Abby swallowed. There were a number of agents in the Krewes who’d been with the FBI for some time now. This man was saying he hadn’t even gone to the academy.
“You’re not an agent?” she asked in a whisper.
“Not yet.”
“Oh, Lord,” she said shaking. “Then...then what are your credentials?”
“Ah,” he murmured. “Well, I’m a private investigator legitimately licensed. At one time I was a detective with the New Orleans police. And now I’m legitimately on the books as a consultant to the feds. Perhaps most important, Ms. Anderson, I just had a conversation with an ancestor of yours. Calls himself Blue. Will that do for starters?”
3
Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the fact that he’d seen Blue Anderson, Malachi thought. But, then again, the young woman seemed to think he was a serial killer himself, so he had to say something.
It hadn’t occurred to him that the place would have emptied out by the time he came back. But the tunnel had fascinated him, and he’d followed it from the tavern to the riverbank and back more than once, marveling at the pirates who had constructed the escape—or kidnapping or shanghai—route. Once in the tavern again, he’d had no choice but to make himself known.
Or maybe he should just have told her he was an agent. Except that he wasn’t. Not yet. If he chose to accept an appointment with the Krewe of Hunters, then, yes, he’d have to go through a course at the academy. But he was still skeptical.
And neither had he expected to be sent out on his own. But, apparently, that was the way Adam Harrison, Jackson Crow and Logan Raintree felt it should be done.
Sort of like a baptism by fire.
Malachi was game, though. Especially after he’d read about the two bodies that were discovered on the riverbank. He hadn’t been convinced that the death of a man in his nineties was murder, but since the man’s granddaughter had just graduated from the academy and had written such an impassioned letter, someone needed to come out here. And these recent murders did give a degree of credence to her beliefs.
So it was a test. For them, and as he’d said, for him. A chance to find out if he was really willing to join a unit or “create his own,” as he’d been offered. They needed more units in Jackson Crow’s specialized area and apparently they thought he was a man who could head up another one.
Actually, it didn’t seem like a bad deal. Work with people who didn’t think he was crazy or that he was a psychic. Trying to convince some people that he wasn’t a psychic was as hard as convincing others that he did have certain...talents.
As Abby Anderson stared at him, Malachi tried to sum her up. She was tall, a stunning woman with a headful of the darkest, richest black hair he’d ever seen and eyes so blue they appeared to be violet or black. Her features were delicate and beautifully chiseled, and while she was lithe and fit, she was still well-endowed. Slim and yet curvy—hard to achieve.
She had to have ability and intelligence; he refused to believe she could have made it through the academy without both. What agents sometimes lacked, in Malachi’s opinion, was imagination and vision. Though not, he had quickly discovered, the agents who wound up in what Adam Harrison had created—the Krewe of Hunters or, as it was generally called now, the Krewes. There was the original Krewe and then the Texas Krewe, although even adding a second was proving to be insufficient. Adam Harrison had told him passionately that it wasn’t a calling that came to just anyone. No two ways about it, forming a new Krewe was difficult. Very few people had the talents they needed—and the ability to physically and mentally work in law enforcement.
She continued to stare at him as time ticked by. She seemed almost frozen, as if she were in a tableau. He feared she had to be in shock, although she didn’t reveal her emotions.
“Hello?” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “Look, Ms. Anderson, I know what I’m doing around a crime scene and I generally know what I’m doing around people. Alive and dead. No, I don’t see hundreds of ghosts walking the streets, but when someone’s hanging around a place like this the way your Blue Anderson seems to be doing, it’s usually for a reason, like safeguarding someone.”
Was he wrong? Had she never seen the ghost of the pirate? If not, he’d just shown himself to be a real quack in her eyes.
No, in her email to Jackson she’d stated there was a ghost at the tavern, a ghost reportedly seen through the centuries. She hadn’t come out and said she’d seen the ghost, but reading between the lines, he was certain she had.
And even if she did think he was a quack, so what? He still wasn’t completely sure he wanted to be here or be part of this. He’d spent the past five years working for himself and he liked it that way. Maybe he should’ve started off with the fact that he’d served in the military and been a cop in New Orleans for several years before Marie’s death from cancer, when he’d come home to his family property in Virginia. That was when he’d chosen to work for himself, getting a P.I. license.
Now...
“He spoke to you?” she whispered.
“Ah, there’s life behind those eyes!” he murmured. “Yes, it seems to take him a great deal of effort. I don’t believe he’s practiced at speaking.”
“Practiced?” she asked, sounding startled. “Practiced? Ghosts have to practice...being ghosts?”
Curious. She didn’t seem worried that he’d seen the ghost. She was worried—or maybe confused—about its being a practiced ghost.
Jackson Crow had been certain, reading her email, that Abigail Anderson was of their own kind. A communicator, as Jackson referred to people who saw more than others did.
“Ms. Anderson, in my own experience, those who remain behind meet the same difficulties we do in life. Some are shy and don’t do much more than watch. They never manage to speak to the living, move objects, even make a room cold. Some discover that they can learn to speak, to move objects—and they can even create a cold wind. Just like some of us on earth speak many languages while others are lucky to speak one. And some can barely walk, while others have athletic talent and prowess or perform in dance or join the Cirque de Soleil. Every ghost is an individual, just as each of us is.”
“And you...saw Blue. And spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you. He hardly ever appears. He’s never spoken.”
“Not to you, perhaps.”
“I’m his descendent!” she said indignantly.
He shrugged. “Well, have you ever tried speaking to him?”
She straightened, glaring at him with hostile, narrowed eyes.
No, Malachi decided, it didn’t seem he’d gone about this the right way at all.
“So, you’re old friends. Where is he now?” she asked.
“Certainly not old friends,” Malachi said. “And I haven’t met a ghost yet who appears on demand. I’m sure he’s around somewhere, though. I don’t think he leaves these premises. At least not often.”
“And you spoke with him where, exactly?” she asked.
“In the tunnel.”
“What did he say?”
“I didn’t know he was there at first. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘This is where he died. He was strong of heart. His death was not so simple.’”
She stared at him with such incredulity, Malachi found himself growing irritated. She saw Blue herself.
“Mr. Gordon, even if you are for real, I wish you’d leave right now. My grandfather died. We buried him today. But you know that. You were watching.”
He stared back at her. “I can leave, or we can get started. Your grandfather called you because he suspected something or knew something—at least, that’s what you wrote to Agent Crow.” He tapped the newspaper. “So Gus is dead, possibly a victim, and there are three more—in a city where the murder rate is customarily quite l
ow. Four victims in a short period of time. Do you want to sit there doubting me, or do you want to piece together what we know? Shouldn’t take long. It isn’t a lot.”
“Almost nothing,” she agreed after a moment, disgust in her tone. She picked up the newspaper behind the bar. “Another girl dead, found on the riverbank. The police haven’t released cause of death, and when I tried to speak with them, I got nowhere. I tried to tell them Gus hadn’t just died—that there had to be someone else down there in the tunnel, someone who caused him to die.” She shook her head, studying him. “Look, you’re not even an agent. How are you going to get any information?”
He smiled. “I honestly have a private investigator’s license and I am now on the federal payroll as a consultant. Feel free to check that out. Call Jackson Crow. I think he’ll be expecting you.”
“Call him? I don’t have a number. All I could find in the material I have from Quantico was an email address. And I couldn’t reach him on an official line now. It’s nearly eight!”
“I have his cell number. And he might be in the office, anyway. He works long hours.”
“Right. So I could be calling anyone!”
He smiled at that. “Ever suspicious. That should make you a good agent, but you do have to go with your gut and trust someone at some point.”
“I’m really not seeing why that should be you,” she said.
“Ouch.”
“You could have approached me earlier—while there were still people here.”
“As you said, your grandfather’s funeral was today. And then, I wasn’t sure whether you wanted to advertise the fact that you’d called in...the ghost investigators.”
“Give me that number,” she said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.
He rattled off the numbers and she dialed. She watched him as she spoke. “Mr. Jackson Crow, please.”
Malachi could hear the deep murmur of Crow’s voice from where he stood.
“If you’re Jackson Crow, would you by any wild chance still be at work?” She was silent for a minute. “I see. Then...would you be good enough to call me back on an official line?”
Jackson murmured something again. She pressed the end button on her phone and studied him while she waited for it to ring. When it did, she looked at the exchange. After she’d answered, Malachi could once again hear the deep timbre of Crow’s voice as he spoke to Abby Anderson.
She thanked Crow, then ended the call. She frowned slightly, but now there seemed to be a touch of wonder in her eyes.
“He said that once we get an initial investigation going, he’ll come down himself.”
Malachi nodded.
“He said you do know what you’re doing.”
Malachi laughed at that. “I’ve been working as a P.I. I needed to be on my own. But I was a cop, up until about four years ago in the city of New Orleans. I have a connection in the homicide department here.”
“A connection?” she asked. For the first time he heard a touch of hope in her voice. “What kind of a connection.”
He smiled at that. “Detective David Caswell, homicide. My ex-partner. Have you met him?”
“No.”
He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s David’s card. Keep it with you. He’s a great guy. He married a woman from Savannah about a year ago and moved up here. But when we were both working in New Orleans, he was my partner.”
He waited.
She was still looking at him, as if he were an alien who’d suddenly landed in the tavern. Or...a ghost.
He sighed. “So, I guess you’re with me—or on your own.”
She was silent for another minute. “All right, then,” she said at last. “We’ll work together. I’ve lived here most of my life, and I’ve gone through all the real training, but you have the connections. You said you wanted to get started. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s compile the little that we do know about the victims. Then we’ll figure out what we want to ask when we get in to see David. This is your city. Tomorrow I want to see where the bodies were discovered.”
“Blue Anderson just showed you where I found my grandfather,” she said huskily.
He took out his notepad and pen. A number of law enforcement professionals were now using their smartphones as notebooks, but he still preferred a pen and pad. Maybe actually writing the words gave him time to think about them. “Our first victim, Ruth Seymour, was a young woman who loved the city. She came to Savannah happy, excited and ready to enjoy a bit of history searching on her own before meeting her friends. She did check into her bed-and-breakfast—her car was found in their parking lot. Next victim was Rupert Holloway from Iowa. It’s easy to understand why no immediate connection was made with the first victim, since Rupert was a man and in the city on business. Ms. Seymour would have been searching out tourist haunts. But a mobile phone exec? I’m not so sure. He was due to see business associates for lunch on the river—but he never showed. Our third victim was a student in the city. Her hometown was Memphis, Tennessee. So far, we don’t know where she was last seen, only that her body was discovered on the riverbank.”
“So, they have in common that they were all found by the river,” Abby said. “Plus they were from out of town.”
He nodded.
“And,” she said slowly, “you think that my grandfather died because he knew something about the murders or the murderer.”
“Probably. You found him in the tunnel. The tunnel leads down to the river and a dock. Well, not exactly. There’s landfill now, but basically, when you follow the twists and turns of the tunnel, you come out at the very edge of the Dragonslayer property—about a hundred yards from the embankment and another fifty from the dock.”
“But...Gus really didn’t spend his time walking around in the tunnel,” Abby said.
“No. So he went down there for a reason,” Malachi said. He closed his notebook. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow around ten. We’ll have a talk with David and you can show me around the city, the river and the docks.”
“All right.”
He waited. He thought she’d ask him where he was staying. She didn’t.
“Well, then, lock me out, Ms. Anderson. I made sure that both grates—at the entrance to the tunnel here and at the riverbank—were secured and bolted.” He glanced around. “There should be a better alarm system here.”
“We’ve been fine. And don’t even suggest that we’d harbor a murderer here!” Abby said indignantly.
He raised a brow. “Hard to say, isn’t it—when you don’t know who the murderer might be.”
She didn’t respond to that but said, “Allow me to show you out.”
As Malachi walked to the door, she followed. “This is a big, rambling place for you to stay alone, Ms. Anderson.”
She smiled at him. “Blue’s here, isn’t he? I’m not alone. Good night, Mr. Gordon.” She closed the door and he heard her lock it. Bemused, he headed out to the parking lot for his car. He wasn’t particularly good with people anymore, he realized.
But then again, that was why he’d worked on his own for the past four years.
* * *
“Hey!” Abby said aloud when the door was closed. “Blue Anderson! Why don’t you speak to me?”
She got no reply and the tavern was silent. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had grown late. Well, not that late. It was only eight-thirty. Still, she’d been up most of the previous night. She needed to get some sleep. Looking around one last time—wary in case anything had been left unsecured—she decided she should pack it in for the night and go to bed.
Jackson Crow had responded. She should’ve been elated.
But...
He’d sent her a rookie!
She told herself she should be grateful t
hat she received a reply at all—even if it came in the form of Malachi Gordon. The man who claimed he’d spoken to Blue. Well, Crow had told her on the phone that if she and Malachi found a situation in which the Krewe could be of real assistance, he’d come himself and he’d bring more associates. Gordon also claimed to have an in with the police, which could help. And, if she needed someone intimidating, the man was tall and did have a strange air of authority about him. He wore his suit well; he was ruggedly attractive, which could be good with the right people.
She hoped he didn’t usually walk around claiming he’d just spoken with the local ghost.
Abby cleaned up the mess she’d made when she’d broken the liquor to create a makeshift weapon. Then she went upstairs, but rather than turning in, she walked back to Gus’s office. She’d started to go through his papers and invoices during the past week, but had been continually interrupted by someone needing an answer to a restaurant or bar question—or people who wanted to tell her how sorry they were about Gus and then tried to make her feel better by mentioning his age and reminding her that he’d led a good life.
Now she sat back behind his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers.
Invoices from liquor companies.
She looked around, feeling the silence of the tavern weigh down on her.
“Blue?” she said again.
But the ghost of her ancestor didn’t appear.
She looked back at the papers in her hands. She saw Gus’s handwriting on some of them. One note indicated that a certain flavor of vodka had not gone over well with his customers. Another said that the salesman now working for a particular company was one of the best he’d ever met.
As she began to leaf through them, another paper slipped down to the desk, smaller and different from the invoices. It was a sheet ripped from a small notepad. She quickly read the words he’d written, almost as if he’d been thinking out loud and had scribbled them down.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever Page 36