Spirits of the Pirate House (11 page)

“Listen, when
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
does
an investigation, we spend anywhere from three to five days in the
area of the place we’re checking out. But I convinced the suits at
The Adventure Channel that if they wanted you to do a thorough job
they’d have to make it worth your while. So, we’re booked here for
up to two weeks if we need it. I
want
you to have some down
time, because if you’re rushed, the final product will show it.
Understood?”

“Great,” said T.J. “So I was thinking that
tomorrow morning I’ll go for a run, then maybe me and Bortnicker
could hit the pool for a little bit before we go pick up LouAnne at
the airport. Then, Chappy could take us to Blue Lagoon and we can
pick up Ronnie and go to St. George’s.”

“He’s very organized,” explained
Bortnicker.

“Okay, whatever,” said Mike. “I’ve been
invited to go charter boat fishing tomorrow by a young lady I met
in Hamilton the other night. Since you guys seem to have your plans
under control, I think I’ll take her up on it. Maybe bring home
some fresh fish to grill.

“Now let’s talk tech.”

* * * *

The men of Jobson’s Cove were just sitting
down to their succulent steak dinner when Nigel Chapford entered
Dora’s Corners for the second time that day. She was bent over the
stove, stirring three pots simultaneously for the dozen patrons
seated at her tables. He slid onto a stool at the counter and said,
“And here I am, back again in search of the beer a certain lady
promised me this afternoon.”

Dora cut him a look over her broad shoulder
that signaled her displeasure.

“Have I done something wrong?” he wondered
aloud.

She stopped stirring and strode to the
counter, leaning her elbows on the chipped wood until her moist
face was only inches from his. “I don’t like this thing you’ve got
going with those boys,” she hissed. “Stickin’ their noses where
they don’t belong.”

“I take it they mentioned William Tarver,” he
sighed.

“Of course,” she said. “The odd one with the
glasses was making like the town crier, for goodness sake.”

Chappy frowned, tracing an old water ring
stain with his finger. “They’re good boys,” he said patiently, “and
it’s understandable they’re all caught up in this TV thing.
Wouldn’t you be, at their age? It’s a big adventure in the tropics
for them.”

“At whose expense?” she retorted. Then she
dropped her voice a few octaves. “Nigel, you know quite well the
rumors about what went on in that house—”

“Never substantiated—”

“Says you.”

“And you honestly expect a group of teenagers
to uncover a mystery that’s been locked away from the public for
over 250 years? I’m surprised at you, Dora.”

“You listen here. I realize that to most of
the people on this island you are Mr. Nigel Chapford, chauffer to
the stars, but don’t forget where you came from,
Chappy
—the
Back of Town, just like me. Just like your wife. Don’t you
ever
let me see you putting outsiders before your own
people. I don’t care how nice they are or how much they pay
you!”

Chapford was actually afraid that Dora, who
was never the greatest specimen of health, was on the verge of a
major coronary attack. He reached out and laid a tentative soothing
hand on her muscled forearm.

“Dora, my love, I will do everything in my
power to keep things under control,” he assured, his teeth gleaming
white. “So please calm yourself. Believe me, it will all work out.
Now, about that beer?”

Chapter Twelve

“
Okay, here goes,”
said T.J., completing his preliminary leg stretches on the concrete
deck of the deserted pool. It was barely 7:00 a.m., but the sun had
broken through an early morning cloud cover to beat down on Bermuda
and evaporate the morning dew. He’d tiptoed past the snoring
Bortnicker, pulled on his Bridgefield High Cross Country tee and
shorts, and carried his New Balance 1226 sneakers outside. Now, as
his cousin would say, it was time to rock. The fact that she would
be here in a few hours only heightened his excitement. Following
Chappy’s directions, he headed left out of the driveway, then found
the Tribal Road that went uphill to the Railway Trail, which was
clearly marked. He hung a left and began padding on the mat of dirt
and fallen leaves that formed the floor. Overreaching trees
shielded him from the sun, and although there was no breeze to be
had, it was quite pleasant under the canopy. Nothing like his first
run with LouAnne last summer on the wide open, blazing battlefield
when he almost killed himself attempting to keep up with her. He
chuckled at the memory of his foolishness in trying to impress her.
Instead of cannon and regimental markers and statues, T.J. was
treated to a colorful riot of Bermuda flora, most of which had been
imported from other countries to thrive in the island’s warm
climate and ample rainfall. Bamboo and orchids, bougainvillea and
begonia, Poinciana and hibiscus and scarlet cordial—they all
swirled together around him as he clipped along.

Running always gave T.J. quiet time to think;
rarely did he use an iPod to make it go faster. This fine morning
many things crossed his mind. The previous day’s events flew by
like a flipbook: the plane flight, the cliffs of Astwood Park, the
strange man at Dora’s and the intriguing girl at the dive shop.

And Bortnicker. Jeez, was he going to make a
fool of himself again? Okay, this Ronnie was a bit of a flirt, but
wasn’t that the byproduct of accommodating the tourists day after
day? Bortnicker was probably so stunned that a girl had even
noticed him that he’d misread a little innocent byplay. Of course,
he reasoned, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps, he
thought selfishly, it would divert his friend’s thoughts from
LouAnne.

Ah, LouAnne. The failure of them to meet up
during the school year vacations had only elevated the anticipation
of this trip. He knew, deep down, how he felt about her, adopted
cousin or no. How
she
felt was another story altogether.
T.J. had gotten what he believed were mixed messages last summer.
However, he feared that what little knowledge he had about females
and their ways, and the way he had built her up in his imagination
into some kind of teenaged goddess, had left him as off base—and
hopeless—as Bortnicker was with Ronnie Goodwin.

Suddenly he slowed and looked up. Through the
canopy of palms and lush vegetation he could make out a towering
pink hotel.

What
? He thought.
Can I have gone
this far
? He stepped into a small clearing; sure enough, he’d
reached the Southampton Princess resort, which they’d passed way
down along South Road the previous day. T.J. checked his watch.
Yup, he’d been running for a half hour, lost in his reverie. He
chuckled at himself, then turned around and hit it for home.

After a breakfast of cold cereal, the boys
lounged in the pool. Bortnicker, who’d slathered his fair skin with
sunscreen, floated around on a rubber tube, his Ray Ban sunglasses
pointed to the sky. T.J., tired from his run, just sat up to his
neck in the shallow end.

“How’d the run feel?” Bortnicker said, his
hands behind his head.

“Not bad at all,” T.J. answered. “I’m glad I
started training last week at home. I’ll be ready for her.”

Bortnicker checked his watch. “Touch down in
an hour and forty minutes. We have to grab a shower soon, Big
Mon.”

“A few more minutes,” said T.J.
contentedly.

“Hey, what did you think of the tech session
last night? Think we’ll be able to actually use all that
equipment?”

“I have my doubts. Listen, I understand what
Mike said about the TV audience liking gadgets, but I don’t know if
we’ll get to use all the stuff, and if it really works at all. I
mean, there’s the night vision camcorders with the infrared lenses,
full spectrum still cameras that we have to set up, thermal imaging
cameras and digital EVP recorders—”

“And don’t forget the underwater movie camera
LouAnne’s gonna have to shoot from the surface, probably lying on a
float or something. It’s incredible that she’ll be able to zoom
down to where we are. That is, if we have a crystal clear day.”

“Modern technology, man. Anyway, Mike said we
don’t need that much underwater footage.”

“And Mike said his main job is to help us get
set up and then review the audio and video at the end of each
investigation, right?”

“Yeah, so I wouldn’t sweat it. We use
camcorders and stuff all the time when we do projects at school.”
T.J. rose up from the water and grabbed his beach towel. “I’ll get
in the shower first, wash this chlorine off.”

“Make yourself look nice, now!” called
Bortnicker behind him.

T.J. showered quickly, then gave his hair a
thorough toweling. He had what the girls at school called “perfect
hair”, which these days constituted a Justin Bieber (actually, a
Beatle) cut that fell across his forehead and brushed his ears.
Kate, the girl who cut the Jackson men’s hair at her Fairfield
salon for free (Dad had designed the salon at a bargain price
because she’d been a friend of his mom’s) never failed to
compliment how enjoyable giving him a haircut was. Bortnicker, on
the other hand, presented a challenge. There wasn’t a hairstylist
alive who could get his unruly mop under control. It was all he
could do to keep his locks from obscuring the Coke-bottle glasses
through which he observed the world.

“Well, don’t we look rather suave!” chided
Bortnicker as he entered the apartment to find T.J. primping in
front of a hallway mirror and sporting a dark blue golf shirt to go
with his khaki cargo shorts.

“What’d you expect me to wear, my
Gonzo
Ghost Chasers
shirt? It’s bad enough we have to have our logo
plastered all over Chappy’s minivan.”

“Ah, you love it,” his friend said
dismissively. “Be out in a second.” And, as was his MO, Bortnicker
emerged dripping wet some scant minutes later, shook the water out
of his hair, threw on a clean tee shirt and shorts, and was good to
go.

A car horn sounded down below. “That’s
Chappy,” said T.J. “Let’s get to the airport.”

It was Bortnicker’s turn to ride up in front,
and he immediately inserted
Rubber Soul
into the CD player.
“And how are you men this fine day?” asked the driver.

“Can’t complain,” said T.J. as the
appropriate first track, “Drive My Car”, began to play. “Another
beautiful morning.”

“You’ll get the odd shower here and there
this time of year, but no worries,” said Chappy, tapping the
steering wheel to Ringo Starr’s backbeat. “It may be raining on one
side of the island and not the other. In any event, the downpours
are brief and dry up quickly. It’s late July through October you
have to be careful of.”

“How come?” asked Bortnicker.

“Hurricane season. We’ve had a few howlers
over the past five years. Caused a lot of heartaches.”

“Including your house?”

“I’ve been lucky. Minimal damage every time.
But many have had to rebuild from nothing. The price you pay for
living on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Where
do
you live, exactly?” asked
T.J.

“It’s an area called ‘Back of Town’, just
outside Hamilton,” Chappy said. T.J. thought he detected a slight
grimace as he uttered the words. “Not the nicest area, I’m afraid.
We have our share of crime there, unfortunately. It’s the part of
the island you never see in the tourism adverts. I hope someday to
purchase a small cottage in Somerset or perhaps Flatts Village,
near the aquarium. But it’s rather pricey here, and I am putting a
child through college. So the cottage will have to wait.”

It was fairly silent after that, the boys
taking in the sights as they wound their way through the island,
retracing the route they’d traversed the previous day. No mention
was made by either party of Sir William Tarver or the events at
Dora’s Corners.

Finally they reached the airport, which, as
usual, was hopping. Chappy parked the minivan and they made their
way to the Arrivals Terminal. They weren’t there long when Flight
622 from Philadelphia landed.

And then, there she was, wearing a sundress
adorned with yellow and light blue flowers, oversized sunglasses
perched on her flowing mane of blonde hair. LouAnne Darcy was even
more beautiful than T.J. remembered her; obviously, she’d filled
out a bit more while maintaining her athletic runner’s build. Her
blue eyes twinkled as she caught sight of them and gave a little
wave with her free hand.

“Ho-ly moly,” was all T.J. could muster. He
started moving toward her.

“And this is his cousin?” Chappy asked
Bortnicker with a raised eyebrow.

“By adoption,” he answered in a sideways
whisper.

“Ahh.”

LouAnne dropped her carry-on, and the two
embraced for more than a few seconds. Her perfume was intoxicating.
“Missed you, Cuz,” she whispered in his ear.

“Yo, what about me?” cried Bortnicker,
throwing his arms open for a theatrical hug that she happily
returned.

“LouAnne, this is Chappy, our driver,” said
T.J. as the black man stepped forward.

“Our
driver
?” she marveled, shaking
his hand daintily. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, yes we can, m’lady,” said Bortnicker,
slinging her carry-on over his bony shoulder. “The Adventure
Channel is giving us the VIP treatment.”

“So nice to meet you, Chappy,” she said,
batting her eyelashes.

“And you,” he replied. “The boys have been
anticipating your arrival.”

“Well, I’m glad to be here. Not a big
terminal,” she observed.

“The easier to find your luggage!” said
Bortnicker. “Let’s go get it and take you to the hotel. Wait’ll you
see it!”