Ghost Ship

by P. J. Alderman

  Praise for Haunting Jordan,

  by P. J. Alderman …

  “Lush, descriptive writing is the hallmark of P. J. Alderman’s novel Haunting Jordan.”

  —DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON

  “Blending a small measure of romance and a healthy dose of comedy into the suspenseful plot kept me up all night while I secretly attempted to figure out the ‘who-dun-it.’ Haunting Jordan is a breath of fresh air!”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “A fun read for the paranormal mystery fan, with lots of action and well-drawn characters you will enjoy meeting.”

  —New Mystery Reader

  “This book is wonderful. I got so wrapped up in it that I couldn’t put it down. Forget doing anything around the house or even going to sleep, I had to know who the murderers were.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  … and for her RITA-nominated debut, A Killing Tide

  “Tense and riveting, Alderman’s debut delivers.”

  —COLLEEN THOMPSON

  “Suspense, romance, and a setting so well drawn that you’ll feel like you’re there—Alderman delivers it all. An outstanding debut!”

  —MARILYN PAPPANO, RITA Award–winning author

  “Alderman’s debut is a heart-thumping, quick-paced novel that will keep you on your toes. With an intricate plot, a complicated love story, and strong characters, this book possesses the winning formula for this genre.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews

  “A phenomenal debut novel combining suspense and romance against the backdrop of the sea.”

  —Amazon (5 stars)

  “You have a winner.… I stayed up until after midnight to finish it.… I love that pooch!!! I’m looking forward to future books by you—write fast!”

  —CINDI STREICHER, Bookseller of the Year Award winner

  By P. J. Alderman

  Ghost Ship

  Haunting Jordan

  A Killing Tide

  Ghost Ship is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2011 by P. J. Alderman

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random

  House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90801-5

  Cover design: Marietta Anastassatos

  Cover illustration: Fernando Juarez

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.1

  To my sister Julie

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A False Light

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Lost Nerve

  Chapter 6

  Guarded Secrets

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Deadly Force

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Unacceptable Risk

  Chapter 13

  Payment in Kind

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Unintended Consequences

  Chapter 16

  The Rescue

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  A False Light

  Admiralty Inlet, Washington

  August 5, 1893, 11 P.M.

  HE was a damned fool.

  Michael Seavey braced a boot against the taffrail at the stern of the Henrietta Dale. As he held a match to his cigar, the hand he cupped around the flame clenched into a fist.

  The deck rolled as the clipper ship sliced through swells, leaving washes of luminous phosphorescence in its wake. An invisible salt-laden mist turned his silk cravat uncomfortably damp. Shivering, he tossed the match into the sea and tugged the lapels of his coat closed.

  They ran on a broad reach, a chill, penetrating breeze cutting across the stern from the west. He’d chosen the night of the new moon for the Henrietta Dale’s maiden voyage, confident the lack of natural light would obscure their presence from Customs revenue cutters. Setting sail out of Victoria, British Columbia, and bound for Port Chatham, Washington, his sloop carried precious cargo. Its spoils would provide him with the necessary currency to once again rule the waterfront.

  Yet imprudently, he’d risked it all to save a fifteen-year-old girl who should have meant less than nothing to him.

  “Let me live with you,” she’d pleaded two days past, standing in his hotel suite in her torn dress, her slender body trembling, her blue eyes awash in tears. “I’d make you happy—you won’t regret your decision.”

  “It would be as if I’d slept with a ghost,” he’d replied with atypical gentleness. And God help him, he’d uttered none other than the truth.

  His refusal should have signaled an end to their liaison. But ensnared by the knowledge that his own actions had endangered the girl, he’d felt compelled to bring her under his protection. And thus he’d exposed a fatal weakness to his enemies.

  He shifted his feet, impatient. What was done could not be undone, no matter the consequences. Had Hattie still been alive, she would’ve expected no less of him.

  The ship heeled hard to port on a gust of wind, its studding sails topping the waves, seawater sluicing off its creaking booms. He grabbed the rail to maintain his balance. Ten feet forward, the ship’s captain stood, feet braced wide, a sharp eye trained on the helmsman. Next to the forecastle, the current watch gathered, smoking pipes and talking quietly, their faces reflecting the green glow of the starboard lamp. None seemed concerned by the worsening seas. Michael relaxed once again.

  Despite his relative inexperience at sea, he’d insisted on being aboard for the launch of his new business venture. So little interested him these days, yet he’d felt certain the thrill of the crossing—and of outfoxing the Customs agents—would stir his blood.

  Even this initial voyage promised to prove quite profitable. The tins of opium concealed in secret compartments would net more than he made in a fortnight “procuring” crews from the logging camps for shipping masters. Rumors of his success would surely put an end to the recent erosion of his reputation.

  And thus perhaps put an end to this cursed malaise he couldn’t seem to shake.

  His jaw clenched, causing him to bite through the cigar’s wrapper. Even now, his enemies whispered that he’d gone soft. Utter nonsense, of course; he’d always bested them by whatever means necessary. Failure had never been an option.

  It mattered not that he continued to be plagued by the memory of the only woman to have brought him to his knees. A woman dead these three long years. God damn her.

  “Our current speed, Captain Williams,” he snapped.

  “Roughly twelve knots, sir.” Williams was a short, stout man with a weathered countenance, and his overcoat strained across his barrel chest. “By dead reckoning, our remaining time to Port Chatham should be just over an hour and a half.”

  Michael watched Williams triangulate their position using the lights of New Dungeness and Point Wilson, then give the order to correct their heading. Experienced yet ruthless, loyal yet greedy, the captain was a resource Michael could exploit if nece
ssary. “And how is she handling?”

  “She moves through the water without effort, sir! You did right by her during the restoration.” Williams paused long enough in his calculations to scowl. “I’ve never taken to those damned merchant steamers. Have you never smelled nothing so sweet as this air? Who would want to foul that with coal smoke, I ask you?”

  “I doubt a steamer’s ambience would be palatable to my clientele,” Michael agreed wryly. Under the best of circumstances, opium smokers had tender stomachs.

  Yet another pungent whiff of the stuff, smelling faintly of roasted peanuts, wafted through the portico of the great cabin he’d converted into a luxurious smoking den. Thank God he had the aroma of his cigar to mask such malodorous fumes. Though he’d been tempted by a great many vices in his lifetime, the heavenly demon held no allure. He smiled briefly. Fortunately, the same could not be said for Port Chatham’s social elite, who promised to line his coffers quite nicely through their love affair with the stuff.

  His passengers this night were few but nonetheless prestigious: Jesse Canby, the dissolute son of Port Chatham’s self-acknowledged society matron Eleanor Canby; a town councilman determined to hide his addiction from his unforgiving electorate; and two eminently bribable, wealthy businessmen. Plus, of course, Michael’s beautiful young charge, serving as chef and assisting in the preparation and smoking of the pipes.

  The ship abruptly dropped in the water, its forward momentum faltering. Sails flapped, thousands of yards of canvas and rigging slamming in deafening cacophony against the masts.

  Michael flinched. “Good Christ, man! Do something about this infernal racket!”

  Williams strode swiftly along the port side, hands clasped at his back, peering into the distance. He shook his head. “We’re experiencing variable winds, sir. You’d have better luck requesting God to intervene than to ask the impossible of me.”

  “Then adjust your heading, dammit!” Seavey snapped. “The passengers enjoying the excesses on offer in my dining salon will be ill within minutes.”

  “And run us upon the rocks? I’m having enough trouble—dear God!” Abandoning all manner of poise, Williams raced to the bow. “Lay aloft and furl fore and main courses!”

  The first mate bellowed orders, and men leapt to, scrambling up masts.

  What the devil? Michael straightened, tossing his cigar into the water.

  Williams clutched the railing, bending low and staring down. He reared up. “Let go port anchor!”

  Uneasy, Michael pushed away from the taffrail just as the Henrietta Dale gave a tremendous, grinding jolt, slamming him to the deck.

  From below, a woman screamed. The crack of the mizzenmast giving way rent the air like a gunshot. Michael glanced skyward as crew fell from yardarms like rag dolls.

  Rigging and canvas rained down, obliterating his vision. Cursing, he shoved with both hands, managing to rise to his knees.

  He was tossing aside lines and sheets when a massive weight crushed him, turning his world black.

  Chapter 1

  Dungeness Spit, Admiralty Inlet, Washington

  July, present day

  CALL me crazy, to use an imprecise term,” Jordan Marsh huffed as she trudged down the beach, “but you know when your surgeon cleared you to start physical therapy? I don’t think she had in mind a ten-mile forced march through sand.”

  “Is that a whine I’m detecting in your voice?” Darcy Moran’s pace showed no sign of moderating. As she was built like a modern-day Valkyrie with the inseam of a pro basketball player, Jordan had to take three steps to Darcy’s two.

  They’d planned the hike the night before while comfortably ensconced at their favorite pub, listening to live jazz. Darcy had waxed poetic about the trek along the west side of Dungeness Spit. She’d made it sound as if Jordan would emerge from the experience renewed in both body and spirit.

  Five miles in length, the spit—a driftwood-strewn, narrow stretch of windswept sand and intrepid beach flora—hooked away from the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula, into the busy shipping lanes of Admiralty Inlet. Their destination was the area’s oldest lighthouse, built in 1857. They had the hike to themselves; Jordan hadn’t seen another soul since they’d left the parking lot.

  The lack of fellow enthusiasts should have been a sign.

  “We have just three hours to reach the lighthouse and make the return trip before the tide comes back in,” Darcy pointed out as she attacked the beach with militaristic zeal. Unlike Jordan, she’d dressed practically for the day in a silk turtleneck and Gore-Tex jacket, jeans, and rugged hiking boots. “Do you want to crawl over those stacks of logs, or stroll through this nice, soft sand?”

  “Stroll?”

  “Besides,” Darcy continued, showing no sign she’d caught Jordan’s sarcasm, “I thought you said you wanted to lose a few pounds.”

  “Well, sure, but I hadn’t envisioned losing them all in one day.”

  Their hike was along a gently sloping beach that—by mile two—had threatened to permanently shorten Jordan’s uphill leg. She already had blisters, and her calf muscles were screaming. Since mile three, she’d had a clear vision of tomorrow’s front-page newspaper headline:

  Port Chatham Resident Rescued from Certain Death

  Jordan Marsh, the most recent owner of historic Longren House, was found unconscious this morning on Dungeness Spit. She was said to be suffering from advanced hypothermia.

  Neighbors expressed shock, though some privately admitted she probably deserved to suffer, since she’d been responsible for the recent wounding of their beloved police chief, Darcy Moran …

  “This is payback, isn’t it?” Jordan demanded. “You still blame me. Not, mind you, that I blame you for blaming me—I blame me.”

  Darcy stopped, hands planted on her hips. “You had no way of knowing that the man had violent tendencies. A guy who has that many screws loose—”

  “Another phrase reviled by the psychiatric community …”

  “—whatever. A narcissistic stalker can turn on you in the blink of an eye.”

  “Still, as a psychologist I should’ve recognized the signs. I didn’t, and you paid the price.” Jordan doubted many people could claim the distinction—only a few days after arriving in town—of causing the near-mortal shooting of a police chief. One, no less, who had gone out of her way to make Jordan feel welcome, offering both friendship and support.

  Darcy heaved a sigh. “Look, I knew the guy was acting weird as hell, but even with all my law enforcement training, I didn’t put it together, either. I see no reason why you should shoulder all the blame.”

  “Hmph.” Jordan waved off a pesky black fly suicidally attracted to the fragrance of her shampoo. “So explain to me again why we’re out here? We could have hiked North Beach, or taken any number of nice walks closer to town. Locations,” she emphasized, “that don’t require calling out a medevac helicopter when you collapse at my feet.”

  Darcy shrugged and continued down the beach. “Chalk it up to having to play the invalid for the last several weeks. I wanted to get out of town, and I like to set challenging personal goals.”

  “Right.” Jordan shook her head and slogged through more sand.

  A hundred yards out, a seagull dipped in and out of a layer of fog floating just above the water’s surface. They were surrounded by three mountain ranges—the rugged peaks of the Olympics to the southwest, the British Columbia Coastal Range to the north, and to the east, the more gently formed, tree-covered Cascades, over which towered Mount Baker’s giant snow-covered cone.

  Other than the occasional cry of an eagle perched on a piece of driftwood, the only sound was of the waves lapping soporifically against the sand. Jordan indulged in a moment’s fantasy of lying down in the sun and taking a nice, long nap.

  Tragically, Darcy’s voice intruded. “A hike such as this requires discipline, planning, and timing.” She was once again warming to her favorite subject since The Incident: extreme goal-setting
plus rigid control of every minute of every day. Jordan figured Darcy would eventually adjust, but it was a toss-up whether Jordan would expire before that blessed day arrived. “Discipline,” Darcy continued in a lecturing tone, “that is sadly lacking in your own life.”

  “Did I mention that I read an article just the other day about the dangers of Americans’ obsession with discipline? Europeans focus on living life to the fullest, giving greater priority to such indulgences as relaxation and fine foods and wines. Go figure, but they have longer life spans than we do.”

  Darcy’s only response was a loud snort.

  “Besides which,” Jordan persisted, “Malachi and I walk every day.”

  “Yeah, you walk to that French restaurant three blocks over to have breakfast.”

  “Hey. Don’t knock it—that restaurant has great espresso and The New York Times. Neither of us sees the point in extreme exercise.”

  “As far as I can tell, that mutt of yours doesn’t see the point in anything except a nap in the sun.”

  Precisely. Smart dog.

  As Darcy picked up the pace, Jordan lagged farther behind. “And do not malign Malachi,” she said in a raised voice. “He’s been a great comfort to me.”

  The stray dog had adopted her immediately upon her arrival, supporting her during a less-than-smooth transition. Within days, she’d had to deal with a century-old murder, an embittered LAPD detective intent on arresting her for killing her husband, and, well, other things. Things she’d given herself permission to deny.

  Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned, her footsteps faltering. A few yards offshore, a man rose up from the ocean, wearing a loosely fitted, rubberized gray suit that draped in folds over his rugged build. Seawater poured off him as he sloshed through the waves and onto the beach, removing a metal, helmetlike mask. In his other hand, he held an ornately decorated tin box.

  He grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “Nice day for a dive!”

  “I guess.” Jordan was perplexed. “Isn’t the water awfully cold around here, though?”

  “Not if you don’t stay down long,” he replied cheerfully. Nodding politely, he stomped down the beach in his flippers, heading toward the peninsula.