something heavy fall, then a soft rhythmical thudding, again and again. She would be torn by the wind, helpless again in a huge, wet blackness, deserted, grieving for something irretrievably lost.
Her head jerked, she trembled, and her eyes opened wide. Again she was under the tree. How much time had passed? The moon was lower in the western sky, but the soft, staccato thuds in her dream had not stopped. In a hollow beside the mound, next to a large cedar, she could see a dark figure bend and rise, a spade scooping, lifting, the sand falling with a soft rattle again and again. For a moment she panicked. People said that pirates had buried a chest here, had murdered the girl who saw them, and threw her body into the same pit. She stifled a cry, feeling a sudden affinity for that long ago, maybe mythical, girl.
But this figure looked too solid; the noise of the shovel sounded too real. She steadied herself. Illegal treasure or artifact hunters, probably, she thought, modern pirates. She caught up the shutter release, with a trembling finger pushed the button, and counted thirty-five seconds. The film advanced with a quiet hum. Bracing one hand against the ground, she pushed herself into a crouch. Dry leaves rustled under her. The figure stopped, turned. She froze. She prayed she would be mistaken for a night animal.
Her sight was partly blocked by shrubs and Spanish moss. She could not see the figure’s face, but the camera lens had a clear view, and above sailed a bright full moon. The head lifted, stared in her direction. She clicked the button again. That was what she’d come to do.
CHAPTER 5
When Brandy and John descended to the dining room for breakfast at eight, two other tables were occupied. Nathan Hunt’s slim figure bent over a plate of melon and eggs. He had either gone out in his boat very early, Brandy thought, or was starting late. Truck Thompson, still in black jacket and boots, had also come in for breakfast. He held a steaming cup of coffee level with his mustache, his face flushed and the corners of his mouth grim. In the lobby doorway stood Angus MacGill. The only missing member of last night’s group was Rossi.
As Brandy and John took a table, Cara came swinging around the black screen from the kitchen, a tray of eggs and bacon shoulder high. As she set it down before Truck, she gave Brandy a knowing look. She wasn’t groomed with the care of yesterday, and the color in her dainty cheeks was pinker. “I was just telling Truck and Mr. MacGill about my excursion last night,” she said.
Brandy laid down her menu and sighed. At least Cara seemed all right. “You didn’t go out to Shell Mound alone?”
“Yes I did.” Cara’s glance swept over the others. “Brandy here’s a reporter. She says her paper would like a picture of the Shell Mound ghost.” Her brown eyes focused on Brandy, her eager voice rising. “I did get a shot of someone. It wasn’t a girl in a flowing gown. It sure wasn’t a hunter, either, unless he goes after game with a spade.”
Truck glowered. “Had no damn luck myself. In my boat most of the night for nothing.”
“Actually, then, I had better luck.”
Brandy spoke up. “Did the person digging see you?”
“Don’t think so. Heard me, I think, but probably thought I was a possum or a deer. I snapped two shots in good moonlight. At least one ought to get the face.”
MacGill picked up his coffee from the side board and slid into a small table by the door. “A dig there’s illegal, mind. It’s a dicey business, taking a picture. Did Marcia approve?”
Cara pulled her pad and pencil out of an apron pocket. “I didn’t tell her last night. I had to this morning, though. She heard me change clothes.”
John and Brandy both ordered fruit and eggs. “And the photographs?” Brandy asked. “When will they be developed?” Maybe she could at least cobble together the Shell Mound story.
“Dropped the film off in Chiefland. That’s why I was out so late.
Her head jerked, she trembled, and her eyes opened wide. Again she was under the tree. How much time had passed? The moon was lower in the western sky, but the soft, staccato thuds in her dream had not stopped. In a hollow beside the mound, next to a large cedar, she could see a dark figure bend and rise, a spade scooping, lifting, the sand falling with a soft rattle again and again. For a moment she panicked. People said that pirates had buried a chest here, had murdered the girl who saw them, and threw her body into the same pit. She stifled a cry, feeling a sudden affinity for that long ago, maybe mythical, girl.
But this figure looked too solid; the noise of the shovel sounded too real. She steadied herself. Illegal treasure or artifact hunters, probably, she thought, modern pirates. She caught up the shutter release, with a trembling finger pushed the button, and counted thirty-five seconds. The film advanced with a quiet hum. Bracing one hand against the ground, she pushed herself into a crouch. Dry leaves rustled under her. The figure stopped, turned. She froze. She prayed she would be mistaken for a night animal.
Her sight was partly blocked by shrubs and Spanish moss. She could not see the figure’s face, but the camera lens had a clear view, and above sailed a bright full moon. The head lifted, stared in her direction. She clicked the button again. That was what she’d come to do.
CHAPTER 5
When Brandy and John descended to the dining room for breakfast at eight, two other tables were occupied. Nathan Hunt’s slim figure bent over a plate of melon and eggs. He had either gone out in his boat very early, Brandy thought, or was starting late. Truck Thompson, still in black jacket and boots, had also come in for breakfast. He held a steaming cup of coffee level with his mustache, his face flushed and the corners of his mouth grim. In the lobby doorway stood Angus MacGill. The only missing member of last night’s group was Rossi.
As Brandy and John took a table, Cara came swinging around the black screen from the kitchen, a tray of eggs and bacon shoulder high. As she set it down before Truck, she gave Brandy a knowing look. She wasn’t groomed with the care of yesterday, and the color in her dainty cheeks was pinker. “I was just telling Truck and Mr. MacGill about my excursion last night,” she said.
Brandy laid down her menu and sighed. At least Cara seemed all right. “You didn’t go out to Shell Mound alone?”
“Yes I did.” Cara’s glance swept over the others. “Brandy here’s a reporter. She says her paper would like a picture of the Shell Mound ghost.” Her brown eyes focused on Brandy, her eager voice rising. “I did get a shot of someone. It wasn’t a girl in a flowing gown. It sure wasn’t a hunter, either, unless he goes after game with a spade.”
Truck glowered. “Had no damn luck myself. In my boat most of the night for nothing.”
“Actually, then, I had better luck.”
Brandy spoke up. “Did the person digging see you?”
“Don’t think so. Heard me, I think, but probably thought I was a possum or a deer. I snapped two shots in good moonlight. At least one ought to get the face.”
MacGill picked up his coffee from the side board and slid into a small table by the door. “A dig there’s illegal, mind. It’s a dicey business, taking a picture. Did Marcia approve?”
Cara pulled her pad and pencil out of an apron pocket. “I didn’t tell her last night. I had to this morning, though. She heard me change clothes.”
John and Brandy both ordered fruit and eggs. “And the photographs?” Brandy asked. “When will they be developed?” Maybe she could at least cobble together the Shell Mound story.
“Dropped the film off in Chiefland. That’s why I was out so late.
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