Grave Phantoms (20 page)

There it was, everything, right on display.

The first thing Astrid thought was:
Lord, that's an awful lot of hair.
The second thing she thought was:
I hope I look a lot better down there than that. I'm bending over in front of a mirror to check when I get home, just to be sure.
And the third thing was:
She'd better flip back over soon or all the blood's going to rush to her head.

“Stars,” Astrid murmured, unable to stop blinking. Unable to look away. When the woman wiggled her backside, it was just too much. Astrid clamped a hand over Bo's eyes.

Laughter rumbled through his chest and under her hand—under
his
hand, too, which was still holding her breast. She laughed with him, brimming with an odd medley of joy and arousal and sheepishness. Then she gave the dancer an apologetic look, hoping the woman didn't think they were laughing at her. But the woman didn't seem to mind, and since the blood
had
rushed to her head, her face was redder than Astrid's burning cheeks when she finally stood upright, turned around, and gave a little bow.

Astrid released Bo's eyes and applauded enthusiastically, still laughing a little. Bo's hand slipped out from her tunic to pull out a bill from his pocket. He gave it to Astrid, who passed it up to the dancer. She accepted it with grace and blew them both a kiss before tottering backward as the curtain drew closed.

“My, that was . . . interesting,” Astrid said, still mildly embarrassed but unable to stop smiling.

“Not half as interesting as you.
Aiya
, Astrid. You amaze me.”

“I do?”

“Every day.” His hand ghosted over her stockinged knee and softly squeezed the inside of her thigh. Oh, that was nice. Very nice, indeed. Her blood was hot and she wanted him to squeeze a little more. Everywhere. But when she shifted in his lap to give him better access, his head tilted toward a beam of unexpected light. All his muscles stilled at once.

His hand slipped out of her dress as she turned around to see what had startled him.

“Don't stop on my account,” a lilted voice said.

The curtain was open, and a middle-aged man in a suit the color of a fresh bruise leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms over a broad chest. If his face was a wall, his dark handlebar mustache was an overgrown hedge sitting in front of it. The growth was so thick, when he gave them a slow smile, it barely moved.

“Enjoyed Bebe's performance, did ya?” he said. Mr. Haig told them at the radio station that the person they'd be looking for was Cornish, and from the sound of this man's accent, he fit the bill.

“Mad Hammett?” Bo asked as he rotated Astrid along with him on the stool.

“In the flesh.” The man's dark eyes roamed over Astrid's legs. She pulled down her dress and started to stand up from Bo's lap, but his arm locked around her middle like a steel bar. Whether it was due to possessiveness on his part or instinct about Hammett, Bo certainly didn't want her to move, and that made her nervous. It only got worse when her head began to clear and realization hit:
This man could be one of them. Like Max.

“We were interested in getting up to Heaven,” Bo said.

“Henry told me. And I liked your show almost as much as Bebe's,” he said, jerking his chin upward. Astrid followed with her eyes and spotted a dark circle on the ceiling of the booth. A hole. He'd been watching them from above. Astrid didn't like that. At all. “So I thought I'd pop down and introduce myself.”

Astrid stared at his extended hand for a beat too long and finally gave hers. “Mary, uh, Johnson,” she said.

Hammett bent low and kissed her hand. The stiff hairs of his mustache made her skin crawl, and she held her breath, terrified of having another vision of drowning bodies. But he wore no ring, and though she didn't want him touching her, nothing supernatural occurred. “Delighted, miss. I quite liked seein' ya laugh. We need more of that around here. How old are ya? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Thereabouts,” she said, trying to act casual as she gently pulled her hand from his grip.

“And who is the lucky chap gettin' all your affection?”

“Charlie Han,” she said, inventing a name for him as fast as she could.

Hammett eyed him with almost as much interest as he had with Astrid. “Young and handsome. You speak well. They'd like that. But I'd feel wrong if I didn't admit that they got a fondness for Nordic blood in Heaven. No offense.”

“None taken,” Bo said in a low voice, but Astrid knew damn well that was a lie, even if she hadn't felt his legs turn to marble beneath hers and the menacing vibration running along his bones like electricity through wire. She silently told herself to keep her eyes down and not give her own aggrieved feelings away, praying Hammett didn't notice. And he didn't.

“The two of you attached or looking to play?”

What in the world did that mean? Astrid could only guess, and it didn't sound good.

“We might be open to adventure under the right conditions,” Bo replied casually.

A small noise of protest escaped the back of her throat. Bo hugged her tighter and she cleared her throat.

“That's fine,” Hammett said, smoothing down the edges of his mustache. “Well, I can't promise anything, considering their preferences. Mary here, yes. They're fond of dames like her. But you? I don't know. I might be able to get you up there for a trial . . .” His brow wrinkled. “What do you do for living?”

Astrid remembered Mr. Haig's words.
You need to be useful.

Bo remembered them, too, apparently, because his answer came fast. “I fish. I . . . pilot fishing boats.”

It was halfway true. He did fish, sometimes. But not so much the last few years, though he certainly knew his way around a boat. Astrid did, herself. All Magnussons did.

“A fisherman, eh? Yes, that's not bad. Might be of interest to them.” He sniffled and scratched his nose, thinking, and then smiled broadly. With the flick of his fingers, he'd reached inside his suit and withdrawn two small business cards printed on gilded stock. “You'll need these to get in,” he said, handing them to Bo. “New Year's Eve, 9
P.M.
We're having a party. Come to the carousel and ask for booth seven.”

New Years Eve? That was so far away—a week and a half. She couldn't tell if Bo was discouraged by this, but she certainly was.

Before she could stop him, Hammett picked up Astrid's hand again and kissed it a second time. Once again, no vision haunted her, but something else was there. Something dark that made her feel as if a nest of snakes wriggled beneath her skin. It was all she could do not to snatch her hand away.

“I'll be looking forward to it, my dear,” he breathed over her hand, eyes jumping from hers to Bo's. Then, without another word, he stood, turned around, and exited the booth.

“Oh God,” Astrid murmured, letting out a shaky breath. She wanted to set fire to her hand and burn off the place he'd kissed.

“Hold it together,” Bo whispered. “Let's get out of here, yes?”

She nodded and pasted on a smile as they left the way they came in, circling back around the carousel, through the taxi dancers, and back into the front room, where they crunched over peanut shells and headed through the front door.

Once outside, they strode down the dark sidewalk and didn't stop until they got to the car. Bo started the engine
and pulled out the gold cards. Astrid leaned closer and they inspected them together under a slant of streetlight beaming through the windshield. The cards were identical. They each said:

THIS CARD ADMITS ONE CHOSEN SINNER

THROUGH THE PEARLY GATES INTO HEAVEN

COURTESY OF THE PIECES OF EIGHT SOCIETY

—PREPARE FOR JUDGMENT—

Embossed in the bottom right-hand corner was something vaguely familiar to both of them: a variation on the mysterious symbol from the turquoise idol.

Bo sped away from Terrific Street feeling spooked yet cautiously victorious. They had the gold symbol from the idol as leverage. They had their tickets into Heaven. And they'd made it out of Hell without getting stabbed or having any dark visions of midnight rituals. Now all they had to do was wait.

“Where are we going?” Astrid said from the passenger seat as the Buick's wheels spun waves of water over sidewalks as they passed.

Bo wasn't sure. His first instinct—
Get the hell out of here, fast!
—was now cooling to a simmer, and something new was taking its place. He had no bootlegging runs tonight. The warehouse was empty. The docks were empty. There was no one to track down, meet, or haggle with. No errands. Nothing.

“You listen to me, Bo Yeung. You will
not
take me home.”

Her words shot straight through him, getting the attention of something primal and beastly that crouched in the corner, waiting to be loosened. All their touching in the
carousel had left an erotic buzz in his veins. And Mad Hammett touching her had stirred up a dark possessiveness with gnashing teeth and a hunger to claim.

The two of you attached or looking to play?

He'd wanted to break the man's nose for that. He'd wanted to drag Astrid out of there, slung over his shoulder, and mark her with his body, like some feral dog. Wanted to take her away from all of this—her family, this city, their restrictions . . . their past.

He was nearing a breaking point. He could finally admit that to himself. His restraint was running on fumes.

His eyes shifted sideways. Astrid was hugging her arms around her middle, trying to stay warm—they'd left so fast, he'd forgotten their coats in the trunk. He quelled his dark thoughts and switched on the heater. “Better?”

“Yes. Did you hear me?” she asked.

“I heard. Think hard about what you're saying. It's close to midnight and there are few places we can go together, if you're asking me to take you out somewhere . . .”

He tried to sound cool and matter-of-fact, but his fingers would snap the steering wheel in two if he gripped it any harder. He kept his eyes on the road, waiting for her answer. Had he made things plain enough for her? Did she understand?
Tell me to take you home
, he begged silently.

“I don't want to go out,” she said. “I don't want to go home. I want to be alone with you.”

A tense breath whooshed from his nostrils. He licked dry lips and swallowed hard. She understood, he had no doubt now. They looked at each other and a silent agreement passed between them. The crouching beast in him stood and roared triumphantly. It was all he could do to keep the car on the road.

“Your apartment?” she asked after a few moments, almost shyly. Almost.

No. The walls were paper-thin and there was the possibility of running into Sylvia. Neither woman deserved that. Where else? They couldn't go home. Couldn't go to a hotel, unless she paid for the room and he sneaked up
later, and damned if he was doing that. He had his pride, after all.

Where could they be alone?

Was this actually happening, after all these years?

He was driving, but not really seeing. Spinning through thoughts, but not really thinking. His mind was bright with anticipation, teetering precariously. One wrong word, and he feared he'd lose everything at once. But there were practical matters to consider. “I need to stop by a drugstore. If we hurry, there's one that stays open late in—”

“No, you don't.”

“Astrid—”

“I have something. I got it in Los Angeles. It's a little rubber dome. A tiny cap. Jane told me about a doctor near school . . .” Her cheeks flamed—even in the dark car, he could see them color.

“I know what you mean.” He'd never seen one, but he'd heard about things like that. They were illegal to obtain under Comstock laws. He was surprised and impressed by her courage to seek it out. She was fearless, and he loved that.

She smoothed her dress over her lap. “Anyway. I have it in my handbag. Just in case we . . . Well, I was hoping, I guess. This was after Luke—I didn't . . . Stars! I mean to say that, uh . . . I've practiced putting it in, but I haven't used it,” she said quickly, biting her lip. “And then you wouldn't answer my letters, and I thought I'd ruined everything, but I kept it, hoping, you know, maybe. Oh God. Why can't I stop talking?”

He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him, kissing the top of her head and smiling. “I'm happy you were hoping.”

“You are?”

“Hell yes.”

She relaxed and curled up against his side. “Where can we go?”

At that moment, Bo realized a solution to their problem.

He knew where to go.

Ten minutes later, he'd parked the Buick inside the warehouse at the pier and Astrid was doubting his vision. “Here?”

“Not here,” Bo said, helping her into her coat. “Oh ye of little faith. Put on your gloves, too. It's going to be cold as hell.” He smiled down at her, unable to disguise his eagerness. “But I'll warm you up when we get there.”

—

Astrid followed Bo onto the pier. The Bay wasn't as choppy as it had been the first night she came home—the night the yacht crashed. And though water still threatened to spill over the creaky dock boards lining the warehouse, it wasn't raining.

“Look, Bo,” she said, pointing out over the Bay. “Fog! I'd never thought I'd say this, but I couldn't be happier to see it.”

“Hm, I might just agree with you on that. Better than stormy water. Come on.”

All their crabbers, rumrunners, and trawlers bobbed in the water, asleep for the night. Bo stopped in front of a long, skinny runabout that looked like the tip of a spear pointing out of the water, sleek and long. The varnished mahogany hull gleamed in the moonlight. He removed a blue tarp near the rear that covered a two-person cockpit fronted by a low windshield.

Excitement bubbled up and mixed with the nervousness that was churning her stomach. “Where are we going?”

“Where no one will find us.” The white of Bo's teeth showed when he smiled.

“All right,” she said, smiling back. “I'm game. Let's go.”

Hand on hers, he helped her step inside the cramped seat. It had been nearly a year since she'd been on a boat like this. Her balance faltered, and the runabout rocked. She squealed and awkwardly settled down, slipping her legs under a wooden dash covered in round glass dials.

After Bo detached mooring lines from the pier, she felt the boat dip lower into the water with his added weight as
he slid into the other side. His leg was warm and solid against hers. A turn of a key, a flip of a switch, and a pressed button started the rumbling motor. He turned on a bright fog light that shone out over the bow and cut over the dark water. Then he handed her his hat to hold on to, and just like that, they were gliding away from the pier.

A terrible exhilaration came over her as the runabout shot forward, whipping her hair around. The pungent scent of salt water filled her nostrils. Her stomach dropped. Lights of the Embarcadero blurred as Bo accelerated, steering them around the curved coastline, past piers stretching out like spokes of a wheel. Normal conversation wasn't possible over the roar of the engine, but Bo glanced at her every so often. He looked like the boy she'd fallen for years ago—sharp cheekbones, intensely eager eyes, and a tireless enthusiasm that was infectious.

The runabout zipped through the water with its nose tilted upward as they sped north of the coast, away from the city. A quarter hour passed, maybe more, and San Francisco's twinkling lights began fading while distant coastal cliffs to the north stood black against a purpled sky. They crossed from the Bay waters into the Pacific proper and made their way toward those cliffs, around the western side of the Marin County peninsula, and that's when Astrid knew exactly where he was taking her.

The Marin County docks.

Ten miles or so up the coast, the Magnussons owned a few acres of land surrounding a small cove. The entrance to the cove was hard to find in the day, and nearly impossible at night. It was once a military camp, and supposedly a smuggling spot for pirates. Astrid now hoped those pirates didn't include Max and his ilk at the Pieces of Eight Society; it wasn't far from here that Mr. Haig said the
Plumed Serpent
had disappeared.

Bo slowed the runabout when they spotted the cove entrance, a narrow channel between two rocky cliffs. It felt a little ominous when they entered. The boat's headlight shone into shifting fog, and the motor's sputter echoed
off jagged rock, where gulls and murres nested in the crags. But it wasn't long before the cliffs parted to reveal a circle of private waters a quarter mile in diameter, ringed by beach in the middle and rising cliffs on the sides. A long warehouse stood along the beach behind a wide dock, where four stubby piers stretched into the cove.

Bo pulled up to the farthest pier, cut the engine, and threw a mooring line, then helped Astrid onto the dock while he anchored the runabout. It was strange to be there so late at night, when everything was dark and deserted.

“Do you remember the last time I brought you out here?” He glanced up the cliff overlooking the cove, where a long set of stone stairs led upward.

Her heart thudded inside her chest. “That afternoon . . . the redwoods.”

He nodded. “Too cold and wet out there now, but there's someplace warmer.”

They ascended the dizzying cliff stairs in the darkness. When they crested the top of the cliff, a strong coastal wind whipped strands of hair into her eyes. She held them back and stared at the lone building in the distance.

The lighthouse.

Ringed in fog, it stood black against the night sky, in disuse since the turn of the century. Connected to the side of the tower was a small cottage, where, at one time, a lighthouse keeper lived, ensuring the beacon light stayed lit. Her father had used the cottage for an office when he'd worked out here for the fishing business. Now Bo and the Marin County warehouse foreman used it a couple of times a month when they unloaded big shipments of liquor from Canada and needed to guard the warehouse overnight.

After fiddling with the lock, Bo entered the cottage and switched on a lamp. Astrid stepped inside, and he bolted the door behind them. It had been years since she'd been here. The furniture in the living area was sparse but tidy, and they'd recently added an electric icebox in the kitchenette. Bays of low windows ringed the outer wall, providing a clear view of the coast from multiple angles. The Pacific was a
dark blanket that stretched out and met the stars at the horizon. No city lights, no boats. Nothing at all but the two of them.

She shivered. Bo mistook it for the temperature.

“Hold on and I'll get the wood-burning stove going,” he said, and went outside to fetch wood. While he was gone, she rushed into the cottage's spartan bathroom and rummaged inside her handbag for the small cervical cap case. It didn't take long to wash her hands and get the thing inserted correctly, but Bo was already back by the time she flung open the door.

“Everything okay?” he said, striking a match to light the balled-up newspaper he'd stuffed under logs and kindling inside a squat cast-iron heater.

“Hunky-dory.”

He looked up at her and smiled, and that made her feel less anxious. Neither of them said anything while the fire slowly worked its way from the kindling to the logs. After a time, during which Bo fiddled with the damper, heat began to radiate from the old grates. “I am suitably impressed with your masculine ability to provide fire,” Astrid said, warming her hands near the potbellied heater.

“Is that so?” he said, leaning a shoulder against hers. “I can also head out into the woods and hunt down something with fur if you'd like.”

“I was just hankering for a nice piece of . . . bear?” She grinned. “I don't know what's out in those woods this time of night, and I don't think I want to know.”

“A fox?”

“No!” She elbowed him, laughing. “No foxes. They could be fox spirits, and all your stories show what a terrible mistake it is to cross them.”

“Especially golden ones,” he said, flicking his eyes toward her hair. He slipped out of his coat and laid it on the back of a rocking chair near the heater. “Getting warm, little fox? Your cheeks are rosy.”

She was burning up, yet unsure if it was due to the
heater or her vibrating nerves. If she was being honest with herself, she was terrified. Too many what-ifs plagued her thoughts. What if they were terrible together? What if it changed their feelings about each other? What if he found her boring? What if it was as disappointing for her as it was with Luke? She'd never spoken to Luke again, and Bo had ended things with Sylvia after . . .

What if this was the beginning of the end?

“Hey,” Bo said in a soft voice, grasping her shoulders. “It's just me. Just us. Forget about all of that.”