Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (16 page)

It had never occurred to him a ghost could be out of breath but hell, he certainly was.

And for what? Catherine wasn't worth saving. If she'd been lured away by a rogue, so what? Her welfare was no concern of his; it was only that he wanted to be the man who—the man who...

Matthew went very still. Then he turned and slammed his fist against the tree in a blind rage.

"Damn you, Catherine," he bellowed.

His image shimmered like waves of heat rising from a hot sand beach.

An instant later, he had vanished.

Chapter 7

"I can't believe it," Kathryn said happily.

The old Volkswagen Beetle hit a crater-sized hole and the shocks, or what was left of them, groaned. "Here I thought I was going to have to walk to town and there you were, coming up the driveway!"

The boy behind the wheel of the VW looked at her and grinned.

"Cool timing, huh?"

Kathryn grinned back at him. "The coolest. I don't think I've ever been happier to see anybody in my whole life than I was to see you."

"I would have delivered the car yesterday but my father said to fix it up real good 'cause Mr. Amos told him to be sure and give you the very best car we got."

"And this is it," she said solemnly.

"Oh, yes, Miss Russell. You bet. She's as good as new."

The VW backfired, sending an enormous belch of black exhaust into the air, and Kathryn laughed. She felt almost giddy with freedom.

The boy reached out and lowered the volume on the radio. The rhythmic sounds of Bob Marley faded half a dozen decibels.

"So, miss, how do you like our island?"

Kathryn looked at the boy. He couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen, and he was dressed as stylishly as any kid back in New York. His hair was long and worn in dreadlocks, his gold earring discreet. His red shirt was casually unbuttoned to take full advantage of his hollow adolescent chest, his jeans were artfully torn, and his sandals were fashionably chunky.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Efram."

"Well, Efram, your island is very beautiful."

"Is it more beautiful than New York City?"

Kathryn tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned her arm on the door.

"You know that's where I'm from, hmm?"

"Oh yes. You are the first visitor Charon's Crossin' has had in a long time, miss. People talk."

"Well, trust me, Efram. Elizabeth Island has it all over New York when it comes to beauty."

"Really?"

Kathryn smiled. "It was about twenty degrees when I left New York. The sky was grey and the weatherman was predicting snow."

Efram made a face. "Doesn't sound so good."

"Nope. Not if you like blue skies, warm breezes and bright sunshine." She cleared her throat. "So tell me, Efram. What do people say?"

"Ma'am?"

"About me. You said, people talk. I was wondering what it is they talked about."

"You know. That you are from New York, that you are thinkin' of fixin' up Charon's Crossin'..."

"I'm fixing it up so I can sell it," Kathryn said emphatically.

"So it is said." The boy shook his head. "Still, some folks are surprised."

"That I'd sell the place?"

Efram grinned. "That you'd stay in that old jumbie house all by your..." He shot Kathryn a guilty look. "I mean, that you'd be willin' to, ah, to deal with a job like that all by yourself, miss."

Kathryn scooted into the corner of her seat and looked at him.

"Is that what people call it? A jumbie house?"

Efram's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"You know what that means?"

"A spook house, right?"

The boy nodded, his expression one of pure misery.

"Why do they call it that?"

"It is just silliness, miss. I did not mean—"

"I'm sure you didn't but now that you went this far, you might as well tell me the rest. Do people say Charon's Crossing is..." She hesitated. Just saying the word was ridiculous. "...is haunted?"

Efram hunched lower over the steering wheel. "They say all kinds of foolish things."

"I understand that, but I'm interested. Who haunts the house, do you know? I mean, who's supposed to haunt it?"

"Nobody."

The single word came out in such a rush that Kathryn knew it was untrue. She sighed and leaned her head back.

"Relax, Efram. I don't believe in ghosts."

"Oh, but..." The boy shot her another look. "I don't, either, miss."

"But if I did-—if I believed in them, and if I thought there was one at Charon's Crossing, who would it be?"

"I don't understand, miss."

"I mean, what would the ghost look like?"

"I don't know."

"Efram, come on. You can tell me. Honestly, it won't bother me."

The boy shifted uneasily in his seat. "I really don't know, miss. I have only heard stories of—things."

"Things?"

"Noises. Moans." He swallowed. "Things."

"Have you heard these 'things,' Efram?"

"Oh never, miss. I would not go into that house... I mean, I prefer not to."

"And you've never seen anything?"

Efram looked at her. "Well... well once, I was with some kids. We meant no harm, of course." Kathryn nodded. "Of course."

"We came through the garden, there at the back of the house. It was late at night, you see..."

"Go on."

"Well, we, ah, we saw someone."

"In the garden?"

"Yes."

"What did he look like?"

"I didn't get a good look, miss, except to see that he was tall and skinny. And he had long, funny hair."

Kathryn grinned. She leaned over and tugged lightly at one of his dreadlocks.

"Long and funny, huh?"

Efram was beyond seeing the joke.

"Not like mine. Tied back, you know, like in the old days. And he was carryin' somethin' in his hand."

"What?"

"I don't know." He did; she could tell.

"Efram, come on. What was this—person—carrying?" Efram shook his head. "I told you, I don't know."

"But you think he was a ghost?"

The boy's mouth tightened. "Don't know that either, miss."

"Well," Kathryn said carefully, "let's just assume for a minute that he was a ghost. Why would he be haunting my house?"

"Efram?"

"I don't know."

Her patience snapped. "Will you stop saying that? Of course you know!"

"I don't."

"Efram..."

"Here we are," the boy said. The VW lurched violently as he swung it to the side of the road. Beyond it, a series of small cinderblock houses marched towards the harbor. Efram opened the car door and all but leaped out. "Good-bye, miss."

"Efram." Kathryn threw open the door and jumped out. "Hey, wait a minute..."

The boy waved his hand and took off.

Kathryn sighed. After a moment, she slammed the door, went around to the driver's side, and climbed into the car. She put one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift lever.

No matter what was going on at Charon's Crossing, there was a perfectly rational explanation for it. It was just infuriating to be the last to know what it was.

It would be even worse if it turned out she couldn't unload the damned place because of local stuff and nonsense.

Frowning, she put the car in gear. It was years since she'd driven a stick shift and the sound the VW made proved it. But the car finally shot backwards into the road and, after more horrible grinding noises, she coaxed it into first.

The Volkswagen bucked, then lurched forward.

"You'd better watch your backside, Amos," Kathryn muttered, "because ready or not, here I come."

* * *

Any other time, Hawkins Bay would have charmed her right out of her shoes.

Her father must have loved it on sight for it surely had to be an artist's idea of nirvana. Every street corner was worth sketching.

Even Kathryn, who was hardly in the mood for sightseeing, was impressed.

A sheltered, aquamarine harbor gave onto a wide pink sand beach bordered by a grove of palm trees. Beyond the palms were stuccoed, cinderblock houses which faced a narrow, cobblestone street.

Front Street, an old-fashioned street sign said, which made perfect sense considering that the only street that paralleled it was Back Street. The two thoroughfares were lined with modest buildings, each painted in one of the soft pastel colors of the Caribbean. Both streets were bisected by narrow alleys.

It was a charming scene. And a familiar one. Matthew's journal entry had described the town with accuracy and little seemed to have changed in the years since.

Well, Kathryn thought as a minivan shouldered past her, some things had changed. There'd been no cars or trucks lurching through these streets in his time. And no reggae music blaring from their radios. The music was loud, very different from the stately Bach fugues she preferred, but she found her shoulders swaying to the rhythmic beat.

A woman carrying a net shopping bag over one arm stepped down from the curb. Kathryn slowed the VW to a crawl. Nobody seemed to care very much if they walked on the sidewalk or in the road. People strolled as they liked; the cars, trucks and minivans drove the same way. If everybody did that in New York, there'd be bodies all over the place.

Kathryn smiled to herself. Maybe you caught on, if you lived here long enough.

She was more than happy to drive slowly. It gave her time to search for Amos's law office. She knew it was here, someplace on Front Street, but she couldn't remember the number. Not that it mattered. There didn't seem to be numbers on most of the buildings.

Eventually, she saw a discreetly lettered sign.

Amos Carter, Attorney at Law.

She pulled the car to the curb, edged it between a pink Studebaker that was older than she was and a spanking new Dodge minivan, and got out.

The door to Amos's office was locked. Kathryn jiggled the knob, then peered in through the dust-smeared plate glass window. It seemed awfully early for him to be out to lunch.

"You lookin' for Mr. Carter?"

She turned around. A heavyset woman wearing a grey and white striped smock that stretched from her enormous bosom to her ankles had popped her head out of the shop next door and was examining her with friendly interest.

"Yes. Yes, I am. Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I'm Ada." The woman smiled and jerked her head towards the sign over the shop door. " 'Ada's Ladies and Gents Fine Apparel,' that's me."

Kathryn nodded politely and held out her hand. "I'm Kathryn Russell. I'm staying out at—"

"Charon's Crossin'. Yes, I know."

"I was looking for Mr. Carter. Do you know when he's expected to return?"

Ada shrugged. "Two, three weeks, maybe."

Kathryn's mouth fell open. "What?"

"He flew to England."

"To England? Are you sure?"

The woman nodded. "He has family there. Somethin' came up, he said, he had to go there to take care of it. He mentioned you might come by. Said to tell you he'd tried to let you know he'd be gone but your phone's not workin'."

"Do tell," Kathryn said with a tight smile. "Did he leave any other message?"

"He said you might want to go over to see Hiram Bonnyeman." The woman jerked her chin towards the opposite side of Front Street. "Walk up a bit, then cut down the next cross street. Hiram's house is blue and pink. You can't miss it."

"Thanks."

"Miss Russell?"

Kathryn swung around. "Yes?"

"How is it, livin' in that house?"