Haunted Destiny

His quarry was a dead man.

“Please!” she called again.

He stopped and glanced back at her and then nervously scanned the hallway.

Alexi realized that Jude McCoy—once again—saw him, too.

“I need to speak with you,” the agent said. His voice was calm and even.

The young man remained where he was.

Alexi kept walking toward him, with Jude a few steps behind. There was no one in the hallway just then, but at any minute there could be workers coming through, either to get to their gigs or to eat or return to their cabins if their shifts were during the off-hours.

“My cabin,” she whispered.

She reached her door and used her key card to open it. The young man paused, looked at her—and then at Jude McCoy.

Then he stepped into her cabin; McCoy followed.

“Who are you and what’s going on?” McCoy asked.

Alexi stared at him. He still didn’t know. He still didn’t get it. But the ghost, whose name she didn’t know yet, answered him.

“Byron Grant,” he said.

The name was vaguely familiar to her; she wasn’t sure why.

The FBI agent knew it instantly, though, and his tension and anger were unmistakable.

“Byron Grant is dead, killed in his attempt to save Elizabeth Williams.”

“Yes.”

Jude McCoy stood completely still, green eyes with their flecks of gold focused on the ghost.

Alexi clutched the edge of the built-in wardrobe as she sank to the foot of her bed. Now she knew. Now she understood.

Jude McCoy continued to watch the man in disbelief and anger. She thought, not for the first time, that he knew the truth—he knew it—but didn’t want to accept it.

Suddenly, his face changed. He reached out as if to place a hand on the ghost’s shoulders.

And, of course, he touched nothing.

Ghosts could surprise you. They could learn to make noise, to displace air about, to move objects...but they weren’t there in substance, as flesh and blood. They were energy, capable of so much—and yet never again would they have bodies that could be touched.

“My God,” Jude breathed.

He didn’t sag onto the floor. He just stared at the man, almost as though he wished Byron would disappear.

He seemed to hope that the ghost’s presence was impossible, a figment of his imagination.

Alexi thought she saw him wince. Saw a slight trembling seize his body.

And then he looked at the ghost again, at Byron Grant, and said, “I don’t suppose you’re going to be able to tell me who killed you?”

“No,” the ghost said. “There’s only one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty.”

“What’s that?” Jude McCoy asked.

“The killer is on this ship.”

4 (#u7ba54b30-7122-55db-b6f3-c59570f883a6)

Jude managed to sit, to put aside his own past, his emotions, his disbelief and worse...

The fact that he could see the dead—

And speak with a ghost.

The essence, soul or whatever remained of Byron Grant perched next to Alexi on the bed, while Jude took the chair at the dressing table. And he listened as Byron Grant told his story.

“I loved Elizabeth. I’d loved her...since high school. We’d been together ever since then,” he said. “We were a good couple, a great couple. We would’ve been married this Christmas.” He paused, obviously pained. “She had her wedding dress picked out.”

“I’m so sorry you lost her,” Alexi said in a whisper. “And I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

“I will be with her again. I know I will. I...” He paused and gazed at Alexi in obvious distress. “I don’t know why I’m here, and she’s not. But I have to believe...”

“You will be with her,” Alexi assured him. “Soon.”

“You’re here right now to help us,” Jude said.

Oh, God, that had to be the truth. Otherwise he’d completely lost his mind and entered into some grand delusion with this young woman. “You brought Jackson Crow and me onto this ship,” Jude continued.

Damn it! He should have recognized the man immediately. He’d seen pictures of all the victims. And he finally put the facts together.

Byron Grant had been an actor. He’d had stage makeup on when he was killed. Jude berated himself— why hadn’t he figured it out, put the facts together more quickly?

“Yes, I knew he’d be on this ship.” Byron hesitated once more. “I didn’t know he’d kill again before the ship sailed.”

“You were playing Cyrano!” Jude said. “My God, I’m an idiot. That was in the police reports. I just didn’t connect it with the makeup...or realize that the man I was chasing was really one of the victims.”

Byron Grant studied him, head at a slight angle. “Yes, I was playing Cyrano de Bergerac.” He paused. “I had a hard time getting that makeup off. As a ghost, I mean,” he added glumly.

Alexi Cromwell was silent as she watched the exchange.

But Jude could tell she wasn’t afraid. She was, if anything, glad that she’d finally managed to get Jude to admit there was a ghost—and the ghost to realize he needed to speak with Jude.

“I suppose,” Jude said. I wouldn’t know. I don’t really know anything about ghosts.