Ghost Night [Mass Market Paperback]

Two years later, survivor Vanessa Loren is drawn back to South Bimini by a documentary being made about the storied region. Filmmaker Sean O'Hara aches to see how the unsolved crime haunts her…and Sean knows more than a little about ghosts.

Lured by visions of a spectral figurehead, Vanessa discovers authentic pirate treasures that only deepen the mystery. Are the murders the work of modern-day marauders, the Bermuda Triangle or a deadly paranormal echo of the island's violent history? As Vanessa and Sean grow closer, the killer prepares to resume the slaughter…unless the dead can intervene.

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 f lippers 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 f latly. "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 con-versationalist—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 shoo...