The hangman had tired of the tirade.

He kicked out the platform upon which the condemned man stood, and Eli Smith's words were cut off cleanly.

Bartholomew listened to the sound of the rope sc.r.a.ping against the tree, and he heard the sound of the dead man swinging to and fro, to and fro.

Then, they saw Eli Smith drop, in spectral form, from the swaying body. He stared at himself. And he began to curse again, d.a.m.ning Beckett-and d.a.m.ning him.

He turned, and he saw Bartholomew, and Victoria holding his hand.

He pointed at Bartholomew. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you both deserved to die!" he shouted out.

Bartholomew just stared at him, praying that he was not about to spend eternity roaming the streets of Key West with this man.

But then, there seemed to be an eruption from the ground. None of the living saw it, but Victoria did, as did Eli Smith. He frowned, staring.

Bartholomew grasped Victoria's hand, and pulled her back, and they saw a dark, oozing blackness arise out of the ground. It was like a sea of swirling, spiraling tar, thick and viscous. It rose as if it sought to find a form to take, as if it had eyes, as if it searched for something-or someone-and found what it sought.

It started toward Eli Smith.

"No!" he raged in terror. "No!"

He tried to run from the oily, stygian ooze, but the thing formed fingers and arms and reached out for him.

"No!" he cried again. He began to scream and gurgle as the stuff surrounded his spectral being. He cried out horribly, as if the black ooze were a burning tar, and it seemed long agonizing minutes before it all ended with the ooze receding into the floor, along with the ghost of Eli Smith.

And all was silent. Except for the living, who went about the business of cutting down the body, unaware of the drama that had taken place in another sphere of existence.

"It's not good," someone muttered. "Not good, being cursed by the dead."

Craig Beckett was not disturbed. "I don't believe in curses, man. I believe in the good and evil in a man's soul, and a curse from one evil man can only be a curse when another comes along. Let's put an end to this business."

Victoria looked at Bartholomew, her eyes wide. "There is justice. We don't always see it, but there is justice."

He nodded. He had no real body, and yet he felt that he swallowed hard, for he wanted to be strong and sure, but he didn't know what any of it meant.

The body was cut down; the spectators meandered away, and soon, they were alone. Bartholomew held both Victoria's hands, looked down at her, and tried to smile.

"I have you," he began to say. He had been about to tell her that he could face heaven or h.e.l.l with her by his side.

But then the light came.

Like the ooze that came from the ground, the light seemed powerful and living. It burst out around them, filling the air.

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes against it. There were people walking from it. Some hovered in the distance, but two, hand in hand came closer.

He saw who had come. Victor Wyeth, and his beautiful wife-so like Victoria, just Victoria in another twenty years. Still lovely, tall, sweet and proud.

At his side, Victoria cried out.

"My daughter!" her mother said.

"Victoria!" her father cried, and there was a sob in his voice.

Bartholomew felt her hand slip away from his; she raced to her mother, who enveloped her in a gentle hug. Victor Wyeth set his arms around his wife and his daughter, and the threesome held together for many long minutes.

Victor Wyeth looked over at Bartholomew then. "I was wrong-my apologies come too late."

"Not too late, sir. I am...I am...I am so sorry for us all."

Victor nodded, looking at him. Then he turned to his daughter. "It's time-your murder is avenged, and I must seek forgiveness for all my actions. It's time."

Time? Time for what? Bartholomew wondered. Bartholomew wondered.

He saw that the light streamed from a path.

"We must go," Victor said.

Victoria reached out for Bartholomew.

Victor caught her hand. "No," he said gently. "It's not time for Bartholomew," he said.

Victoria frowned. "Father, Bartholomew must come. You know that he was guilty of no evil, that his heart was pure, his intentions good."

Victor shook his head sadly. "It is not for me to say." He looked at Bartholomew. "You are charged to remain."

Victoria ran to him. He took her into his arms. But then she pulled away, troubled as she looked at him. "I must go. I feel the light, and I must go. I am avenged, and with those who love me, and I know that there is a greater love...forgive me."

She was to go, and he was to stay.

But he saw the radiance in her face, and he knew, yes, she must go.

For a moment, his arms tightened around her. He held her close, and he wondered if he would know only loss, and he wondered why the light was coming for Victoria, and not for him.

But he loved her.

And he let her go.

He kissed her spectral lips one last time. She stepped backward, until she reached her parents. She looked at him, and he smiled.

Know only pure happiness and the great warmth and light of love that surrounds you, he thought. And she heard his thoughts. he thought. And she heard his thoughts.

They turned, and walked into the light.

And then the light was gone, and he remained.

Bartholomew mourned for a decade, but it seemed that he was to remain, though for what reason, he did not know.

Eli Smith had been duly hanged. His death had been avenged.

He followed Craig Beckett around at times, but Beckett never noted him, though now and then he would pause and look around, puzzled.

He watched as David Porter brought down the pirates-not an easy task, and there was many a tragedy at sea. As he had feared, Dona Isabella was beset at sea and murdered by the love of Mad Miller's life, his bar wench, finally his consort. Ah, jealousy!

The Mosquito Squadron moved north, and the salvage trade made Key West one of the richest cities in the country, and the world.

War broke out. Civil War-terrible in the extreme. Florida seceded from the Union, but the Union held the fort, and the streets were filled with tension and sadness.

There were good years, and there were bad years.

Boring times and intriguing times.

He was saddened when war came again, when the bodies of sailors who died on the Maine Maine came to Key West and were buried. came to Key West and were buried.

He met other ghosts now and then, and some were bitter, and some were lost. Some stayed in the cemetery-now in the center of the island, after a horrible storm sent bodies floating down Duval Street. He haunted those who read, and learned to keep pace with them, since it was awkward and difficult to turn pages.

He saw fine people throughout the years, but none of them seemed to notice him. They would pause and sometimes shiver, but they didn't notice him.

Time came, and time went.

He was fascinated by the grouchy old bearded writer-Ernest Hemingway-and he enjoyed hanging out at the bars with him, and laughing over his foibles with his wife.

Key West, infuriated by a blockade, seceded from the Union and became the Conch Republic-only for a few hours, though the t.i.tle would remain forever. The blockade-strangling the islands and ruining Key West's business, the tourist trade-was lifted. Their point was made.

And still, he haunted the island. He had loved life, and he had loved Victoria, but she was long gone. He found himself pining after another ghost, a beautiful young woman in white who was often in the cemetery. But she was shy, and they had yet to formally meet. He knew that Victoria was long gone, and that she was happy, loved, and at peace.

And he was lonely.

He was still intrigued, however, with the people and places around him. It was Key West. The bizarre happened. As in the case of that Carl Tanzler fellow-who fell in love with a young Cuban girl, tried to cure her tuberculosis, then dug her up and repaired her body constantly so that he could marry her-and sleep with her corpse for years and years.

It could be entertaining. At least he was in Key West.

But still wondering why he remained.

Then came the day that he was hanging around O'Hara's.

The day he met Katie O'Hara.

He was absolutely astounded. She didn't pause and shiver and feel as if a goose had walked over her grave. She saw him-she really saw him. And she spoke to him.

Katie was gifted. He loved to tease her-she had been told, of course, never to let on that she saw ghosts.

People would think that she was crazy.

So he loved to tease her. Say things in public that would demand a response.

But it was amazing. He had gone so many years, being lonely.

And now...

Of course, he had gone so many years wondering why he remained, as well.

But then, Katie was trying to buy the old Beckett museum, so...

And David Beckett, who had left town years ago, accused of the bizarre murder of his fiancee, was returning.

Things might just start to get interesting.

He might have finally found the reason why he remained on earth....

Ever waiting for the light.

The Bone Island Trilogy New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham brings readers a tantalizing tale of dark deeds and mysterious omens, set amid the fascinating history of the Florida Keys. bestselling author Heather Graham brings readers a tantalizing tale of dark deeds and mysterious omens, set amid the fascinating history of the Florida Keys.

There are those who walk among us who are no longer alive, but not yet crossed over. They seek retribution...vengeance...to warn. Among the living, few intuit their presence.

Read more about Bartholomew, the Becketts, and the O'Haras in the Bone Island Trilogy by Heather Graham: Ghost Shadow (July 2010) Ghost Night (August 2010) Ghost Moon (September 2010) Read on for an excerpt from Ghost Shadow Ghost Shadow....

Ghost Shadow There are those who walk among us who are no longer alive, but not yet crossed over. They seek retribution...vengeance...to warn. Among the living, few intuit their presence.

Katie O'Hara is one who can.

As she's drawn deeper and deeper into a gruesome years-old murder, whispered warnings from a spectral friend become more and more insistent. But Katie must uncover the truth: could David Beckett really be guilty of his fiancee's murder?

Worse-the body count's rising on the Island of Bones, and the dead seem to be reenacting some macabre tableaux from history. The danger is increasing by the moment-especially as Katie finds herself irresistibly drawn to David, who may be responsible for more than just one killing....

At 3:00 a.m., Duval Street was far from closed down. She wondered with a quirk of humor what DuVal-the first governor of territorial Florida-would have thought of the street named in his honor.

Certainly, it kept the name from being forgotten.

Key West was filled with history that shouldn't be forgotten. The name itself was a b.a.s.t.a.r.dization of Cayo Hueso, Island of Bones, and came from the fact that hueso hueso had sounded like had sounded like west west to the English-speaking British who had claimed the state from the Spaniards. The name fit because it was the most western of the Islands of the Martyrs, which was what the chain of Florida "keys" had been known as to the Spanish. Actually, the Islands of the Dry Tortugas were farther west, but the name had been given, and it had stuck. Street names came from the early Americans-Simonton and his friends, colleagues and their families. Simonton had purchased Key West from a Spaniard named Salas when Florida had become an American territory. Salas had received the island as a gift-or back payment for a debt-from the Spanish governor who had ruled before the American governor. The island had seen British rule as well, and often, no matter who ruled, it wasn't ruled much at all. to the English-speaking British who had claimed the state from the Spaniards. The name fit because it was the most western of the Islands of the Martyrs, which was what the chain of Florida "keys" had been known as to the Spanish. Actually, the Islands of the Dry Tortugas were farther west, but the name had been given, and it had stuck. Street names came from the early Americans-Simonton and his friends, colleagues and their families. Simonton had purchased Key West from a Spaniard named Salas when Florida had become an American territory. Salas had received the island as a gift-or back payment for a debt-from the Spanish governor who had ruled before the American governor. The island had seen British rule as well, and often, no matter who ruled, it wasn't ruled much at all.

The place was colorful, throughout history, and now.

"You do love this place," Bartholomew noted as he walked alongside her.

She shrugged. "It's home. If you're used to the beautiful fall colors in Ma.s.sachusetts, that's home. Down here, it's the water, and the craziness. Yes, I do love it."

She stopped walking and stared across Simonton, frowning.

"What?" Bartholomew asked her. "I see nothing. Not even the beauty in white who frets so night after night."