Ghost Writer(87)

Tim was taken away.

Briseau showed up with a stretcher and more help.

Dippel was taken away. He was alive, but still unconscious.

Briseau checked me out: O2 saturation, blood pressure, temperature. Nothing was perfect, but nothing was terrible either. On Gravell’s orders, she took scrapings from under my finger nails and photographed my face and torso. Since the doctor was going to be busy with Dippel for a while, she agreed I could report to the captain before reporting to sick bay. Before leaving, she gave me a cold-pack and a warm blanket.

Throughout, I maintained outward calm except for the death grip I had on Gravell’s shirt. I managed to keep hold of it even when Briseau had eased me around so she could lift my t-shirt and see the pattern of contusions across my ribs. As soon as she left I returned to the supportive embrace of Gravell’s arm and leaned my head on his chest, more out of exhaustion than anything else.

“Sloan will be here next,” I said, voice barely audible.

Gravell put a thumb and forefinger almost, but not quite together. “Sloan is that close to being charged with dereliction of duty. She will stay out of my way if she knows what is good for her.”

I shook my head. Bad move. It hurt like hell. “I shouldn't have let her go.”

“No you shouldn't have.”

I looked up at him, wondering if he was going to pick now, of all times, to chastise me. I didn't think I could handle it. His lips were pressed into a thin line, eyes pinched as if in pain. That's when I noticed how tightly he was holding me.

Our eyes met and he made an effort to relax his facial features into their usual stoic expression. He gently pried my fingers from his shirt and eased me into a chair, making sure the blanket stayed around my shoulders. Then he activated the cold pack and handed it to me. It did feel good on my chin, just not as good as Gravell’s arm around me.

He saw my phone on the floor and retrieved it.

“You set it to record,” he said, turning it off.

“I tried to, yes. If it worked, there might be some stuff on there about ghosts.”

“I'll take care of it,” he said, pocketing the device. “I shouldn't have trusted Sloan with your safety. She wasn't aware of the stakes. I was.”

“Why did you trust her?”

“Captain's orders.”

“Then you didn't have a choice,” I said, giving a little shrug. A big shrug would have hurt too much. Every muscle in my body ached. I was on the edge of tears, but still managed to keep my voice relatively calm. “You can't refuse an order from the captain of the ship, can you?”

“I can if I think it's wrong.”

“Did you know it was Tim trying to kill me?”

“I suspected he might be trying to scare you. I had no proof, and I knew he was being watched.”

Gravell met my gaze. It was difficult. I could tell that he felt he had somehow failed me. “I never expected such a direct attempt on your life, and I still don't understand what prompted it.”

I gave him a grim smile. “I do. I think we should visit Captain Campbell now. I don't think I have the energy to tell this story twice.”



Captains Campbell, Tinsdale, and Franchot presented a picture worthy of a Norman Rockwell illustration: “Privileges of Command.” Tinsdale was in the chair I sat in during my visits, back straight, but shoulders hunched as if he carried the weight of the world there. Franchot was slouched in the second chair, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, eyes half-closed. The captain was pouring whisky over three glasses of ice. He looked over his shoulder as we entered.

“Ah, Ms. Kirby, can I offer you a drink?”

Then he turned and got a better look. His face drained of colour.

“What the hell happened?”

Franchot went from slouch to stand so fast he knocked over his chair. Tinsdale threw his shoulders back and scowled. Having checked myself in the mirror while I dressed, I could understand their shock. My face was blotchy, eyes red. My lips and eyelids had been a scary shade of blue. For all I knew, they might still be. A puffy purple bruise was developing on my jaw. I was wearing a long-sleeved sweater over my cargo pants, otherwise they would have seen the contusions on my arms.

The captain put down the bottle of Canadian Club he was holding and in a couple of steps was tilting my chin to look at the damage.

Then he turned to Gravell. “Report.”

Voice cold and controlled Gravell testified to what he had witnessed more or less. Margolo's ghost was left out and there was no mention of the fact that the door was locked when Gravell arrived and it mysteriously unlocked.

Evidently, only seconds passed from the time Tim Neville compressed my chest with his knee and Gravell entered. It just seemed longer. Gravell also neglected to mention that my phone was set to record. Any mention of ghosts would be edited from the memory before that piece of evidence was turned over.

“While being subdued, Neville's nose was broken and jaw dislocated. There were also deep scratches on his hand, defensive wounds inflicted by Madame Kirby. Neville is in the brig where he is receiving medical attention. Gunnery Sergeant Dippel is in sick bay. We checked on him on the way here. He has regained limited consciousness, but the extent of his injury is yet to be determined.”

Tinsdale nodded at me and sighed. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Kirby. I didn't see that coming.”