P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“I didn’t know we’d taken on the business of lynching the Chinese, Garrett,” he said calmly, holding his anger in check. “Pray explain yourself.”

Garrett shrugged, folding massive arms across his chest. “The Customs agents came a bit too close, so I stashed the shipment on the beach earlier. When I returned to retrieve it just now, it was gone. That Lok fella there, he supposedly gardens this piece of land—I saw him lurking about earlier. I don’t tolerate theft.”

“Nor do I.” The victim’s kicks had become feebler. “However, nor do I want the authorities targeting us as part of a murder investigation.”

“Hell, his own kind didn’t even try to save him—that tells you he’s guilty as sin.” Garrett spit into the tall grass, then shrugged. “Let him swing awhile longer, then we’ll see what he has to say.”

Michael nodded to Remy and Max. “Cut him down.”

“What’re you about?” Garrett’s expression was incredulous. “Every Chinaman in town will hear of this. You’ve undercut my authority, damn you!”

“Would those be the Chinese you smuggled in this evening, or the ones already living upon our fair soil?” Michael asked mildly.

Garrett swore. As one of his thugs made a move to intervene, Michael held up a hand. “Call your men off, now .”

Garrett hesitated, then grudgingly gave an order to have his men stand down. “You’ll regret this, Seavey.”

“I’d regret even more visits from the new police chief—the man is a bit too eager to prove his worth to our town council.”

Michael watched dispassionately as his bodyguards untied Lok’s hands and set him free. The man staggered, hands at his throat, then disappeared into the shadows.

“A few more minutes, and I’d have had the information I needed to retrieve our shipment,” Garrett complained.

Michael seriously doubted the man had purloined the drugs, though that did leave a question as to who had . “A few more minutes, and you would’ve had a body to dispose of,” he retorted. “Dead men don’t talk.”

Garrett’s laughter echoed harshly through the hushed night. “I didn’t believe the rumors about how you’d lost your nerve, but now I’ve got the hard evidence of it.”

Michael reached up to turn the collar of his coat higher—the rain fell more steadily now, running down the back of his neck to soak his shirt. He wanted nothing more than for this meeting to end—he had no patience for explaining himself to others. “You purposely taunt the revenue agents, Garrett, making no effort to disguise your weekly trips. Already, they pay more attention to our shipments than before. If anyone is the fool this night, it is you.”

“And what?” Garrett asked, amused. “You think to outrun Customs when your little ship is finally sea-worthy? Everyone knows steamers are the only vessels fast enough to beat the revenue cutters.”

So Garrett had heard about his project to refurbish a clipper ship that had been pulled out of service by its shipping company. ’Twas a pity; Michael had hoped to keep the new business venture a secret from Garrett, since he planned to cut him out of the proceeds.

“I don’t intend to outrun Customs, merely to outfox them,” he explained with more tolerance than he felt. “Pray tell, Garrett, what does every steamer trafficking in contraband do when the Customs boats approach? They run up sails, to make the agents believe they are a sailing ship, because everyone knows sailing ships don’t carry contraband. What better way to sail right past the authorities than with a luxury clipper ship? And even if the agents come aboard, no passenger will admit to their activities belowdecks.” He shrugged. “Besides, I merely plan to provide my passengers with luxurious accommodations in which to indulge their tastes, not traffic the drug,” he lied.

“I’ve saddled myself with a business partner who clings to old methods,” Garrett scoffed. “Your judgment is faulty at best. And, I suspect, compromised by your inability to forget the past.”

Michael froze. “If that’s your belief, you are welcome to strike out on your own,” he replied, his tone arctic.

“With what funds? You’ve cost me my stake by letting Lok go.”

“On the contrary—you’ve cost us both our stakes this night through your own recklessness, which I will not tolerate. What happened to the original shipment is of little consequence. Find a way to provide recompense, and soon, or face the consequences.”

Garrett’s expression was contemptuous. “If you flinch at the sight of a Celestial swinging from a limb, I doubt you have the stomach to take me on.”

“You have seventy-two hours.”

Michael jerked his head at Remy and Max, then turned to leave. With his bodyguards flanking him, walking backward with sharp eyes trained on Garrett’s men, Michael returned to the carriage.

As the carriage wound its way down to the waterfront, his mood remained pensive. Regardless of the reasons he’d given Garrett, he wondered if the man had been right in his assessment. When it came to murder, Michael had never been squeamish. And yet tonight, if he hadn’t intervened—indeed if he’d let Lok die—he knew he wouldn’t have slept for days.

Chapter 6

THE next morning, Jordan lay in bed, scowling at the water spot on her bedroom ceiling. Tom was no doubt anxious to tell her all about it, to explain how it was a symptom of a malevolent type of impossible-to-find leak in the roof that would dog her to her grave.

Roof leaks, she’d read, could start anywhere. Rain could seep through in one spot—perhaps because of a relatively innocent cracked or broken roof tile—then travel along the roofline forever, finally soaking through where one least expected. The old water spot on her ceiling was probably just such a beast. She suspected Tom had a long, detailed list of such beasts. She was doomed.

And if the events of yesterday were any indication, her strategy of denial had also taken a severe hit. Not that it wasn’t salvageable, but still. It was hard to ignore an object as imposing as a ghost ship with thousands of yards of sails and rigging, tons of decking, and multiple masts resembling giant, old-growth trees. An object large enough and fast enough to mow her down, squashing her like a gnat.

By comparison, planning a wedding for the ghost of an opium-smuggling sociopath was starting to look like a cakewalk.

She tossed the covers aside, climbing stiffly from bed. After a halfhearted attempt to look presentable in case any ghosts were lingering about, she hobbled on sore joints and aching muscles to the upstairs landing, pausing for a moment to enjoy the early morning peace and quiet.

At this time of the day, the house felt settled, peaceful, and … well, welcoming. Though it had been vacant for a number of years before she’d moved in, it held an indefinable quality that made her believe—in some woo-woo sort of way—that it had been waiting for her. Ridiculous, but she suspected that all old houses, saturated as they were with the memories of a century or more of personal history, gave off that vibe. Old houses talked as well—via the creaks in their worn floorboards, the distant rumble of their ancient furnaces, the echoes of footsteps as one walked down hallways over hardwood floors that had long ago given up their tight fit.

In the air above her, sparkling dust motes caught up-drafts in the fractured rays of sun that shone through windows high over the stairwell. Someone’s handprint marred the light film that had settled on the shiny mahogany railing since she’d polished it a few days ago. The pale, robin’s-egg-blue runner still showed bits of bark here and there—the remaining evidence of sections of wisteria vine having been hauled down from the attic and out through the front door. She really needed to unpack her vacuum and clean up the debris rapidly accumulating on every stair riser and in every room corner.