GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 (2 page)

I dried off and went to the walk-in closet. The man was right. He did have more clothes than most people would know what to do with. Two-thirds of it looked hardly worn. All expensive brand names. Not that I’m into brand names. I’m not especially fashion-conscious either. Though, once I was told that I cut a dashing figure when I regularly wore a white waistcoat and a dark tailcoat. Still, I don’t seek out the styles. I focus on the brands I trust.
 

It’s just when you’ve been around as long as I have, you get to knowing things. And the Memory Wash never takes away the functional stuff…or the trivial.
 

I slid into a pair of blue boxers and then selected a khaki pair of cargo shorts with more pockets than should be physically possible. I put on a black tank top that felt like it was made with silk and spandex. It clung to me like a second skin. Over that, I threw a white aloha shirt with browns and greens in a palm pattern. It was a Joe Tierney out of London. Silk and vintage rayon. Again, expensive, more than an average paycheck. The homeowner had seven pairs of Orvis Sperry boat shoes. I took one pair. They fit perfectly.
 

I checked myself in the mirror. My face looked right again: all the sagging skin, tightened into place. I looked like a man ready for a day at the shore which, in fact, I was.
 

When I reached for my suitcase, I found an envelope with “Ghost” written in ballpoint pen taped on one side. It was full of hundred-dollar bills. Must have been nearly three inches thick. I guess the man couldn’t resist.

I closed the full envelope and put it under a pile of tube socks in the man’s drawer.
   

I picked up the suitcase and went downstairs. Brilliant sunlight streamed in from a bay of windows. There was a crescent of pristine white sand outside and then endless turquoise water.
 

Gulf coast,
I thought.
Maybe the islands.
I found a small phonebook on the black marble counter beneath the phone. It was a Grayton Beach directory. Gulf Coast of Florida.
 

I drank two glasses of V-8 juice, toasted and ate two cinnamon-raisin bagels, and left the house.
 

Already hot. Florida hot. I strode out from the deep carport onto the white sand and made my way to the beach. I wasn’t sure what I’d find there. I only knew that this morning, I was supposed to go to the shore and look around.

It was happening again.
 

I felt the stirring in my chest and the itch on my shoulder blades. Not time for the Great Rest. Not yet.
 

Waking up from a Memory Wash was always the hardest part. The disorientation, the strange, nostalgic feeling of loss. But I had a night’s sleep. I had breakfast. And I had my suitcase.
   

My memory was clear of hindrances. I remembered only what I’d planned to remember. I remembered that my name is John Spector, but everyone calls me Ghost.

I stepped onto the radiant sand and started walking. I didn’t know where the steps would lead, but I knew that, sooner or later, there would be someone I needed to find.

Someone I needed to kill.

Chapter 2

The morning sun continued to beat down on me like a hammer. Florida heat can get to people fast, raining exhaustion and stress with each rising degree. But I didn’t mind. I’d felt hotter.

A lot hotter.

The sand looked like powdered sugar. I took off the boat shoes and held them with two fingers of my right hand. I stepped on the sand. It felt like powdered sugar too.
 

I walked a path between wiry beach fences that held back the dune grasses and other tropical foliage. Little green lizards dropped from the fence as I passed and scrabbled into the plants. A few brown ones too. They change colors to blend in. A good tactic.

I found the beach mostly empty. Eight in the morning on a Tuesday was still early for vacationers. I saw a couple of joggers huffing along the wet, packed sand near the water. There was a guy with a metal detector in front of me. I could hear it ticking along as the guy waved its disc-shaped reader over the sand.
 

“Morning,” he said. I made to avoid him, but he swung the metal detector in front of me like a gate. “Sorry,” he said.
 

I shrugged. “Morning back at you. Found anything?”

He smiled like he’d been asked that question a hundred times but still liked to answer it. “Cans and bottle caps mostly. But yesterday, I hit somethin’ cool.” He tucked the metal detector under his arm, took out a grayish rag, and peeled it open.
 

“Silver dollar,” I said.

“Not just any silver dollar. This is an 1878 Morgan Silver Dollar. See the seven tail feathers on the eagle? That makes it worth a lot of money. Maybe four or five grand.”

As I leaned forward to look, the metal detector started making all kinds of noise—sounded like an electric zipper going up and down.
 

“You a coin collector?” he asked, pointing at my case.

Realizing what had set off the detector, I let my case drift back behind my leg. “No. Just some equipment I use. Have a good day and congrats on the silver coin.”

“Thanks,” he said, recognizing my dismissal. “Oh, hey, you might want to get some shades on. Sun off this sand’ll make you blind.”

I smiled politely, thanked the man, but kept walking. He was right. The sun was bright off the sand. But I’d seen brighter.

A few hundred yards later, I walked close to the water. Time was when I wouldn’t have gone within a thousand yards of this much water. I guess you could say I have a pathological fear of drowning. Maybe not for the reason you might think, but it’s real.
 

I’ve gotten over it, mostly. I even let the thin surf trickle over my feet. The water was warm like bath water, almost relaxing. And water was the key to a complete resetting. So maybe the best way to describe water and me is a love-hate relationship.

In the hazy hot distance, a fishing pier stretched out into the Gulf. But my objective was a mile closer. Massive, irregularly shaped stones had been piled up like a great cairn on the shore. Rocks stretched maybe a hundred yards out into the water, a massive skeletal finger pointing out to sea.
 

I didn’t know what I’d find there, at the end of those rocks…only that I would find something or someone.

The footing wasn’t as treacherous as I’d first thought it would be because a trail of sand and soil had been packed into the center of the stones all the way out. I stood at the opening to the path. The tide was coming in. Seaweed, driftwood, a red and white bobber, and a clear plastic bottle sloshed around near the shoreline. Orange fiddler crabs popped in and out of holes in the sand. I took a deep breath and started walking.

I was maybe twenty yards up the trail when a young man I hadn’t noticed earlier stood up from the end of the rocks and walked toward me. No, not a young man. A woman. Long dark hair tied back nearly out of sight, slight build and willowy, but definitely a woman. Late thirties, early forties, she moved slowly, her movements very natural and kind of dreamy. As she drew close, I saw her eyes better. Gray-green like the Gulf under storm clouds. They were sad, but there were no tears. She passed me without a word, but a few seconds later she called to me.

“Fair skin like that, you’ll burn you stay out here too long.”

I turned and smiled. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

“No, really,” she said, glancing at my suitcase, “it’s different down here. You ought to put on some protection.”

“Again, thanks. But I won’t need it.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She turned. I turned. We both walked away, but I heard her mutter under her breath, “You’re gonna burn.”

The woman didn’t understand. In my family, only about a third of us burn, and I’m not one of them.
 

No, the heat of the sun wouldn’t hurt me. Not to say it wouldn’t affect me at all, however. I stood on the end of the rocky finger, sweat trickling down my temples, down the crease in my back. Even with the luau shirt over it, the black tank top was maybe not my best choice.

Out in the gulf, I saw a couple of dorsal fins appear and disappear. I watched them for a while…the way they surfaced, an arch of darkness following a perfect curve before submerging. It was like the fins were on some kind of wheel under the water. Dolphins are amazing creatures. Controlled, powerful, swift—much smarter than most marine life and, if threatened, even able to take on a shark. We were kindred in that way. Taking on sharks, that is. As I said, I’m not such a fan of swimming.
 

Beyond the dolphins, a few colorful triangles meandered lazily. Sailors are an enthusiastic lot, out playing even this early. A Sun Odyssey 42DS was heading south. It bore a sail splashed in purple, blue, and teal.
 
On the hull, near the transom was a code of numbers and letters: FL 6606 KR. Some kind of marine registration number, that much was obvious, but I didn’t know much more than that. Still, I notice numbers…and I remember them.

Behind the first ship and closing rapidly was a longer Hunter 50 with light blue sails, each emblazoned with a cream colored conch shell. Just before it caught the Sun Odyssey, the Hunter turned and went out to sea. I noticed its code too: FL 6589 BD.
 

A third yacht was much farther out. I thought it might be an Oyster. Maybe a 625, but I couldn’t be certain. And I couldn’t read its registration number. I stopped and blinked at the sun-dappled Gulf and laughed to myself. “Well, I guess I know yachts pretty well,” I muttered. I’d had missions in coastal regions before, of course, but I couldn’t remember why I would have become so experienced with marine vessels. Another Memory Wash casualty.

“What’s this going to be about?” I whispered. Nothing came to mind. Whatever I was waiting for, it hadn’t shown up yet.
 

I stood there for a long time, a little too close to a lot of water for my comfort. But I’d learned a long time ago that sometimes, the most intelligent thing a person can do is wait. Rash decisions ruin a lot of lives.
 

Other beachcombers came up behind me, stood and looked, and then left. Mostly I was alone there. I got tired of standing, and the climbing sun was beginning to remind me of other, hotter situations.
 

I wasn’t getting sunburned, but it felt like my mind might boil. I sat down on the edge there and watched the sun flashing on ten thousand ripples. It made me think of the waterbed. I felt nauseous.
 

One of the flashes not too far away was different. There was a bit of color in it. Red.
 

A strange color for the Gulf.
 

It got closer to my rocky perch. It wasn’t just the sun on a ripple. It was something metallic. And it wasn’t quite red. More of a dark reddish purple. Definitely a strange color for the Gulf.

Soda can? I couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, it was about to float right by. I stood up and meticulously shimmied down the rocks until I was as close to the water as I could get without falling in. I crouched low and reached, but the object bobbed still out of reach and it threatened to drift away. I clambered back up the rocks and cast about, searching for something useful.
 

In the water a few yards closer to shore, was a piece of driftwood. It didn’t look long enough, but it was all I had. I grabbed it, ran back, and stretched.
 

My first couple of swipes were short. The driftwood plopped into the water, but hit nothing. I moved over a bit, put one foot on the submerged edge of a stone and tried again. I tapped the thing once. It was rectangular and solid. Not a can. But it was still just out of reach.
 

If it floated any farther away, I’d have to jump into the water. And I really—
really
—didn’t want to do that. I glanced over my shoulder. About twenty yards back, a teenager sat on the edge of the rocks and smoked a cigarette. I thought maybe I could throw him into the water to fetch the item I wanted. It was a clear win-win. I get what I need, and put out the cigarette too.
 

But my next attempt with the driftwood hit the top of the object. It came a few inches closer. That was all I needed. A few tip-taps later and I chucked the driftwood away and grabbed the object with my bare hand. Some kind of electronic device, I thought. It had a screen—maybe a little handheld computer or a big MP3 player. But I was holding it backward and upside down. There was a lens and a viewfinder.
Digital camera. Duh.
 

Vizica, not high-end, but not disposable either. I pressed the power button. Nothing happened.
Probably ruined,
I thought. Saltwater and electronics don’t usually mix well.
 

Still, it felt like I had what I had come for…and I was hungry, so I left the beach.
 

* * *
   
* * *
   
* * *
   
* * *

I needed cash, so I found a Junior Food Store that had an ATM. I went behind the building, sat in some shade, and placed my suitcase flat upon the ground. I placed my left hand on the back left corner of the case and my right hand on the front right. I rippled my fingers on both hands in a well-practiced, rhythmic pattern and waited. There was a hiss of compressed air. The locking mechanism released, and the lid of the case came up about an inch.
 

Glancing both ways and convinced that no one was coming, I lifted the lid. My eyes met a whole host of tools. Some I had used before. Others looked new to me. There was a plain silver card in the slot nearest the handle. The silver card, I knew very well. I grabbed the card and closed the case.

In the store, I went to the ATM and put the card in the reader. My account opened up immediately. John Spector, total balance $1,614.00.

My portion.

I withdrew it all. My silver card let me empty the account. I knew I would need all of the money…to the dollar. And my first expense would be lunch.