Heather Graham - Ghost Shadow

Katie was surprised to feel her eyes stinging, and then she realized that tears were dampening her cheeks.

She wished that she could hug Bartholomew.

Not that she knew where he was!

Ah, well, she would do her best when she did see him next.

When he had seemed so taken with the woman in white-the one he now knew to be Lucinda, whose brother had died in a storm-he had told her with a certain wistfulness that Victoria had moved on. She was not among those walking the streets of Key West in any spectral way. She must have been a very strong woman-killed so ruthlessly, and yet able to move on to the higher plain of heaven, or wherever it was that the souls of the dead finally found peace.

Katie turned a page in the book, careful to dry her hands so as not to smear the ink or hurt the delicate pages.

Bartholomew’s story was a sad one. She could certainly understand it if he was to walk around near the hanging tree, still crying out his innocence.

She started reading again. The days of the bold wreckers came into play. Sponge divers, builders, settlers…

After a while, she felt a presence near her. She looked up, thinking that Sean might have awakened, even if he had said that he could sleep for a week. But it wasn’t her brother.

Bartholomew was back. He was perched on the edge of the table.

“I was reading about you,” she told him. “I’m so sorry.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Yes, it was quite unjust, but a very long time ago.”

“Where have you been this time?” she asked.

“Police headquarters. Apparently, Lieutenant Dryer has been combing the streets, and he’s quite irritated by all the shenanigans for Fantasy Fest. Seems he can’t get in the questioning he wants at various bars because there are so many people in the streets. Anyway, that’s left most of everything at the station in the hands of Mr. Liam Beckett, who is dealing with all competently, even if his frustration level is quite high.”

“Did you learn anything new?” she asked him.

“Not at the station,” Bartholomew said.

“Then?”

“Well, I can tell you this-Danny Zigler is dead.”

“I know.”

“You’ve seen him, too?” Bartholomew asked.

“He was here-for a split second. He pointed at the book,” Katie said.

“And the book is?”

“Captain Craig Beckett started it, and other Becketts over the years have kept it up. It’s not exactly a family bible, but it’s history as the Becketts saw it over the years,” Katie explained.

“There we are-back to the past,” Bartholomew said, deep in thought.

“Where did you see him?” Katie asked.

“Down on Duval. He was looking up at the strip club. He faded to nothing the minute he saw me.”

“I think that, unlike our other ghosts, Danny may know who killed him,” Katie said.

“Have you told anyone that he’s dead?” Bartholomew asked.

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

Katie sighed deeply. “Who is going to believe me? What am I going to say?”

“Well, that is a problem. You might suggest to someone that you believe that he’s dead.”

“Yes. But I don’t think they need me for such a suggestion. No one has been able to find him.”

Bartholomew waved a hand in the air. “They might believe that he killed Stella Martin, and that he’s in hiding. I’m pretty sure that’s what the lieutenant believes. When he left the station, he told Liam Beckett that he was sorry, but that he was going to damned well take care of the whole Danny Zigler disappearing act.”

“Katie!”

The sharp sound of her name startled her. She glanced up the stairway.

Sean was awake. He hurried down the stairs, his hair tousled, a worried frown twisting his features. He came to her at the table, looking around.

“What are you doing?” he asked her.

“I’m reading the Beckett family book,” she told him.

“Who were you talking to?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t talking.”

“Katie, I heard you-loud and clear.”

“No one, Sean.”

“Katie?”

She was suddenly weary of the doubt from her own brother. “Isn’t that what you taught me to say, Sean? People will think that you’re crazy, don’t ever tell them that you speak to ghosts?”

Sean groaned. “Oh, God, Katie, please!”

“Sean, I’m telling you the truth!”

He walked away from her, slamming his palm against his forehead. “I should never leave you. Screw the whole career thing. My only sister is going to wind up locked away in a nuthouse.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence!”

“Katie, the dead are-dead.”

“Fine. As you say. Therefore, I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

He stared at her and walked to the end of the table.

Right where Bartholomew was sitting.

He walked by Bartholomew, pacing. “All right, Katie, you talk to the dead. If you talk to the dead, why don’t you mumbo jumbo up one of the murdered girls and ask her who killed them?” Sean demanded.

“They don’t know who killed them.”

“Right.”

“The killer walked up behind them with some kind of plastic bag, slipped it over their heads and then strangled them.”

“How convenient. They never saw his face.”

“Well, it’s true,” she said stubbornly.

He reached for the chair at the end of the table. “Call one of them. Let me ask a few questions through you.”

He started to sit. She gasped as Bartholomew stood and angrily tugged at the chair. To Katie’s amazement, it moved.

And Sean plunked down on the floor.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Katie cast Bartholomew a glance and hurried to help her brother to his feet, but Sean was already up.

And confused. He gripped the chair hard before sitting in it again.

He stared at Katie, folding his hands slowly before him. “Katie, you’re beautiful. And brilliant. And you have the voice of a lark. You love it here, you want to live and work here, and that’s all great. But maybe you shouldn’t be here. Maybe you’re just too steeped in the history-and water sports,” he added dryly.

“Sean, I talked to ghosts when I was in school, in New York, and in Boston,” Katie said.

“Is there a ghost in here now?” Sean asked.

“Yes.”

“One of the dead women?”

“No.” Sean was waiting. “A pira-a privateer named Bartholomew,” she said. “He moved the chair because you were mocking me.”

“Bartholomew. Bartholomew, can you hear me?” Sean called out loudly in a deep voice.

“Will you tell him that I’m dead-not deaf?” Bartholomew demanded.

“He said that he’s dead, not deaf,” Katie said.

Her brother shook his head. “Katie, I want to believe you. If he’s here, why can’t I see him?”

“Why can’t he see you?” Katie asked Bartholomew. “By the way, you can ask the questions yourself. I don’t need to repeat them.”

“He can’t see me the way some people can’t hear a tempo, the same way some people have no empathy for others, the same… He doesn’t have the right sense for it, and he just isn’t willing to try,” Bartholomew said. “No insult-most people don’t.”

“He says that you don’t have a sixth sense,” Katie said.

“Why is he here?”

“To protect you, of course!” Bartholomew said.

“He wants to protect me,” Katie said.

“Tell him that I’m home now.”

“He can see that.”

“So why won’t he leave?”

“Because he’s got the sense and intuition of a peg leg!” Bartholomew said.

“You’ve got the sense and intuition of a peg leg,” Katie told her brother.

“Lord help us all!” Sean muttered.

“All right, Katie, he’s your brother, but he’s just about daft,” Bartholomew said. He walked to the book. She saw him concentrate.