Adrift

by Micki Browning

  She tossed the coral into the water. It landed with a tiny splash and caused ripples to radiate in ever-expanding rings.

  “But she had everything to do with it. Lindsey stashed the DPV inside the wreck. All Ishmael had to do was wait us out. He was diving with his rebreather, which meant he didn’t make any bubbles.” She was thinking aloud, not even aware of Echo anymore as she worked out the possible details.

  “Ariel was a complication. Especially since we dropped her. Ishmael couldn’t risk taking the time to find the listening device because he knew we’d be back in the water to try to locate him.”

  Unfortunately, plenty of holes riddled her hypothesis. She still couldn’t explain why the camera flash strobed, or how it ended up in her apartment. Plus, they’d found his mask. She chewed her lip. One other thing didn’t make sense. “Were Lindsey and Amber friends?”

  Echo laughed, a low chuckle that startled a bird along the shore. “Friends? Lindsey would’ve liked to kill her. Amber wanted to be just like Lindsey. Dressed like her. Talked like her. Wore those big-ass glasses. Lindsey thought Amber was poking fun. She could never forgive Amber for being younger, prettier, and a hell of a lot nicer.”

  Then they weren’t working together. There had to be another reason Amber helped Ishmael escape to Lindsey’s waiting arms.

  “You’ve known Ishmael for a long time. Did you know that his real name isn’t Ishmael? He had a phony driver’s license in his wallet.” She remembered Detective Talbot’s words. “Apparently it was exceptional quality.”

  His whole body stiffened. The reaction took her by surprise. Selkie would say it was significant. “You know something.”

  He scrambled to his feet, and she followed. “You’re hiding something. What?” She clutched his arm to stop him.

  He shrugged off her grip. “What? I’m done talking.”

  Two dots connected in her mind. “Why are you on probation?”

  He turned his back on her and strode toward the beach.

  She ran to catch up. “What do you know about Ishmael’s identification? I—”

  He spun and Mer plowed into his chest. The impact tumbled her backward. He caught her arm before she fell off the pier. “I made them,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Them?”

  Echo made certain that she had her feet under her before releasing her arm. “Them. Ishmael Styx and Simon Canterville. It was supposed to be a joke. I mean, why would he need a fake ID in his real name?”

  “But Canterville?” The name seemed familiar and it niggled at her brain. “Simon Canterville?” It hit her. She put her hand on her chest and unsuccessfully tried to swallow her mirth while Echo glowered at her.

  Ishmael had really become a ghost; he just wasn’t dead.

  —

  “I need you to run a name through your database,” Mer told her brother.

  “Wrong,” Vito said. “You need to stop pretending you’re a cop.”

  She switched the cellphone to her other ear. “Exactly why I’m asking you to do it.”

  He didn’t even try to count to ten this time. “No.”

  “Simon Canterville.” She sidled up to the doorjamb in her kitchen and rubbed her back against the post.

  “What part of ‘No’ didn’t you understand?”

  She switched from a side-to-side to an up-and-down motion as she sought relief from the itch of her peeling skin, and waited for the name to sink in. Three, two, one.

  “Wait. You mean to tell me this mope’s passing himself off as the Canterville Ghost?” His peals of laughter caused her to hold the phone away from her ear. “Have you told Mom yet?”

  The Canterville Ghost was her mother’s favorite movie. It didn’t matter that it was filmed in 1944. Some families watched Miracle on 34th Street during the holidays. Her family watched a ghost story. Appropriate, all things considered.

  “Not yet. I haven’t really been updating her on my recent events.”

  Vito caught his breath. “Oscar Wilde is spinning in his grave.”

  “This is exactly the kind of thing I suspect Oscar Wilde would enjoy.”

  Her phone beeped with an incoming call. She peeked at the screen. Her mother. The night was full of odd coincidences.

  Vito brought her back on track. “What did you say he used as a birthdate?”

  “November first. All Saints’ Day.”

  “Subtle.”

  She heard the click of keystrokes in the background. “You at work?”

  “Stakeout. I’m running him on the car computer.” A voicemail alert momentarily silenced the sound of her brother’s typing. “Nothing. Oops. Hold on.” It sounded as if the phone had hit the passenger seat. She heard the squawk of his police radio. “Sorry. Gotta go. Call you later.”

  Before Mer could put down the phone, it rang again, and she answered without checking the screen. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Your mother must be a handsome woman if you’re confusing her with me,” Leroy said.

  She resumed scratching her back against the doorjamb. “Sorry, thought you were someone else.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Is there a reason you called, or do you just miss giving me grief?”

  “Storm’s moving faster than expected. I could use your help tomorrow stripping down the LunaSea to ride it out. That is if you’re not afraid of picking up fleas from us seadogs, now that some fancy university has offered you a new job.”

  She froze in her squat. “How’d you know about that?” Her thighs quivered and she straightened.

  “It’s an island. News travels. Although it might have been nice to hear of it from the horse’s mouth.”

  For such an easy decision, she’d spent an inordinate amount of time considering her options and dodging a conclusion. One day until the deadline and she still hadn’t placed her acceptance call to the university.

  “What time tomorrow?” She pulled open a kitchen drawer and rummaged the contents. “Don’t forget, the memorial’s at three.”

  “Well, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, we’re shutting down the canal at ten.”

  She jammed a pasta scoop down the back of her shirt and resumed scratching. “There’s a hurricane coming. The water level is going to rise.”

  There was a pause. “I almost miss you, Cavallo.”

  His words warmed her. It had been a week since she’d seen Ishmael’s ghost, almost two since he’d disappeared. She missed Leroy and Bijoux. Missed the banter, the camaraderie, the coffee. She missed the routine of the LunaSea, the satisfied ache from schlepping tanks, the expression on students’ faces when they saw the reef for the first time. But it was more than that. She missed the life she’d carved out for herself before it all went wonky.

  “Bet I can piss you off before ten-oh-five,” she said.

  “Wear your grubbies. I’m not afraid to throw you into the canal.”

  “Again?”

  Leroy chuckled and said good night.

  Mer clicked over to her messages and listened to her mother’s voice.

  “Honey? I just wanted to check in. I read your palm. Maybe it’s the copy. I expected you to have a different profile.”

  She’d forgotten all about the photocopy she’d made of Amber’s palm and sent to her mother.

  “Turns out you’re far more emotional and impulsive than I would have thought.” Her mother laughed, but it came out strained. “Is everything okay? Your palm…well, I’ll give you the rundown when we talk. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure, but I know things are rough right now. You’re not planning on doing anything stupid, right? I mean, that would really be out of character.” Another strained laugh, or maybe a cough. “I love you, Meredith. Call me.”

  The reading had obviously distressed her. Two words in the message stood out. “Emotional” and “impulsive.” Could a palm print predict murder?

  She called her mother.

  Chapter 33

  The sun beat down on the mourners with the power to make them
weep. Rows of metal chairs faced a lectern in the garden of the church. Mer and the Aquarius crew sat behind the Spirited Divers and a host of additional ghost hunters. Sweat dappled the back of Mer’s neck, and she would have sold her soul for some shade.

  Prepping the LunaSea had been hot work, even with her brief dip in the canal. She’d barely had enough time to shower and change before heading back out to the church. She should have taken a bit longer.

  The preacher proclaimed Ishmael a saint. That seemed a stretch and, frankly, damaged the preacher’s subsequent credibility. Besides, wasn’t there already a Saint Ishmael in the Catholic canon? Maybe Selkie would know. He had a remarkable memory for obscure details. He’d make a great Trivial Pursuit partner—if he ever came back.

  She hadn’t seen Fiona in a couple of days, either. Maybe there had been a family emergency. Some rational explanation why he hadn’t been home. Something other than history repeating itself.

  She’d tried to push him from her mind, but he refused to leave. She missed him. Things had seemed to be going well between them. Was this one more person she’d misread? No. He’d opened up to her on the boat. Hell, he’d saved her life, taken care of her. Seen her naked. She squirmed.

  Bijoux jabbed her elbow into Mer’s ribs, and then grabbed her bracelets to quiet them. “Pay attention.”

  “Let us gain strength from the words of Saint Luke.” The pastor paused for effect. “ ‘And it came to pass on a certain day that Jesus went into a little ship with his disciples, and when they were sailing there came down a storm of wind upon the lake.’ ”

  Mer fanned herself with the memorial pamphlet. A photograph of Ishmael adorned the cover. The requisite Psalm graced the inside page.

  “ ‘But he arising, rebuked the wind and the rage of the water; and it ceased, and there was calm.’ It is that calm that we seek today.”

  The first breeze floated through the crowd like a promise that no one expected to be kept. Bougainvillea petals fluttered like crazed butterflies, then fell back to the pavement, spent.

  Mer’s attention wandered farther afield. She’d come clean to her mother. In return, after a well-deserved lecture, her mother gave her a lesson on palmistry. Generalities could be drawn, prophecies could be made, but palms didn’t come with a timeline.

  Someone’s cellphone rang. Several people dragged out their mobiles, some changed their settings. Amber alone said hello.

  The preacher droned, but Mer watched Amber. She’d lost all her color. When she stood, Mer worried that she was going to pass out, but she left the front row on wobbly legs and disappeared into the church. A moment later, one of the black SUVs left the parking lot.

  The wind picked up, blew back on itself, and ended up nowhere. It teased the flag, furling and stretching the cloth while the clips clanked against the stanchion in erratic rhythm. The preacher paused, looked skyward. A shadow passed overhead.

  Clouds Mer hadn’t noticed before darkened the horizon in bands of steel, platinum, and iron: a dull necklace that threatened to choke the sun. Still no rain, although Mer could taste it in the air.

  The preacher picked up where he’d left off, but without the same conviction.

  A harsh clap of thunder startled the mourners. Lightning sparked, then burned a path across the sky, slashing through the clouds, and the metal chairs the congregation sat upon suddenly lost their desirability.

  Another peal of thunder, and then it was as if all the rain hoarded in the heavens fell at once. Slabs of water hit the ground and released its warm earthy scent.

  Mourners dashed for cover. The preacher tucked his Bible under his jacket and followed.

  Mer alone stood in the rain. Just the type of prank Sir Simon, the Canterville Ghost, would have pulled to disrupt things. She tipped her head back and let the fat droplets cool her flushed skin.

  The rain plastered her hair against her head. Her capris and her blouse clung to her skin. She removed her sandals. “Oh, Sir Simon, you cheeky ghost.” On impulse, she splashed in a puddle, and then threw her arms wide and twirled. Sir Simon. Mer stopped. Stood stock-still. Sir Simon. Where had she seen the Sir Simon?

  Bijoux called to her from the portico. “Mer? Are you all right?”

  It hit her like a flash of lightning.

  Mer laughed. “I’m perfect.” She’d seen the Sir Simon. The boat was berthed right next to Rob’s Second Chance in the Lighthouse marina. Ishmael was alive, and she knew how to find him.

  The mourners were regrouping in the church, throwing open the sash windows and ventilating the stuffy room. Bijoux made her way to the front.

  Mer stood on the threshold, one foot inside the nave, the other pointed toward the parking lot.

  “Please join me in prayer,” the preacher said.

  Mer bowed her head—and sprinted for her car as thunder boomed overhead.

  The phone call, the hasty exit.

  Amber knew, too.

  —

  Mer called Detective Talbot as she dodged debris on the way to the marina. The phone rang twice before an automated message announced that all circuits were currently busy. She swore and hit Redial. This time the call connected but went straight to his voicemail. The recording—a spiel on hurricane awareness—made her pound the wheel in frustration. She left a harried message that she hoped he’d understand.

  The downpour had abated, but pregnant clouds promised more. The car was barely in park before she was out and sprinting toward the Sir Simon.

  The wind created chop even inside the marina, and the floating dock bounced like a rope bridge under her feet. Only one other boat remained, and it strained its lines and scraped against the wood barrier, creating an eerie screech. Palm trees bowed under the wind’s pressure, their fronds chattering in protest. Gusts buffeted her, whipping her hair into her eyes and mouth. Dirt blew through the air, hitting her sunglasses with a thousand pings, the sound buried by the bellow of the storm.

  She saw Ishmael first. He stood on the deck of the Sir Simon, behind the cabin. Apart from shifting to maintain his balance, he wasn’t moving, even though diesel smoke belched from the engines. She slowed. Wary.

  Inching forward, she widened her view of the deck. Amber held Ishmael at gunpoint.

  Mer’s adrenaline spiked and she crouched instinctively, making herself a smaller target.

  Amber’s focus never strayed from Ishmael. Maybe she hadn’t noticed Mer yet. Everything had been cleared from the dock. There was nothing to hide behind. Mer could back away unnoticed. Watch the drama unfold from a safe distance.

  Except it wouldn’t be merely drama. A tremor racked Mer’s body. This would be murder. And, no matter how much she wanted to run away, her legs wouldn’t listen.

  She clutched her pendant. Licked her lips. Tasted grit.

  Tears streaked Amber’s face and, even holding a gun, she looked lost.

  Intuitively, Mer knew one thing. She wasn’t looking at the face of a killer.

  Before her rational side could stop her, she stepped forward. “Amber,” she shouted to be heard above the wind. “Put down the gun.”

  Amber never took her eyes off Ishmael. “He lied to me.”

  Mer held up her right hand as if she were stopping traffic. Muscles tensed, she edged closer. “He lied to a lot of people, Amber. It’s what he does. That’s no reason to do this.”

  “He said he loved me.”

  The boat bucked and Ishmael stumbled a step toward his fiancée. “Baby, I do.”

  Amber dropped her finger onto the trigger. “It’s not murder to kill a man who’s already dead.”

  “Wait!” Mer’s gut clenched.

  “Go away, Mer.”

  “Pumpkin, I love you,” Ishmael said.

  “Which is why you decided to fire things up again with your ex-wife. Or is Echo lying?” Amber lowered the gun until it pointed at his crotch.

  He flinched, and his hands settled protectively over his groin. “I needed someone to help me pull this off,” he said. �
��To disappear. So we—you and me—could be together.”

  “You thought I was too stupid to help.” The hurt in her voice carried above the wind.

  “I didn’t want to involve you,” Ishmael said. “I was protecting you.”

  Storm debris hit Mer’s shoulder and broke through the trance that held her rooted in place. She pulled the phone from her pocket. “Don’t listen to him, Amber. I’m calling the police. Let them deal with him.” Her hands shook so badly that she nearly dropped the phone.

  “This is none of your business, Mer. Go home.” Amber raised the gun again. Level with Ishmael’s chest. “I was going to be your wife.” The wind buffeted her arms. The boat rocked.

  “You still can be.” He opened his hands, inviting her into an embrace.

  The phone’s screen swam before Mer’s eyes and she hit the wrong number. “Think about this, Amber. Don’t throw your life away.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters.”

  Amber’s words chilled Mer. She deleted a number. Tried again. “It does. Don’t do this. Let’s go home.” Her finger found the right digit.

  A gust tore at the boat’s V-berth hatch and it slammed shut with a crack. Amber flinched and instinctively looked behind her.

  Ishmael lunged.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s yo—”

  Mer shouted a warning, but Ishmael drove his shoulder into Amber and the two crashed to the deck, the gun pinned between them.

  The gun—

  The phone fell from Mer’s hands. She vaulted over the side of the bucking boat and landed on Ishmael’s back. Grabbed his arm.

  With a bellow of rage, he jabbed his elbow into her face, snapping her sunglasses and striking her nose. Stars exploded in her head, and she fell backward. Shook her vision clear. Scrambled to her knees.

  Ishmael pressed the barrel of the gun against her forehead. “That’s quite enough.” He applied pressure and pushed her onto her haunches. He had his left arm around Amber’s neck in a chokehold. She clawed at his arm, her body bowed, desperate for air.