didn’t hear about that,” Ralph said. “I’ll bet the cops weren’t supposed to give out that information. I guess some of ’em talk when they’re off duty. And once the media gets hold of something...well, you know! Of course, I don’t think anyone could miss the news that he leaves his victims in churches. Or sometimes on the steps.”
Jude was intent on watching their faces and was startled when Alexi Cromwell suddenly rose. Her meal was only half-eaten.
She seemed to notice that everyone was staring at her.
She was thinking fast, Jude thought, looking for a plausible lie. Why, he wasn’t sure yet.
“I just saw someone you need to meet,” Alexi said, turning to Jude. “Ralph, would you mind returning our trays? Um, Mr. McCoy, would you come with me?”
“No problem,” Ralph said, but he watched curiously as Jude excused himself and followed Alexi out of the cafeteria.
Then Jude saw why she’d left so abruptly, why she’d summoned him.
The man in the hooded sweatshirt was moving along the hallway.
* * *
“Wait, please!” Alexi called out. The young man who’d tried so hard to speak to her—who’d disappeared at Jude McCoy’s arrival last night—had popped his head into the cafeteria.
Now he was hurrying down the hallway.
If nothing else, she somehow had to convince the FBI man that she was telling the truth.
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.”
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