Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (20 page)

“I say we keep going. We should hit the Keys well before nightfall.”

“We might hit more than that if this weather doesn’t let up. We get blown off course in a storm and we could pile up on a jetty.”

Henry lowered the binoculars and looked ahead. “Skies along the south horizon seem to be lifting.” He looked at Ian with determination clamped hard about his mouth. “We’re running against time, not the weather.”

Ian caught his eye. “I understand. This was my idea, remember?”

Henry nodded and resumed his watch on the waterspout. It had taken a clear path north, moving off behind them, its funnel swilling the Atlantic and spitting it back. Ian struggled with what to do. Henry Bower was close to igniting. His daughter, who seemed to be his only reason to persist in this life, was back on the endangered list, and reason was running in short supply inside the desperate mind of her father. But Ian knew the sea as Henry never had. The old charter captain had tangled with it too many times to ignore its warnings to back off and head for shore. Is that what it was telling him now?

For another hour, Ian listened only to the sea and the wind, not the entreaties of a father on a mission to save his child. What good would he be trapped in the belly of the ocean?

Soon, though, the dead gray of the seas to the south and east took on a metallic glint. Something had flung a spritz of light across the waves, a cloud-swaddled sun straining to be seen. Ian took the signal as an all clear. He confirmed it with NOAA, who reported the storm wall finally moving out to sea.
Exodus II
and its skippers soon cleared the battering swells, throttled up, and sailed confidently into the last leg of the journey.

Henry had just taken a turn at the wheel when Ian’s phone rang. He grabbed it instantly. “Cade? Is everything okay there?”

“Everything’s fine, Pop. No incidents to report. But you should have heard the uproar at the end of the performance. The applause was deafening. Max and my girl hung a few stars in the heavens tonight, or so this crowd thinks.”

“How about that Russian fellow?”

Cade didn’t answer right away. “What do you mean, Pop?”

“You know what I mean. Did Kozlov show up? ’Cause when he does, there’s always trouble.”

Cade hesitated again and Ian read it for what it was. Withholding. Before Cade could muster a reply, Ian said, “You think I don’t know what’s going on, and that I’m better off not knowing. Wrong on both counts.”

“Pop, now calm down. I’m not trying to keep anything from you. Everything here is going fine. If it weren’t, I’d tell you.”

“Okay, son. But don’t you take your eyes off Liesl. And the rest of us will do what we have to do.” He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.
Why did I have to say something like that?

“And just what is that?” The wind picked up and sent a hard blast of salt spray against the windshield beside Ian. “You still on the boat, Pop?”

“Yeah. Well, I need to go now, so—”

“Hold on, Pop. What did you mean by doing what you have to do?”

“All I mean is, Henry and I are doing what we do best. Fishing.” That ended the call.

Making better time than expected,
Exodus II
pulled into Anhinga Bay about six that evening. The oblong basin was ringed by Norfolk Island pines and coconut palms, the waters deep and sapphire from end to end. A few dwellings broke the tree line around the shore. Still not sure what he was looking for, Ian’s gaze swept them quickly then focused on the marina straight ahead. He’d visited it many times over the years. It had once thrived on the fishing trade, but a newer, larger facility a mile south had left the Anhinga marina teetering on old age and under use, or so it appeared from the few boats tied up at its sagging docks. “I’m going to find Chet,” Ian said as Henry tied down the boat and prepared to hook up shore power. “Catch up when you can.”

Ian had known the dockmaster, Chet Blanchard, only casually, enough to swap fraternal greetings and a few fish tales. Now, however, Ian was casting for as much information as he could harvest, from as many sources as he could find. Fishing, he’d told Cade. Something was going on in this quirky little place and he and Henry weren’t leaving until they’d landed on it.

He spotted Chet bent over a box of Styrofoam cups at the back of the marina store. “Don’t throw your back out lifting those things,” Ian called.

A slick-bald man in a denim shirt and shorts straightened in a hurry, a smile already on his face. “I knew that voice instantly.” He came around the counter with his hand extended. “Ian O’Brien. Where you been, man?”

Ian took Chet’s hand and pumped it. “Charleston. Moved there with my grandson. You remember Cade?”

“Sure do. Puked a lot, as I recall.”

Ian laughed. “That’s why he’s a magazine editor now.” Then he remembered his mission and allowed no more extraneous news. They were here to uncover information, not give it away. A low profile was best. Just a couple of fishermen with a hankering to get their fortunes told. Wasn’t that what he’d told Henry? Better stick to it.

“So what brings you back?”

Careful
, Ian warned himself. “I just wanted to show my South Carolina buddy there what a real fish looked like.” He gestured toward Henry, who was just entering the door.

With introductions and harmless banter out of the way, Ian started pumping for information. “Say, Chet, what do you know about this spirit camp down the road?”

“The spooks?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Chet shrugged. “Been there a long time. Mind their own business. Even got a university now.”

“A what?”

“A guy named Vandoren built it a couple of years ago behind the camp. Classes on how to talk to ghosts.” Chuck raised one hand. “I swear it. And folks come from all over to learn how to do that. The hotels in town are lovin’ it.”

Ivan Volynski was around here two years ago!
Ian suddenly remembered that snatch of data from the conversation he’d overheard at Ava’s house, and a laser beam just shot from Volynski to Vandoren. Ian turned to see if Henry had made the same connection. He had.

“So tell us more about this Vandoren fella,” Henry urged, though his eyes drilled into Ian. “What’s his first name?”

“Curt,” Chet answered, then cocked a half grin at Ian. “Say, you two aren’t into that funny stuff, are you?”

“Naw, just curious,” Ian replied.

“Well, come on out here.” Chet led them through the door of the little store and onto the fuel dock. “See that red-tile roof through the trees there?” Ian and Henry turned that way. A steep slope of terra cotta stood in relief against the chartreuse fronds of a palm thicket. “That’s Vandoren’s house. Pretty fancy place, I hear. Not like those little dried-up bungalows the camp mediums live in.” Chet shook his head but barely paused for breath. Ian knew to stay quiet and just listen. “There seems to be more money in training spooks than being one.” He chuckled at his own wit.

“Notice any unusual activity around here lately?” Henry asked.

“Are you kidding? How many of
your
neighbors carry on with dead people? Everything about this place is unusual. Plain weird. Now, if you’re talking
new
, well, there’s that big séance they’ve been advertising. I think that’s going to happen tomorrow night. So you guys are just in time for Halloween.” He laughed some more. “Go on up there and take a look,” Chet added. “And get you some dinner at the camp hotel.” He looked over at
Exodus II.
“Probably not much of a galley on that tug, right, Ian? Or a cook.” He clapped Ian’s shoulder.

“How far a walk is it from here?”

“Couple miles. But if you want, you can use my bikes. They’re behind the store.”

“Bikes?” Ian frowned.

“Yeah, sure. Keep ’em as long as you’re here.”

Ian had just one more question. “How big are the seats?”

I
an and Henry showered on board, changed into clean clothes, and peddled off toward the Anhinga Bay Spiritualist Camp. Surprisingly, Ian immediately took to the rusty old cruising bike with the fat tires and, best of all, a broad-beam seat. The memory of how he’d suffered on the painfully narrow seat of Ava’s rental bike was still fresh. “Now this is the way man was intended to sit on a bike,” he declared to Henry as they rode. “Or else God would have made us a lot different in the crotch area.”

It didn’t take long to reach the camp, which spread between the marina and the little town of Anhinga Bay. Chet had told them the front gate was usually open until just after dark, but that a guard would stop them anyway.

It was a simple entrance with cement columns on either side of a wide, asphalt driveway. A small sign drilled into one column declared the name of the camp. Just inside was the guardhouse.

“Hold up here,” Ian told Henry, and they stopped their bikes short of the gate. “There’s something I have to do, so bear with me.” Ian bowed his head and began to pray silently.

But Henry interrupted him. “Nothing doing. No secrets. If you’ve got something to say to him, do it where I can hear.” It was as honest a request as Ian had ever heard from him. So once more, Ian bowed his head.

“Lord, I know you’re here,” he began in a hushed voice. “Make Henry know it, too.” He paused, his eyes still closed. “We don’t know what to expect in there, but I believe you brought us here for a reason. So lead us to it, and protect us as we go. Amen.”

Henry frowned at him. “That’s all?”

“Well, how much praying do you want?”

“I didn’t ask for any. But I expected you’d come up with more than that.” Henry pushed off, leaving an exasperated Ian to sputter a reply.

“I don’t trouble the Lord for more than I need at the time,” he called.

Ian caught up with Henry, and the two stopped at the guardhouse where a friendly young man in knee-length shorts and a camp T-shirt greeted them.

“Welcome to Anhinga Bay, gentlemen. How can we help you?”

Ian and Henry had already agreed to present themselves as honestly as possible: just a couple of fishermen tourists with a keen interest in the history and culture of the camp. No lie there. No need to expound on their motives either.

“My friend and I are touring the area and would gratefully appreciate a chance to explore the camp and learn as much as we can about its history and its residents,” Henry said as if he’d practiced every syllable before a mirror. Ian found himself staring at him as if he’d never heard him speak before.

“Of course you can,” the young man replied with an accommodating air. “You might want to start at the camp bookstore for some background on us.” He pointed across a grassy commons to a cluster of buildings. “And maybe grab some dinner at the hotel next door. Where are you staying?”

Henry avoided the question by asking one of his own. “Is Vandoren’s university also open to visitors?”

The young man’s demeanor caved slightly. “The camp and the University of the Spirit are entirely separate entities.” Henry and Ian hadn’t understood that. “You’ll have to inquire at their front office about a tour.” It was a cordial reply, but not a willing one.

“And how would we get there?” Henry persisted.

Patiently, the young man pointed out the road that ran along the camp’s fenced property and ended at the place where Henry and Ian most desired access. “Now, please come in and enjoy your stay with us,” the guard resumed his official welcome. “Feel free to roam about. I won’t be closing the gate tonight until nine.”

Ian and Henry rode into the camp and stopped to get their bearings from the map the guard had given them. The broad commons was ringed by thirty or more one-story cottages, all neatly kept and fairly uniform in design, most with screened front porches and picket fences. In the front yards of those nearest, Ian and Henry saw shingles that advertised such services as
spiritual readings, healing
, and
past life regression.

“Let’s head for the hotel first,” Ian said. “I’m hungry.” Henry readily agreed.

It was a simple, three-story facility of beige stucco with a broad front porch dotted with rocking chairs and pots of bright flowers. At one end, the porch flared into a gazebo where two couples were lounging in high-backed wicker chairs. They were talking quietly while sipping wine and dipping into a tray of appetizers on a small round table. Two or three single people sat alone reading or listening to iPods.

Once inside, Henry and Ian were greeted by a yellow and green bird who sang the Alabama fight song and ended with a clearly enunciated “Roll tide!”

“Oh don’t mind him,” said the hostess who approached them. She was a comely woman in her late forties with a cascade of chestnut hair falling over a delicate, ivory-lace blouse cinched neatly about her small waist. “The contractor who renovated our guest rooms taught that to him and we can’t get him to switch allegiance to the Gators for anything.” The woman spread her peach-glossed lips into an engaging smile. “Will you be dining with us?” she asked, grabbing a couple of menus.

When Henry didn’t answer, Ian replied, “Yes, ma’am,” then glanced over at his friend.
Well, would you look at that. I believe he’s smitten.
As they followed the woman to a table, Ian leaned toward him. “Pick up your lower jaw and put it back where it belongs. We’ve got work to do.”

The hostess led them to one of several tables at the front window. At the next table, a young couple sat waiting for their meal and watching a man throw a Frisbee to his dog on the commons.

“This place will be humming like a hive by tomorrow afternoon,” the woman informed as she placed their menus on the table before them. “Will you be attending the mass séance?”

Henry looked blankly at Ian, who hadn’t expected a confrontation with the paranormal so soon upon their arrival, if at all. Though they had come as sleuths focused only on uncovering anything relevant to Volynski, Ian also knew they were entering waters more dangerous than anything the Atlantic could hurl at them.

Henry believed that mediums and their claims to summon the dead were, in his words, full of malarkey. Ian knew that was often true. Frauds and fools would gather about a séance table, after an exchange of currency. The trickery was real, the voice of dead Aunt Ethel wasn’t. But some mediums possessed real preternatural powers, the kind God warned his people about. Sometimes those who wandered into a séance for either cheap thrills or a genuine desire to contact a dead relative suddenly found themselves in the grip of a spirit who was neither an amusement nor a departed loved one—but a very real and demonic presence, one of Satan’s own.