CHAPTER NINE

 

 

 

After devouring their cinnamon rolls, they called their driver. He met them outside the mall on the road that lined the Tigné seafront. Instead of carrying a bunch of shopping bags, they simply loaded their new clothes inside their new suitcases and wheeled them to the curb.

Galea saw their approach and greeted them next to the open trunk of his sedan. “I have been doing my job for many years, but this is a first for me.”

“What’s that?” Payne wondered.

“I picked you up at the airport, and you had no luggage. Then I pick you up at the mall, and now you have luggage. This is all very confusing.”

Jones smiled. “Goal number one of any attack is to disorient the enemy. It’s good to know our plan is working.”

“It is working quite well. I am very perplexed.” Galea grabbed their suitcases and was surprised by their weight. “Please tell me your bags aren’t loaded with guns and explosives.”

“Of course not,” Jones replied. “One bag is for guns, and the other is explosives. We would never mix the two. We aren’t amateurs.”

Galea paused. “What?”

Payne laughed to break the tension. “He’s kidding. Trust me, he’s kidding. He just likes to mess with people.”

Galea glanced at Jones, who stared at him with unblinking eyes.

“Are you sure?” Galea stammered.

“Look,” Payne said as he unzipped his suitcase to prove their innocence. “We didn’t have time to pack before our flight, so we loaded up on clothes for the trip. I swear, we’re not doing anything criminal. We’re just here for some R and R.”

“Whew,” Galea said, relieved. “He had me worried.”

Jones continued to stare. “Why? Because I’m black?”

“What? No! That has nothing to do with it!”

Jones tried to keep a straight face but eventually cracked. “Dude, I’m just messing with you. I’ve got a weird sense of humor. I like making people uncomfortable.”

Payne nodded. “Which explains why I’m his only friend.”

“Actually, that’s because I’m picky. Not because I’m weird.”

“Is it?”

Jones laughed. “Truth be told, it’s probably a little of both.”

Payne zipped his suitcase closed before he shut the trunk of the car. Then he turned his attention to Galea. “So, what’s next?”

Galea looked at him, confused. “I think I’m supposed to ask that question.”

“Why’s that? You know this place better than we do.”

“True, but…”

“But, what?”

“But I don’t know what you like to do.”

Jones spoke up. “I like it when a hot stewardess takes her—”

Payne cut him off. “Let’s start with something simple. Where’s the best place to check out some scenery? I’m still trying to get a lay of the land.”

Jones cleared his throat. “Speaking of the lay of the land—”

“Just ignore him,” Payne said to Galea. “I’m the one paying, so only listen to me.”

Galea couldn’t help but smile. He was used to dealing with snobbish clientele who either viewed him as a servant or ignored him completely. But Payne and Jones were treating him like one of the guys. To a working stiff like Galea, it was a breath of fresh air. “If you’re looking for some scenery, there’s no need to go anywhere.”

Payne spun around in a circle and frowned. He saw the mall across the street and a road full of traffic ahead. “Unless the Maltese definition of scenery is wildly different than mine, then—”

“Not here,” Galea said with a laugh. “Up the stairs behind you, there’s a pedestrian bridge that juts over the water’s edge. It gives you a brilliant view of Marsamxett Harbour and Manoel Island. I bet you’d like it over there. There’s a decommissioned fort on the island.”

Jones perked up. “Did someone say ‘fort’?”

Payne laughed. “Now you’ve done it. He’s a sucker for old forts.”

“Me, too,” Galea admitted. “And Fort Manoel is worth a visit. It was built in the early seventeen hundreds and is supposedly haunted by the Black Knight, who is said to appear out of thin air in the armor and regalia of the Order of St. John.”

“Hold up!” Jones blurted with a look of sheer joy on his face. “Are you telling me that there’s a fort on Malta that is haunted by a black ghost? That may be the coolest thing I have ever heard!”

Galea tried to correct him. “I didn’t say the ghost was—”

“Jon,” Jones said excitedly, “what have I been saying for years?”

Payne shrugged. “That cornbread makes you constipated?”

“Well, it does,” Jones admitted, unwilling to let Payne derail his momentum. “Which doesn’t make sense at all. I mean, corn doesn’t bother me, and bread doesn’t bother me, but when you combine the two, it magically clogs me up faster than a bottle of rubber cement. But that’s beside the point. What else have I been saying?”

“That spiders are an alien race, but you don’t have the proof just yet?”

Jones groaned. “Yes. That is also true, and I’d be more than happy to share my latest research over dinner. But for the next thirty seconds, it would be quite helpful to me if you’d limit your answers to the topic of the paranormal.”

Payne sighed theatrically. “Fine, I’ll play along. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been telling anyone who’d listen that all ghosts can’t be white.”

“Exactly!” Jones blurted as he headed for the stairs. “I mean, Casper is white. And Halloween ghosts are white. And Ghostface from Scream is white. Hell, the only thing that’s black is Ray Parker, Junior—the brother who sings the Ghostbusters song. Other than that, every ghost is white, white, white! It’s a conspiracy, Jon. And you know it! Black people die, too!”

Galea waited until Jones had disappeared from view before he spoke again. “Just to be clear: I never said the ghost was black.”

Payne nodded. “I know, but let him have this. Otherwise, he’ll pout for the rest of the trip.”

Galea smiled. “If you want to visit the actual fort, I’ll have to make some calls. It’s currently being restored to its former glory, so it’s not open to the general public. But I have some contacts at the Malta Tourism Authority who can probably get us in.”

“Sounds great,” Payne admitted, “but not at night. As much as he talks about ghosts, he’d probably shit himself if he actually saw one. Unless he ate cornbread first.”

Galea laughed as he opened the front door of the Mercedes. He grabbed a pamphlet from the seat and handed it to Payne. “Here. Take this. There’s a map of Malta inside that will help you get your bearings on the bridge.”

Payne was surprised. “Wait. You’re not joining us?”

“I can’t,” Galea said. “This is a loading zone, so I have to move the car. But take your time up top, and ring me whenever you’re ready.”

Payne nodded then hustled after Jones, who was practically running—a combination of his excitement about the haunted fort and the sugar rush from Cinnabon.

As promised, the concrete staircase opened onto a wooden pedestrian bridge that extended over the harbor’s edge and faced Manoel Island to the southwest. The fort itself could barely be seen from their angle, but that hardly mattered because the rest of the view was so spectacular.

Directly south of them was the capital city of Valletta. It loomed high above stone ramparts that appeared to line the length of the harbor. Nearly every building in sight was the color of sand, which contrasted sharply with the blue hue of the water that extended all the way to the eastern horizon. It was like a desert oasis in reverse, where the mirage that didn’t belong was the city itself. And yet there it was, somehow springing from the depths of the Mediterranean to the towering heights of the Basilica of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, its massive dome thrusting upward into the clouds above while looming behind St. Paul’s Pro-Cathedral.

Jones stood there silently, soaking it all in, his forearms resting on the metal guardrail at the end of the bridge. Payne approached from behind, his gaze never leaving the landscape. In all his years of travel, he had never seen anything quite like it. Neither of them said a word as they let the serenity of the sea wash over them, but both of them were thinking the same thing.

After years of mental turmoil, they were finally at peace.