The Pirate's Curse

By Betsey Kulakowski

Lauren Grayson has investigated Bigfoot, the Mayan apocalypse, even UFOs. But she never expected to find herself at the mercy of pirates...

When the Oceanic Channel's newest research vessel, the Explorer of the Deep, goes missing on its maiden voyage to the Bermuda Trian

• Language: English
• Publisher: Babylon Books
• Release date: May 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954871755

Betsey Kulakowski

Betsey Kulakowski has thirty years of experience as an occupational safety professional and recently completed her degree in Emergency Management. She lives with her husband and two teenage children in Oklahoma. Betsey has been writing since she could, and created her first book at the age of six-cardboard cover, string binding and all.

Book preview

Prologue

Alight breeze rustled through the palm trees along the boardwalk that jutted out into the harbor. The songs of gulls pierced the sky as their bodies cut across the sun, casting shadows on the deck. Eric Sherwood peered out over his RayBans towards the eastern horizon, studying the towering cumulonimbus clouds that reached for the atmosphere. As he unlocked the gate and entered the docks, he scanned the rows of ships tethered in their slips. His eye came to rest on the Network’s newest acquisition.

The Oceanic Channel’s $3.5 million investment was a wonder to behold. Crisp blue lettering along the back, named her THE EXPLORER OF THE DEEP. Her hull was bright white, a splendid contrast to the faded craft moored nearby, most marred with streaks of rust. An American flag crowned the ship’s mainmast, billowing in the winds coming off the Atlantic. The scene stirred something in his patriot’s soul that the retired naval captain couldn’t put into words but brought a tear to his eye.

There was nothing better than standing on the deck of a vessel, watching as waves barreled over one another, each bending to the other’s will. What lay hidden beneath the dark waters? To plumb its depths was to discover a world filled with creatures and lost relics — treasures those on the land would never see. Sleeping on a lulling craft in the middle of a calm sea was one of the most relaxing things he could think of.

When the sea calmed itself, Eric could still his own racing thoughts. When the sea grew wild, his focus was only on the perilous battle of man versus Poseidon himself. It allowed him to put his troubles aside, even if only for a little while.

Eric’s troubles came in spades. His role at the Oceanic Channel as Director of Oceanic Research and Maritime Productions came with all the accolades and perks one might expect. His role positioned him to facilitate the efforts of some of the world’s top-rated cinematographers. He also worked with researchers in marine biology and preservation of aquatic resources and environmental conservation. His team partnered with organizations like Scripps Oceanographic Research, Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, and even NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center’s Ocean Biology and Biochemistry program. It was his dream job and he loved it.

His phone rang in his pocket, startling him. He glanced at the number before hitting the green button. I just made it to the dock.

How is it?

It’s a wonderful ship, Eric said.

It should be, his colleague replied. You worked hard to raise the funds.

About that. Eric hesitated a moment, steeling his courage. We need to talk about any future … fundraisers.

You knew the deal when you got into it, Eric. A vessel like that takes money to operate … to maintain. You know your job. Do it.

I’ll do my job, dammit. He pulled off his sunglasses. But we need to figure out a way to raise the funds and keep everything on the level, too.

You’re meeting Trevor in Bermuda, right?

Right. Eric drug the word out, waiting for the other man to make his point.

I’m sure he can help you come up with some solutions.

I’m not bringing anyone else into this mess, Eric snapped. I told you that when we started. This is just you and me. That’s it. The more people you involve, the more people talk.

Are you talking, Eric? The tone of accusation was heavy in the caller’s voice.

No! Of course not!

Then keep it that way. We’ve got time before our clients expect delivery. Enjoy your little out-and-back. We’ll talk when you return to port.

Sure. Eric shook his head.

And Eric?

Yes?

Don’t tell you’re little girlfriend about any of this.

"My girlfriend?"

"It’d be a shame if Hannah found out about your side chick. Wouldn’t it?"

You wouldn’t! You leave Amanda out of this! Eric roared, but the phone went dead. Dammit.

As he made his way up to the bridge, his hand ran along the smooth handrail, and he admired the craftsmanship that went into every detail. In terms of engineering, the ship was nothing short of a marvel. His eyes swept over the large console of readouts, buttons, knobs and other input and output devices. The first mate and engineer would join him soon enough. Until then, he set his jaw, then began to run through the sequence of actions mimicking the start-up of the ship’s engines. His index finger lingered on the main power switch. Eric stood back, anticipating the ship coming to life, feeling the hum of it through the soles of his shoes. Tucking his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, he gazed out over the bow. The panoramic window gave him a full view of the harbor and the channel he would soon traverses. Thoughts of home escaped him, and he dreamed only of the sea.

Amanda’s perfume preceded her as she found Eric at the helm. She eased up behind him, snaking a hand around his waist. Everything ready?

No. He turned, scowling at her. He ran the phone call through his mind again, trying to figure out how anyone knew about Amanda.

No?

You didn’t ask for permission to come aboard, he growled. You never board a ship without permission.

Is that like having to invite a vampire inside?

"It’s a custom that dates back to ancient times. In the age of pirates, it could get you keel hauled.

She reached up and caught him, pulling her his to hers. She tasted of cherry cola — her lips as soft as a prayer. Permission to come aboard? she whispered.

He eyed her a moment. Permission granted.

She giggled and loped towards the door. I thought you might say that. How long ‘til we set sail?

His eye went to the clock, then to the readout on the board. I just alerted the port authority of our intentions to cast off in two hours. He climbed into the captain’s chair, surprised to find it conformed to the curve of his backside, the soft leather supple against his bare legs. I’ll need your help on the main deck in twenty minutes.

I’ll go change and meet you at the port rail.

Eric turned back to view the bank of computer touch-screens and sighed. Yes, he was a man of the sea. He had found his home and his sanctuary — his escape from the burdens of the world. At sea, he was the master of his own destiny. The captain of all he surveyed.

Eric popped open a bottle of champagne and poured the golden liquid into the flute that already contained orange juice. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?

Amanda rolled over on her towel and held a hand up to shield her eyes, taking the glass from him as he leaned down to kiss her. The sun was making the slow westward slide towards the horizon. It painted the tops of the distant clouds in gold and orange. The sky around the shimmering orb reddened. The deep waters around the bobbing craft were dark, but still.

I hope you’re talking about my tan. She grinned up at him, giggling.

Well, I meant the sky, but that is one way to make sure you don’t get any tan lines, he said, gazing at her devilishly. Her bikini top had been untied and she clutched the minimal cloth to her chest as she sat up.

Well, we are a hundred miles from any land, right? She shrugged, knowing the effect she was having on him.

More or less, he said, appreciating the view as she rolled onto her back and stretched out her long, slim body, tossing the bikini top aside.

So, who’s going to see me naked? She lifted her glass toward the horizon. Besides you of course, and you don’t seem to mind.

But it would be a shame for you to get a terrible sunburn.

So? Care to rub some sunscreen on for me? She picked up the bottle beside her, holding it up.

A breath of wind rose to a gust, followed by a gale that seemed to come out of nowhere. The sea churned and a hearty swell lifted the ship and held it aloft at its crest. Darkness consumed the sky. Lightning broke across the angry clouds, flickering as it danced between the towering thunderheads. The deafening concussion of thunder followed.

Secure for heavy seas! Eric shouted as he turned to face the fury.

Before she could follow orders, Amanda’s mimosa flew out of her hand. It splashed over her naked skin as the ship dropped and the yacht’s bow plunged into a deep trough. Eric caught the safety line at the last second, saving himself from being cast overboard. His hand shot out, grasping her by the back of her bikini bottoms, pulling her into him.

Amanda clutched his arm. What was that? she asked as the wind blew her hair away from her face. The craft was pulled hard by the whitecapped waves. Amanda grabbed her towel before the wind could, wrapping it around her body as the temperature dropped.

A storm! He shouted over the wind. Holy … his voice trailed off as he turned towards the sky. A giant egg-shaped cloud hovered high above. The skies grew dark as more thunderheads boiled up in the sky. A bolt of lightning broke the sky and spread out through the lenticular cloud, illuminating it. The odor of ozone invaded his nostrils. A silver, triangular craft shot from the middle of the cloud, as if the lightning had launched it into the atmosphere.

What the … Amanda gasped.

Eric’s gaze followed it as the object tumbled end over end as gravity took over and the craft began its free-fall. The aerial craft’s engines fired. It swooped up just meters from the rolling sea’s surface. It shot through one of the large waves and appeared on the other side as the now brackish sea churned and white foam tipped the waves.

Rain began buffeting Eric’s face as the ship lurched again, the bow twisting against the pull of the current. He remained fixed to the deck, stunned and in denial. The silvery craft was now lost in the maelstrom. Amanda broke free from his grasp. The stunned captain snapped back to the moment.

Eric? What was that? She shouted, squinting against the buffeting rains.

Get inside! Eric urged her towards the door to the lower decks.

But … she protested. You saw it, too? Right? What was that thing?

Just get inside! He pushed her toward the door, his eye still searching the clouds for it, even as he fell in with her. Put some damned clothes on! He scolded, snatching a towel from the pantry, drying his hair and face.

Eric was livid. The most state of the art technology and he’d been caught unaware by a storm that had come out of nowhere. At the bridge, he arrived to find equipment scattered across the room, tossed about by the boiling sea. The National Weather Service had called for five days of mild weather, calm seas, and no chance of any storms. Even the radar contradicted the conditions outside. September storms were not uncommon, but storms didn’t just appear out of nowhere, and not even show up on radar. He gave a moment’s thought to a flaw in the equipment, but systems like these were interconnected with the National Weather Service, NOAA, and the Coast Guard.

Eric! Amanda shouted from below. There’s water coming in! She clung to the handrail as she staggered the last few steps onto the bridge. Eric turned and noticed blood running a ragged course down her forehead.

You’re hurt.

Hit the damned locker, she said, her hand going to her forehead.

He caught her before she tumbled to the deck. Has the hull been breached?

I don’t know. I didn’t see anything forward, she said. I think the water’s coming over the deck.

There’s a first aid kit under that bench. I gotta make sure all the hatchway doors are secured! he shouted over the howl of the wind. We’ve got a huge storm building on top of us and hell if I know where it came from.

Is it a hurricane?

May become one, but there’s no way …

You said it was supposed to be smooth sailing, she snapped raising her voice over the tempest.

It was! This doesn’t even show up on radar.

What? The UFO? Or the storm?

Either one. Eric didn’t want to think about what he thought he’d seen at the moment — what they’d both seen.

I’ll get the doors. Have you called the Coast Guard for help?

Stupid! How could he not have done that first? I’m on it! Eric picked up the mic. He switched the DCS radio over to channel 16 and triggered the distress signal to the coast guard. "Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is the Explorer of the Deep … Explorer of the Deep … Explorer of the Deep. FL1727. He proceeded to give their coordinates. We are caught in a storm that came on us without warning. We are taking on water. Repeat, we are taking on water. We are a Stampede-class expedition yacht with two souls on board. One is a twenty-six-year-old female with a minor head injury with no LOC. We need immediate rescue. Over."

No response. Eric lifted the mic to his mouth to repeat the message when he radio squelched. "Explorer of the Deep, this is U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Robert Yerer, a female voice responded. Repeat location and nature of the emergency."

Eric did as instructed. We’re encountering twenty to thirty foot swells …

"Explorer of the Deep, we are five nautical miles west of your location. Sun is shining and no signs of storms in your direction."

I am activating our EPIRB. The ship gave a sudden lurch to the port, failing to right herself. Oh Christ! We’re going over. MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYD …

Jacob reached for his favorite putter and drew it from his golf bag. You know the loser buys the first round of drinks in the clubhouse, right?

If you sink that putt on the first attempt, I’ll buy you the biggest steak they have, Curt said. Jacob hadn’t sunk an easy putt all day. If it hadn’t been for the lucky birdie on the third hole, the score wouldn’t have been so close.

Don’t worry, Curt, he’ll choke, Everett prodded back. The Oceanic Network’s CEO was in last place, so he wasn’t one to talk, but he wasn’t about to let the rest of the bosses give Jacob a hard time without getting in on the fun. Jacob was always a target for good-hearted ribbing, at least on the golf course. In the boardroom, he was the top dog of all four Networks in the Exploration Channel Family of Networks.

Step back. Jacob pushed his sunglasses up his nose as he stepped out on the green, his ball less than three feet from the hole. He consulted with the caddy and studied the greens for any hidden slopes or divots. Let me show you boys how it’s done. He could be a cocky bastard, and he knew it. This was an easy putt. He couldn’t possibly miss.

Jacob lined up his shot and drew back the putter. Suddenly his cellphone blared from his pocket, and he startled, tapping the ball, sending it awry. It rolled into the sand trap. He threw down his club and dug in his pocket, profanities spilling from his lips as his buddies laughed and slapped their knees.

You know the rules, Jacob! Curt laughed. No cell phones on the course!

Jacob narrowed his eyes at the men as he pressed the phone to his ear. The look on his face must have conveyed the seriousness of the call. Hannah? He hesitated, his face dropping. Dear God! Hannah … I’m so sorry to hear that. He put his hand on his hip as he gazed at the green grass beneath his feet. No, of course. If there’s anything I can do. His brow lifted and he sucked in a breath. Actually, I think there is something I can do. Send me all the details. I’ve got some connections. Let me start yanking some strings. We’ll see what we can find.

The next morning, Jacob called all the Network executives, including the legal department together in the boardroom at the main office in San Diego. "Good morning, ladies, and gentlemen. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I got a call from Eric Sherwood’s wife, Hannah. He was taking out the Explorer of the Deep — the Oceanic Channel’s newest research vessel — for a test run from Miami to Bermuda. Yesterday afternoon, the Coast Guard received a distress call from the Explorer. The captain reported the craft was experiencing severe weather, including large swells, and indicated they were taking on water and needed help."

Any word on my team? Everett implored. Jacob had filled him in at the golf course the day before. It had taken all night to get any information from the authorities.

Jacob knew his somber expression said more than he ever could. "I’ve been on the phone with the Coast Guard this morning. They are still searching for the Explorer. Jacob pursed his lips. The really crazy thing is, the National Weather Service forecasted no significant weather events and when they reached the coordinates Eric reported, there were no signs of a storm. Calm seas. Blue skies … but no sign of the Explorer."

But … Everett shook his head. "The Explorer is brand new, state of the art. It has some of the most high-tech navigation and weather-detection systems on the Seven Seas. We had Trevor Thorpe and Nina Cousteau’s team help with even the smallest detail."

Did you say … Curt started. Did you say he was sailing from Miami to Bermuda?

Jacob turned to the Escape Channel’s boss. I did, he said. And I know what you’re thinking. That is part of the Devil’s Triangle. In fact, several other vessels have gone missing in this general region over the past five years.

Jesus. Everett rolled his eyes. You don’t believe any of that superstitious nonsense? Really? I thought we were a network of scientists.

We are, Jacob said. And I have a couple of scientists in mind to go help us find Eric and our ship.

1

In a shop on a corner in New Orleans’ French Quarter, the trembling of magic rippled like waves on the cosmic ether. A voodoo priest by the name of Papa Dauphine drew his vèvès — his circle of protections — around a woman before his altar. Tell me da name of de lover you wish to draw to ya, he said. She sat on her knees in front of the bank of candles and relics that included a human skull. Black pillar candles with multiple flames flickered in the darkness, as smoke rose from a small brazier, filling the air with a yellow haze that smelled of something sour, something floral.

Jeremiah, the woman spoke as if in a dream.

Dauphine went to the altar and opened a book. He picked up a quill pen and a jar of blood-red ink. As was his practice, he scribed the name into his book, next to the name of the client that he’d written when she’d made the appointment. And why has de lover strayed from you? His accent was as thick as a summer night in the bayou. He spoke with the soft, sweet patois of the South, intoned with a Caribbean cadence.

Candice. There was a definite bite to the rival’s name as she spoke it. I want her to pay for taking my one true love. Her voice cracked.

"In your mind’s eye, show me dis Jezebel dat stole your Jeremiah. He picked up a vulture’s wing and the brazier, using the wing to fan the smoke around the woman. Now show me de man dat betray you."

As he moved in circles around the woman, fanning the smoke over her, a deep hum rose from his throat and moved deep into his chest. "I see de lovers … hand in hand … beneath a blue moon. She wan to run away, but he …he de one won’t let her go … she don’t wan him, but he pushes her down, he de one … is not her … is him."

He … forced her? The woman’s voice broke.

He de one … Papa Dauphine growled.

That rat bastard! she snapped. I’m gonna make him pay …

"De powah of de Rada courses through you, Dauphine whispered in her ear. Speak de words and cast de spell. Tell de Universe what you wan done, and it will happen."

I want him to pay, she said through clenched teeth.

Suffer?

No. I want him dead.

"Revenge is a dangerous ting, Dauphine said. It can come full circle if de spells are not properly cast."

I want that rat bastard dead.

"You are sure of dis? Dauphine fought to keep the smile from curling in his cheek like the Grinch. Hatred was a powerful force, and she was so easy to coerce. Dis is what you wan?"

I want him dead. She punctuated each word as she said them through clenched teeth.

Den dead he will be. Dauphine shook the brazier and blew into one of the vents. Sparks erupted from the small metal dish and the smoke turned blue, then black. He fanned it quickly, making the coals glow red hot. He danced around her in a circle, his foot brushing the edge of the vèvès as he dropped the fan onto the altar and scooped up a handful of chicken bones, tossing them to the ground, blowing smoke on them as they came to land in a pattern. "De gods of de Rada approve. Death will come swiftly. He scooped up a hand full of black salt and sprinkled it over the brazier. It snapped and crackled. Yes. De gods are pleased. As de bones have written, he added more salt. So let it be done."

Jeremiah Constantine sat at the bar in Auntie Ursuline’s, a seedy little jazz club at the corner of Decatur and Esplanade Avenue. The building dated back to 1762, but it suffered heavy flood damage from Hurricane Katrina.

The owner attempted to hide the mold in the walls with thick layers of paint, but the moisture beneath caused the façade to bubble and peel. Tiny flecks of aging lead-filled paint littered the floor along the walls. The dried up corpse of a dead cockroach lay belly up by the jukebox. A thick cloud of stale cigarette smoke filled the air. The stagnant blend of smoke and mold gave the building a sickly sweet funk that could best be described as fetid decay. After a few of Auntie’s Category Five Hurricane cocktails, no one seemed to mind.

Over the decades, Auntie Ursuline’s had become a hangout-of-last-resort during Mardi Gras. Single men came here to get lucky. Single young women came here for the free drinks they could earn the same way they earned the Mardi Gras beads. Auntie’s only requirement was they had to donate a string of beads to the décor if they got a free drink that way.

The stage was empty tonight, but aged zydeco records played in the old juke box, the needle scratching as it skipped and interrupted the raucous rhythms and melodies. Faded silk scarves, now caked with dust and nicotine, had been draped over the few light fixtures twenty years before. It added to the low-class ambiance.

Auntie Ursuline, a rotund voodoo-woman in her sixties, sat on a stool behind the bar shuffling tarot cards. A sign hanging over her head listed the prices for various types of tarot readings. The most popular was a seven-card pull for twenty dollars, but tonight, no one was buying.

She muttered a spell, calling to the Universe for divine guidance, between shots of cheap gin. "Donnez-moi un signe, she muttered, flipping over the three cards she’d laid face down on the bar. The Lovers. The Magician. The Death Card. Avant mois, il y avant un cheval pale. Son cavaliers s’appelait Mort." She glanced up, trying to validate the dread that came with a card that was often associated with the harvest of souls in the world of black magic.

Uncle Boudreaux, came up from the wine cellar with a few bottles tucked under his arms. He paused and gazed at the cards. He gasped as he sat the bottles down. Foul magic is afoot … he said, running his hands over the cards, disrupting them, and flipping the Death card onto the floor, face down. You put dem away, Ursuline! What I keep tellin’ you? No good will come from dem devil cards!

She gazed over the bar at the men who were trying to win the favors of a pretty girl who’d had a few Cat-Fives too many, then her eye went to the man in the corner who sat nursing the cheap brandy in a cloudy glass. The dim light reflected off the liquor and she noticed the color was the same as his eyes.

Jeremiah Constantine wasn’t all that interested in the brandy. He was most interested in the pretty blonde as she racked up the balls on the worn billiard table. She was a pretty young thing. Lean and just pretty enough that all other the young men were watching her. This could be his chance.

One of the pretty blonde’s would-be-suitors caught her hand as she reached for her pool cue. She was a sight to behold, and he could see why the young man had taken an interest in her. "Come on, sugar. Alors, dancez avec moi. You know you want to." He wrapped the other hand around her waist as he pulled her into him.

She was far too drunk for it, and nearly fell over when he spun her into him. No! she tried to push the man away as she started over. Jeremiah lept to his feet and caught her before she could hit the floor.

"Well now, cher. You ‘bout done fell down," he drawled, tipping his fedora with one hand as he held her inches from the floor with the other.

My goodness, she gasped. You saved me.

He helped her to her feet and ran a thumb along his narrow moustache. His other hand never let go of her. Now, I’m not sure who’s saving who. He looked her up and down, allowing his eyes to devour her. He knew the eyes sold the deal. All the girls loved his amber eyes. They liked his long dark lashes and the smoky gaze he used to entice them. "What’s your name, ma belle?"

I’m Lorelei. She blushed overtly.

Lorelei. He let the word hang off his tongue as he repeated it, savoring it like a delicious treat on his tongue. Lorelei. Such a beautiful name. Such a beautiful woman. He reached up and pushed a lock of her strawberry blonde hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear as his hand came back down to trace the outline of her heart-shaped jaw. He allowed it to linger on the cleft of her chin.

Hey, the guy who was trying to dance with her came over and pushed him back. Find your own dance partner.

Lorelei gasped and shoved him away. Go away, Cyrus! I wouldn’t dance with you if you were the last man in New Orleans!

Jeremiah recovered, straightening his hat, and then his jacket. My, oh my, Cyrus, he said,