Spirits of the Pirate House (6 page)

“They have to import everything!” called
Bortnicker from the back seat.

“Exactly. So, most families have a moped or
two to go with the car, or they take public buses. But the moped
thing’s another problem. See, tourists can rent them anywhere on
the island, but you have to have a driver’s license, which means
you guys are out of luck. But even though only adults can rent
them, there are accidents galore because in Bermuda, you drive on
the left side of the road, which throws Americans off. Then, there
are rain showers that come out of nowhere and make the pavement
slick, and let’s not forget the idiots who have too many beers and
think they’re Evel Knievel.”

“So what you’re saying,” said T.J. glumly,
“is that we’ll be taking the bus a lot.”

“Well, not necessarily. I’m sure The
Adventure Channel has hired some transportation for you guys to get
you from place to place. I’ll probably rent a moped myself, and I’m
sure Weinstein will, too. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

They pulled up to the DQ and T.J. could see
the pride on his dad’s face as patrons in line pointed to the XJS.
“Okay,” he said, “time for some Blizzards. But remember, no ice
cream in the car. Find a bench out front.”

“Preferably one with a good view of the Jag?”
said Bortnicker, extricating himself from the back seat.

“Of course.” Tom Sr. locked the car with his
remote and looked wistfully around at the place he used to come
every Saturday with his wife and little boy. It brought a smile to
his face. “Just think, guys,” he said finally, “two weeks from
today you’ll be in paradise.”

Chapter Seven

“
Ahoy, me hearties,”
said LouAnne through the speaker phone in Bortnicker’s
bedroom.

“What’s that playing in the background?
Meet the Beatles
?”

“You’ve got it,” said Bortnicker as “It Won’t
Be Long” bounced off the walls of his cluttered enclave. “Hey, bet
you don’t know what the British version was called.” He raised an
eyebrow, awaiting her response as he stared at the iconic album
cover photo of the foursome that was taken in half shadow.

“Bet I do. It’s
With the Beatles
.”

“She strikes again,” said T.J. “Bortnicker,
why don’t you just give up trying to stump her?”

“I have not yet begun to fight,” he said
dramatically.

“Whatever,” said LouAnne dismissively. “So,
one week to go before you guys head over. Have you done all your
studying?”

“Yeah,” said T.J. “But what kinda surprises
me is, here we are going after this pirate guy and all, but Bermuda
wasn’t exactly a big time pirate hangout.”

Bortnicker agreed. “Compared to the Spanish
Main, you’re right. The reefs and the small islands with their
coves provided protection for pirate ships, but as a whole, Bermuda
was what you’d call out of the way.

“Most of the treasure ships in pirate times
were going from South America back to Europe. They’d only stop in
Bermuda if it was an emergency. And if they did, there wasn’t much
to steal there. Once the British established Bermuda as a colony in
the 1600s they pretty much had it to themselves, although Spanish
explorers had actually discovered the place.”

“Which brings us to how Sir William Tarver
fits in,” broke in T.J. “There were two main privateers on the
island in the early 1700s. One guy was Henry Jennings, who attacked
Spanish strongholds where they were storing salvaged treasure from
sunken Spanish galleons. The other was Tarver, whose background is
really sketchy.

“Anyway, the governor of Bermuda, who was no
dummy, figured that if he allowed Jennings and Tarver a pardon,
they would establish legitimate businesses on the island and, as a
bonus, provide a little protection against anyone who might
attack.

“Jennings decided to turn to supplying
colonial pirates outside of Bermuda with salt or tobacco. His men,
using a few smaller boats called Bermuda sloops, would also harvest
sea turtles or salvage treasure from sunken ships and then
distribute their goods throughout the Caribbean.”

“Yes,” said LouAnne, “I read all that, but
all I could get about Tarver was that he established a tobacco
plantation on the island in what’s now known as Southampton
Parish.”

“Which is why we’re going to have to visit
their historical society after we get there. Try to get a read on
his murky past,” said T.J.

“I see him as one of those swashbuckling
types, a real ladies’ man,” LouAnne observed dreamily.

“You’ve been watching too many Johnny Depp
movies,” said Bortnicker. “Most of these guys were disease-riddled
lowlifes with no teeth.”

“Maybe,” countered LouAnne, “but he must’ve
been doing something right because he was pals with the governor
and lived past the age of 40, and pretty comfortably, by all
accounts.”

“So, why is he haunting this Hibiscus House?”
said T.J.

“Well,” said Bortnicker, “if you owned a
mansion on a tropical island would
you
want to leave?
Ever?”

“But that’s the thing,” said LouAnne. “It
seems the encounters have really only kicked into gear during the
past seven months or so. Something must have triggered it. Remember
the deal with Major Hilliard?”

“Yeah,” said T.J., “what brought him back was
when the grounds crew at the Battlefield Park unearthed his bones
while they were digging a storm drain near the Emmitsburg
Road.”

“Exactly. So my guess is he’s got a reason
for coming back, just like Hilliard. And it’s going to be up to us
to find him and figure out what the story is.”

“And we’ve got two weeks at the most to do
it,” stated T.J. seriously.

“And it’s gonna be on TV,” added
Bortnicker.

“Yikes,” said LouAnne. “Hey, by the way, what
are you guys bringing over there?”

“Well,” said T.J., “we’ve got all our basic
dive gear, supplied by our guy Capt. Kenny. All we have to pick up
there is our tanks. And then, enough shirts, shorts, and footwear
for a couple weeks.”

“Don’t forget your track shoes,” admonished
LouAnne. “We’ve got to fit some running in—”

“Including a 5k race.”

“Uh-huh. Are you ready for it?”

T.J. winked at Bortnicker and said, “Well, I
just got done with baseball here, so it’ll take me a few morning
runs to get back into cross country mode.”

“You mean, like last year when you came down
to Pennsylvania and almost died on our first run?”

“Busted!” laughed Bortnicker.

“Very funny,” said T.J., as his face grew hot
with embarrassment. “Don’t worry, I’ll be prepared. And, oh, don’t
forget a change of nice clothes. Mike Weinstein said we might have
to go out in public a couple times, and being underdressed in
Bermuda is a real no-no.”

“No problem,” said LouAnne, “I’ve got a
couple cute sundresses I’m packing.”

“I’ll bet she does,” whispered Bortnicker,
and T.J. punched him in the shoulder. “And don’t forget your
bathing suit!” he added impishly.

“Bortnicker,
really
. How could you go
to Bermuda and not bring a suit?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Okay, guys,” she said finally. “I’ve gotta
go. Are you as nervous about this as I am?”

“We can handle it,” said T.J. somewhat
confidently. “Remember, Mike will be there to help us out.”

“Maybe so,” she said, “but I wouldn’t get too
carried away. If you remember last year, he was a mess after
Hilliard spooked him on the battlefield.”

Indeed, the cousins’ chance encounter with
the then-inebriated paranormal investigator had occurred in the
deserted bar of the inn were LouAnne worked as a Civil War
reenactor.

“Don’t worry, luv,” said Bortnicker in his
best Beatle twang, “a splendid time is guaranteed for all.”

“Sergeant Pepper
,” she countered.
“Talk to you soon.”

Chapter Eight

“
We’re here!” crowed
Bortnicker triumphantly as he emerged from the plane into the
brilliant sunshine of a Bermuda morning. He smacked high fives with
T.J. and Tom Sr. as they made their way down the mobile stairway to
the tarmac of Bermuda International Airport.

Overall, the trip over had gone quite
smoothly. A large SUV limo had come for them at 4:00 a.m. for the
ride to LaGuardia Airport in Queens, NY, and the boys had been
chatting away ever since. Check-in went without a hitch, with the
teens securing their dive equipment and clothes while Mr. Jackson
stowed his travel set of golf clubs.

“Some of the best business deals are struck
on the back nine,” he was always saying—for a few rounds on the
club course he hoped to be renovating. The only thing they’d have
to buy in Bermuda was a golf shirt for Bortnicker, who didn’t have
one that fit.

T.J. had managed to doze on the flight for a
little while, but he was abruptly awakened by Bortnicker punching
his shoulder and pointing out the window next to his seat.

“Look at the water!” Bortnicker marveled.
“It’s turquoise, just like the commercials!”

T.J. nodded, remembering his long ago
childhood visit where he was constantly struck by the greenish-blue
shallows and pastel-colored houses that lined the shores.

They walked across the hot tarmac to the
terminal, adjusting their watches to Bermuda time, which was an
hour ahead of the States. Though the place was a bit nondescript
and a heckuva lot smaller than the cavernous US facilities T.J. was
used to, he did vaguely remember the huge portrait of Queen
Elizabeth and the imposing mounted sailfish that adorned its
walls.

Of course, Bortnicker had to make their
customs check more interesting. When the very proper inspector was
stamping his passport and asked, “Are you here on business or
pleasure?” Bortnicker was quick to answer with the former, which
caused the official to look up. “And what business might that be,
young man?”

“Well, actually,” he sniffed, speaking loudly
enough for those—especially the young ladies—in their vicinity to
hear, “my friend and I are here to film a television show for The
Adventure Channel.”

“Oh really?” answered the inspector, playing
along. “Quite the celebrities, you are?”

“Well, not yet,” Bortnicker shot back. “But
stay tuned.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure to, Mr. Bootnacker.”

“It’s
Bortnicker
,” he replied suavely,
retrieving his passport while T.J. rolled his eyes in
embarrassment.

They picked up their belongings at the
luggage carousel and piled them on a cart, heading for the lobby.
No sooner had they entered the reception area when they spied Mike
Weinstein, in his trademark black cargo shorts and tight, logoed,
black
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
tee shirt, signing autographs for
teenaged American tourists with one hand while holding aloft a
placard reading JACKSON with the other.

“Dudes, you made it!” he yelled, extricating
himself from the throng. “Welcome to Bermuda!” He introduced
himself to Tom Sr. with a handshake then gave each of the boys a
“bro-hug”. “How was the flight?”

“No problems,” said T.J. “We made it in a
little over two hours.”

“Awesome. Let’s get your stuff out to the
minivan.”

They lugged the cart out the glass doors to
the line of taxis idling at the ready for the wave of arriving
tourists. “That would be ours,” he said, pointing to a jet black
minivan with large stick-on
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
decals
applied to the side doors. A wiry black man sporting a pink golf
shirt, Bermuda shorts, and high blue socks stood nearby, waving
them over. With his salt-and-pepper hair and gleaming smile, he
resembled a younger Morgan Freeman. “Nigel Chapford,” he said,
extending his hand in friendship,” but please call me Chappy.”

“Tom Jackson,” said T.J.’s father, shaking
his hand, “and these are the supposed TV stars, my son T.J. and
Bortnicker.”

“My pleasure, boys,” he said with a mannered
nod. “Welcome to our beautiful island.”

“Chappy will be our driver during our stay,”
said Weinstein. “He’s lived here all his life and knows the island
inside and out.”

“Including the best places to eat?” asked
Bortnicker.

Chappy laughed out loud. “Of course! But not
just the most popular tourist establishments. There are some
hole-in-the-wall eateries that are quite good.” The men helped load
their luggage into the back of the minivan, and they were off.

The minivan made its way out of the congested
terminal lot, crossed a two-lane causeway that spanned Castle
Harbor, and headed south. Before long they passed the famous
Swizzle Inn, which even at this mid-morning hour was teeming with
patrons lounging on its wraparound porches, their moped scooters
parked below.

“What’s a Swizzle?” asked T.J., eyeing the
revelers.

“One of Bermuda’s most famous drink
concoctions,” answered Chappy merrily. “A combination of fruit
juices, grenadine, and Bermuda rum. Quite tasty, but I’m afraid
unsuitable for gents your age.”

“They’re sneaky good,” nodded Mike, who
seemed to have gathered first-hand experience in the two days he’d
preceded them.

“Funny story,” offered Tom Sr. “When Cheryl
and I were on our honeymoon we went on a glass bottomed boat night
cruise. The bottom of the boat had these lights, and you could see
schools of fish below, which was pretty cool. Anyway, there was an
open bar, T.J., and your mom started drinking those Swizzles, which
seem pretty harmless because they’re so fruity. Well, by the end of
the cruise she was pretty looped, and I remember her waking me up
in the middle of the night, moaning, “Stop the boat, honey. Stop
the boat!” Tom Sr. was smiling at the memory, but even his son
could see his eyes misting over. T.J. patted his father on the
knee.

Bortnicker, sensing a need to change the
subject, asked Mike, who was riding up front with Chappy, what the
itinerary was for the day.