Grave Phantoms (4 page)

“Suit yourself,” he answered, and held out a hand.

One after the other, the three of them boarded the aft deck and ducked inside the door to the main salon. Black and blue shadows crossed the spacious room. Without the engine running, there was no power. No lights. And though Bo could make out the general layout by the light filtering through the salon's windows, it wasn't enough to ease his needling anxiety. He popped open the strap of his holster—just in case—and flicked on his flashlight.

“Stars,” Astrid mumbled at his side as she folded up her umbrella.

The salon was the pinnacle of class and taste. Expensive furniture. Fine art. A sleek bar in the back near a white baby grand piano. But all of it was wrecked. Furniture lay tipped over, and broken stemware littered the woven Persian rug. The mirror above the bar was cracked down the center.

The police chief had told Winter that there were signs of a party on board, but he hadn't relayed just how recent that party had been. The yellow beam of Bo's flashlight illuminated fresh flowers scattered from broken vases. Fresh flowers and fresh food, not to mention the lingering scents of candle wax, cigarette smoke, and booze.

All this made Bo feel better, actually. Whatever bizarre activities the survivors had been up to, they weren't ghosts or monsters.

He revised that opinion when he swept the flashlight's beam up the walls. Witchy symbols were drawn in bright blue paint. A large ritual circle was painted in the center
of the salon floor, around which a dozen or more candles had melted into the wooden floorboards.

“What in God's name were these cranks up to?” Bo murmured.

“They're occultists,” Officer Barlow said. “Devil worshippers or something.”

“What language is this?” Astrid asked.

“No idea,” Bo said.

The officer shrugged. “Who cares? They were probably all taking narcotics. A lot of heroin's been coming into the city this year. Or maybe you knew that already . . .”

Bo did, but only from gossip. The Magnussons didn't have anything to do with narcotics. They only sold alcohol, and not bathtub gin, either. Top quality. And all of it smuggled by ship from Canada, some of which was originally imported from Europe. One of those European imports was a very
particular
brand of black-label champagne—one that no one else in San Francisco sold. Bo would recognize the bottles anywhere; after all, he'd inspected every shipment of it, checking for false labels, evaluating the bottle marks, and tasting the contents.

Several empty bottles of that very champagne lay on the floor of the salon.

He picked one up and sniffed. Definitely Magnusson stock. Only a few speakeasies around town that sold it, along with the occasional special order for a political fund-raiser or some socialite's wedding.

He didn't like finding it here.

“Must have been one hell of a party,” Barlow said. “Hope it was worth it, because as soon as we can get them identified, they're all going to be locked up for stealing this boat.”

“Is that what happened?” Astrid asked. “They stole it?”

Barlow shrugged. “What else would it be? You saw them. They were young—your age, and vagrants, I'd guess. They took the boat for a joyride, got looped up on drugs, probably sailed up the coast and got lost.”

“For a year?” Astrid said.

Bo shared her disbelief. He wasn't convinced that vagrants had such expensive taste in hothouse flowers and champagne. And other than the damage to the furniture—which could have been caused by the storm—and the painted blue symbols, the room had been kept up. No piss in the corner. No signs of anyone holing up in here. Hell, there wasn't even dust on the bar. He lifted his fingers to his nose and smelled wood polish.

“The chief mentioned a man who'd claimed to have captained this boat when it went missing last year,” Bo said. “Know anything about that?”

Barlow made a snorting sound. “Sure, I heard about him. It was just some geezer with a few screws loose who ended up in a mental institution. Claimed that he'd been hired to pilot the yacht, but a storm threw him overboard and he swam ashore.”

“Interesting,” Bo said.

“Not really. The yacht's owner had never laid eyes on him. We see that kind of stuff all the time. Lonely people with too much time on their hands read about cases in the newspapers and show up at the station, claiming they can help us. They never do.”

Astrid stepped over broken glass and stumbled into Bo.

“Whoa,” he said, putting a hand on her arm to steady her. For a moment, he wondered if she hadn't sobered up as much he'd originally thought, but then he realized he was wobbly, too. The storm outside was picking up speed. He leaned against the bar for support and held on to Astrid, relishing the excuse to do so, even for a few stolen seconds.

“All right,” Officer Barlow complained when the boat's swaying finally calmed. “I don't have all night. Let's get to the engine room.”

“What's this?” Astrid bent to pick up something that had rolled across the floor.

Bo flicked the flashlight's beam near her feet. Bright
blue stone glinted as her fingers reached for it—something about the size of his hand. Turquoise, maybe. When she picked it up, a brief flash of white light ringed her hand like a wreath of electric smoke.

She went rigid, convulsed, and collapsed to the floor.

“Astrid!” Bo cried out as he dropped to her side.

The flash of light was gone, but she wouldn't open her eyes. He couldn't tell if she was breathing. He bent low and listened over Astrid's open mouth.

Breath
, thank God. And his shaking fingers felt a pulse at her neck.

“Christ!” Barlow shouted. “What's the matter with her? She having a seizure or something?”

“Astrid, wake up,” Bo said into her face, afraid to shake her. Afraid
not
to.

Her fingers still clutched the turquoise object. He pried them open and tried not to touch the thing, but it was unavoidable. The stone was hot, but no light flashed when he touched it—a carved figure, from what he could make out in the dark. Some kind of miniature idol. He pulled out a handkerchief and quickly rolled the figure into the linen before stashing it in his jacket pocket.

What the hell was that thing, and what had it done to her? She was unmoving. Completely unresponsive. She felt limp and fragile in his arms as he scooped her off the floor. Barlow's annoying voice buzzed around Bo's head, suggesting they not touch her because she might be suffering from whatever ill magic had cursed the blue-faced survivors.

And she might be, but Bo would be damned before he sat by and let it kill her.

“Hold on,” he mumbled repeatedly as he carried her out of the yacht's salon, doing his best to shield her drooping body from the sting of rain.

“That girl needs to go to a hospital,” the officer yelled over the howling wind, dogging Bo's heels. “I can't help you. I'm not allowed to leave my post.”

Bastard. Bo would remember that later, but at the moment, he didn't care. He made it to his car and heard Astrid moan as he set her down in the front seat. She still didn't open her eyes.

“You're going to be fine,” he told her. “Everything's going to be fine.”

He just wasn't sure if he believed it.

Astrid woke in fits and starts, occasionally seeing snatches of the dark city whizzing by a rain-splattered car window. Though she'd only been inside this car a couple of times before she left for college, she knew she was riding in Bo's new forest green Buick Brougham, because it smelled like dyed mohair velvet upholstery and the lemon drops he stashed in the glove box. She did her best to concentrate on those familiar scents, but the bubbling memory of her dream kept pulling her back under.

Not a dream. It was too strange, too bright and surreal. And she'd been far too conscious when it was happening, as if the turquoise idol had opened a door when she'd touched it, and she'd lifted outside her body and stepped into another time.

When she finally kicked away the thick haze that held her under, she was lying in a hospital bed on top of drum-tight sheets, and a nurse in a crisp white pinafore apron and pointed hat was taking blood from her arm. “There she is,” the nurse said with a kind smile. “How are you feeling?”

“A little weak,” she admitted.

“I'm Nurse Dupree,” she said, removing the syringe and tourniquet from her arm. “Do you know who you are?”

“Someone who stupidly drank too much . . . uh, grape juice.” The woman seemed nice, but she might be a teetotaler. Best to play it safe.

“But what's your name, dear?”

“Astrid Cristiana Magnusson,” she enunciated carefully.

Behind the nurse, Bo let out a small sound of relief.

“I'm all right,” she told both of them. “A little dizzy, but it's passing.”

After the nurse bandaged her arm and ran through a list of symptoms that Astrid didn't have, she left with a blood sample and a promise to return shortly. “A lot going on tonight with those boat survivors and the police,” she said. “I'll try to get a doctor in here as soon as I can.”

Bo's anxious face peered down from the side of the bed. “You scared the life out of me.” He blew out a long breath and ran a hand over his hair. A moment later, it was hard to tell if he was genuinely concerned . . . or merely irritated at her for inconveniencing him.

He picked up a pitcher from her bedside table and poured water into a glass.

Astrid looked around and realized they were in a room with three other beds—one of which was occupied by a man in a full body cast, who seemed to be sleeping. Distant commotion and chatter echoed down the spotless white hallway outside the propped-open door. The occasional nurse scurried back and forth.

“Are we at Saint Francis?” she asked. “Are the boat survivors here?”

“Down the hall. Drink,” he encouraged, holding out the glass as she sat up in bed.

She took it from him and gulped down the lukewarm water, requesting another glass when she'd emptied it. “Remind me never to get sloshed again.”

“I don't think this was from the champagne. I told
the nurse you fell and went unconscious after the yacht crashed into the pier. I didn't tell her why, exactly.” He paused and looked at her seriously. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I touched the blue idol and fell out of myself.”

“You . . . what? Hold on.” Metal zinged as Bo pulled the privacy curtain, separating her from the man in the body cast. “Tell me everything.”

Now she had his full attention. Finally. She patted the bed next to her and scooted over to give him room. He hesitated a moment before sitting down. Like it pained him. It was clear he was trying to keep some space between them. She shifted her leg to erase that space, mentally tallying a point in her favor, and began explaining the sensation she'd felt when she'd touched the object.

“It was an electric pain,” she said. “A shock. I felt hot.”

Then she recounted her strange vision . . .

She'd been on the yacht. In the salon.

It was dim, the room lit by candlelight. Night loomed beyond the band of windows. Nothing was wrecked—no cracked mirror behind the bar, no glass on the rug, or strewn furniture—but the blue symbols were still painted on the walls . . . and on the floor. Standing inside the ritual circle were six people dressed in white robes.

The survivors.

And facing them around the outside of the circle were six additional people. Each of them stood naked in a puddle of rough, brown fabric, wearing nothing put pairs of strange-looking boots.

Bright blue stones glowed in their hands. Miniature idols, like the one Astrid had picked up. Six people, six idols. One by one, each of the expressionless nude participants handed the turquoise statues to the survivors before picking up the brown fabric that pooled around their strange boots. Brown burlap sacks, big enough for a man to stand inside. They pulled the sacks over their heads like cocoons and cinched them closed from the inside.

Lightning flashed in the windows. The survivors stepped outside the circle and embraced the sack-tied people. And as they did, Astrid saw a single person left standing in the middle of the circle. A woman in a deep red robe. Some kind of priestess. She was elderly—her hands were horribly wrinkled, and strands of white hair peeked from her hood—and though her back faced Astrid, when lightning flashed a second time, she could almost make out her blurred face in the mirror over the bar—

And then it was over. Astrid had snapped back into her body. It was the strangest thing she'd ever experienced, and even now, made her shudder.

“Do you think the idol infected me with some sort of magic?” she whispered. “Remember what happened to Winter when he got cursed and started seeing ghosts? I definitely do
not
want to see ghosts.”

“Winter was cursed on purpose. There's no way anyone could have known you'd pick that idol up.”

“What was it?”

“I don't know, but whatever kind of charge it held seems to be gone.” From the pocket of his suit jacket, he retrieved a gray handkerchief embroidered with his initials and unfolded it. Inside the fabric, turquoise winked.

It was definitely a stylized figure. The carving was crude yet beautiful, the bright blue surface covered in a delicate web of cracks. The figure's wide eyes were inlaid with gold, and a strange symbol was embossed on a gold disk in the middle of the idol's stomach.

“You kept it?” she whispered.

“I touched it after you did, but nothing happened.” He demonstrated with a finger. “It was hot to the touch before, but it's cooled down. If what you saw is somehow real—”

“It
was
real, Bo. You have to believe me.”

“Oh, don't worry, I believe you. You Magnussons are a goddamn magnet for the supernatural.”

In addition to Winter's wife being a trance medium, Lowe's wife, Hadley, was a museum curator who'd inherited
a regiment of ancient Egyptian death specters from her cursed mother.

So, no, the Magnussons weren't exactly a normal family.

But it was different to witness strange phenomena happening to someone else and a whole other thing to experience it yourself. She hoped Bo was right, and that the vision was merely an unhappy accident.

Bo folded the idol back inside the linen. “Maybe the ritual they were performing on the yacht somehow got absorbed into the idol. Like a magical memory.”

“How can we find out?”

“No idea.” He sighed heavily and looked at her with a forlorn expression. “Winter is going to murder me for letting you come on that boat.”

She handed him the empty water glass. “Does he know we're here?”

“No, but I'll have to tell him eventually, and he's not going to be happy.”

“Bo,” she said, leaning closer to whisper. “Those other people I saw . . . What if the survivors murdered them?”

“We don't even know if they exist. I believe you saw what you said you did, but let's be practical. The owner of the yacht might be able to identify the survivors. If there are missing people who were on board, she might know that, too.”

“The boots . . .” She paused and stared up at him. “There was something funny about them, and I think I just realized what. I know it sounds crazy, but I think the boots were made of metal. Like, iron, maybe.”

“Iron boots,” Bo muttered. “How could you even walk in them?”

“What if they weren't for walking? What if they were intended to weigh someone down? Think about it. Burlap bags? That's just bizarre. What if the survivors threw those people overboard to drown?”

Quick footfalls approached the hospital room's door.
Astrid looked up, expecting to see Nurse Dupree returning, but two other people stopped outside the door: the police chief and a woman wearing an expensive crimson coat and feathered hat.

For a moment, Astrid's mind jumped to the red-robed priestess in her vision, until she reminded herself that the priestess had been white-headed, and this one was blond and couldn't have been a day over twenty-five.

“I can assure you of that, Mrs. Cushing,” the police chief was telling the blonde. “If they are fit to leave the hospital tomorrow, we will release them into your custody until their families can be notified. You are kind to offer them shelter.”

“It's the least I can do,” the woman replied with a smile. “Whatever happened to them at sea, I can only say I'm thankful they're still alive. And I'm grateful you called me about this matter. I know you'll get everything straightened out.”

“That we will, ma'am,” the chief said.

The woman nodded and glanced past him. Her gaze connected with Astrid's for a moment, and then the pair continued on their way down the hall.

“I wonder who that was,” Bo said as Nurse Dupree strode through the door.

“Mrs. Cushing?” the nurse said, nodding over her shoulder. “That's the widow who owns the yacht.”

“Excellent.” Bo sprung from the bed and headed toward the door. “I need to speak with her about towing it off our property.”

“You can try to catch her, but I think she's leaving with her driver.”

“Don't move,” Bo said, pointing a finger at Astrid in warning. “I'll be right back.”

As he strode away, Nurse Dupree picked up a wooden clipboard and jotted down notes on Astrid's medical form. “Feeling better?”

“Much. I don't think I need to see a doctor, especially since the hospital is so busy with the survivors. Have you seen them yourself?”

“Yes, and if you want my opinion, that poor woman is being taken for a ride.”

“Mrs. Cushing?” Astrid asked.

The nurse nodded. “One of the survivors she identified as her former maid, Mary Richards. Mrs. Cushing reported her missing last year, apparently. She'd given Miss Richards permission to use the boat over the weekend, so I understand wanting to help the girl out, but the rest of them are strangers. If you ask me, offering to let them all stay in her home is just begging for trouble. I need to take your pulse again, sweetheart.”

Astrid gave the nurse her arm. “Does Miss Richards remember who the rest of the survivors are and what happened?”

“No. She doesn't even remember her own name.” The nurse pushed up Astrid's sleeve and looked at a watch pinned to her apron. “Just between you and me, I don't think all of the survivors have memory loss. I overheard two of them talking when Mary was being interrogated, and they sounded mighty familiar with each other.”

Astrid perked up. “You don't say?”

“One of the detectives told me he thinks they stole the boat and had no intention of bringing it back—that the engine died and the storm swept them to shore, and now they're playing innocent. That widow believes she's being a Good Samaritan, but I wouldn't be surprised if they rob her blind in the middle of the night.”

Astrid spoke in a hushed voice. “You didn't happen to hear if there were others on the boat who are still missing, did you?”

“Mrs. Cushing doesn't know who went out on the boat with Miss Richards last year. You were there when the yacht crashed, right? Did you see other people?”

“No,” Astrid said. She didn't actually see them, so it wasn't a lie. But it felt like one, because all her instincts told her that she wasn't wrong.

“Your pulse is too high,” the nurse said. “So I think you should stop worrying about all this chaos and get a good
night's rest at home. You'll feel better when all the excitement has died down. My advice is to forget it even happened and not make a habit of drinking so much grape juice,” the nurse said with a pat on her arm and a wink.

Astrid's thoughts returned to her vision. Twelve people around the ritual circle . . . and the priestess in the middle made thirteen. Thirteen people were on that boat, and only six walked off. She wasn't sure that was something she could easily forget.

—

And she didn't.

Not when she was released from the hospital half an hour later, and not when Bo drove them back to Pacific Heights while the rain-soaked city slept. The grand homes in this neighborhood sat shoulder to shoulder on tiered streets that belted a steep hill and provided a commanding view of the Bay. Astrid grew up in an immigrant neighborhood across town, but her father moved them here after Prohibition. His decision to take up bootlegging had dramatically changed their lives.