Ghost Writer(70)

Joe Naire stood behind his nephew and placed ghostly hands on the man's shoulders. Mike was almost ten years older than his uncle had been when he died, but I saw the boy reflected in his uncle's eyes. Mike gave a shiver and Joe backed off a step.

“I don't think I realized how much my uncle loved us. When I see those photos, I know that this was just a job for him. We were what was important.” He sighed heavily and rubbed his arms as if cold.

“You okay? We can take a break.”

He shook his head.

“Your uncle was the weapons' tech, right? But he was also a diver?”

“They were all divers, but diving was one of my uncle's pleasures as well as a necessary skill for the posting. And he wasn't just a weapons' technician, he was a marksman and an engineer. He was interested in martial arts and ancient weapons, but also poetry and music.”

Joe Naire shrugged modestly.

“If he hadn't been black, he would have been an officer.”

Naire shook his head vehemently.

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe he refused officers training. My grandfather turned down promotion because he made more money as a sergeant than a second lieutenant.”

Naire grinned sheepishly and nodded. Mike shrugged.

“I guess I'll never know. I do know he was a renaissance man and a warrior. I can't believe he went quietly into the night.”

I let it go at that. Tempted as I was to tell Mike that his uncle was proud of him, I realized it wasn't prudent or necessary.

When the interview was over, Mike wondered what I’d wanted to talk to him about.

“Just this,” I said, lying.

In fact, I wanted to ask him about the hose and what might have happened if I hadn’t caught the leak. The problem was, he could be the culprit. Someone tried to sabotage my dive. I was betting it was one of the living.

Mary Lou was up next. I asked Gravell to hold her for a moment, made sure the camera was off, and called on Lou Boreman.

“Just Lou Boreman,” I added.

I didn't see anything at first, but when Mary Lou entered the room he appeared. Gravell made a few adjustments to the camera angle and we started.

“What were your impressions on the station?” I asked.

“Creepy and exciting. I can understand why you forgot protocol when we arrived. It was surreal how intact the site was. I saw the pin-up calendar and knew that was my father's bunk. He was always being sent stuff like that by gas stations and oil companies and tool suppliers. He gave most of them away, but always picked out one to hang up because it was expected.”

“Was there a particular smell?”

“Not that I remember. Nothing unexpected anyway. Actually, the place smelled cleaner than I expected. I mean, there was a salty-metallic scent, but underneath that, the place smelled well-scrubbed.”

“What are you hoping to find when you go on board tomorrow?”

“Answers, of course. I have no specific expectations.” She frowned. “While we're talking about answers, I'd like a couple from you. You might not want to record this, however.”

I took a deep breath. “You think it shouldn't be recorded?”

“No, I think it should. You just might not want it to be.”

“Go ahead,” I said, signalling Gravell to keep rolling.

He held up a hand and adjusted the position of the camera, and me, so that we were both in the shot. I grimaced. Gravell gave me a thumbs up, and I forced a calm, neutral expression onto my face.

With her country-girl prettiness, ponytail, and youthful appearance, it was easy to forget that Mary Lou was a forensic professional. I had no doubt that she traded on the fact that she was often underestimated, but this wasn't one of those times.

“You stated that you took out Lieutenant Minton's journal, compromising the integrity of the evidence, and started reading it because you felt compelled. Compelled by what?”

I hesitated. I didn't want to lie to her, but I wasn't about to tell her about the ghosts. I was tempted with Mike, not with his wife.

“I was trapped, alone, and injured. I hit my head when I was thrown off my feet during the explosion and again when I passed out due to fatigue and poor air. Both times I had dreams of the crew and I saw the journal in those dreams. I felt compelled to read the journal as a result.”

It was the truth, just not all of it.

She wasn’t convinced. “You knew rescue was just a matter of time. Why didn't you wait to look at the scans? What if you had dropped the journal in the water? Didn't you understand the responsibility you had?”

Over her shoulder, Boreman smiled apologetically.

“Were you told my rescue was just a matter of time?” I countered. “I wasn't.”

She looked startled. Gravell gave me the slightest of nods. I continued.

“As reassuring as Captain Campbell was, he didn't make false promises. He said he'd get me out. Neither of us knew if I'd be alive.”

Okay, that was a bit of a stretch. I am assuming that the captain wasn't sure he'd succeed. He never voiced those doubts.

“Have you read the journal?” I asked.

Mary Lou nodded. “Parts of it.”

Naire reappeared next to Boreman. Both looked at me expectantly.

“Then you know that Minton suffered from claustrophobia and was probably had an obsessive-compulsive personality. He abhorred disorder, dirt, and strong smells especially tobacco smoke.”