Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

As others made their way off the ship, Kurt turned to Calista. She’d begun to recover from her injuries but looked more drawn than ever.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked. “Am I going to prison?”

Kurt took a deep breath. “A lot of people have questions for you,” he admitted. “The FBI, Interpol, Scotland Yard. But there are significant extenuating circumstances in your case. Beyond that, you helped us when it counted, and you’ve already provided useful information about the other conspirators.”

She perked up a little bit and looked down at her legs. A cast covered the lower half of her left leg while a tracking bracelet on her right ankle reminded her that she wasn’t free. The South African police and the British consulate intended to keep track of her until they decided her fate. She’d been told someone would be with her at all times and, indeed, a member of the Durban police force was waiting at the bottom of the gangway.

It certainly didn’t look like she was going to have a lot of freedom anytime soon. She turned back to Kurt. “Will you come visit me in the klink? I’m sure I’ll be in solitary most of the time.”

He laughed. “Absolutely,” he promised. “I’ll bring you a cake with a file in it.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the least I could do,” he added. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re part of the pack now.”

She looked at him strangely. “ ‘Part of the pack’?”

He didn’t bother trying to explain. “When you get some downtime, read Kipling’s The Jungle Book. It’ll make more sense after that.”

She nodded and turned back to the pier, watching as a group of people filed out through the doors of the passenger embarkation building and stood together, waiting. The group seemed to be three generations. A couple with gray hair, three people in their thirties or forties, and several children.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said.

“These people are your family,” Kurt said, “your real family. They’ve flown all the way from England to meet you.”

“What are they going to think of me?” she asked. “What am I going to tell them? I’ve done terrible things.”

“They’re going to see you as the prodigal daughter,” Kurt said. “They’re going to find in you the reward for the hope they kept alive all these years. They’re going to tell you stories about your mother and father. To be honest, if it’s anything like my family reunions, you’ll be lucky to get a word in edgewise.”

She appreciated what he was saying, but the fear was overwhelming. “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head.

“Calista can’t,” Kurt replied, “but Olivia can. Remember how you set your horse free? Set Calista free too. It’s time to let her go.”

She took a deep breath, obviously trying to steel herself against the waves of emotion. She turned toward him and changed the subject. “You really should have kissed me,” she said. “Back on Acosta’s yacht. It would have saved us a whole lot of trouble.”

Kurt laughed deeply and a smile came to his face, giving him dimples and wrinkling the sun-kissed skin around his eyes. “I highly doubt a kiss from me is going to change anyone’s life.”

“Would have been nice to find out,” she said.

He continued to smile and then slowly leaned toward her. Sliding his hand across her cheek and cupping her face, he pulled her gently toward him and their lips met softly in a lingering kiss.

When they parted, she was smiling broadly. “I don’t know,” she said. “That was pretty good.”

Kurt laughed again. “Go see your family,” he said. “They’ve been waiting for thirty years.”

She nodded, looked at him one last time, and then was helped down the gangway by a ship’s officer. The constable from the Durban police force met them and led her toward the family she’d never known.

Twenty-six hours later, Kurt was passing through customs in the main terminal at Washington’s Dulles International Airport. He’d lost all track of time, but it was dark outside. And considering how deserted the terminal was, it had to be late at night or very early in the morning. In fact, the only people he saw were members of the cleaning crew.

Kurt moved slowly toward baggage claim, pausing when he saw a gathering of airport police near one of the security doors. Outside on the tarmac, several vehicles with flashing red and blue lights were parked in a circle around a private jet that sat with its door open and its stairs down.

Curiosity gave way to surprise when he recognized David Forrester being escorted into the terminal by two agents in windbreakers with FBI written on the backs.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Kurt said.

At the sound of Kurt’s voice the agents and the prisoner looked up.

“Excuse me, sir, you’ll have to step back,” said one of the agents.