Rain of the Ghosts (15 page)

“I won’t … if you won’t.”

Charlie watched Rain stare happily at empty space. “Is he still here?”

“Yes!”

“No offense, but … why?”

’Bastian considered Charlie’s question as the siren’s wail heralded the shining headlights of a Navy emergency truck—the first of several vehicles approaching rapidly from down the tarmac. “The snake charm just won’t let me go.”

Rain asked, “Did your grandmother tell you anything else about it?”

Thinking on that, ’Bastian rubbed his hand over his chin and was distracted by the odd lack of sensation. He couldn’t put his hand through his face, and yet there was no true solidity to either part of his body. Like oil and water, they simply wouldn’t mix. Recovering his train of thought, he said, “No … but after I was released from the infirmary here, she did take me someplace. She made a point of taking me someplace.”

“Then I think you’d better take us too…”

The truck pulled to a stop a few yards from the plane. Its siren abruptly cut out. Rain and Charlie ducked further down behind the brush and the scent of mint. ’Bastian whispered a “let’s get out of here” to Rain. She tugged on Charlie’s arm, and the three of them slinked away.

No one saw the two teens—let alone the ghost—thanks to the fog and the GIANT DISTRACTION parked on the runway. Through the truck’s windshield, two Shore patrolmen looked up at the
Belle
in a state of pure shock.
This wreck couldn’t have landed here. Could hardly have been towed here in one piece.

The passenger-side door opened, and Commander Stevens slowly exited the vehicle.
How in heaven…?
His eyes gradually took in the entirety of the rusted hulk of the B-17 that loomed above him, still dripping salt water and seaweed. An awed whisper escaped his lips: “Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four…”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

RENDEZVOUS

Getting back to San Próspero proved far easier than they could have dreamed. ’Bastian knew Tío Sam both from the war and from the occasional Veteran’s Day ceremony. He was able to lead them through the base and act as an invisible advance scout to help them avoid the assorted naval personnel running about in semi-urgency. Too, the universe seemed to be cooperating, as the light mist quickly became a dense fog to further cover their movements.

They found Miller mopping up the Mess Hall alone. He gaped as they approached like two scared drowned rats. “Dudes, what are you doing here?”

“Long story,” Rain said. (And the trouble-prone Miller nodded as if that was explanation enough.) “Can you help us get home?”

And Miller did. He wasn’t exactly a brilliant strategist, but again the cards seemed to fall in their favor. The fog helped. So did the fact that this particular Sunday had been Visiting Day on Tío Sam’s. Families of various sailors, who didn’t have more than a billet for housing on the base, were already scheduled to head back to the big island on a Navy shuttle. A shuttle piloted by Ensign Dusanek, one of Miller’s surfing buddies. Miller explained that his two young friends had lost their I.D. badges in the surf, and Dusanek agreed to sneak them on board—an unusually easy prospect as shore patrolmen had been pulled off their regular duty to help investigate the mysterious appearance of a certain skeleton-filled B-17 bomber and the very modern scuba gear found inside. No one, certainly not Dusanek, suspected two thirteen-year-olds could have been behind it.

Before Dusanek led them off, Rain gave Miller a quick hug. “Thanks, Miller. We definitely owe you one.”

Miller’s smiling head bobbed. “Cool.”

Once aboard the shuttle, Rain and Charlie (and an invisible ’Bastian) stuck close to a mom and her two young children. The mom smiled at the teens and wondered if they were traveling alone—and why they had no shoes—but to everyone else it looked as if they were under her supervision. The voyage home was uneventful.

At the docks, where the fog had lifted but the rain persisted, a sailor was collecting I.D. badges from each passenger as he or she debarked. As prearranged, Rain and Charlie waved across the boat to Dusanek and told the sailor that they had already given their badges to the ensign. Dusanek waved back, and the sailor let them pass. Later, if asked, Dusanek would claim he had no idea who those kids were: they waved, so he waved back. That was the plan, anyway. In fact, Dusanek was never asked. Nevertheless, Miller would now owe
him
one.

Ashore, Charlie tugged his damp t-shirt away from his slim chest and said, “It’s getting late.”

Rain said, “If it weren’t raining, we’d be at the party, and there’s no way our parents would expect us home by now.”

“But it
is
raining.”

“You’re not really going to cut out?”

“I just said, it’s late. I didn’t say I was ditching.”

“Good.” She turned to ’Bastian. “Where to?”

Out on the open sea north of the Ghosts, Callahan shut off the
Bootstrap
’s engine, worrying briefly about his ability to restart it later.
Damn thing’s been acting up.
He walked onto the deck and waited in the rain.
At least the bloody typhoon has passed.
His left hand gripped and regripped a small leather pouch inside his pocket.

Right on schedule, another cabin cruiser approached. Callahan strained to catch its markings, but as soon as it got close, the new boat flicked on a spotlight, shining it right in Callahan’s face. Callahan shielded his eyes with his right arm. He tried to make out the figure behind the light, as the boat pulled alongside him. But all he could see was a dark male silhouette.

The silhouette called out, “Callahan?”

“Yeah. You, Setebos?”

“Yes.”

“Shut off that light, mate; you’re blindin’ me.”

“No. Do you have the
zemi
?”

Callahan was annoyed by the man’s dismissive tone and prissy English accent. But the Aussie wasn’t there to make friends. “I’ve got it.”

“Toss it over. Carefully.”

“Money first.”

“Fine.”

Callahan couldn’t see but heard the thump of a package at his feet. He bent down, turning his back to the light and blinked a few hundred times until he could focus his eyes on the leather doctor’s bag before him. He snapped it open. It was full of one hundred dollar bills. He took his time counting.

The voice called out: “The
zemi
, Mr. Callahan.”

Callahan ignored him and continued his count. Finally, satisfied that his payment—
50K American—
had been received in full, he wheeled about quickly and tossed the leather pouch to the next boat. He saw two leather-gloved hands fumble for it, and half-hoped that this Setebos would bobble the thing into the ocean.
Could charge a pretty penny to retrieve it all over again.
But the hands secured the pouch and removed the armband. The golden snakes caught the light.

The voice said, “And you’re sure this is the original?”

“Yeah, of course.” It was only after he spoke that a wave of doubt swept over Callahan.
The girl didn’t … She couldn’t have …
The doubts led him down a less than profitable path, so he quickly pushed them out of his head.

The voice betrayed some pleasure. “Good work, Mr. Callahan. One down. Eight to go.”

“Same price.”

“Yes.”

“Same price for
each
?”

“Yes. And a bonus when we find the ninth.”

“Ripper. Nice doing business with you Mr. Setebos.”

But the other boat was already pulling away. The spotlight continued to blind Callahan until the fog had completely swallowed up light, boat and employer. Callahan stood there in the rain with the doctor’s bag of loot tucked under his arm like a rugger ball. Then he nodded to himself. And took the
Bootstrap
back to harbor.

But that wasn’t the only rendezvous of the night. It wasn’t even the first.

What remained of Hurricane Julia—little more than a swirling, angry mist surrounding one weary eye—dragged itself onto Tío Sam’s shores and coalesced into a human female with the clear intent—to us, anyway—of having another go at Rain, Charlie and ’Bastian, before—or more likely during—their crossing back to San Próspero. But Maq and I were on the beach, ready and waiting to intercept.

“That’ll be a quarter,” Maq said.

“What?” she said, staring him down with dark eyes that flashed anger and lightning.

“Every time you attack my people and fail, you owe me a quarter,
Hura-hupia
.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What else should I—”

“You know my name.”

“Julia?”

“No, old man! I am…” She stopped herself. It’s never wise to speak one’s true name aloud. Even among old companions. You never know who
else
might be listening.

Maq chuckled, pushed his hat back on his head and waved the idea away: “I know who you
want
to be,
Hura-hupia.
But your wanting something doesn’t make it so. As I believe tonight has demonstrated.”

“The night isn’t over.”

“It is for you. You took your shot—the fourth in four nights if I’m not mistaken?” Her scowl demonstrated he wasn’t, so he forged on. “You took your shot. And they shot you down.”

She looked from Maq to me, as if I might prove more sympathetic—or at least more reasonable. But I said nothing. If anything, I was far angrier with her than Maq was. He always excused her behavior on the pretext that she was following her nature. Only her methods made him shake his head.

“You wanna know the definition of crazy?” Maq asked.

“You?” she countered.

Maq chuckled again. “I like that. But I was thinking that crazy is trying the same thing over and over, and somehow expecting different results. Bringing down the plane didn’t stop us all those years ago. Why assume it would tonight?”

“It would have worked all those years ago, if you hadn’t cheated by pulling the Bohique out of the water.”

“Sebastian made it to the surface on his own. That merited reward in my book. So what if Opie and I pulled him into an old fishing boat and brought him to Tío Sam’s? He wasn’t even conscious. He never knew it was us. Sure, I may cheat. But I cheat fairly.” She stared at him, appalled. And even I gave him a look over that one. But he was on a roll and waved us both off: “Point is, he beat you then. And they beat you again tonight.”

She was on the verge of protesting once more that the night was young, but he’d have none of it. “I’m not telling you it’s over,” he said. “I’m just saying it’s over for the evening. They’ve earned the next step. You attempt to interfere with that, and you’ll have to face us.”

“That prospect doesn’t scare me, old man.”

“It should. At least, it should tonight. You can pretend they didn’t hurt you, weaken you, but we all know better. You’re in no condition for direct confrontation.”

“If you’re so confident, why not end this now?”

“None of
‘this’
begins or ends with you,
Hura-hupia.
Besides, confrontation isn’t my style. So don’t push me. None of us would wake up happy. Or even again.”

She glowered at him for a good nine seconds. For
exactly
nine seconds. Then she nodded. He responded by stepping aside. But I was less inclined. I bared my teeth and growled at her. To my mind, ending it now
did
have some appeal.

But Maq was already wandering off down the beach. Julia was already forgotten. For all I knew,
I
was already forgotten within what passed for the old bum’s mind. Embarrassed, I ran off after him, proverbial tail between my legs.

Then at the last moment, Maq turned and said, “Wait. She owes me a quarter.” We both looked back. But she was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE CACHE

The rain had finally stopped, and the moon, which had broken free of the clouds, shone brightly down upon Rain, Charlie and ’Bastian in the clearing. Everything smelled wet and clean and vaguely of bananas. A flamenco guitar played softly in Rain’s head. She felt on the verge of yet another something new.

Charlie, on the other hand, was still having trouble fathoming the old.
How did we manage to get back here unscathed?
The thought of Callahan still scared him, and the memory of the flight overwhelmed him. So he focused on the little things: “I can’t believe Miller, Dusanek—anyone—didn’t ask us about the plane.”

Rain smiled wryly. “Why would they? It’s not like we could have possibly flown in on it, right?”

Charlie chuckled involuntarily.
No. Who would ever believe that?

Both kids were still damp and shoeless, and mosquitoes buzzed around their ears. But ’Bastian was free of those plagues. He wandered toward the edge of the cliff. Rain turned to face him. “So your grandmother really brought you
here
 … to the N.T.Z.?”

“It didn’t have a name back then.”

Charlie couldn’t hear ’Bastian and was still lost in his own musings. He waved a couple bugs away and looked skyward. “The rain’s stopped, and it’s not so late. If we hang out long enough, I bet a party’ll materialize.”

“Then we better get to it,”’Bastian said, as he knelt beside a vine-covered section of the sandstone slab at the cliff’s edge.

“Get to what?” Rain—followed by a meandering Charlie—approached him.

’Bastian reached toward the wiry green-brown strands, but stopped himself before his hand passed through them. The two kids stood over him. “Move the vines,” he said. “They weren’t here, and I remember…”

Rain crouched down and tore the vines free of the slab, revealing a circular indentation in the stone. ’Bastian nodded. “Like my
abuela
always told me: ‘To unlock a door, you need two things…’”

Rain immediately understood. “‘A key…’” she said, removing the entwined snakes from her arm, “‘… and someone who knows how to turn it.’” She placed the armband in the indentation.
Perfect fit.
Then she twisted and removed the snake charm as she would the key to her locked bedroom door. She stood and stepped back as the sandstone block began to glow … to her and ’Bastian, at least.