Ghost Ship

He dropped over the side of the roof onto a balcony that overlooked the sea more than eighty feet below. Everything about the balcony felt familiar. It had terracotta tile flooring, with a glass balustrade that was at a jarring contrast to the rest of the building, which was abundantly medieval.

He turned around and looked into the apartment. The door was open and a beaded fly screen draped from the frame. Whoever lived there clearly wasn’t worried about intruders, and with the warm Mediterranean breeze, they had little use for the glass door.

His eyes glanced inside. The lights were off, but being the middle of the night, that didn’t necessarily mean the place was empty. He cringed at the thought of the occupant’s reactions when they woke up to find a stranger in their house.

Overhead, the Eurocopter banked to face him, its giant searchlight fixing along the rooftop. It was now or never. He swallowed hard, parted the fly screen and stepped inside.

The building shook for a few seconds under the downdraft of the Eurocopter’s powerful rotor blades, before the helicopter disappeared into the distance, and he was left standing in the dark room in silence.

If someone was home they were awake now, their every sense alert and listening for the unusual sound over the otherwise silent coastal village. At worst, they would turn on the lights any moment, and find him there.

He stood still, preparing for the worst.

Where would he move to? Where could he hide? If he was spotted, would he attack them or would he run? He felt worried that he might act on impulse and kill the innocent occupant. He knew very little about himself, but one thing had been abundantly clear — if he was cornered, he would fight ruthlessly to survive.

He couldn’t leave, but if he stayed, something very bad was going to happen.

Instead, he flicked on the light and tentatively said, “Hello. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

He wanted to give his name, but had none to provide.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened as he swept the medieval apartment. There was a small kitchenette and living room overlooking the dark sea to the south. An open door led to a bathroom. Next to it was a doorway, presumably to the outside, and a small hallway to the bedrooms.

He switched on the light in the hallway. He spoke in a gentle, soothing tone. “It’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need some help.”

There was no response.

He opened the first bedroom door.

It had a double bed with its sheets neatly made up, a closet with a few dresses and other summer outfits — not enough to warrant someone who permanently lived there, but more likely a vacation house — and a couple photos on a bedside table. He picked up one, and glanced at it. The photo showed a beautiful woman in Johns Hopkins University graduation robes. She had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a firm smile that appeared restrained, as though she was burdened by her newfound wealth of knowledge. She was carrying a certificate, but the name and details were blurred.

He put the photo frame back down and stepped out of the room, suddenly feeling like an intruder. He turned off the light and headed toward the second bedroom door. There was more confidence in his movement this time. He was almost certain no one was home.

Stepping into the second room, he switched on the light. “Hello. Is anyone here?”

He took in the room at a glance. As he expected, the room was empty. It was a relatively tidy study, with a cedar desk, open laptop, and assortment of various technical books. Judging by the dense technical books, he guessed she was an academic of some sort.

Other than that, he gathered very little about her or why he should so vividly recall the house she lived in.

He made his way back to the bathroom.

He ran the faucet with warm water and washed his face. He examined himself in the mirror. It seemed strange to stare at a foreign face and know that it was your own. He had thick brown hair, a dark beard, and piercing blue eyes like the ocean, which stared back at him.

The man exhaled slowly, his eyes narrow and searching. He no longer saw a man. Instead, he saw something entirely different. Like a ghost, his previous life had been erased. A dangerous man with no memory of his past.

He shook his head. “Who the hell are you?”

Chapter Six

Andre Dufort stared at the dark ocean down below.

A crispy string of white wash slithered slowly toward the jagged rocks, like a sinister creature of the sea, before it dispersed and the swell flattened to nothing.

He shook his head and frowned.

There was no way anyone could hold their breath that long. The man had either drowned, or attempted to swim farther out to sea to find another place to return to the shore. If that was the case, the police helicopters — which were already in the air — would find him. If not, the man was dead.