cave. The cave had been extraordinary. He’d seen a pyramid formation against a beautiful aquamarine light. Obviously, some higher intelligence had been at work in the cave, creating the light, the formation and the smooth workmanship within the cave.

He’d found a crystal sphere in the pyramid, and taken it. When he’d left the cave, he’d heard a voice telling him to get out and never to return.

Sean sat back, shaking his head, puzzled. If he’d ever found such a cave, he’d have partners and film crew down in the water before he ever came out of it.

Ray Brown didn’t do that.

He didn’t tell the world about his remarkable experience.

He brought his crystal to a psychics fair in Phoenix in 1975.

If his cave had ever been discovered or the secret of the crystal divulged, Sean didn’t know about it, nor, going from site to site to site on the Internet, could he find any mention of it—the cave, that was. There was mention only of the crystal.

Behind him, Bartholomew sniffed.

“God! Would you not read over my shoulder?” Sean asked.

Bartholomew ignored the question.

“They are referring to the Gulf Stream. They are referring to an area that, even in my day, was one of the most heavily traveled sea passages in the world. The current is always five to six knots, storms rise up constantly out of nowhere, and statistically, it would be almost impossible for things not to happen in the area. Ah, but absurd things do happen. So is there a Bermuda Triangle? Or is it just the natural state of the world?” he queried.

“I believe that you’re right about the fact that the sea can be dangerous, the Gulf Stream can be treacherous and human beings can make errors. There was a case just a few years ago where seven fishermen were out. The captain had sailed the waters more than thirty years. They left on a clear day, and a rogue wave overturned the boat. They weren’t five nautical miles from shore, but after the wave hit, the boat overturned. Two died and five were found alive. If the five hadn’t been recovered, it would have been another case for the Bermuda Triangle, because no trace of the fishing boat was ever discovered and they were in relatively shallow waters, close to shore, when it happened. I don’t believe in crystals or aliens. Who knows? Maybe a city was sunk thousands of years ago—I’ve been places where they know that one day the volcanoes beneath the surface will blow—and old islands will go down and new ones will be formed. Hawaii will sink—hell, one day, Florida will sink. That’s the planet. But as far as people being murdered by the Bermuda Triangle, crystals, aliens, or even a subspecies of humanity with gills—I don’t believe it for an instant.”

Bartholomew laughed. “That from a man carrying on a conversation with a ghost!”

Sean glared at him.

“Hey!” Bartholomew protested. “I’m just pointing out that there is more in the world than what most people are willing to see or accept. But frankly, I’m with you. I don’t believe in aliens—not from other planets. Oh, there may be life out there, but I have a feeling that life might be fungi or sponges. And no one sees the future—except for God. I’ve been around a very long time. I’ve been able to observe quite a bit. Like the fact that you’re thinking about all of this because you’ve spent the day on the computer.”

“Is there no one else you can go haunt?” Sean asked him. “Where is your beautiful lady in white?”

Bartholomew waved a hand in the air. “I’ll see her later.”

A ghost, yes. He was talking to a ghost. Not his fault—he blamed that on Katie! So he was talking to a ghost, and calling others absurd!

“Ghosts are different,” Bartholomew said, as if reading his mind. “We were, we lived and breathed. Energy doesn’t die—and we are the result. Most human beings have a religious or spiritual belief, and if you believe in what you don’t see, as in God, then it’s not such a stretch to believe that souls exist. And we all know that even among the living, some people can communicate and some can’t. But I do agree with you. The perpetrator of the evil deeds surrounding the film crew was not the Bermuda Triangle, the power of a crystal or a little green man popping out of the ocean. There’s a live person, homicidal, organized and possibly psychotic,” he finished.

Sean stared at him, hiding a smile.

“I have spent some time in the police station, obviously,” Bartholomew said. “Actually, it’s quite something. People are always saying ‘I’d just love to be a fly on the wall.’ Well, that is one thing about departing one’s earthly form. I am able to be a fly on the wall.”

“Ah, so you’re an expert now on all things law enforcement,” Sean teased.

“No, I’m gifted at listening to other people—and you may never know when you need the services of an excellent eavesdropper.”

“Point noted, thank you. Isn’t it time for high tea, or something like that?” Sean asked.

“I’m off to find my dear beauty in white,” Bartholomew said. “Be nice to me, Sean O’Hara—I believe I’m still here to watch out for you, so you just may find that you need me!”

Bartholomew walked to the door, and disappeared through it.

Sean turned back to the computer and keyed in the name Vanessa Loren.

“Fascinating!” Marty said to Vanessa. She and Katie had joined him at his house on Fleming Street. It was what they called a “shotgun” house, built with a long hall or breezeway, so that if the front and back doors were both open, you could fire a shotgun and the bullet would run right through the house. Basically, the plan was to keep the air going through the house at all times, since it had been built long before air-conditioning became a customary feature in homes in the hot, subtropical climes of the Keys.

Marty seemed like a very nice guy. Vanessa had actually seen him before, stopping in at O’Hara’s for Katie’s business, Katie-oke. O’Hara’s was always pleasant and laid-back, and a lot of locals planning acts for different festivals, private parties or any such ventures spent time there. The bar had the kind of comfortable feel that worked for locals and tourists alike. Vanessa hadn’t met Marty formally before, but she’d seen him do a good job with a pirate bellow in a rollicky sea shanty.

His house was decorated to fit the man. There were a number of ship’s bells, ships in bottles, old figureheads, anchors and other paraphernalia from the past set up around the house; he was a collector of books, music, logs, parchments, deeds, old money and more. The place was eclectic and comfortable. Vanessa thought that he must have a small fortune in the place as far as the value of some of the antiques would go, but it was still comfortable and casual.

“Fascinating!” Marty repeated, then he looked sheepish and rueful. “Oh, that’s terrible, that’s really terrible of me to say. I’m so, so sorry about your friends, of course. And I suppose it all did terrible things to the futures of those who survived. But that it all happened when you were working on a movie about Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass…I’ve always been intrigued by the tales of people that have come down to us. History. People make it so dry. This date and that date. It’s not dates schoolchildren should be remembering—it’s the people. History should be like a reality show—or Oprah. No, Jerry Springer. People love the weaknesses, the cruelty and sometimes even the honor of others!”

“Maybe an enterprising person will get it together that way one day, Marty,” Katie said.

“Aha!” Marty told her happily. “That’s exactly what I’m doing at the fort this year. An interview with a few of our notorious pirates and their consorts. You have to come. Better yet, you could be consorts, harlots, barmaids—”

“I have to work, Marty,” Katie reminded him.

“I’m hoping to be working,” Vanessa said.

Marty sighed, disappointed, and studied Vanessa. “Have you not worked for the last two years—since the incident on Bimini?”

“No, no, I’ve been working, Marty. I’m doing all right. You know the commercial for the new underwater camera that any two-year old can use? I wrote it.”

Marty shuddered. “All those two-year-olds!”

“It was fun, actually. We shot in a lovely private pool, and the kids were really adorable,” Vanessa assured him.

Marty still looked at her worriedly. “You okay down here? Where are you staying?”

“She’s got a perfectly good room at my house or with David and me—she won’t take either,” Katie said.

“I’m just down Duval, perfect location, a little room for rent above one of the shops,” Vanessa told him. “And I’m quite happy.”

“But what if you’re not safe?” Marty asked.

“I’m right on Duval, in the midst of the tourist horde. There’s someone up just about all hours of the night, and the cops are out in droves. I’m safe. Look, I’ve been bugging police and anyone else you can think of for two years—whatever happened, happened. It’s sliding by, and that’s why I’m so concerned. This killer might lie dormant for a long time, then swoop down on another group of unsuspecting boaters.”

Marty stood. “Well. Just in case you didn’t come across this in your research, I have something to show you.”

He walked over to the large buffet where a ship’s dining bell held the central position. Reaching behind it, he pulled out a framed picture. He turned to her with pleasure in his eyes. “Dona Isabella!” he told her.

Vanessa walked over to study the picture. It was a pen-and-ink drawing of a woman in an elegant gown circa the early eighteen hundreds. Her hair was loose, curling around her shoulders. The artist had captured the beauty of the woman, and something more—something that was partly flirtatious and might also be cunning. She could see that the sketch had been titled “The Mystery of a Woman.”

“How do you know that this is Dona Isabella?” Vanessa asked.

Marty smiled, proud of his acquisition. He opened the frame, showing the old parchment on which the portrait had been sketched, and the signature of the artist. Len Adams had sketched the picture, and he had written, “Dona Isabella at Tea with a Friend, 1834.”

“I’ve had it authenticated, of course,” Marty said. “Len Adams is known down here—his pieces are coveted. He died very young of tuberculosis, so he doesn’t have an extensive body of work. He came here because he was dying in the north. He died anyway. But he sketched many wonderful portraits.”

Vanessa was fascinated by the picture, and suddenly felt guilty about her slasher-film script. Of course, in the movie, Dona Isabella had been the victim of Kitty Cutlass, quickly in the film, and quickly out. It had been Kitty Cutlass who’d returned from her watery grave to join with the ghost of Mad Miller to wreak murder, mayhem and havoc upon the unsuspecting teens sailing to Bimini and on Haunt Island.

“Oh, girl, you’re one after my own heart!” Marty said, appreciating the way she looked at the picture. “I’ll copy it for you—won’t be the original, but you’ll have the beauty anytime you choose. Poor thing! So lovely, such a coquette and so tragically young to be a victim.” He looked at Vanessa. “Boy, that would be something, wouldn’t it? What if your people were killed because the ghosts of Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass are out there, cruising between Key West and Bimini, right into the Triangle, alive through some wild magnetic source?”

Vanessa stared at him.

He gave her a tap on the shoulder. “Joshing with you, girl. But if you want more pirate history, you come on back here anytime, all right? And if you need anything at all, you come to see me. I’m like a Key West structure, an institution, always here, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world.”

She thanked him, and she and Katie said goodbye.

“Do you think that the murders might have had something to do with the story you were filming?” Katie asked as they walked. “No, wait. We’ll wait until we all get together, and then we’ll talk about it. I don’t want to make you repeat it all over and over.”

They stopped in front of the Beckett house and Vanessa looked up at the grand facade. “So you’re living in the Beckett house!” Vanessa teased.

Katie shrugged. “Life is pretty bizarre, just like death.”

“So it seems,” Vanessa agreed.

Katie opened the front door with a key and they stepped into the hallway. She paused. “I guess they’re already here,” she said. They walked through the large parlor, through the kitchen and to the back porch, handsomely furnished with white wicker and plush jungle-colored cushions. There were three men there already—not just the two tall, dark-haired men Vanessa assumed to be Liam and David Beckett, but Sean O’Hara, as well.

They all stood as Vanessa and Katie came into the room.

She envied Katie, who walked comfortably up to David Beckett and slipped an arm around him. There was something nicely sure and confident in the motion, and more so in David’s smile of response. They were happy.

David and Liam shook hands with Vanessa and were pleasant and cordial. Sean, of course, she had already met.

He waited quietly.

Then the awkward silence fell at last.

“Why doesn’t everyone sit, and I’ll get some drinks and snacks,” Katie suggested.

Great! Vanessa glared at her, feeling as if she had suddenly been thrown to the wolves.

But she was the one who wanted help!

She sat stiffly, folding her hands around her knees as she looked at the three. “Perhaps this is way out of bounds. But I don’t know where else to go from here.”

“Start at the beginning,” David suggested. “Sean has told us what you want us to do—but start back at the beginning, the film shoot you did, everything that happened that night and everything that happened after.”

Vanessa decided to start out looking straight ahead, and then she decided to speak as naturally as possible and not avoid anyone’s eyes. “I’ve loved Key West since I was a child, since my father first brought me down here. When my friend Jay Allen came to me saying that he wanted to make a film, the first thing that came to my mind was the story of Mad Miller, his mistress, Kitty Cutlass, and the murder of poor Dona Isabella. Everything went fine, and we were down to a skeleton crew—Georgia and Travis, the last characters who remained alive, Jay and myself, of course, two young production assistants, Bill Hinton and Jake Magnoli, and Barry Melkie, our soundman. Zoe was everything as far as props, costume and makeup, with the help of Bill and Jake. Oh, and of course, Carlos Roca. Lew, our Bahamian guide, was there, too. That night, we had just about wrapped, and I was by the fire…Jay was there, I’m not sure who else at first, but everyone was just winding down. Suddenly, Georgia came screaming down the beach—she’d seen heads sticking out of the sand, arms. She described a scene that was the exact one in which we found her and Travis the following morning.”

“You found Georgia and Travis?” David asked.

She nodded gravely.

“You found the bodies?” Sean asked.

“I did,” Vanessa said. “Lew and Jay came quickly down to the beach, then the others…and then the Bahamian authorities.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight, though,” Sean said. “Georgia and Travis were found dead. Georgia had been running down the beach. Where was Travis?”

“No one knew,” Vanessa said.

“Then why didn’t you look for him?” Sean asked.

“Frankly, we thought he was part of a huge prank being pulled on Georgia. Jay was aggravated with him. We did go down the beach—Lew, Jay and I—and there was nothing there. Except—”

“Except?” Liam asked.

“The sand where we later found the two had been churned up. It looked as if maybe there had been something stuck in the sand.”

“And that didn’t bother you?” Sean asked.

“We were filming a horror movie. We thought that someone was playing an elaborate prank, and, as I said, that Travis was involved in the prank. I’m afraid that a lot of pranks are carried out on film sets,” Vanessa said evenly. She took a deep breath. “Anyway, Georgia was in terror—she wasn’t going to stay on the island. She was having an absolute fit, so Carlos said that he could take her into Miami and head back first thing in the morning. We all thought it was best. But Georgia and Travis were found on the beach, and Carlos and the boat disappeared.”

“I’m not sure there’s much of a mystery there,” Sean said. “Apparently, Carlos stole the boat after he killed the two.”

“I don’t believe it, not for a minute,” Vanessa said. “The police, the Coast Guard, the FBI—every known agency looked for the boat and Carlos, but it was as if they had vanished. What you don’t understand is that Carlos Roca wasn’t capable of doing something so horrible. He was one of the most gentle people I’ve ever met.”

“I wasn’t in on the investigation, but I do remember it,” Liam said. “And I’m sorry to tell you this, but most of those law-enforcement agencies believe that Carlos Roca did murder the two young people and steal the boat.”

“I don’t care what they believe!” Vanessa said.

She was surprised when Sean said, “Of course, there’s another scenario. Someone else hijacked the boat, someone who might have already taken Travis. That person either killed Carlos first to take control of Georgia or had Carlos knocked out somewhere. Then did the grisly deed on the island and dumped Carlos in the Atlantic.”

David leaned forward. “Okay, here’s the curious part—where was Travis? Had he been killed and his body hidden? And was it possible for someone to have killed him, hidden his body and managed to go after Carlos and Georgia in the boat, get back to the island without being seen, find the one body, stage the gruesome death scene, and then get rid of Carlos? And how, with the alarm that must have gone out, could they have gotten away with the boat? Everyone in the Bahamas, South Florida and all of the Caribbean would have been on the alert.”

“Well, stealing the boat, gassing it up, changing it—that seems the easiest part of it,” Sean said.

“I agree with you—where Travis was when the whole thing started would be a nice piece of the riddle.”

“Dead,” Vanessa said softly.

“Probably dead, but where? And how was he killed, and then not found until later?” Sean mused.

“These are the questions everyone has asked time and time again, and they haven’t found the answers. But they aren’t people who know the legends, know the area—”

“Snacks and beer!” Katie announced cheerfully from the hallway.

She set nachos with steaming cheese and other ingredients on the coffee table and passed around the tray she carried with ice-cold beer bottles.

Vanessa accepted a beer with a gaze that said both “Thanks” and “How could you have left me alone in here?”

Katie smiled. “I know you all,” Katie said, sitting, “and there isn’t a better mystery out there!”

“I have a lot of work to do now,” Liam said. “And it’s a bad time, a very bad time, at the station.”

“Nothing has been decided,” Sean said.

“We’ve all agreed to talk about it. We’ve talked about focusing on a number of mysteries and legends, but we haven’t decided what our focus is going to be,” David said. “It’s Sean’s decision. I am gung-ho on the idea of pooling our resources and working locally, but Sean’s been doing the budget, mapping and research, so it’s his decision.”

“Yes, but if you’re thinking about the story, I ought to be on the trip,” Liam said. He looked at Vanessa. “It hasn’t occurred to you to be afraid? The killer or killers were never caught. They might still be out there,” he said.

“Afraid?” she asked softly. “I still have nightmares. I see Georgia alive and screaming, and I see the heads and the arms sticking out of the sand. I remember being terrified of the dark for nearly a year. And then I got very angry, and I finally figured out that I’d probably have nightmares for the rest of my life if I didn’t do something to discover the truth. I think the killer is a coward—he worked in the dark, at night. I think there has to be a way to stand against him. That starts with finding him—and when he’s found, I don’t care if they give him life or the death penalty, just so long as he can never do anything so horrible to anyone else, ever again.”

She stood up. They were going to agree, or they weren’t.

“I’ll let you all talk,” she said. “Katie knows where to find me. Thank you for your time.”

Afraid? Yes, she’d been so afraid.…

Her only fear now was that they would say no.

The Happy-Me sat off the coast of Bimini in shallow water. Jenny and Mark Houghton and their friends Gabby and Dale Johnson had planned on camping on the beach, but they had gotten lazy. They hadn’t tied up at the dock because they’d kept the boat in the shallow water, and talked so late that the sun had gone down.

Both retired, the couples motored the short distance to Haunt Island several times a year.

Gabby and Dale had gone to bed, Mark was still topside and Jenny was humming as she put away the last of the dishes. They’d dined on spaghetti and meatballs, heated up in the microwave.

She was startled to hear her husband call her name. “Jenny!”

She nearly dropped the dish in her hand, it had been so quiet. She set it on the counter and hurried up the ladder to the deck. For a moment, it struck her that they might as well be alone in the world. Entirely alone. There were a few stars in a black-velvet sky, and it seemed that there was no horizon, the sea melded with the sky. The lights of the Happy-Me were colorful and brave against the night—and pitiful, as well.

“Hand me the grapple pole there, quickly, Jenny,” Mark said, leaning over the hull and staring into the water.

“What?”

She was concerned. Mark had been given a clean bill of health after having suffered a heart attack on his seventieth birthday, but he thought himself a young man still, at times. And he was acting like a crazy one now.

“That one,” he said, spinning around. There was a grappling hook on a long pole set in its place in metal brackets against the wall of the cabin.

“But, Mark—”

“Please, Jenny, please—there’s someone in the water!”

She heard it then: a gasped and garbled plea for help.

While Mark continued to stare into the water, Jenny reached for the hook, almost ripping it from the wall to bring to Mark.

He stuck it out into the water, calling out, “Here, here, take this, we’ll get you aboard!

“Ah!” he murmured. Jenny saw that someone had the pole and that Mark was managing to pull the person closer to the boat.

“The flashlight, get a flashlight!” Mark said.

Jenny turned to do so. As she did, she heard another gasping sound, and within it a little cry of terror.

She spun around.

The sound was coming from Mark.

Because someone…something…was rising from the sea.

It couldn’t be. It was a bony pirate, half-eaten, so it appeared, in rags. Bones and rags, and it was laughing.…

“No!” Jenny gasped herself.

The thing reached out and grabbed Mark around the neck. It lifted him and tossed him overboard. Jenny started to scream in protest, horrified for Mark, her companion, friend, lover, husband for all of her life.

And then…

In terror herself. For her own life.

Because now the thing pulled a sword. A fat sword. Maybe it wasn’t a sword. Maybe it was a machete. Maybe it was…

Her last conscious thought was, What the hell does it matter what it is?

It swung in the night.

She never managed to scream. Her windpipe was severed before she could do so. She dropped to the deck, her head dangling from the remnants of her neck.

“Quickly,” said the one to the other, joining him on board. “Quickly. The other two, before they wake up!”

The deck was drenched as they walked across it and down the ladder to the cabin below.

Gabby and Dale never woke up.

For a while, the Happy-Me rolled in the gentle waves of the night, beneath the velvet darkness of the sky.

Then it sank to a shallow grave.

Chapter Three

Vanessa had the dreams again that night.

They had started the night on the island when Georgia had talked about the monsters, left the island with Carlos—and wound up murdered with her head on the sand.

For the first weeks after the incident, they’d come frequently. They would start with her being Isabella, rising from the sea in her period gown, covered with seaweed.

Vanessa had agreed to play the small role of Isabella, and the day when they had filmed her in the costume had turned out to be fun—after she’d calmed down from being aggravated. There she had been in that gown, floating—a corpse that had come to the surface, about to open its long-dead eyes—and they were supposed to have been filming from beneath her. But in the middle of the shoot, they’d gotten distracted by a school of barracuda, and she’d looked up at last to see that the boat was far away and there was no sign of the others. She was a good swimmer, but the seas were beginning to rise and the gown was heavy. She lay there cursing them, then called out, hoping someone on the boat would hear her.

The boat had come around at last with Jay and the others on board. They’d been thrilled with their footage of the barracuda—which usually left people alone, unless they had something on them that sparkled and attracted the attention of the predators. Incredulous, she’d asked if they’d gotten the shots of her, floating in the water. Oh, yes, they’d done so. Then, seeing her face, Jay had been entirely contrite, and everyone had tripped over themselves trying to appease her for the afternoon.

But in her dreams, she didn’t see Isabella as herself. She saw her dead, murdered, empty sockets where her eyes should be, yet seeming to see, face skeletal and pocked with the ravages of the sea, bits of bone and skull peeking through decomposing flesh. The woman stared at her as if she were the enemy, and all around her, huge black shadows seemed to form, and they were made of seaweed and evil.

Then she was alone on the beach at Haunt Island, and they were coming after her, and she didn’t run because there was nowhere to go to escape the darkness and evil, she simply stood there, staring at them, as they seemed to grow larger and larger and come closer and closer, and she could smell the rot of flesh and a stagnant sea and she could almost feel the salt spray of the ocean.

Right before they embraced her, she awoke with a start.

For a moment she was disoriented in the darkness of her room. Then she heard a whistle from below her window, the wheels of a late-night taxi going somewhere and the laughter of the few drunken revelers still on the street, and her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She was in her little studio room atop the bathing suit and T-shirt shop on Duval Street. A glance at the faceplate of her phone told her that it was just about 2:00 a.m.

She stared at the ceiling for a while, angry with herself. She wasn’t afraid of ghosts or sea monsters. Someone real and alive had happened upon the island. A real person had killed her friends—and she just couldn’t believe it was Carlos. Carlos was probably dead. She hated the fact that everyone assumed that he’d been the killer, when he probably died trying to protect Georgia from whatever sick maniac had come upon them. It was chilling to think that the killer had to have been on the island with them when Georgia had first screamed, when they had all thought that Travis was fine somewhere, laughing at the cruel joke he had played on Georgia. They should have looked harder for Travis that night.

And yet, who would have really suspected anything? They were a large enough group. They’d been enjoying the shoot, and even the pristine isolation of Haunt Island.

She probably lay there for hours, and then drifted off.

Vanessa’s phone rang at 8:00 a.m. She knew, because the jarring sound caused her to bolt up, and she saw the time immediately. She fumbled to retrieve it from the stand next to the bed and answered breathlessly.

“Yes?”

“Vanessa?”

She felt as if her heart stood still for a moment. The voice sounded like that of Sean O’Hara.

“Yes?”

“Are you awake? Sorry if I woke you.”

He wasn’t one bit sorry, she thought.

“I was awake,” she said. So she was lying. She wasn’t sure what she had said or done exactly that had seemed to raise a barrier of hostility within him—other than that she did want him to take his project and turn it to her purpose.

“Ready to let me see your stuff?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Diving, filming,” he said. Was there a touch of mockery in his tone? Was he amused that she might have thought that he meant something else?

“Of course. Anytime. Does this mean that—”

“It means I want to see if you’re as good as your credentials,” he said flatly.

“Of course. Where do you want me, when, and with what equipment?”

“I have equipment. You probably want your own regulator and mask.”

“Of course. What about cameras?”

“Mine are excellent quality.”

“So are mine.”

“Let’s see if you know my equipment, and my methods,” he said. “And if I hire you, it’s going to be as my assistant, remember? Hauling, toting. But…it won’t hurt to see what you can do with a camera. You never know when you may need some backup.”

“All right.”

“Meet me at the dock in half an hour. My dive boat is the Conch Fritter. I’ll be setting her up.”

“I’ll be there,” she promised.

For a moment she couldn’t afford to waste, she just sat there, staring at her phone. He hadn’t agreed.

But he hadn’t said no.

And in the water, she could prove herself.

She blinked, then shot out of bed. She had thirty minutes to shower, find a suit and run down the seven or so blocks to the boat docks.

And there had to be a cup of coffee somewhere along the way.

Vanessa Loren was all business when she arrived at the dock precisely on time. She was wearing a huge tank-type T-shirt over a bathing suit and carried a dive bag in one hand, a large paper cup of coffee in the other. Her hair was swept back in a band at her nape and she was wearing large dark sunglasses.

“Hand over the bag,” he said politely.

“I can manage,” she told him.

She could. Without needing a handhold of any kind for balance, she made the short leap from the dock to the deck with amazing dexterity, never in danger of losing so much as a drop of coffee—not that the company didn’t serve its coffee with A-one lids.

He shrugged as she landed. “Suit yourself. Want to grab that line aft?”

“Sure.”

Bartholomew leaned casually against the rail, arms crossed over his chest. “She’s got quite the physical prowess, and yet she’s light and sleek as a cat. I say, hire her on! Trust me, the women of my day were seldom adept at working on any ship. Ah, this is but a boat. There you go.”

Sean wanted to tell Bartholomew that there had been a number of famous and infamous women working upon pirate ships, but since Bartholomew was indignant at the term pirate, he’d deny it. And he knew that Bartholomew was going to goad him all afternoon.

He refrained from replying.

He went to the fore to release the front line and she scurried to release the one aft. He didn’t speak to her as he guided the Conch Fritter out of the harbor.

Bartholomew, however, kept up a running conversation.

“Ah, what a lovely day. Truly lovely day! Calm seas, a beautiful sky and just the tiniest kiss of autumn in the air. I do remember this reef—we forced a few Spaniards into her sharp tentacles, we did. Glorious sailing! Oh, and by the way—you do know that this is the area where Mad Miller supposedly attacked the Santa Geneva and kidnapped Dona Isabella. Alas, the ship upon which she sailed sank to the bottom of the sea with the nasty, evil creatures upon the pirate ship, Mad Miller’s flagship, slicing up many a man as he begged for mercy, cast into the water, drowning!”

Slicing them might have been a mercy, if they were drowning, Sean thought, but he kept silent.

As he cleared the channel, Vanessa came and took the companion seat by the helm.

“Ah, but she looks lovely there!” Bartholomew commented.

She did. She was relaxed, enjoying the wind that whipped around them as they sped through the water. The Conch Fritter wasn’t new, but she was a thirty-eight-foot Sea Ray custom Sundancer, and Sean loved her. She did twenty knots with amazing comfort—she wasn’t going to outrun a real powerboat by any means, but she could move. The cockpit was air-conditioned and equipped with two flat-screen TVs, and there were three small sleeping cabins, the captain’s cabin at the fore and two lining the port and starboard sides. There was a small galley and main cabin as well, and the helm sat midway through the sleek design with a fiberglass companion seat that offered plenty of storage. He’d had her outfitted with a helm opening and an aft boarding ladder with a broad platform, and portside and starboard safe holds for dive tanks.

“Yes, yes, you love your boat,” Bartholomew said, rolling his eyes. “And she is a thing of beauty! But then again, can anything rival the gold of that young woman’s hair, the sea and sky that combine in her eyes?” he asked with an exaggerated sigh.

Sean thought, I will not look at you, you scurvy spectral bastard.

“Where are we going?” Vanessa asked above the hum of the motor.

“Pirate Cut—it’s a close, easy dive,” Sean said.

“We don’t even need tanks,” she commented.

“Ah, she knows the reef!” Bartholomew said. “Frankly, it seems that everything this young woman has said to you is true.”

“If you want to stay down and film we need tanks and equipment,” Sean said pleasantly to Vanessa.

She flushed and looked away, but it was obvious that she knew the reef, and probably knew it fairly well.

She did. She knew exactly where they were going, and how long it was going to take to get there. When they were still five minutes away, she stood and dug into her bag. She worked with a dive skin, not a suit, but a skin, light and not providing warmth. He actually liked a skin himself—a skin protected a diver against the tentacles of small and unseen jellyfish.

But he hadn’t brought one.

By the time he’d stopped the motor and dropped anchor, she had on her skin and dive booties. Dive booties could be good, too, he had to admit. He’d brought neither his skin nor booties, but he didn’t always wear them. She’d attached her regulator to a buoyancy-control vest and tank—the one next to the tank he’d prepared for himself. She wasted no time.

“What are we using?” she asked him.

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