Haunted Destiny (19 page)

“Of course,” he murmured. “Tell me something. Since your husband must've known about collecting such things... Did you ever handle a set of saints' medallions that were created right before World War II?”

“Why, yes, I believe Sam did have a set. Italian, I think. I'm not sure which church they came from, but I recall that they were created to help provide for orphaned children. I vaguely remember seeing the set. The medallions were silver-plated—exquisite but not very expensive!”

“Did he happen to sell those to Roger?” Jude asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. McCoy—Jude,” she amended quickly. “I didn't meet Roger until after Sam died. I'm afraid I don't know who the medallions were sold to. But the buyer would be on record with my husband's accountant. Sam's bookkeeping was meticulous. Were you looking for a set of medallions? Perhaps Myles Barton could help you. He was Sam's assistant.”

“Yes, I've been looking for exactly this set,” Jude said. “Flora, as soon as we're able to make contact with the outside world again, I'd appreciate it if you'd speak to your bookkeeper and find out who bought that set from Sam.” To make his interest in the medals seem straightforward—merely a collector's obsession—he added, “I've wanted these for years, ever since I, uh, first read about them.”

“I'll be happy to look into it,” she told him.

After a few more pleasantries, he left.

There had originally been five thousand sets. Just because Flora's husband, Sam Winters, had sold a set, that certainly didn't mean he'd been the one to sell it to the Archangel.

But being this close to learning about one of the sets—and, more than that, learning there'd been a connection between the seller and one of the suspects...

It seemed like more than a coincidence.

He wasn't much of a believer in coincidence.

Ghosts, yes, he told himself drily.

Coincidence? No.

* * *

Jude did not come to rescue Alexi and Clara.

They stayed with Jensen Hardy through an afternoon of contests and games.

By five o'clock, Alexi was pretty sure she hated Jude McCoy.

Hank poked his head in, Ginny Monk on his arm, just as Jensen was teasing that they'd make one of their last games of the day a wet T-shirt contest.

During the final trivia game, the ballroom had begun to fill up with older teens and young adults. They cheered him on.

Alexi could see Hank entering the ballroom with Ginny. The bar had been open for a long time; maybe that was why Jensen's suggestion of a wet T-shirt contest brought enthusiasm and laughter—and a surge of people heading to the bar.

“Sales!” he told Alexi and Clara happily.

“Sales,” they murmured to each other.

“How can we have a wet T-shirt contest?” one young woman called out.

“Well, now that you ask...” Jensen grinned and searched the shelves of the large trunk, on rollers, that often went with him from venue to venue on the ship. “Aha!” he cried, producing spray bottles of water. “Ten. We can have ten entries. And to make it lots of fun, each young lady willing to have a wet T-shirt is welcome to have her man—her friend, her sister, broker, companion, whoever—wield the spray bottles!”

“What if a young man wants to enter the contest?”

“I know that voice,” Clara whispered to Alexi.

“Simon?”

“It's the singer!” someone else said.

“I say let him join!”

Simon walked through the crowd, smiling, his hands up. “Just kidding, folks. However, the winner is welcome to wet down my T-shirt!”

“That's a deal,” a girl called out, drawing a round of laughter from the crowd.

“Ah, now, if my lovely assistants will select ten young ladies—only those with their hands raised, we take no prisoners on this ship!—we'll get it going,” Jensen said.

“I am really going to kill Jude,” Alexi muttered to Clara.

“I'd kill him, too—except that I'm happy to be alive!” Clara said.

So am I!
Alexi thought
. Still...how could he just leave us here?

Guarded by Johnny, a security man she liked, she reminded herself.

But with Jensen? For bingo and all these games—and a wet T-shirt contest.

“Hey!” someone shouted. “Personally, I'd like to see the lovely assistants in the wet T-shirt contest.”

“Not a prayer, buddy!” Clara said under her breath.

“We can't,” Alexi said. “But for those of you who are eager and willing...”

In fact it was easy for Alexi and Clara to come up with the right number of contestants. First rule for volunteers—to enter the wet T-shirt contest, you had to be wearing a T-shirt. And then you needed a companion or friend.

She was standing near the bar when she heard Ginny and Hank talking. “It'll be fun! Oh, come on, Hank. We'll have a good time!”

“I don't want everyone seeing my girl in a wet T-shirt,” Hank said stubbornly.

“Actually,” Alexi said, walking toward them quickly, “the T-shirts aren't going to get that wet. They're just little spray bottles.”

“See?” Ginny said.

“If you're set on it, be my guest. But I don't want to be involved,” Hank said.

“Okay, don't worry about it,” Ginny told him. “We'll just watch.”

“I'm happy just to watch, too,” Alexi said, moving on.

One girl joined with her brother, who was mortified. Jensen had a great deal of fun teasing the two of them. Alexi discovered that, in some ways, this event was similar to her evenings in the piano bar—minus the singing and the piano, of course.

It all had to do with engaging the crowd.

And Jensen Hardy was very good at that.

Each team had a cheering section. And despite what Alexi had seen as a distinctly uncomfortable activity, the contest was fun. It had nowhere near the sexual edge it might have had poolside.

The brother kept wetting his sister's arm, drawing all kinds of criticism and laughter from the crowd.

And everyone involved got a ten-dollar credit for drinks or the casino—with no expiration date, in case the weather got worse and they were unable to use them during this cruise.

Casino credits certainly didn't represent a loss to the ship; most people used up their ten dollars and perhaps even won. Only to put their winnings—and more—back into the machines and in the hands of the dealers.

Simon allowed a group of girls to soak his T-shirt with their bottles when the contest was over. He was more the lean ascetic type than the brawny he-man, but the girls still enjoyed themselves and Simon was entertaining.

“You're just chorus?” she teased, bringing him a towel after he'd been drenched.

He grinned at her. “Ah, but I don't intend to stay just chorus!”

“And I'm sure you won't.”

Guests were trailing out now. Hank and Ginny were having an intense discussion at the bar. Clara, she saw, was staring at the door. She started walking toward it, and Alexi hurried after her as she stepped out into the hall. And there was the ghost of Byron Grant, leaning against a wall. He'd probably been there, watching all the while. But Clara was still staring at him, and he was staring back.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a whisper.

“Clara!”

Alexi caught her by the shoulders, turning her so they were facing each other. People were walking by, giving them curious looks, since Clara seemed to be talking to herself.

“Clara, please don't!”

“Who the hell is he? He's watching all the time. He could be—”

The killer.

“He's not!” Alexi responded quickly to the words Clara didn't quite say. “He's not! Look at me, listen to me. Let all these people get out of here.”

Jensen was inside the ballroom, cleaning up.

“Jensen, we have to leave. See you later!” she called. She set an arm around Clara's shoulders and led her down the hall, glancing at Johnny, who was waiting for them, so he'd follow them down the hall to the elevators.

“Don't talk yet. I'll explain in my room.”

“Everyone just ignores him,” Clara said. “And I see him all the time. It's creepy!”

“Clara, we have to get to my cabin before we talk about this.”

She smiled weakly as they passed people they knew, or had met while entertaining on the ship. Finally, they reached the employee cabins. Alexi waved her thanks to Johnny and urged Clara into her room.

“Out with it!” Clara insisted. “Who
is
that man? Why are you defending him? He looks suspicious. He sometimes follows me!”

“Clara, he's not going to hurt you,” Alexi said.

There was a soft knock at the cabin door. “Alexi, it's me, Byron.”

“That's him, isn't it?” Clara demanded. “Let him in. I'm going to tell him a thing or two. Is he with the FBI? Someone should've told me.”

She didn't open the door.

But a second later Byron appeared inside.

Clara looked at him, and then at Alexi.

And then she collapsed—luckily, close enough to Alexi's bed so she could guide her friend onto it.

* * *

Every inch of the
Destiny
, with the exception of the guest cabins and employee quarters,
had been searched.

The security guard who'd been assigned to the employee hallway that morning was gone. He was Nathan Freeman, veteran of many a voyage. He'd been a Dallas cop before he'd joined the Celtic American group over a decade ago, and he was one of David Beach's most dependable men.

But he was nowhere to be found. He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Engine rooms and storage areas, every lifeboat, every nook and cranny, had been exhaustively searched. Various members of the staff had taken part and, after his visit with Flora Winters, Jude had joined in, as well.

Regular announcements had been made over the PA system, asking Nathan Freeman to report to Security. Nathan had not appeared.

Once again, Jude and Jackson met with David Beach and his security men in their small office. This time, Captain Thorne was present, too.

“The only places we haven't searched, of course, are the cabins,” David Beach said. “Captain, do you want us to start checking out guest and employee cabins?”

“If he is in a cabin somewhere, I'm going to assume it's with a friend, a crew member. Perhaps he was suddenly taken ill,” Captain Thorne said.

He didn't believe it. None of them believed it.

“At least we haven't found his body,” Beach said, a catch in his voice.

Jackson had been silent, listening to Beach and his men go through their reports.

Now he spoke up. “I'm afraid we're not going to find Mr. Freeman's body. We're all aware that we're sailing in very rough seas.”

“You think Nathan deserted his post—and fell off the ship?” Beach demanded indignantly.

“No, I do not,” Jackson said. “I do suggest another intense search for him. Knock on cabin doors. Honest people will understand that we're in a difficult situation. Anyone who won't cooperate will give us reason to take a second look. Captain, aren't there maritime laws that can be invoked?” He paused as Thorne nodded grimly. “However, I'm afraid we won't find him.”

There was silence.

“But we'll try every possible approach,” Beach said.

“Yes,” the captain agreed.

Beach struggled to speak for a moment before he said, “You and Agent McCoy believe that the Archangel is on board. But the Archangel is a man who kills women. I'm not suggesting all women are weak and vulnerable, not at all, but Nathan is a big guy—broad shoulders, lots of muscle. If I've understood anything about the psychopathic killers, which I'm assuming the Archangel must be, it's that they're often weaklings, cowed by greater strength. How could a man like that have taken my officer?”

“By surprise,” Jackson told him. “We'll keep searching, of course. None of us will stop searching. But I'm afraid that we're not going to like the outcome.”

Again there was silence.

“We don't even know that this man is really on the ship!” Captain Thorne protested.

“We have reason to believe he is,” Jude said flatly.

Captain Thorne turned red. “No,
we
don't,” he retorted. “I have to be in the main dining room. Tonight's the captain's dinner, and, after this, I may well be declaring a state of emergency. The
Destiny
is one of the most elegant ships sailing the seas, and we will not make a mockery of her tonight. We will continue to cooperate in every way with the FBI, but we'll also assume the best—and not the worst!—regarding Nathan Freeman. Is that understood?”

“Captain,” Jackson said, “it's your ship.”

“Yes, and at sea, I am the ultimate law.”

“Of course, and we appreciate the cooperation,” Jackson said.

Captain Thorne spun around and marched out of the room.

When he'd left, Beach looked at Jackson and Jude, his expression pained. “This part of
we
believes you, Agents,” he said. He spoke to his men. “During the captain's dinner tonight, we have to be more vigilant than ever, stay in closer contact with one another.” He looked back at Jude and Jackson again.

“And God help us, the weather's only going to get worse.”

13

C
lara seemed to be in shock at first. Disbelieving.

That was the initial response most people had to seeing—and speaking with—the dead.

But Byron must've been a decent man. He and his Elizabeth had surely been a loving couple, the kind of people who were bound to make the world a better place, Alexi thought sadly, watching him talk to Clara. She admired his earnestness, the way he assured Clara that he was doing everything he could to see that the murderer was brought to justice.

And by the time Byron had gone through whatever reserves of strength or will or whatever allowed him to appear, Clara in turn was watching him as he vanished before her eyes.

“I see the dead.” Clara was staring straight ahead. She looked at Alexi. “I see the dead. You see the dead. You take it so...calmly.”

“I've known for years that I see them,” she said in a quiet voice. “It's...it's in my family.”

“Sure.” Clara shrugged with a hint of humor. “Some people inherit blue eyes. Some people inherit the ability to see the dead,” Clara said. “And now, now when I'm terrified of a serial killer, I get to see the dead, too. Wow. What a voyage.”

“You've been seeing them all along,” Alexi told her.

“What?”

“Blake and Minnie. They're always at the piano bar.”

Clara flopped back on the bed and closed her eyes. “This isn't real. It can't be. We're getting cabin fever because of the storm. And because...there's a serial killer aboard.”

“Clara, seeing the dead is a good thing,” Alexi reassured her.

“Why? Is the ghost going to catch the serial killer?”

“Well, no, but he
is
looking after us.”

“And if he sees someone about to attack us, what's he going to do? Scream for help?”

“Maybe,” Alexi said. “Others see him, too.”

Clara bolted into a sitting position. “You're going to tell me the FBI men see ghosts?”

“Uh, yes,” Alexi mumbled. “These two, anyway.”

“No. Oh, no! This can't be true. It can't be.”

There was a knock at her cabin door and Alexi hurried over, hoping it was going to be Jude.

It wasn't.

It was Jensen Hardy.

She hesitated, not wanting to open the door. She'd had enough of him that day.

And she wasn't supposed to open her door—except for Jude or Jackson.

“Yes?” she called.

“Hey, all entertainment on deck, dressed and ready to go. Captain Thorne wants all singers and dancers ready for impromptu performances. Captain's dinner!” Jensen announced.

Glancing through the peephole again, Alexi saw that Johnny was still on duty, watching over them. He stood just beyond Jensen.

She opened the door. “Why?” she asked.

“I have the feeling Thorne just wants to get through the dinner,” Jensen said. “We'll probably go into emergency mode after that. He'll be asking passengers to stay in their cabins and listen to the PA system. So, we're going to entertain at dinner.”

“With no plan?” Clara asked, rising. “No rehearsals or anything?”

“Hey, this came down to me from Bradley Wilcox,” Jensen said. “A few minutes ago.”

“And we have to do it?”

“Only if you want to keep your employment with Celtic American,” Jensen said. “Report to the main dining room in an hour, all prettied up and ready to go. Come on. I know you guys helped me out today, but I'm as tired as you are. Think of it this way. You can sleep all day tomorrow if we go into emergency mode. Great sleeping,” he added sarcastically, “tossing and turning like we're on a roller coaster.”

“Okay, okay! We'll be there,” Alexi said, closing the door. Clara wasn't in her usual state of self-control; she seemed ready to throw a pillow or something harder at Jensen.

“Dickhead!” she muttered.

“It not Jensen's fault,” Alexi pointed out.

“I meant Bradley Wilcox. But they're both dickheads.” She stood. “I'd better go clean up and get dressed.”

“Are you okay?” Alexi asked, afraid her tone was more anxious than she wanted it to be. If she was going to convince Clara that it was actually a good thing to talk to ghosts, she had to make sure she projected her own comfort with the phenomenon.

“No, I'm feeling pissed off, but...” Clara squared her shoulders. “Yeah, I'm okay. I'm not religious, although I've always believed in something beyond this life—and I guess that could include ghosts. Seeing them, hearing them, talking to them. All the philosophical ramifications of this...well, I hope I'll be able to take them in when there isn't a serial killer aboard the ship I'm on. Not to mention a storm named Dinah bearing down on us.”

She headed for the cabin door, then turned back.

“They don't just pop in on you unexpectedly, do they?” she asked, sounding worried.

“Byron is very polite,” Alexi replied. “he knocks when he comes to visit.”

“But you said he's not the only ghost on this ship.”

“All our ghosts are very circumspect,” Alexi said.

Clara sighed. “Courteous ghosts. What next?” She set her hand on the cabin door.

“Wait!” Alexi said. “Careful. Let me check that Johnny's still out there.”

She looked through the peephole. They were safe. Johnny was there, standing guard. Alexi opened the door and smiled at him. “Could you walk Clara across the hall?”

“Of course,” Johnny said with a nod. “My pleasure.” Clara had barely been gone two minutes when Alexi heard another tap at her door. She assumed it was Clara coming back for some reason.

She almost forgot about safety and was on the verge of throwing open her door. But she heard Jude's voice, identifying himself.

Grateful that she hadn't just opened her door, she let him in.

“Where have you
been
?” she demanded. “Jude, it went from bingo to trivia. And on to a wet T-shirt contest.” She rolled her eyes. “I really tried to draw people out. I had a few minutes with Jensen, who doesn't seem to be the least interested in collectible religious objects. And I saw Hank Osprey. He was there with Ginny, and she wanted to enter the wet T-shirt contest, but he wouldn't let her. Or at least he discouraged her in no uncertain terms. Is that overly possessive? Or is that how a guy might naturally feel? Oh, and I've discovered that Clara sees the dead, too. I'd suspected it, but now I know. I think she's okay with it.” Alexi stopped speaking; she felt as though she was babbling. Maybe she was getting tired. Or maybe she was so glad to see Jude she was afraid she was becoming dependent on him.

Maybe she was even wondering what would happen if they survived this journey...
She was afraid that her flustered state of mind might repel him.

But it didn't seem to. Although he'd been tense, he smiled and took her gently into his arms.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I'm sorry you were brought into this.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she insisted. She pulled away from him, meeting his eyes, then laid her cheek against his chest. “Byron came to me because he needed help. And, apparently, my life is at risk. I
have
to be in on this. And despite the geyser of words with which I greeted you, I'm fine.”

“Very fine,” he whispered.

“Jude, it's so hard! When you're dealing with people who seem to be so normal, how do you begin to figure out who could be a brutal killer?”

He drew in a breath, and she knew he was thinking that there were cases when a killer hadn't been caught, when he terrorized others for years—and perhaps died of natural causes without ever being discovered. And some serial killers had preyed on the unwary for years before being brought to justice.

“We keep engaging them, as you did today, with Jensen and Hank. We wait for them to give themselves away. Sometimes all it takes is a word or mannerism. Sometimes, we can eliminate people if we can determine where they were or weren't at a certain time. And occasionally you talk to someone, and you somehow
know.
You sense that he's guilty—and then you have to prove it. But in this situation we have to narrow down the possibilities.”

“When the computers were still working, I was trying to gather whatever information I could on the saints' medallions,” Alexi said.

“Which, as we've all agreed, could be the key.” Jude hesitated. “I may have tracked down a set of the medallions.”

Alexi sat on the bed and listened while he told about his day, about speaking with Lorna, and then Flora Winters—and learning that her husband had sold a set of the collectible medallions.

She felt there was something he wasn't telling her, though.

“Jude? What is it?”

He shook his head unhappily. “A man's gone missing,” he explained. “Nathan Freeman, one of David Beach's security crew. He was scheduled to be in the hallway this morning. He's missing. We've searched the ship for him. Searched everywhere.”

“You think...the killer got him?”

“I think it's possible.” He changed the subject abruptly. “I'm going to dress for dinner. You're staying with me, and I don't care whether or not we're following staff policy.”

“I have to be in the dining room,” she told him. “I'm one of the entertainers giving an impromptu performance for the captain's dinner.”

“I won't be far away,” he promised. “I won't be far from you—at any time.”

* * *

The tension among the passengers on the
Destiny
seemed palpable.

The ship now had a constant sway, although it seemed to be riding the waves well.

To reach their tables, people had to hold on to the backs of chairs. Once they were seated, waiters took more time than usual delivering drinks; they carried fewer glasses on a tray in case they lost their balance.

Alexi observed that not everyone had made it down to the captain's dinner.

Clara was with her at the piano. Alexi had been given the task of playing “mood” music while the passengers found their seats.

Jude stood near the piano, which was situated on a little dais. It had the added advantage of providing a good view of the dining room.

Hank and Ginny, as well as Roger and Lorna were at the captain's table; Jackson Crow had also secured himself a seat there. So had Flora Winters. The table seated ten, but Jude wasn't familiar with the other four people there. He wasn't surprised to see two of his suspects at the head table, since they were among the richest men in the country and had taken the ship's most expensive suites.

Simon Green was with a group of the performers.

Jude didn't see Jensen Hardy at first and stepped to the side to ask one of the security men to take a look around.

It wasn't long until the man returned; apparently, Jensen was preparing to come out and make announcements when Captain Thorne finished his speech.

Soup and salads were served, and then the main courses.

Alexi played throughout the meal. Jude watched her, admiring her. Her fingers moved with pure elegance over the keys. He loved the ease with which she played, and the way she could speak without missing a beat, sing and harmonize, and do it all as naturally as breathing. He studied her face and her expressions, and he felt a slow tightening in his muscles, wondering how one human being had become the world to him in just a few days.

Because she was ready to risk everything when it mattered?

Because she saw the dead?

Because, somehow, she seemed to reach his soul?

He
saw Jensen approaching the captain's table with a microphone.

Captain Thorne rose, and Alexi stopped playing.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said, addressing the dinner guests. “I'm Xavier Thorne, your captain on the
Destiny.
I believe that all of you are on this ship because you've chosen to sail with history. Many of you have taken the tours we give of the ship, and have learned about her role as a hospital ship. You sail with her through time, and you sail with the ghosts of the past.”

They sure did!
Jude thought.

“This is proving to be one of our more unusual cruises,” Thorne continued. “Our guests who are from certain areas of the country are well aware of tropical storms. We here, on the
Destiny
, also know them well. I want to welcome you aboard to reassure you that no matter how hard the winds blow, the
Destiny
will prevail. She's made it through wind and rain and fire. She will do so again.” He cleared his throat. “I'd like to ask you to pay attention to our PA system. Announcements will be coming to you regarding our position at sea. We may ask that our nonessential personnel—that is, anyone not engaged in actually operating the ship—stay in their cabins for a spell. I ask our passengers, entertainers and staff to be expert sailors along with me and my crew, and to cooperate at all times. I invite you to speak about your voyage, and when we've returned to port, to brag that you were aboard the
Destiny
when she ran circles around Hurricane Dinah. I won't confine anyone to their cabins unless it becomes necessary. If it should, I ask that you obey my directives. Other than that, enjoy your time aboard, just as I always enjoy mine. And thank you sincerely for sailing with Celtic American!”

A round of applause followed his words.

But then someone called out, “Captain, exactly when will we be reaching port?”

Another asked, “Why haven't you found a safe harbor yet?”

“What are the cruise line officials doing? There has to be someplace to go!”

“Hey, Cozumel was nearly flattened!” someone else shouted angrily.

And then...

“Captain! I heard that a man went missing today. Is that true? Was he swept overboard?”

“Oh, my God!” several other people shouted.