Dark Light

I felt a flash of anger, a territorial response, but recognized it for what it was.

“To possess someone. That’s out of character.”

“Man, it’s against everything I stand for. But you’re asking me for the truth.”

“Why did you stop seeing her?”

“Because she scared me, man. Chessie’s a rare being. One of the world’s coolest creatures, but she scared me. No colors in her aura, I already told you about that. Plus, she was immediately into you. More than attraction, it was a history kind of deal. There’s no fighting a connection like that.”

I watched Tomlinson light the cigarette, inhale sharply three times in quick succession, then hold his breath, his attention abruptly inward, gauging the potency.

I said, “We both have the same question about her music: How could someone with her talent slip through life unknown? I think I know the answer.”

He looked at me.

“You saw the photograph of Marlissa Dorn.”

He nodded.

“Chessie said you commented on how much she looked like Marlissa.”

Tomlinson nodded again, still holding his breath but paying attention.

“I think there’s more than just a similarity. Study her nose, the eye spacing, some other details. I don’t think Marlissa Dorn drowned in a hurricane. I think Chestra is Marlissa Dorn. She slipped through the world unnoticed because that’s what she wanted. Somehow, she got a chance to disappear. She took it.”

Tomlinson nodded emphatically, as he exhaled. “I’ve believed exactly that for a while. No way I could tell you. You’d of thought I was just being weird again.”

I said, “The problem is…” I had pondered this without explanation. “How can she be the age she must be and still look the way she looks? And her sensuality—it’s behavioral, but it’s also chemical. You noticed it before I did. If Marlissa Dorn is still alive, she’s also still extraordinarily attractive. Can it be possible?”

“One of the world’s great beauties, man.” He shrugged. “Sunlight on the skin; ultraviolet rays, that’s the principal cause of aging. The skin condition she says she has, why she only goes out at night—”

“Xeroderma,” I said. “It’s in the medical literature.”

“I know, I read about it. People who have it are called Children of the Moon.”

I was unaware of that. “Children of the Moon. Interesting. Even so—”

“Did she tell you the story about Hitler touching her shoulder? Like a curse.”

I said, “That can’t have anything to do with it.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. There’s something I didn’t mention. When she realized I believed she was Marlissa Dorn, the woman Hitler had put his mark on, it was like a door slamming. That’s what really ended it between us. Think about it.” He held the cigarette out to me.

I shook my head, as I always did—and my temples throbbed with the movement.

“This’ll help, Doc. Medicinal use, man. And not a bad way to spend a stormy night.”

I was about to open a beer, but thought, Why not…?

39

“Her age changes. The way she looks. It’s because she’s a ghost.”

Chestra, Tomlinson meant.

I replied, “You keep saying that.”

I had taken two puffs on the joint, then refused when he offered again. Felt no effect, zero, and it tasted like an ashtray. Tomlinson smoked the rest as we sat in the boat’s cabin, him inhaling deeply, making hissing inhalations, savoring marijuana he called Seven Mile Bridge because it was from the Keys.

Already high, too. He got on the subject of ghosts and wouldn’t let it go.

“Ghosts aren’t like the ones in cartoons. They have bodies, they eat food, make love. But they’re empty people because they’re just visiting. Trying to finish unfinished business. Most of them died too early. I meet ghosts all the time. Everyone does.”

I said, “I don’t doubt it,” aware I had to be patient.

There were things I wanted to discuss: POWs with enough clout to summon a submarine. A diamond death’s-head, and German expats on an island interacting with some of America’s most powerful figures. Ford, Firestone, and Thomas Edison’s search for synthetic rubber. A black man drenched with his own moonshine, and set ablaze. An old woman who radiated sexuality.

There were powerful dynamics at play on that long ago October night. How had the story remained a secret?

I listened to Tomlinson tell me, “Some of the lonely-looking people you see in train stations? They’re ghosts. A lot of hitchhikers; pilots in small planes. Certain areas of the country attract them. Louisville—loaded. Same with your New England states, the Carolinas. Hollywood and Manhattan, the old hotels are full. Sometimes ghosts don’t even know they’re not real.”

I said, “Unreal reality. I’ve had that feeling. Actually, I’ve come to associate it with this boat.”

“No Mas? Ghost ships, oh yeah. There are lots of those. When you see a boat at night and there’s only one person aboard?”

“He’s a ghost?” I guessed, playing along. “Spirits come back to earth.”

“Now you’re catching on. But ghosts and spirits are very different manifestations. Spirits are energy. Ghosts are empty. Unfulfilled lives, man, and they’ve returned in search of whatever it is they missed. Searchers. They’re everywhere.

“You want an example of spirits? The difference, I mean. When we were diving the wreck in the murk. There were spirits down there, man. Dark spirits; a very heavy mojo. One of them banged into me. Like a warning.”

I leaned toward him. “You got bumped? I got bumped twice.”

“I’m not surprised. It scared the hell out of me, man. At first. Then I just figured, Hey, stay cool. It wasn’t the first time evil spirits have blindsided me. You know, follow the drunk tank’s safety rules: Keep your mouth shut and your butt cheeks closed.”

I said, “I think it was a shark. Or sharks. Not evil. Just big fish doing what they’re coded to do. Probing, deciding if we were protein.”

“No. It wasn’t a shark. Not the thing that hit me. I would’ve known. It was a spirit. Darkness. The real deal. Which is a very different thing than a ghost. As I was saying, talking about empty souls. Searchers…”

Yes. The man was stoned, getting higher. Fixated on the subject.

I sat listening for a while longer before I stood, careful to duck my head. This was going noplace. In fact, the more Tomlinson talked, the more I became convinced that I was mistaken about Chestra. She wasn’t Marlissa Dorn. It was as implausible for her to be Marlissa’s age as it was for Chestra to be a ghost.

It was a valid analogy. When I thought of it that way, my suspicions seemed ridiculous.

Genetic facial similarities. That had to explain it.

I continued to listen to Tomlinson, though, as I stood at the top of the companionway steps. My headache, mysteriously, was gone, I realized. Nice up there in the fresh air, feeling the breeze, gazing out: small marina in moonlight, parking lot empty, clouds wind-driven above dark trees, yellow windows of my stilt house and lab shimmering on the bay. Storm clouds over the Gulf, glowing like Japanese lanterns with each lightning blast.

It would be raining soon.

My eyes came to rest on my new skiff, which was tied off the stern. The deck was white, a slight incline aft to bow, all hatches flush. The deck seemed to glow in contrast to the black water. The hull, gray-blue, floated buoyant as a bubble.

I heard Tomlinson say, “I’ve been wanting to tell you about ghosts. But the time had to be right. Now, here we are, so I guess it’s time to lay the cards on the table. There are a couple of ghosts who live at the marina, you know. For years. I didn’t want you to be shocked.”

I said, “Ghosts living at Dinkin’s Bay? That explains all the trick-or-treaters at Halloween.” I continued to gaze at the boat.