Spirits of the Pirate House (29 page)

Bortnicker had barely managed a “But—” when
Mike blasted his way into the room and went sprawling as the pirate
vanished.

Picking himself up, the Senior
Gonzo Ghost
Chaser
eyed his young protégées. “Dudes, what was going on in
here?” he said agitatedly. “And why did you lock me out?”

“He showed up,” said T.J. excitedly. “We were
actually speaking with Tarver’s ghost!”

“And we didn’t lock you out,” added
Bortnicker, “he locked us in!”

“So I missed him? I can’t believe it!” moaned
Weinstein.

“It’s not your fault, Mike,” said LouAnne. “I
mean, the electricity’s out and it looks like Tarver drained every
battery in the house.”

“But we got his voice on the EVP recorder,”
said Bortnicker. “A couple responses to Ronnie’s questions before
the battery went dead. We can pop in some new ones at the hotel and
play it back for you. Betcha we can use it on the show because it
came through pretty well.”

Just then there was a buzz from downstairs.
“We’ve got power!” called Tom Sr. from the command post.

“Let’s go down and debrief there,” said Mike.
“Looks like the show’s over for tonight.”

By the time they’d made it downstairs, Chappy
was sitting with Tom Sr., marveling at the bank of computer
terminals and other equipment that Mike had set up.

“Quite a lot of kit you have here,” he said
as the group gathered around. “Did you catch anything?”

“Not on the video,” said Tom Sr., “but—”

“We made contact!” blurted Bortnicker, who
was met with admonishing glares from Mike and his teammates.

“Is that so?” said Chappy coolly. “With the
Captain himself?”

“Yeah, Chappy,” said T.J. “He showed up. It’s
funny, though...we didn’t get any hits until Ronnie tried to bring
him out.”

“Hmm, interesting,” he replied, the
realization becoming clear that this ghost only reacted to those of
African descent. “And what did he tell you?”

“Basically, that he isn’t buried in the
Tarver crypt at St. Anne’s Cemetery,” said Bortnicker, handing over
the video recorder to Mike.

“Well then, where is he, Mr. B?”

“He wants us to come back for another visit,”
said LouAnne. “Maybe he’ll tell us then.”

“And you actually...saw him?” asked Chappy,
an eyebrow raised.

“Most definitely, Mr. Chapford,” said Ronnie.
“He was somewhat transparent, but we could make out his features,
which were dead on to the portrait in the study.”

“Quite remarkable. And did you actually
document this conversation?”

“I’m afraid the only thing we might have are
his original responses to Ronnie’s inquiries,” said Bortnicker.
“Then the power in the house went down, and he drained the
batteries in our flipcam and EVP recorder to boot.”

“We’ll give a listen back at the hotel,” said
Mike. “I have a stash of extra batteries there. One thing’s for
certain, though. We’ve gotta come back for a second visit. While
you guys are doing the road race tomorrow morning I’ll drop by Mrs.
Tilbury’s office and tell her we need another night. Think you’ll
be okay for tomorrow night? Not too tired from the running?”

“Nope,” said LouAnne confidently. “We’ll be
back at the hotel by noon, and we can chill out at the pool or the
beach all afternoon.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Mike. “Now, let’s
all pitch in and break this stuff down so we can get back to the
hotel at a reasonable hour. Our marathoners need some sleep!”

“I’ll run Ronnie home on my scooter,” offered
Tom Sr. “See you all tomorrow morning bright and early for the
race.”

It was a happy crew that loaded the equipment
into Chappy’s minivan that night. Having an actual exchange with a
ghost was Mike Weinstein’s holy grail, and the possibility that
their next encounter could be documented on film would be a
groundbreaking event in the paranormal community, not to mention a
smashing pilot episode for the new TV series.

* * * *

T.J. and Bortnicker were just about to turn
in when Mike knocked on their door, excited. “We’ve got the audio,
dudes!” he piped. “Sir William Tarver, clearly responding to
Ronnie’s questions. And after we clean up the tape a little, it’ll
be perfect for the show. So I’ll go see Mrs. Tilbury while T.J.’s
doing his running thing and catch up with you guys tomorrow around
noon.” He high-fived the boys and strode out, obviously fired
up.

“How are you gonna be able to sleep after all
this, Big Mon?” asked Bortnicker. “Between the investigation
tonight and the race tomorrow, my mind would be spinning!”

“Just watch me,” said T.J. “I’m really
exhausted. And I’ll bet my cousin next door is sleeping like a baby
already.”

“’
Cause she thinks she’ll kick your
butt?”

“Exactly. But she just might be surprised
come race time.”

“You psyched to talk with Tarver again?”

“Oh yeah. And I have a feeling this whole
deal still has a ways to go. We’re gonna break this case wide
open!”

Chapter
Twenty-Four

Saturday dawned
sunny and breezy, ideal running conditions. The previous night’s
storm had blown out to sea, and all that remained were a few downed
trees and palm fronds everywhere. After a light breakfast Mike was
on his way to St. George’s for his rendezvous with Constance
Tilbury. Bortnicker rode the scooter toward the Royal Naval
Dockyard, the race’s starting site, with Tom Sr. while T.J. and
LouAnne stretched out in Chappy’s minivan for the twenty minute
ride.

“Splendid day for a road race, folks,” said
the driver. “I’m assuming you’re both in peak running trim?”

“You know it,” said LouAnne, adjusting the
laces on her Nikes.

“Didja sleep okay, Cuz?” asked T.J.,
adjusting his seatback into a semi-reclining position.

“No reason not to,” chirped his cousin
confidently, which is what he figured.

The starting area was awash with volunteers
manning registration tables and handing out water bottles. T.J. and
LouAnne picked up their paper number tags emblazoned with an
American flag, which a worker promptly pinned to the back of their
tee shirts. They had both decided to wear their
Junior Gonzo
Ghost Chasers
shirts in honor of the team. The cousins found a
quiet area to do some last minute stretching while eyeing the
crowd.

“Looks like we have quite a few countries
represented,” said LouAnne, as she settled into a hurdler’s
stretch.

“Yeah,” said T.J., leaning forward into a
standing calf stretch. “I’d say overall we’ve got over a hundred
runners.”

A portable PA system crackled to life. “Would
all runners please assemble at the starting line for a playing of
‘God Save the Queen
’
?”

“Here we go,” said LouAnne, rising. “See you
at the finish line?”

“Yeah,” joked T.J., “I’ll be there waiting
for you.”

“You wish.” She gave him a quick peck on the
cheek. “Good luck, Cuz.”

“You too.”

“Go get ‘em, you guys!” screamed Bortnicker
from the side of the road, where he and Tom Sr. were waving madly.
“We’ll be right behind you on the scooter!”

T.J. waved back in acknowledgement. “Too bad
Ronnie couldn’t make it. She had to work at the dive shop this
morning—”

At that second the crowd of runners hushed as
the Bermuda Regiment, resplendent in their red tunics, black pants
and white pith helmets, began a stately rendition of the anthem.
Famous the world over, their performance was both dignified and
inspiring. At its conclusion, a cheer rang out from the runners and
hundreds more tourists and residents who’d turned out for the event
and would be lining South Road all the way from Dockyard to
Hamilton, where the race would conclude on Front Street.

“Runners to the mark...” intoned the
starter.

The cousins bumped fists.

“Ready...steady
...
”

“Luv ya, Cuz,” said LouAnne.

“Back atcha.”

“Go!”

And they were off.

The first mile or so, as the road wound its
way through Sandys Parish toward Somerset Village, was glorious.
Puffy white clouds dotted the sky, and the flowers had opened up
after the rain. Gradually, the bunched-up runners of all sizes and
colors began to thin out, and T.J. found himself alongside his
cousin, their smooth gait no different than on the Railway Trail or
the Gettysburg Battlefield the year before. However, T.J. noticed a
difference in his cousin on this run. Her jaw was set, her entire
being focused on running the perfect race.
That’s where she’s
got me
, he thought.
She goes to a place I’ve never been, a
higher level of consciousness
. He envied her.

Almost as if reading his mind, LouAnne sang
out, “Okay Cuz, gotta jet. See ya!” and took off in another gear.
Determined not to fall into the trap of trying to match her
unquestionable superiority, he kept his normal pace, which wasn’t
all that bad, either.

T.J. crossed over into Southampton Parish,
now following the curve of South Road that overlooked the cliffs
and afforded purely majestic views that distracted him from any
fatigue he was feeling. He had left the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse
behind and was on the way toward Astwood Park when he first caught
sight of his cousin sprawled on a grassy shoulder of the road. As
he sprinted toward her, heart racing, he noticed she was clutching
her lower leg and writhing in agony. She saw him approaching and
cried out, “Charley horse in my calf! Omigod it hurts.”

He fell to his knees in the grass before her.
“What can I do—”

“Nothing!” she hissed between clenched teeth.
“There’s nothing you can do, and it’ll just have to work its way
out. Get going!” She pounded the grass in anger.

“But I can’t—”

“Listen, T.J.,” she rasped, “Your dad will be
along and see me. I’ll be fine. Now get your butt back into gear
and finish the race! You’re losing time!”

“But—”

“You’re seriously ticking me off here. I’ll
see you in Hamilton. Now go!”

“Okay,” he said, affecting a retreating jog
toward the road. “See ya later.” He got back into the race, looking
over his shoulder intermittently until he rounded a bend and lost
sight of her completely.

The rest of the course was run in a fog, with
T.J. wondering numerous times if he should give it up. But he was
actually more afraid of incurring his cousin’s wrath for quitting
than of getting embarrassed by the other runners, who at first were
blowing by him at an alarming rate. Gradually, though, he regained
his composure and equilibrium and started making up some ground. By
the time he began his descent toward the city, whose shops on Front
Street twinkled in the morning sun, he’d found his second wind and
overtaken a bunch of contestants. Stronger by the second, T.J. went
into his kick and sprinted the length of Front Street, whooshing by
docked cruise ships and cheering crowds, and crossed the finish
line just behind the first clutch of racers. Accepting a bottled
water from a backslapping tourist screaming “USA! USA!” he
deliberately walked past the horse and buggy stand and found a
small palm tree to lean against while his breathing equalized. The
sun shone off the water of the harbor, and the salty air revived
him. He was extremely proud of himself for sucking it up and
finishing, but he worried about his cousin. It was at this moment,
as he looked out over the Harbor where sleek sailboats cut the
waves under an azure sky, that he realized just how hopelessly in
love with LouAnne he was. Which was not altogether a bad thing.

“Big Mon! You did it!” cried Bortnicker, who
embraced him after a sprint across still-congested Front
Street.

“Thanks, man,” he said. “I’m pretty whipped.
Where are Dad and LouAnne?”

“We got to her first on South Road; then
Chappy came along and we put her into the minivan. Everyone’s
parked on a side street because Front Street’s blocked off.”

“How is she doing?”

“Physically, not bad. Just a bad cramp we
slapped some ice on. But
mentally
? Boy, is she cheesed
off.”

“Because of me?”

“No, no, nothing like that. She’s just mad at
herself because—”

“Because that’s never happened to me before,”
said LouAnne, suddenly materializing behind his friend. “I’m really
proud of you, Cuz,” she added before giving him a heartfelt
hug.

“Watch it, I’m kinda yucky,” managed T.J.,
looking over her shoulder to where Bortnicker was grinning and
flashing a double thumbs-up of approval.

“And I’m not?”

They parted, and T.J. asked about her leg.
“It’s no big deal. I’ve already kinda walked it out.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t win anything.”

“Oh, yes you did,” she said with a wink.
“Now, let’s get some lunch with your dad and Chappy.”

“A capital idea!” said Bortnicker in his best
John Lennon voice, and the trio made their way back across Front
Street.

* * * *

“You most certainly may
not
conduct
another investigation at Hibiscus House,” snapped Constance Tilbury
from behind her desk, the color rising in her powdered cheeks.

“But we were promised—” spluttered Mike, who
was having a hard time keeping from vaulting over the desk to choke
her.

“You were
offered
two investigations.
From what you’ve described, your first investigation was a smashing
success, affording you ample material on which to base an episode
of your ridiculous show.”

“But this isn’t fair!” he cried.

“Fair? It’s more than fair, when you
understand that there were certain circumstances unbeknownst to you
that should have precluded any visits whatsoever!”

“Like what?”

She rose, leaned across the table until
practically nose to nose with the muscled ghost hunter, and hissed,
“Like the man who was found dead in the house the morning of the
same day you conducted your search. You’re lucky we let you in at
all!”