Ghost Writer(81)

“Do your best, Ms. Kirby.”

That's right, I thought. I'm not Jenny unless you're Sean, mate. Welland started breathing again. I covered my mike.

“Reciprocity and respect. In the same circumstances that you would call me Ms. Kirby, I wouldn't dream of calling you Barb.”

“Doesn't work like that in the military.”

“I'm not in the military.”

I went to the centre of the room and did a three-sixty slow turn. Nothing and no one came to me.

“Everything was left as if the crew might walk in any minute. Beds were made, personal effects arranged neatly.”

Now I could see Minton, smoothing covers trying to tidy up after the depredations of the last week. His ghostly form fussed. I closed my eyes and when I opened them Minton was still fussing in the intact room.



He makes Boreman's bed, arranging the little quilt on top when he is done. Naire's rack requires little work. He fluffs Golanger's pillow and strips Margolo's rack to start from scratch. When he is done, he sweeps the deck. Finally he goes to his locker and pulls out his journal. Sitting at the edge of his mattress, he starts writing. The words are little more than wavy lines and loops on the page.



“What are you doing?”

I snapped back into the here and now like a stretched elastic band. Mary Lou was yelling at me from the entrance to the galley

“I'm remembering. I need a little quiet, please.”

She marched toward me, nostrils flaring.

“Hon, I don't know who or what the hell you think you are, but this is a scientific investigation not…”

Welland stepped between us.

“Back off, Ms. Naire.”

Cross appeared at the hatch. Welland addressed him while still keeping an eye on Mary Lou.

“Please keep your team out of here until Ms. Kirby is finished.”

Mary Lou looked as if she was about to belt Welland. Cross stepped forward and put a hand to her elbow. She shook it off irritably.

“Captain Campbell respectfully requests—”

“I don't care what the hell he requests. Damned military! Messed up my scene in the control room, wiped computer memory, just happened to fry circuits where there were records so the fire and fire retardant would ruin evidence. Then he has the nerve to tell me where to go next.”

Mike and his team arrived from the forward section. He crossed the room and laid a hand on his wife's arm. She almost rounded on him before she recognized him. He leaned into her and spoke softly.

“The hell she did,” Mary Lou replied.

He nodded.

She turned to me.

“You found a bomb? Using that damned journal?”

“Among other things,” I said.

I stepped around Welland and met Mary Lou's gaze. “I've taken in a lot of information the past few weeks. Every report you've made, Dora's notes, the logs, journals, and letters of the crew, I've been over it all at least once. I'm probably the only person who has. Now I'm remembering it not in bits and pieces, but as a whole picture. But I need to concentrate so, please, be quiet.”

It was a good lie. It was made up of one hundred percent true parts.

Mary Lou backed off, but she didn't leave the room. None of them did. I hoped I could recapture the scene knowing I had an audience.

I closed my eyes. Come on, Minton, I thought, let's finish this.

At first I thought nothing had happened. I opened my eyes, and I was still in the wrecked living area. Then I saw Minton's ghost. He gave me a troubled smile and turned around. Stepping backward, he superimposed himself on me. Again. The salty, metallic smell of the air overwhelmed me again. I was dizzy and nauseous again. I closed my eyes and almost retched. All I could smell was blood and cleanser.



We go to his locker and pull out his journal. Sitting at the edge of his mattress, we start writing. Tears blind us, but I can feel the shape of the words as we write.

“Everyone gone now and I am to blame. I didn't see. I refused to see. I wanted it to be anyone else. Boreman and Golanger dead at my hands. Dawes and Kant hit in the crossfire. I might have saved Kant. I might have saved them all.”

We write “saved them all” over and over again, then find a fresh page.

“They died because of me. He knew how I would be. He told me I would be fine, but I was always meant to be the killer. I might as well have been the killer.”

We write “killed them all” over and over again, filling pages.

Finally, we shut the book and put it back in his locker. We smooth the covers where we had been sitting, take a last look around, and leave.

We walk to the torpedo room. A wet suit is waiting.



Minton pushes me out of him. I watch him strip down and suit up. All his clothes go in a torpedo tube and are ejected like the dead bodies of the crew. Perhaps if he could have managed it, he would have done the same to himself. Instead, he has to find another exit. I start to follow him.



Hands tugged at me. Different voices were calling my name. I blinked a couple of times and looked from side to side. Welland had one of my arms, Mercuros the other. I was in the torpedo room. Mike, Mary Lou, Dippel, and Tim stood nearby with identical expressions of troubled concentration.

“What?” I asked, irritated at being interrupted.