Ghost Writer(23)

I laughed. It hurt. “Good point.”

“Perhaps you could hum. Or you could tell me what is engaging your attention.”

I hummed the score of Raiders of the Lost Ark and turned my attention to the journal. I pulled it out of its plastic bag and strained to read it by the light of the hand-held's blue-screen, not wanting to waste the batteries by using the filming lights. I skipped over the first part which had been written as though ink and space were in short supply. Later, he was less stingy and more worrying.



They're playing poker again. Mitch thinks I should join in. He knows I disapprove of gambling—even if the stakes are penny-ante. No real harm, he says. Perhaps he's right about the gambling, but they smoke and drink. The smoke makes me sick and the drink makes them obnoxious.



I stared at the table. I could barely see it. That was all right. What I wanted to see was the vision from my dream.

I never heard ghosts, but I sometimes I could see their memories, some of their memories, in dreams. I was hoping for a waking dream now.

Minton, the journal writer, was spying on the group. I was seeing through his eyes.



Four men sit around the table. There is coffee, no cards, no chips, no flask being passed from man to man. The faces wear expressions ranging from worried to belligerent. Doc Dawes is tapping a finger as he listens to Boreman, who is punctuating his statements with table thumps. Kant is fiddling with a cigarette pack, turning it over and over in his hands. Golanger seems worried. He keeps looking around and gesturing Boreman to keep it down.

Commander Shore enters the room he says a few words. Boreman and Golanger leave. Then Dawes takes the Commander aside. Shore nods towards the storage area, towards me. Towards Minton.

Where is Naire? Where is Margolo?



“Madame Kirby?”

“Chief Gravell?”

“You're not sleeping are you?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then what?”

I hesitated. What did I want to admit to? Who could I trust?

“You can trust me,” he said, as though I had voiced the last comment aloud. Had I?

“No offense, but you’d say that if I couldn’t trust you—especially if I couldn’t trust you. C’est vrai, n’est pas?”

He made something between a huff and a guffaw. It was true. “You can trust me to act in the best interests of our country and your safety.”

Fair enough, I thought. Of course there would be an agent of the Canadian government on board the èmil Gagnan. The whole crew could be spies. Truth be told, my anger was fading as my pragmatic side asserted itself.

“Madame Kirby?”

“I've been reading a journal. I think that whatever happened was the result of a conflict between one or more members of the crew.”

“You found proof in the journal?”

“Not proof, indication. I think the writer is…” I searched for the term, “a person of interest in the investigation.”

“Perhaps this is something we should keep between us, at least for now.”

I almost laughed. “Who am I going to tell? The only other person I've been talking to at length is the captain.”

Pause.

“It probably won't come up, but it would be better if you don't discuss it at all. Not until you are safely out of there.”

I made a mental checklist. I had talked to Captain Campbell. He was okay. Dr. Stern might think I was crazy. The com officer talked to me. I talked to Tim just before I got cut off.

I had a bad feeling. “What was the technical difficulty, Chief Gravell? Who or what disconnected me earlier. Could Tim have accidentally hit a wrong button?”

Silence, then, “We don't know yet.”

If Tim touched something he shouldn't, that was accident. What if it was someone on the Scranton who blocked the signal?

“You don't know. Can you guess?”

There was a brief, but ominous pause. I realized, too late, that the Scranton was probably monitoring our communication.

“Sing, Madame Kirby, or hum. It won't be much longer now.”

I strained to read a few more pages. Something disturbing had happened here. Something disturbing might be happening again.





Chapter Sixteen ~ Voices in the Dark



I didn't believe for a moment that I was cut off due to technical difficulties. Human agency was the cause, I was sure of it. The captain mentioned personality difficulties. Based on what I was reading in Minton's journal, I think the station crew suffered personality difficulties too.

I found myself humming the “Imperial March” from Star Wars in a dirge tempo. Above me, a story of power was being played out between the émil Gagnan , the Nottawasaga, and the Scranton. The Empire wanted to protect its secrets. The Dominion wanted to protect its sovereignty. The feisty rebels wanted truth, justice, and a good story. Did a similar power struggle occur in the past? Had the station been infiltrated? Was it mutiny?

Okay, a little melodramatic. The place was getting to me.

I put away the journal and made sure the satchel was properly sealed. So far, that little book was my only witness to the events. I didn't want anything happening to it.

Segueing into “Luke's Theme,” I pulled my legs up on the counter. I was cold and tired, and I wanted someone to talk to me. At the same time, I didn’t want to interrupt the process of getting me out.