“All right.” Malachi sat forward, folding his hands on the table. “There’s something I happened to catch because I started researching when I first came down here—Savannah and then the Dragonslayer and pirates in general. The name Helen Long gave us was Christopher Condent. I know David Caswell is searching local records to see if anyone with that name was registered at a hotel or bed-and-breakfast or used a credit card at a restaurant, gas station, shop or any other venue. I don’t believe he’ll find such a person. I think the man Helen met chose the name because it was that of a real pirate, one who survived his days of piracy to become a rich man and live happily in France after his career on the high seas. My guess is that he intends to ‘retire’ from piracy one day and live on his proceeds, so to speak. The real Condent was born in the 1690s, fled Jamaica in 1718 when Woods Rogers came in and went on to practice all kinds of atrocities. He cut off the ears and noses of many of his captives and tortured others. He was known to be brutal to those he captured. Karma didn’t ever catch up with him. He and his men captured an Arab ship worth a fortune and Condent went on to negotiate a pardon with the governor of Bourbon. He became a merchant and died fat and wealthy in France in 1770. I’m telling you all this history—or legend, whichever it might be—because I think our killer specifically picked this pirate. This was a man who practiced atrocities, got away with it and prospered. Supposedly, he was the man behind the ever-popular Jolly Roger flags. His own flag had a row of three skulls.”
“If this person wants to be a pirate and retire happily—after doing horrendously cruel and brutal things—why would Helen have thought she was attacked by Blue?” Abby asked him. “Blue was revered as a gentleman pirate. He never hurt anyone, he didn’t rape his female captives and he had a strict code for his men.”
“I believe this guy dresses up as Blue because Blue’s such a famous pirate in Savannah. Blue’s image is used at the Dragonslayer, and there are shops with his image worked into their décor. There’s a wooden image of him down by the river, with the face cut out so people can stick their own faces in for their pictures. Then, looking at the psychology of it—” he glanced at Jackson, who nodded, clearly intrigued by Malachi’s theory “—he may resent Blue, since the real Blue didn’t behave the way this creep thinks a pirate should. He didn’t rape, torture or murder. This killer may find it amusing to think that if he’s ever seen, people will believe Blue is somehow walking the streets again and that his reputation was a lie because he was as vicious as the rest.”
“What’s consistent is that he has to kill his victims by forcing them off his ship or boat—or whatever conveyance he has them on,” Abby said slowly. She looked around the room, as if assuring herself that they wanted to hear her opinions. “So, we’re back to the river. He uses the underground, not so much to get his victims to the docks, but because he figures a pirate would use the tunnels to secure captives or shanghai crew members.”
Jackson nodded. “I also think this man is no tourist or newcomer to the city. I think he’s known and that, until now, if he were caught in costume, he’d be able to explain it easily. He’d claim he was going to help out a friend—like Dirk—on a ship.”
“Or...he is Dirk,” Malachi said.
Abby raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you believe that if Dirk was guilty, he’d stay away from Helen?” she asked.
Malachi shrugged. “Not necessarily. He might be confident in his disguise.”
Abby fell silent.
“I’m not accusing Dirk. I’m just saying he’s not off the suspect list.”
“I’ll take Dirk,” Jackson said quietly. “Probe into his past and find out about his every movement over the past month and, more important, the past few days. Find out exactly where he was when Helen went missing.”
“He was at the Dragonslayer,” Abby said.
Malachi cleared his throat. “He was with Bootsie, Sullivan, Macy, Aldous, your buddy Roger English and others when Helen was there. Which is the last time she was seen. They all said they’d seen her. But we don’t know now just how long any of those people were there.”
Abby was silent again. Malachi saw that Kat and Angela were watching her with sympathy; it was a difficult thing to learn that those you believed in might not be all that they seemed.
“Savannah is filled with ships, boats, yachts—and ship’s captains,” Abby said stubbornly.
“We realize that, and we’ve been pulling names and working on investigating ships, their schedules and their crews. But, so far, the victims we know have something in common,” Jackson said.
“What?” Abby asked.
“They all made meal purchases at the Dragonslayer within a few days of their disappearances.” Jackson looked at the sheet in front of him. “Even Rupert Holloway. He ate at the Dragonslayer two nights before he disappeared.”
* * *
Abby was frustrated. She felt she should be doing more. Perhaps going back to the Dragonslayer, confronting the image of Blue Anderson and demanding he show up, have a conversation with her. She wanted to yell at him and make sure he understood that she needed his help because people had been killed. And if their killer was doing terrible things while pretending to be him, his reputation was being tarnished. He’d been a good pirate—good at piracy and good in that he’d followed a moral code. He didn’t act with wanton cruelty, the way many had.
She was still learning about ghosts, of course. And yelling at one would probably prove as effective as yelling at the air.
She and Malachi were at the riverfront. They were due to have another interview with Helen Long in a few hours. In the meanwhile, Jackson had suggested they wander down by the river and get something to eat. She was hungry, since their meals had been irregular over the past few days.
They dined on bangers and mash at one of her favorite Irish pubs. From their vantage point on the outside patio, they could see one of the reproduction paddle wheelers heading out on the river. Gulls squawked and thronged the walks and the air; tourists ambled in and out of the shops on the riverfront.
“Paddle wheelers,” Abby said. “Has anyone checked into those?”
“Jackson had the police make thorough sweeps. Not one of the captains or owners refused. They cooperated. I don’t believe we’re looking for a paddleboat. No, we’re looking for a sailing ship,” Malachi said. “Or maybe a rowboat.”
“How are we ever going to find it now?” Abby asked.
“Whoever’s doing this must still have been on the river when you saw Helen,” he pointed out.
She frowned at that. “I don’t remember seeing any vessels. I saw Helen because...she was a shadow. She was a shadow on the river, but there was movement. I didn’t really think. I plunged in.”
“She was lucky you did. Although plunging in without thinking isn’t such a good idea most of the time,” Malachi told her.
Abby ignored that. “One day you’ll have to really see this city,” Abby said, changing the subject. “Savannah is so beautiful. We’ve been to Colonial Park Cemetery but Bonaventure is one of the loveliest, most gracious cemeteries I’ve ever seen.”
“I was there,” he reminded her.
“Oh. Right. Gus’s funeral,” she said.
“I’d actually been there before.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. A lot of people visit the city, of course, and you’re not that far away, so...”
“I don’t know Savannah like you do,” he said. He swallowed a long drink of iced tea and set his glass down. “Excellent bangers and mash, by the way.”
She nodded. “They have great Irish music here, too. And you really should have lunch at Mrs. Wilkes’s. Every morning at eleven—and I mean every morning—a crowd forms. It’s 107 West Jones. When you go in, tourist or local, you sit at a big table with strangers and you leave with a bunch of new friends. The food’s superb. Gus and my folks used t
o take me there when Sema Wilkes was still alive, and she was wonderful.” She took a deep breath. “There are so many historic homes all over Savannah. There’s the Historic Savannah Theater, Juliette Gordon Low’s birthplace, the Massie Heritage Center, and you should take a carriage ride down the streets and—”
He reached across the table and touched her hand. “I will do all those things,” he promised.
She nodded, wondering why she suddenly felt as if she’d known him for a long time. She really knew so little about him....
Except, she knew she wanted to wake up beside him again. She’d be disconsolate if he never touched her again, if she couldn’t study his eyes or the way he smiled. Or watch him when he was working something out—by logic or intuition.
Abby looked down, feeling she’d gushed too much. She didn’t need to be defensive; Savannah was a gem of a city.
“Virginia is great, too,” she said.
He laughed. “Virginia is great. I love Richmond. The White House of the Confederacy, Hollywood Cemetery and all the old Civil War memorials... My part of Virginia is pretty remote. But I think you’d like it.”
She started to answer him; she wanted to talk about Virginia, or anything else rather than what was going on between them. But before she could say a word, she was startled by the presence of someone beside their table.
It was Roger English. “Hey, you two okay?” he asked.
“Fine, Roger.” Abby smiled at him. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I shouldn’t admit it, but yesterday freaked me out. I watched the news today and it’s great—you fished Helen Long out of the river last night!”
“We’ve seen her, Roger, and she’s doing well,” Malachi told him.
“Did she solve everything?” he asked.
“She’s in the hospital, so we’re trying to give her time to feel better before getting her to remember details,” Abby said.
Roger nodded. “Hopefully she’ll have what you need.”
“What are you doing here?” Abby asked him. “Did you just happen by?”
“I came to meet Bianca for lunch. But she’s late.”
“I’m sure she’ll be along in a few minutes,” Abby said.
“I really like her,” Roger murmured.
Abby suddenly heard a mental echo of her own voice. I’m sure she’ll be along in a few minutes.
But she might not be.
She glanced at Malachi, who was studying Roger. “Why don’t you give her a call, see what’s holding her up?” Malachi suggested.
“I have. She’s not answering her cell. I tried her bed-and-breakfast, too. Couldn’t reach her.”
The possible explanation seemed to hit Roger as he spoke. His knees gave out; he would’ve fallen if Malachi hadn’t leaped to his feet to bring a chair around for him.
Roger stared at the two of them. “He’s got her!” he cried. “Call the police! I’ve got to call the police. You are the police. No, you’re the feds... Oh, God. What do I do, what do I do?”
Malachi already had his phone out. “First, don’t panic. People do run late. Cell phone batteries die. But under the circumstances, we’ll get all the information we have on Bianca to David Caswell.”
Roger looked as if he’d been hit by a brick. While Malachi spoke to David on the phone, Abby asked Roger, “Her name is Bianca Salzburg, right? She said she was transferring here from Chicago. Is she from Chicago? This is important, Roger.”
“Salzburg, yes,” Roger answered. “She was born in Chicago and went to Northwestern. She works for a small shipping company that handles delicate items—Pack-A-Gram, it’s called. They’re opening an office in Savannah. She was staying at the old Hayden house. You know the place, Abby. It was owned by Jimmy Hayden until last year when he died. His niece Shelly came back to take over the property and turned it into a B and B. She fixed it up nicely.”
There was little emotion in his voice, he was so distracted.
Abby thought, but didn’t say, that—like the known victims—Bianca had eaten at the Dragonslayer.
Malachi ended his call and made another before returning the phone to his pocket. “David’s on it and he’ll be here soon. We’ve reported the situation to our colleagues, as well. Bianca could show up in a few minutes, but we’ll get started on the information we need, just because we’re all concerned these days. So, how late is she, Roger?”
Roger glanced at his watch. “Now? Almost forty minutes.”
“My colleague Angela Hawkins is on her way here to wait with you. Meanwhile, Jackson Crow is hitting the national databases to get all the information we can on Bianca. Let’s hope she shows in a few minutes, apologizing for being late and explaining that she didn’t charge her phone.”
Roger jumped to his feet. “Helen! You have to get Helen to tell you what’s going on. I’ll go to the hospital. She’ll talk to me—she’ll tell us what happened. You saved her, right? She owes you, Abby. You have to make her tell you!”
Malachi rose and set his hands on Roger’s shoulders. “Look at me, buddy. You panicking will not help Bianca. We’ve spoken with Helen, and we’ll speak with her again, see if we can’t get some details that might help. But listen to me and try to understand. We can’t force Helen to tell us what she doesn’t know.”
“But,” Roger protested, “she’s alive! She has to know—”
“She says she saw a pirate,” Abby said.
“What?” Roger demanded.
“She thinks Blue Anderson attacked her.”
“Blue Anderson?” Roger repeated, looking at her blankly.
“Roger,” Malachi said in a firm voice, “relax. Sit down. You’ll wait here for a while longer. We’ll stay until Angela arrives. Then we’ll head out and start searching for her, okay? Every cop in the city will be on the lookout, too.”
Roger shook his head. “She’s underground somewhere. Or she’s being held on a ship. It’s not like they’ll be able to see her.”
“We’ll do everything we can,” Malachi said.
Abby put a hand on Roger’s arm. “I’m going to get you one of Gus’s old fixes, okay? A cup of tea and whiskey. Calm those nerves a bit.”
“Yeah,” Roger said huskily. “Yeah, okay.”
By the time Abby snagged their waitress and got the tea for Roger, Angela had arrived. Tall, beautiful, controlled, she quickly had Roger talking to her, telling her about Bianca, how they’d met, and how great she was.
“Let’s go,” Malachi told Abby.
“Yes, get going,” Angela said. “Roger and I are fine here.”
“The check,” Abby began.
Angela waved a hand. “Roger and I may have something else while we’re here. And Jackson may come by soon. He’s already got fliers into the hands of the police, and they’ll get them out right away. Of course, we could really be jumping the gun, but...”
Abby gave Roger a kiss on the head. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered.
He nodded. He still looked as if he’d been hit by a brick.
Malachi took her arm and they walked down the length of the riverfront to the parking area.
“Do you actually think she’s been taken?” Abby asked.
Malachi pursed his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s just blowing him off, but we can’t risk it. We’ll stop by the bed-and-breakfast first and then go back to the hospital to talk to Helen. We’ll see if we can get some kind of clue from her. Do you know the woman who’s taken over the Hayden house? Shelly, he said her name was.”
“Yeah, Gus knew everyone in town. Shelly actually lived up in Charleston. I hadn’t heard that she’d turned the house into a bed-and-breakfast but I’m not surprised. It’s a big old colonial and they put in a pool about ten years back.”
“Tell me where to go.”
Malachi was driving. He had a good grasp of the city’s grid layout, with the squares bordered by streets.
When he’d parked, Abby ran up the walk. The front door was open; she went in. The Hayden house had a broad foyer with a staircase that went straight up to a second-floor balcony. Shelly had set up a reception desk in the foyer.
“Hey, Abby!” Shelly smiled as she greeted her. She came around the desk to give her a big hug. They didn’t know each other that well, since Shelly was about five years older than Abby. But whenever she’d been in town, they’d seen each other often enough. Slim and attractive, she must have made a complete aboutface in her life because she’d worked in Charleston as a graphic designer.
“Shelly, it’s good to see you,” Abby said, returning the hug.
“Congratulations, Agent Anderson. I understand you’re full-fledged now.”
“More or less,” Abby said. Malachi was behind her by then. She saw Shelly’s eyes widen as she looked at him and then at her. She wondered how she hadn’t realized from the beginning what she clearly saw now—he was an extremely attractive and arresting man. Other women seemed to respond to him instinctively.
Of course, she was doing that herself.
She gave herself a mental shake. Whatever private relationships they had, she couldn’t forget her position, her chosen vocation and what they were here to do.
“Hi,” Shelly said to Malachi. “You two are together?” She evidently approved.
“Shelly Hayden, Malachi Gordon. He’s a private investigator and a consultant with the FBI,” Abby explained. “We’re here because one of your guests didn’t show up for a lunch appointment, and we want to be sure she’s all right.”
“Oh. Oh!” Shelly said. “Which guest? Oh, it has to be Bianca Salzburg. She’s registered, and then I have two retired couples and a family of four. She was fine this morning. I made quiches for breakfast and she was so sweet, really loved them. She was cheerful when she left here.”
“When was that?” Malachi asked.
“About eleven,” Shelly told him.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever Page 48