Spirits of the Pirate House (33 page)

“It’s worth a try.”

“That it is. Follow me, then.” He seemed to
glide walk from behind his desk to the doorway, becoming more
transparent by degrees as the seconds ticked. The group looked at
each other for a moment; then T.J. took the lead and they followed,
Chappy bringing up the rear.

Tarver made his way toward the back of the
house and a rear servant’s entrance that must have led to a long
since destroyed cookhouse. Amazingly, he passed right through the
wooded door, which T.J. quickly yanked open so as not to lose the
pirate on the rear terrace. But by the time they had all exited,
the apparition was barely visible.

“Bah, it’s as I feared.” He turned to T.J.
“There’s a rather large cedar tree five hundred paces or so
straightaway from this door, in a fairly wooded area. You’ll locate
me somewhere near, I’m sure.”

“And what if we find you?” asked LouAnne.

“Dear lass, I want nothing more than to be
properly interred with my wife. It’s my sense that if this occurs,
you’ll not see me again.” He turned to Ronnie, who held
Bortnicker’s hand. “And as for you, girl dear, understand that I
truly loved Maruba, and that I am sure she had the compassion to
forgive me before she left this world. I hope to see her again,
wherever I’m going—”

“But—” said Ronnie, as with a chilling
breeze, the pirate vanished.

“He’s outta here,” said Bortnicker.

“Remarkable!” gasped Chappy.

T.J. took a long breath. “Okay, so what now?”
he said, searching his teammates’ eyes.

“I say we go find him,” volunteered
LouAnne.

“But how?” said Ronnie. “We don’t have any
equipment.”

“There’s a maintenance shed near the garden,”
said Chappy. “Come on.”

Luckily for them, the shed was unlocked and
contained shovels and even a large flashlight, which the boys
quickly scooped up.

“We’re good to go,” said T.J. “But his
directions were pretty vague. A big tree in a wooded area? Jeez
Louise.”

It was then that Bortnicker had another one
of those head-jerking fits.

“What’s
up
with you, man?” said
T.J.

“Nothing,” he replied after another unnerving
exchange of nods with Chappy. “Just follow me.”

They started walking across the large expanse
of the back lawn, eventually reaching and passing the remains of
foundations of the slave quarters, then entering an area which
reminded T.J. of the Railway Trail he had run with LouAnne in the
mornings. It was disorienting, but Bortnicker seemed sure of
himself, picking his way over fallen branches and around
bushes.

“What’s the deal on Bortnicker, Cuz?” LouAnne
whispered sideways as they walked along.

“Don’t know. Just stay with him.”

Finally they came to a small clearing which
featured the truncated remains of what must have been an immense
cedar. “This is it, Big Mon.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Ronnie, swatting
a mosquito on her neck.

“Trust me.” Then he brightened a bit. “Hey,
T.J., remember when we read
Treasure Island
in fourth grade?
That scene when Long John Silver’s men went to dig up the loot,
shovels over their shoulders? This is just like it!”

“Except we’re digging up a corpse.”

“Well, yeah.”

“What say we get started, gents?” suggested
Chappy, who’d brought a pickaxe himself. “Miss LouAnne, if you’d be
so kind as to shine the torch for us?”

And so the three males bent to their work,
which at first was easy as they broke through the loamy surface,
occasionally throwing a small rock to the side. But it became more
difficult the deeper they went, and the width of the hole began to
widen when they had no luck at the initial target. Time passed. The
girls, sitting together on a rock, made small talk, and LouAnne
tried to comfort the still-traumatized Ronnie, who had learned more
about herself and her country in the last week than she ever
probably wanted to know.

“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,” sang
Bortnicker.

“Yo ho-ho and a bottle of rum!” countered
T.J.

“Drink and the devil had done for the
rest—”

Clink!

“Blast it,” muttered Chappy, “we’ve hit a
rather large rock.”

“Wait a minute,” said T.J. “Maybe they
covered him with stones before they threw the dirt on top.
Bortnicker, help me move this.”

The two boys worked their fingers over the
two-foot square slab and flipped it away. Something white lay
beneath.

“I see bone!” cried Bortnicker.

Immediately the girls sprang to the edge of
the hole and peered in.

“There’s more rocks!” said T.J.

“Can we help?” asked Ronnie.

“Come join the party,” replied
Bortnicker.

The girls hopped in the hole and heaved aside
more stones as Chappy and the boys uncovered the dirt topcoat. In a
matter of minutes an entire skeleton, which appeared to be buried
face down, was visible.

“Whoa, Nellie,” was all Bortnicker could
manage.

“But how do we know it’s him?” asked LouAnne,
her hands smeared with dirt.

“Give me the light right here, Cuz,” he said,
pointing to a spot. “I think I see something shiny.”

She directed the beam to the area of one of
the skeleton’s hands. A gold ring encircled the bones of the middle
finger. T.J. gently removed it. “Shine the light on it, Cuz,” he
whispered after brushing the ring off. A close examination of the
inner band revealed the initials “WT”.

“Bingo,” said T.J.

“Incredible,” said Chappy as they all knelt
around the skeleton. “I would never in a million years have
believed—”

“Freeze!” came a stern voice from behind
them. “Hands on your heads, the lot of you!”

“Uh-oh,” said Bortnicker.

Two men stood above them with large, blinding
flashlights. “And who are you?” asked the smaller, older one, who
had a neatly trimmed, grayish goatee and a blue uniform with a tie.
His tone was firm, his elocution perfect.

“We’re the
Junior Gonzo Ghost
Chasers
,” said LouAnne defiantly. “Who are
you
?”

“I
, young lady, am Inspector Thomas
Parry of the Bermuda Police, and this is PC Harold Crocker.” Parry
nodded to a husky Afro-Bermudian police bobby, complete with tall
hat, light blue short-sleeved shirt, and navy Bermuda shorts. He
leaned over the hole. “Dear Lord, who is
that
?”

“That
, Inspector Parry,” said
Bortnicker in his best Beatle accent,” is the earthly remains of
the great Bermudian pirate Sir William Tarver!”

“Stop fooling around,” said T.J. to his
friend. He looked into Parry’s flashlight beam. “Inspector,” he
said in his most even tone, “how did you know to find us here?”

“I received a call from Mrs. Tilbury at the
National Heritage Trust that an inspection of the house might be in
order given that an unfortunate occurrence took place here recently
— that, and her suspicions trespassers might be about this evening.
We saw the minivan and motorbikes and looked around. The house was
empty, but then we came out back and heard some ghastly
singing—”

“Busted,” whispered Bortnicker to T.J.

“And wait...Nigel Chapford, is that you in
the hole with these intruders?”

“Afraid so, Inspector,” said the popular
Chappy, wiping his hands on his trousers. “If you don’t mind me
asking, could we move this conversation to a more appropriate
place? We’re all getting rather gritty in here.”

“Yes, of course.” Parry turned to Crocker,
who awaited his orders. “Contact HQ and have them send some
vehicles to cordon off this area. We’ll also need a forensics team,
an ambulance, and the coroner.”

“Yes, sir!” said Crocker smartly and hurried
off to radio in what would be the most interesting event to occur
on the island in years.

* * * *

“So, wait a minute,” said Tom Sr. as the
dirty group sat around a large table at Police Headquarters in
Hamilton. “You guys took it upon yourselves to steal the bikes and
go up to that house alone? Are you crazy?”

“Dudes, that wasn’t in the script,” agreed
Mike, whose hair looked even more disheveled than normal.

“It’s lucky they allowed you one call,”
continued Tom Sr., “but after realizing what you did, I’m not sure
I shouldn’t have let you spend the night in the clink, which you
still might.”

T.J., who had never seen his father this
angry, tried to smooth things over. “Dad,” he said calmly, “we
weren’t going to leave this island without finding the truth. When
Mrs. Tilbury cut us off so close to our goal, we had to give it a
shot on our own. And it
worked
! We actually talked to the
ghost of Sir William Tarver!”

“No way!” moaned Mike, slapping his forehead.
“I blew
another
chance to see a ghost?”

“‘
Fraid so,” said Bortnicker. “But
Ronnie here brought him out all over again. Heck, she even found
out she’s related to him!”

“No way.”

“Yes way! But, unfortunately, it’ll never
make the TV show.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said LouAnne with a sly
smile. “While Parry was walking us back to the house I hung back a
little and listened to the EVP recorder, which I’d switched on when
we entered the house and just left running. And I gotta tell ya,
even though it was in my pocket,
I’ve got the whole conversation
on tape
.”

“Tarver’s whole story?”

“Every last word, Cuz,” she smiled, holding
up the player. “And you can bet—”

“I’ll take that, young lady,” said Parry,
entering the questioning room. “Are there any other recording
devices on your person? Any of you?” He plucked the recorder from
LouAnne’s hand.

The group shook their heads sullenly.

“Right. Well, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Tilbury.
She is not pressing charges, though you’re all underage
anyway—except you, Nigel, who should have known better—but your
presence is requested at a meeting in the Heritage Trust office at
9:00 a.m. sharp. Until then you are free to go on your own
recognizance, but under no circumstances are you to divulge a word
of this to anyone or attempt to leave the island. Do I have your
word on this?”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom Sr.

“May I drive them back to their hotel?” asked
Chappy.

“Yes, you may, and you will drive them
tomorrow morning as well, because I’m positive Mrs. Tilbury will
have some choice words for
you
, Nigel Chapford.”

“I’m sure she will,” he replied with the
faintest hint of a smile.

“Mike and I will take the bikes back,” said
Tom Sr. as they exited the building ahead of the breaking dawn.
“Ronnie, Inspector Parry said he’d have an officer run you back
home, but we’ll need you tomorrow morning as well, I think.”

“No problem, Mr. Jackson,” she said. “I think
my dad will want to come, too. That is, if he doesn’t kill me when
I get home.”

The teens tiredly piled into Chappy’s
minivan, and he gunned the motor. “Quite an evening,” he observed
in his typical understated manner.

“Ya think?” said LouAnne with a yawn.

Chappy maneuvered the car down Front Street
and left the downtown for South Road.

“There’s just one thing I don’t get,” said
T.J. “What was going on between you and Bortnicker at the house,
Chappy?”

“What do you mean, Mr. J?”

“Aw, c’mon, Chappy, I saw you guys giving
each other those looks.” He turned to his friend. “Spill it,
Bortnicker. How did you know where to go every time? What was up
with
that
?”

“Well,” said Bortnicker, removing his thick
glasses to give them a polish with his tee shirt, “you might not
believe this, but somebody was whispering in my ear the whole time.
At first it was weird, but then it was kinda cool.”

“Who was it?”

“To tell you the truth, Big Mon,” he said
with a crooked smile, “it sounded a lot like John Lennon.”

“No way!” cried T.J. and LouAnne
together.

“I’m afraid he’s quite right, folks,” said
Chappy, his eyes on the road. “Old John loved it here. Maybe, like
Captain Tarver, he’s decided to pop in occasionally.”

“Wait a minute.
He’s talked
to you
before
?” said T.J. incredulously.

The driver turned and looked him dead in the
eyes. “All the time.”

“Now I’ve heard it all,” said T.J., throwing
his hands in the air.

“I think it’s the perfect occasion for some
tunes,” said Bortnicker.

“Agreed, Mr. B,” said Chappy. “Might I
suggest
A Hard Day’s Night
?”

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap
...

Constance Tilbury hated to be kept waiting.
As she sat at her enormous desk, drumming away with a pencil on its
polished top, she again checked her wristwatch. 9:06. Her anger
rose with every second.

How
dare
these film people come to
her
island and take advantage of Bermudian hospitality? How
dare
they go back to that house, in the dead of night like
common thieves,
against her orders
, and start trashing the
grounds? How
dare—

“Mrs. Tilbury?” The young man at the front
desk, who looked terrified, had stuck his head in the door.

“Yes, what is it?” she snapped.

“Your, uh, guests are here to see you.”

“Well, it’s about time,” she harrumphed.
“Send them in.”

“All
of them?”

“Yes, of course, all of them. We have some
serious business to conduct!”

“Yes, right, I’ll fetch them,” he said,
regaining his Bermudian polish.

Seconds later the door flew open, and in
stepped the obnoxious Weinstein fellow, who at least had the
decency to leave that ghastly black tee shirt of his behind,
followed by the American teens, led by the cute one with the good
manners. But who were these other people? A fortyish white man with
a stylish haircut, blue shirt and khakis; a black man she knew as a
taxi driver on the island; a rather large black woman in tee shirt
and jeans, accompanied by one of Tilbury’s former employees—what
was her name? Pemburton? There was also a roughhewn, bald black man
who smelled like he’d washed up on the beach; a trim black man in
boat captain whites accompanied by a striking mocha-colored girl
with bushy corkscrewed hair; and—thankfully—Inspector Parry from
the Bermudian Police. By the time he stepped inside her roomy
office seemed to have shrunk.