Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever

by Heather Graham

  “Or,” Malachi interrupted, “we can eat at the bar. Join Dirk, Bootsie and Aldous.”

  “Okay,” Abby said. “But first, a shower.”

  Malachi came with her, but didn’t seem to notice that she was shrugging out of her muddy clothing as they entered the apartment. He repeated his inspection, making sure no one was inside, under the beds, in the closets. He headed back to the bank of computer screens to watch what was going on in the restaurant.

  Abby cleared her throat. “I’m hopping in the shower,” she told him.

  He nodded; he didn’t even glance up. So much for her appeal.

  Hot water had seldom felt so good. Well, other than the night before, after she’d plunged into the river...

  It felt sensuously good. Despite everything they were frantically doing in their desperate new search to find another young woman, she wished Malachi would join her.

  She almost needed him.

  She pictured him walking into the bathroom, stripping off his clothing, imagined the sleek feel of his naked flesh and his hands on her breasts.

  But he didn’t come in.

  She emerged, feeling a little embarrassed. When she returned to the living room area, having donned jeans and a T-shirt to head back down for dinner, Malachi was still studying the screens, fixated on them. But he immediately sensed her standing behind him.

  “The soap... You smell wonderful,” he told her. There was a husky note in his voice and a darkening in the hazel of his eyes as he watched her; it made her knees tremble.

  “You would’ve been welcome to join me,” she said.

  He smiled, an ironic twist to his lips. “I had to know that this apartment was safe.”

  She smiled. He stood and started to touch her but drew back. “Go down and join our friends at the bar. Try to casually find out what they’ve been doing all day.”

  She wanted to argue with him. Bootsie, Dirk and Aldous—these men were bulwarks in her life. They couldn’t be guilty of anything. Will Chan had been watching Dirk and the Black Swan. Bootsie was old. Aldous...

  Aldous was healthy and fit—and not all that old. He’d always looked like a pirate with his gleaming bald head and single gold earring.

  He had money. Enough money to do whatever he wanted. His business was a shipping company; he had ships and boats at his disposal.

  She didn’t say anything, but Malachi gave her another rueful smile. “I see your mind working,” he said.

  “Aldous?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “I’m sure your FBI friends have checked out everything they possibly can on him. As far as I know, he’s never even had a parking ticket.”

  His grin deepened at that. “Hey, you’re the one who’s actually a fed at the moment,” he reminded her.

  Abby rolled her eyes. “I’ll be downstairs,” she said, and left him in the apartment. She was grateful to see that Grant had ordered dinner for her and Malachi. Two covered plates were set on the bar, next to Bootsie. Aldous was sitting between him and Dirk.

  Abby kissed the three of them on the cheek, hitched herself onto the bar stool beside Bootsie’s and took the cover off her food. Chicken potpie. It smelled wonderful.

  “You doing okay?” Bootsie asked her, his eyes grave.

  “I’m just feeling sick that this killer may have taken another young woman,” she said.

  “But,” he said, lifting a glass of ale to her, “you saved Helen. She seems to be doing just fine—minus a finger, unfortunately. But you can live perfectly well with one less finger. I should know. I’ve lived most of my life without a leg.”

  Dirk bent over the bar to speak to her across the other men. “Did you see Helen again tonight? She’s really doing well?”

  “She’s really doing well,” Abby assured them. “So, what about you gentlemen? What have you been up to today?”

  “We went with Dirk to see Helen,” Aldous said, looking at her as if she should have realized that.

  “That was this morning,” Abby said. “How about later? Have you been sitting on these chairs all day?”

  Frowning, Dirk surveyed the restaurant and said, “Abby, you know I’ve been back on the Black Swan. That handsome young Asian fellow, or whatever he is, has been working with me. You know that,” he repeated.

  “Will Chan.”

  “Yeah, Will. He’s a good guy. A great performer.”

  “I don’t really know him but I have heard he’s a pretty talented magician, as well,” Abby said.

  “Yeah, he’s something else. He pulls doubloons out of kids’ ears, has ’em laughing. Wish I could keep him,” Dirk said. “He was with me for the afternoon tour. I assume he’s keeping an eye on me, right?”

  “An eye on the guests, the river...everything, Dirk.”

  “Yeah. Like I’m a suspect!” Dirk said, sounding a little bitter.

  Sullivan walked up to Abby. “Water? Beer, soda—anything to drink?”

  “Just water, thanks, Sullivan,” Abby told him.

  “And not to worry—these old barflies haven’t been here all day!” Sullivan said, grinning. “They’ve only been back for about three hours now.”

  Three hours. So, ever since Dirk had berthed the Black Swan. There’d been at least three hours when they could’ve been doing anything. Separately or together.

  And of course, there were two hours between sailings on the Black Swan. Right around lunchtime...

  Right around the time Bianca Salzburg had disappeared.

  “Is your food okay?” Sullivan asked.

  “Yes, it’s fine. I just started talking and got distracted.”

  “Ah, there’s your colleague,” Sullivan said. He waited as Malachi, fresh from the shower, came to join her.

  “Hello,” Dirk said in greeting. The others echoed him.

  “Gentlemen.” Malachi took his seat next to Abby.

  “Cops, FBI people wasting their time watching me and God knows who else,” Dirk muttered. “And they’ve come up with...nothing.”

  “Sometimes a killer’s never caught,” Aldous reminded him.

  “They’d better catch this one, or Savannah will run out of women,” Bootsie commented.

  Malachi turned on his bar stool to face them. “You don’t feel the police are doing everything they can?” he asked.

  “Killer hasn’t been caught,” Bootsie said. “And they’re hounding good people, like our friend Dirk here.”

  “Oh, they’ll catch this killer,” Malachi spoke with all the confidence he could muster. Grant had moved over toward the bar. Sullivan remained where he’d been, right behind it. All five men stared at him. “This killer...well, he’s pretending to be Blue Anderson.”

  “Yeah, I heard. The media got hold of Helen Long’s story about being attacked by a ‘pirate,’” Sullivan said. “So he’s pretending to be Blue?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Malachi went on. “And I’m not talking out of line. The police want some of Helen’s information out there to prevent other women from being taken. The man who lured her to the abandoned church had given her a business card with the name Christopher Condent on it. I’m sure you gentlemen know who the real Christopher Condent was?”

  “A pirate. A brutal pirate who got away with it,” Sullivan said.

  “He died in France, right?” Dirk asked.

  “Rich as Midas, from what I’ve read,” Aldous added.

  “Yes, I think our killer believes he can do whatever he wants, get away with it and then sail off into the sunset. Christopher Condent. Students of piracy or local history might know the name, but it’s not like Blackbeard or any of the really well-known names. So, he amuses himself by using the name and the business cards, but then dresses up as Blue. Everyone in this area knows what Blue looks like. Ther
e are dozens of paintings of him, including the replica of him right here in the dining room. But there’s a problem with that.”

  “What?” Bootsie asked. “Other than the guy getting his pirates confused.”

  “Well, Blue, of course.”

  Everyone stared at Malachi. “What do you mean?” Aldous asked.

  “I mean the real Blue won’t stand for it.”

  Bootsie began to laugh. Dirk let out a choked cough that became a chuckle.

  “Blue Anderson’s been dead for two and a half centuries!” Sullivan said.

  “Blue is here in spirit,” Malachi told them all.

  “Yep—in all the spirits behind this bar,” Sullivan said, grinning.

  “Oh, no, my friends. Don’t kid yourselves. Blue is very much here, in every brick and beam of this tavern. And his anger will grow—and when it does, the killer had best beware.”

  11

  “I bet they’ve decided the FBI has brought in a certifiably crazy person as a consultant,” Abby said as the door to the apartment closed behind them.

  Malachi smiled, shrugged and immediately pulled her to him and into his arms.

  She felt... The only word was melting.

  They needed to talk, of course. His words downstairs had been met with laughter, then blank stares and awkwardness. Sullivan had started cleaning the bar. Grant had cleared his throat and walked away. Dirk said he’d had enough to drink for the night, and Aldous and Bootsie had quickly agreed. They were out the door before Abby and Malachi had made it to the stairs.

  But now...

  Nothing seemed to matter. Her body’s memory kicked in, a physical memory that resided in her skin, her muscles, her very cells. Sliding against him, she felt guilty for a millisecond, but she was doing everything she possibly could to assist the police and Krewe unit in finding the killer. Jackson had said they needed sleep. But she needed this more than she needed sleep.

  And Malachi obviously wasn’t giving a second’s thought to Jackson’s advice.

  They began to shed their clothing, their lips meeting as shoes and fabric went flying. They touched, then broke away, helped each other and moved slowly down the hall, still kissing. Soon they were back in the bedroom, tangled in the sheets, and she wasn’t thinking about anything but this man—the taste of his flesh, the feel of his lips and hands upon her. His kisses warmed her where they fell; her body sparked to life with the brush of his fingers. The pressure of his body was vital and arousing, and she returned his passion with an urgent hunger of her own. The thundering of her heart seemed shockingly loud.

  They moved, then kissed again. They looked at each other, and they whispered words that meant everything, although they were intelligible. They broke apart to deliver hot wet kisses, then arched together, teasing and arousing, until he thrust into her and their pace became frantic. Moments later, it slowed, building to a sweet crescendo, exploding fiercely, and taking them into an even sweeter spiral of release. Their bodies gradually relaxed, and the glow of completion merged with the indefinable sensation of being with someone who meant so very much....

  This pleasure, being in such a state, feeling like this with another person, was nothing she’d ever encountered before. Abby smiled; she pushed away the thought that they hadn’t even known each other until this had begun, that their homes were in different places and that she had no idea what the future would hold. But life seldom had such perfect moments and she was going to cling to these.

  She wasn’t sure what she expected him to say. Maybe something about its being damned good sex, if not something more intimate and personal, like, My God, that was the most extraordinary experience I’ve ever had.

  Maybe that was her line. The words whispered silently in her head.

  Malachi raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, a smile playing on his lips as he quizzically said, “Certifiably crazy?”

  Shift gears! she told herself.

  “I know you’re not certifiably crazy. I just don’t know what they’re going to think,” she said. “You never cease to amaze me. I’ve been warned my whole life not to mention the fact that I see a ghost, and it sounds like you’ve never said anything, either—and then you announce to a bunch of murder suspects that the ghost of Blue Anderson is wandering around.”

  “You don’t think it was a good idea?” he asked.

  “They all looked at you as if you’d lost your mind,” Abby said.

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “If they’re innocent, of course, they’ll figure I’m crazy. But if the guilty party was among them, then that guilty party will start thinking. Because I planted it in his mind, he’ll start to worry that ghost of Blue just might be around,” Malachi told her. “He’ll start looking over his shoulder.”

  “So there’s a method to your madness?”

  “There’s always a method to my madness.” Dark hair fell in a swath across his forehead. She thought he was more endearing, lying there, than any male could be. “Sadly, however, there’s little method to my social skills,” he said. He bent over and kissed her lips with a lingering wistfulness. “You’re...incredible. That’s lame. But you are.”

  She smiled. “Incredible isn’t so lame.”

  He lay back down, pulling her against his chest. She felt cherished, and yet...

  She felt respected, as well. He would want to shield her from danger, she knew. But she sensed that he would also have faith in her.

  But as happy as she was with her personal situation, she couldn’t stop thinking about what was going on. She wanted to jump out of bed and find the young woman who’d probably been taken. She felt she should rush to the river again, run up and down the street, do anything rather than nothing. And yet she knew that such feelings were worthless; she’d learned about patience, being precise, following clues—controlling the impulse to become so emotionally involved that you couldn’t act. Or acted recklessly.

  Trust was important. She had to trust that David Caswell was a good cop and that Jackson Crow knew what he was doing.

  And still her mind raced.

  “Tap...tap, tap, tap,” she murmured.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Malachi said.

  “Really?” She rose up to meet his eyes. He stroked her hair thoughtfully.

  “It means something,” he said. “I keep thinking that, soon enough, I’ll figure out what.”

  “And you still include Dirk and Roger in your suspect list?” Abby asked.

  “I do. If they make any movements tonight, we’ll know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Will’s been keeping an eye on Roger since he left the tavern this afternoon. He didn’t stay here long, had a quick drink, then took off.” He shook his head. “I believe his emotion is real. If it turns out he’s our killer, I’m losing my touch. But, for now, don’t worry. Lie down. We have officers out there watching and searching. On the riverfront. Cruising around city hall...down the east and the west sides of the city. There are people out there, Abby. Let them do their jobs.”

  Nodding, she lay back down beside him.

  Music. Helen had heard music. She’d been thrown into the water not long before Abby saw her.

  That meant the killer had been out on the water. He’d been within their grasp.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  She felt Malachi stir and moved deeper into his arms.

  She dreamed of making love again.

  They fell asleep.

  * * *

  Malachi lay awake, smiling when he heard Abby’s easy breathing. She was exhausted. There was an emotional toll in all of this, especially since it came right after her grandfather’s death. She hadn’t really had time to mourn his passing before a connection between his death and that of the recent victi
ms had become plausible and apparent to her—and now the body count was adding up. He rolled onto his side and turned to watch her sleep, studying the contours of her face. He found himself wondering why certain people fell into such a profound attraction, why the physical act could mean something so different, depending on how you felt about that person. He reached out, just to touch her hair, but started when he heard his phone ringing.

  He scrambled from the bed and searched for the jeans he’d discarded somewhere. He hurried down the hall until he found them and dug into his pocket.

  The caller was Will Chan.

  “Roger English is on the move,” Will said. “I’m following him now. He left his house and he’s headed toward Bay Street if you want to join me.”

  “Has he seen you?” Malachi asked.

  “Hasn’t made me yet. He was walking fast but then he stopped, pulled out his phone, looked at it—muttered to himself—and then began walking again.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes!” Malachi said.

  He started to slide back into his clothing. Hopping into his jeans, he turned and nearly crashed into Abby. Her hair was a tangle; her eyes were wide. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “After Roger.”

  She frowned but said no more. He had to hand it to her; she could dress fast. She was dressed—slipping her Glock into her waistband—while he was still tying his shoes.

  The Dragonslayer was silent as they crept down the stairs. It was after the night crew had left, before the morning crew came in. They hurried out and he waited to make sure Abby locked the front door.

  He took her hand as they ran across the parking lot and toward Bay Street. He saw no one there, and Malachi quickly drew his phone from his pocket and called Will back.

  “Where are you?”

  “In front of city hall, on the river,” Will replied. “He’s pacing by the water. Keeps looking out at it. Pulls his phone in and out of his pocket.”

  “Come on,” he told Abby, catching her hand again.

  They ran up onto the embankment to reach the river walk and crossed by closed stores, restaurants and taverns, staying close to the shop fronts to meld with the shadows. As they moved silently closer, someone stepped out from the buildings.