THE GHOST SHIP Read online

  Copyright 2011 by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  Cover Artist: Allen Chiu

  Cover Art Copyright by Crystal Skull Publishing 2011

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  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Dedication

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  To the Seafarers who lost their lives in the Graveyard of the Atlantic at the Outer Banks of North Carolina

  CHAPTER ONE

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  Cape Hatteras

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  Ann stood at the barroom door, her nose twitching at the smell of testosterone – like hot buttery sweat – mixed in with that of old wood, stale beer and sweet whiskey. Half a dozen men sat on bar stools cheering to a televised football game. Though they faced away, she could tell these guys weren’t tourists. Their clothing – wool shirts, jeans, boat shoes – were too seasoned, too much the color of the island in October. Her late fiancé’s words came to mind: stout-hearted men, salt of the sea.

  A vague unease snuck along her chest wall because you never knew what you were in for with a crowd like this, but what the hell, she was here and looking forward to a drink. She stepped under fish nets sagging from the low ceiling and scanned the wall hangings – boat wheels, anchors, starfish – when her gaze fastened on the photograph of a schooner. Enveloped in light fog, its sails furled, it drew her to it. She squinted at the gold plaque fastened to the frame. THE GHOST SHIP OF DIAMOND SHOAL. Below the photograph, snug against the wall, a small table had been shoved and was flanked by two captain’s chairs. She had a choice; choose the chair looking away from the men or the one facing them. No choice really. It would be a serious snub to come into their bar and turn her back. So she settled into the wooden chair and let her eyes roam the place. A sudden stream of cool air drifted across her shoulders, and she glanced up and smiled at the notion that the ship … No, photographs don’t cause drafts, my imagination does.

  She really needed that drink, and where was a waiter or the bartender? No one tended the taps, and, as yet, the men hadn’t noticed her. She could move. Or leave.

  In the next instant, a roar went up. Touchdown! Fists pumped the air. She looked at the ship. It was just a picture. She let a smile blossom and thought how Boyd would have loved this place. How that man loved the sea and football. At the merest excuse, he’d shed his expensive suit and don his captain’s hat or a football jersey. She twisted the diamond on her finger and considered that coming in here had been a mistake. Too soon, too many memories. She pushed back to leave, but at the same time a commercial broke into the football game, and the men reached for their beer bottles.

  A ruddy-faced man glanced over his shoulder, rounded his bar stool and saluted her with his bottle. Another man glanced back – and another. Their faces – old and young – were weathered and genial, altogether welcoming. Except for one man. He sat at the far end, hands wrapped around his bottle, head down.

  The bartender came through a door at the side of the bar. He called to her, “Welcome, Miss. Sorry for the delay. I’m MacGregor. Something to drink, perhaps?” His Scottish brogue was unexpected and charming.

  Yet she became conscious of how on edge she was. “Gin and tonic, please.”

  “A nice Beefeater’s,” the bar man said, “coming right up.”

  The men turned back to the television, and she leaned back and shifted her mass of blonde hair, twisting long strands around a finger. She looked up at the ship and thought how beautiful it was, and how it waited for something to happen. Like me.

  MacGregor came with her drink and flourished a half sheet of paper. “How about something to eat after the long drive down our blustery isle?”

  She hadn’t considered food, although she hadn’t eaten since the fruit salad on the flight to Norfolk. Examining the three-item menu, she said, “The chowder.”

  The man with the ruddy face swung his barstool toward her. “Good choice, Miss.”

  “Thanks,” she said, liking his white smile.

  “Mrs. MacGregor makes it fresh every month.”

  A punch line was on the way, but she frowned for his benefit. “Every month?”

  “Gotcha,” the man said. “I’m Spence, by the way. Mrs. MacGregor stirs up a pot full of fish and shellfish in brine, and then she freezes it in batches. When a batch is heated just below the boiling point, she adds the cream. Best anywhere.”

  Squeezing lime into her drink, she said, “Wait until they hear about this in Boston.”

  “You’re not from Boston,” Spence said. “You’re a Southern girl.”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Hotlanta. I get there at least once a year. Welcome to The Pub. What brings you here this time of year?”

  “Vacation,” she said. She tipped the drink into her mouth and savored the tang of juniper berry and lime.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear,” he said, “we got kissed by a hurricane last week.”

  “I went through one driving down this afternoon.”

  “Just a little ol’ squall. This time of year, you get one every forty-five minutes.”

  “Must make life interesting,” she said, wondering how long this banter would go on.

  “If you’re out on the water, it’s a lot more than interesting.”

  Without pause or thought, she said, “Surely y’all know better than to go out on a boat when a storm’s coming.”

  She could almost hear the silent gasps coming from their gaping mouths. The men turned their stools toward the television as if they’d been choreographed for a Broadway show. Except for Spence. He looked at the man at the end of the bar, the one who had his head down. Until now. Without moving his body, the sullen man swiveled his head toward her in slow motion. She heard Spence say, “It’s all right, Rod. No harm.”

  The man named Rod fixed her with a stare so blue it froze the muscles around her mouth. Under her sweater, her heart beat erratically. What could she possibly say? Sorry if I’ve upset you, even if I don’t know why? A thwack shattered the tension hovering heavy on the boozy air. Her body pitched back against a blow, and she looked toward the sound. MacGregor had butted through the kitchen door carrying a soup tureen. She thanked God and blew twenty pounds of pressure from her lungs.

  He served the chowder, then said in a quiet, kind burr, “I’ll be bringing you crackers, hot sauce, and vinegar. Anything else I can be bringing, Miss?”

  “Another gin would be fine. Forget the tonic.”

  He grinned. “Pleased to.”

  The chowder was velvet on her tongue, and she wanted to tell Spence that he’d been right, but she could still feel the blue chill from the man called Rod and the disquiet of his companions. She found herself staring at Rod. Ramrod might have been his full name. His dark red hair curled from the hole in the back of his baseball cap, his shoulders were broad and his waist narrow, and every muscle looked tight enough to burst through his clothes. Then she caught Spence easing his bar stool sideways. He looked over his shoulder and winked.

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  At daybreak, the rain no longer peppered the roof, but she heard the wind crusade through the old eaves. Throwing off the thick quilt, she sat up and rubbed her temples. On the way to the shower, she capped the gin bottle sitting on the dresser.

  Downstairs, she said good morning to Mrs. MacGregor and helped herself to a free newspaper. Standing in the dining room doorway, she saw a group of men eating and chatting. A couple she’d seen at the b
ar last night. Spence looked over and threw up a hand. Before she saw him, she knew Rod sat at the table. Yes, there, on the end. A curious sense of time absorbed her, like the moment she'd waited for had come. She carried herself like a runway model toward their table, and when her eyes looked into his, the blueness in his crisp glare brought out her vamp side. Lifting her chin, she looked down her nose and let a smile play on her lips. He looked away first. Passing the table, she said, “Good morning, gentlemen.” Hearing their appreciative voices, she slipped into a booth by the window.

  While she ate, she read The Islander. She concluded that The National Park Service must own most of Hatteras Island and was pissing off everyone – especially the off-roaders – for blockading beaches to protect nesting birds like the piping plover. She hoped to meet one of these piping plovers so they could swap chirps about pissing off the locals.

  She'd forgotten the men until they got up and left together. She sneaked a peek over the top of the newspaper. No hard stare from Rod, just a view of his retreating back. “Have a pleasant day,” she called. They all waved and grunted something. Except Rod, who stuck his hands in his pockets as if protecting them.

  After signing the check, she opened the wooden door to go outside. The wind ripped the screen door from her hand and banged it against the siding. She caught and latched it, then stood motionless on the three-sided porch of the old Victorian inn. The sunless morning felt as cold as a witch's breath, and she wondered if she shouldn't reconsider walking on the beach. Across the road, the sea bulged and pitched its waters, sounding like whisks rubbing across a rumbling kettle drum. The crisp tang of its brine invaded her nose, and she bounded down the steps.

  She reached the rented Cadillac, unlocked it and pulled her black lambskin cape and trademark velvet cloche off the back seat.

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  At the back of the parking lot, Rod leaned on the Jeep's front fender. “Another bad one,” he said, looking east where the sky and sea were doing their damndest to warn people away. He zipped his North Sea parka and looked at Spence – as ever, spit and polished to do the National Park Service proud. “Aren't you cold?”

  “Nah,” Spence said, blowing into his fists.

  “Guess today will be a …” Rod heard the door-bang echo across the lot and looked toward the inn. The wind had ripped the screen door from the skinny woman with the long blonde hair. At least she'd secured it again, he'd give her that. Now she was standing on the porch hugging herself against the cold. A visceral burst of heat rose from the base of his spine. Why, he couldn't explain, except she angered him, but it niggled at him that this heat wasn't anger alone.

  “Roddy, man, you sure took a dislike to that lady,” Spence said, motioning his head toward the woman.

  “You liked her enough for both of us.”

  “She didn't mean any harm. You can't blame someone for misspeaking.”

  Rod watched the woman cross the gravel to her car. He grunted. “It gripes me when people come for a visit and start mouthing off about what locals should and shouldn't know.”

  “Can't argue with that, Roddy.” Spence said, “but I don't think she meant to mouth off. She doesn't know what happened. She was saying something to be saying something. You know how females are?”

  Rod considered that he resented this particular female because she stirred up a stew of unwanted memories. Plus, he'd never been partial to blondes. His eyelids blinked steadily as he watched her pull a helmet kind of hat over her bright hair and swing a cape over her shoulders.

  He heard Spence's low sound of arousal and what he said. “Mrs. MacGregor told me her name. Ann Gavrion. Pretty name for a silver lady.”

  Rod stifled a bitter laugh, yet he felt twitchy. If he took his hands out of his pockets Spence would see them shake. He glanced at him, then at the woman named Ann, now crossing the road. Spence loved silver blonde hair like that she-devil had. Rod couldn't think why he thought her a she-devil, but something about her awakened a particular kind of darkness in him.

  “Lanky and gorgeous,” Spence said.

  “No,” Rod said. Her face was a little too long and gaunt to be gorgeous, or even nice. And she'd given him a snotty smile at breakfast.

  But he listened as Spence raved on, “She's got pizzazz and wonderful eyes, the kind that change color with a mood. Last night they were the color of worry, but bet you they could sparkle with the right incentive.”

  Rod tried to keep his voice level. “What's she doing here anyway?”

  “Vacation, like she said.”

  “This time of year?”

  “Some people like fall better than summer. Mrs. MacGregor said she's with a magazine up in Atlanta.”

  Malice spread like spider veins through Rod. “I saw purpose written all over her. She's no ordinary tourist. Before you know it, she'll be asking us why we live here in Hurricane Alley for a piece she's writing – so her readers can understand another set of idiots.”

  “I don't have a problem with that,” Spence said. “But you ask me, she just seems sad.”

  Rod lifted his hand from his pocket and placed it on Spence's shoulder. “Well, my friend, if you're thinking to cheer her up yourself …”

  “Hey buddy, I'm not thinking anything of the kind.”

  Rod shook his head. “That means you got a definite plan.”

  “You don't know me as well as you think,” Spence said and went to the driver's side of his truck, opened the door, and took out his service hat. “You ready to roll to Buxton?”

  “I'll drive up later. I got more turtle nests to check on – see how much damage the squall did.”

  “The life of the marine biologist,” Spence muttered, cocking his head to where Ann stood on the wooden planks leading to the sea shore. “You going to check the terns and chippies, too?”

  Rod looked at the woman now descending the steps, her cape threatening to balloon up and float her away. He didn't feel like answering Spence.

  Spence laughed. “Take your time. We won't be going out on this sea. Another day of sitting around shooting the crap with the Coast Guard, hoping to God nobody gets in trouble between here and the shoals.”

  Rod watched as Spence smoothed the Suburban onto Highway 12, then he rolled the collar of his parka higher on his neck and dashed across the road toward the sea.

  CHAPTER TWO

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  This Atlantic Ocean wasn't like the calm waters off St. Simons Island where she'd scattered Boyd's ashes. “Stop picking the scab, Annie,” she said aloud. But isn't that why you came to this desolate place – to pick the scab until you're damned tired of picking the scab?

  Watching gray and white seagulls cavort, a smaller brown mixing into their fun, she clutched the long cape tight to her body and made her way through the sea oats down to the wet sand. Looking over the water where roiling clouds met the bloated sea, she couldn't make out a true horizon, and when a wind gust threatened to rip the velvet cloche from her head, she reached up and yanked it to her eyebrows. As tempting as it was, she refused to retreat to the inn and fret in a room until the weather turned.

  Trekking north, she looked up. What the heck? A tall striped lighthouse appeared to be sitting on the sea. I'm seeing things. The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was miles from here, in Buxton. She'd passed it coming down.

  She looked behind her, toward the dunes. A man stood about where she'd been a few minutes earlier. Rod? She thought so, but couldn't be sure because his neck hunkered into a North Sea parka and the wind scattered his dark hair. When he didn't gesture to acknowledge her, she was sure it was him. Although she didn't feel any menace radiating from him, she knew he’d followed her.

  Hurrying away, she looked north again, and the lighthouse was still there – still where it wasn't supposed to be, its trademark stripes rising from the sea. She watched its beacon flash, and, seven seconds later, rotate back. Am I seeing a mirage?

  A person appeared at the red brick base of the lighthouse. It was a blurry vertical shadow, as
if it, too, materialized from the sea. It hurried toward her becoming the clear image of a man. He pointed at something to her right. She glanced toward the long, dark thing in the sea foam. His gestures had an urgency that made her walk more quickly toward the irregular hulk with iron spikes poking from holes in the black wood.

  “Shipwreck.” The word echoed in the unreal air. She turned toward the dunes to see a line of men, women and children clamoring down the hillocks toward the sea. Hysterical faces. Frantic arms waving. Voices crying, “Shipwreck.”

  She turned to the hulk and came face to face with the man from the lighthouse. He bobbed his head, then looked at the colossal wreck. “Fascinating, isn't it?” His low voice intermingled with the slop of the sea. A closer look at him, and her mind went to painted seascapes with rugged men in clothing like he wore – a sou'wester hat with a thick string hanging loose under his chin, a dark oilskin and black boots up to his knees. His brown beard was trimmed close and his remarkable blue eyes glistened into hers.

  “Yes, fascinating,” she said and looked closely at what could be a ship bow. “Who is she?”

  “She?”

  “Aren't ships referred to in the female gender?”

  His smile carved dimples in his cheeks. “You are correct, Miss …?”

  “Gavrion. Ann Gavrion.”

  “I'm Curator,” he said, waving an arm toward the road above them, at the museum built to look like a ship that had rolled on its side.

  “Does the curator have a name?” she asked.

  “Curator is my name. Lawrence Curator.”

  “Fitting,” she said. When the sea lapped closer, she let it seethe over her shoes. “Well, Mr. Curator, I'll ask again. Who is she?”

  “We might know in time. Probably not, though. “ He looked to the sea.. “There are thousands of wrecked ships out there.”

  “I'd like to know about this ship.”

  The lines around his eyes crinkled making her feel like a shy school girl. “Why?”

  “It was once whole,” she said. “It had a name.”