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

by Heather Graham

  “I believe they’ll bring Aldous in for questioning tomorrow. We’re trying to be very careful. We don’t want to catch him but lose Bianca.”

  “Of course.”

  She stood there, dejected again, raven’s wing hair like a mourning cape around her slumped shoulders.

  He walked over to her. “You were going to tell me something,” he reminded her. He started to embrace her, remembered he was still soaked and stepped back. “What? What was it you were going to tell me?”

  “Blue,” she said. “Blue was in here, right after I talked to you on the phone. He spoke to me. He had a real conversation with me. But even though he’s been haunting the tavern for years, he’s not good at drawing whatever energy he needs to speak. I’d hoped so badly that he knew something. But, like you’ve said, ghosts or spirits seem to be the same as we are. They aren’t omniscient. They only know what they’ve seen. He didn’t see what happened. He just knew that the tunnel was being used. But he promised me he’s watching now.”

  Malachi touched her hair, brushing his fingers down the silky length of it. “Blue is your ancestor,” he said. “It’s you he cares about.”

  “He must have cared deeply about Gus. And the others who came before Gus and me.”

  “I’m sure he did, but you’re his focus now. He’ll do anything to protect you—and the Dragonslayer.” He stepped back. “I’ll get in the shower.”

  He left her in the living room and walked down the apartment hallway to the bedroom, shedding his wet clothes. He went into her bathroom; the Dragonslayer might be old, but Gus had had the bathrooms modernized. The faucet released a hard spray of steaming hot water.

  He let it pound down on him, just standing there for several minutes.

  And then he felt her. She’d stepped in behind him. She held the soap in her hand and worked it slowly over his body.

  A shower can clear the mind....

  In a radiant spray of heat he became lost in the sheer sensual pleasure of being with this extraordinary woman while the water pulsed, hot and vibrant, searing into his muscles.

  They more or less made love. They teased and aroused, and teased and aroused again as they left the shower and halfway dried themselves, then fell into bed together.

  Being together like this was sweeter every time. There was nothing arbitrary about it, nothing that didn’t seem to offer promise, nothing that brought back the pain of memory and the past.

  He’d never really thought it possible. He was falling in love again.

  * * *

  Abby had never really liked playing Missy Tweed. To her mind, Missy had been an idiot. History said she’d fallen in love with Blue Anderson and that she’d cried when she was returned to her father. She disappeared into history after that, but Abby always felt she’d probably been a spoiled teenager and that, once home, she’d simply fallen in love again.

  But here she was...playing Missy Tweed.

  Paul, as Scurvy Pete, stood beside her on the platform. Roger, sober and seriously in “Blue” mode, was wearing his pirate best. They’d drawn a huge crowd; the little reenactments and the way the players talked and related tidbits of history were well documented and well-known, a high point in most tour books for their area.

  Will Chan had taken on the role of narrator that day, dressed as a swashbuckling pirate himself. He talked first about the history of the city of Savannah and the early days of piracy. He told the crowd that pirates had found their way into coastal cities, often snubbing their noses at a royal governor and whatever military or local law might be in effect.

  He told the story of Blue as if he’d been a true gentleman with the people of Savannah.

  And then he told the story of the floundering of Missy Tweed’s ship and how the crew had been saved—and the damsel taken for a fair ransom. Blue believed that asking a ransom for Missy was well within the law; after all, he’d saved the lives of an entire crew. And if asking for the ransom wasn’t quite within the law, then so be it. He would still be paid. However, on his ship, every man knew that captives were not to be molested or harmed.

  But Scurvy Pete had brought his own pirate ship flush with Blue’s; he’d wanted in on the action. And when he’d seen the delectable Missy, he’d wanted much more. Thus began the drama that the crowd was about to witness.

  With a flourish, Will left the makeshift stage. Abby dutifully let out the scream of distress, which brought the pirates to action, Scurvy Pete accusing Blue of being less than a man and a blot on the rugged truth of piracy. Blue, in turn, ridiculed Scurvy Pete, telling him he was due to swing from a yardarm, that he wasn’t just a blot on piracy but a blot on the entire human race.

  Abby could see that the rest of the Krewe who were in Savannah were scattered through the crowd. They were there because their suspects were there, except for Dirk, who was out on the Black Swan. Dirk was not alone, although he undoubtedly thought he was. A plainclothes policeman was on board; Abby knew that Jackson and Malachi both believed they were drawing close to a resolution and that everyone needed to be watched.

  “You fool! I will have your captive, and I will return the lass as I see fit!” Paul told Roger. “You will fall beneath my steel!”

  “One day I’ll fall, but I will fall to the law on the high seas and not to the likes of you, Scurvy Pete!” Roger said. “I will go with my ship—and not with the dregs of the sea!”

  “To the death, Blue Anderson! To the death!” Paul bellowed, and the two began to thrust and parry with their swords, to the delight of the crowd.

  Abby screamed appropriately—like a girl—and fell back. Will Chan came to slip his arms around her and help her from the stage so the sword battle could continue.

  The two men were very good at what they did. The crowd grew, with everyone entranced. Finally, Blue caught Scurvy Pete with a fatal blow.

  Paul died, emoting dramatically. Will took to the stage again to do a follow-up, and then the crowd broke into applause.

  Abby was immediately besieged by a number of children in the audience. She posed for pictures with them and answered what questions she could about Savannah and piracy.

  She looked up at one point, aware that she was being watched. Malachi had been waiting for her to notice him.

  She made her way through the crowd to approach him.

  “I’m heading to the station. They’ve just brought Aldous in,” he said quietly.

  She felt her heart sink. “All right. I’ll join you there soon.”

  “Don’t worry. Jackson and I will question him. David will go in and out. We’ll find out where he’s hiding Bianca.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?” she asked.

  “No, but the evidence points to him.”

  “Do they have anything definitive?”

  Malachi nodded. “DNA on the scarf I found on his yacht,” he told her.

  “DNA?”

  “From tears,” Malachi said. “The scarf was around the eyes of Felicia Shepherd at some point before she was killed. They were able to extract DNA and it matched Felicia’s.”

  * * *

  Malachi had to hand it to Aldous. When he’d first been brought in, accused of the murder, he’d been belligerent and angry. Then he’d look incredulous.

  Now, he looked scared.

  “You want to take it for a few minutes?” Jackson asked Malachi, who’d been observing the interrogation. “David thinks we can handle this better than he can.”

  “Sure.”

  Malachi walked into the room. Aldous Brentwood raised his head; he was pale. His bald head gleamed in the bright light overhead, his gold earring glittering.

  “You,” Aldous muttered. He shook his head as if in disgust.

  “Aldous, you shouldn’t be aggravated with me. I didn’t want to think you could be guilty of s
omething like this.”

  “I’m not!”

  “One of your rowboats was found out on the river. Forensic teams are going over it now. I believe we’re going to find some organic matter that will prove the boat was used to dump the bodies of those who were killed.”

  Aldous leaned toward him. “I’m not stupid, Agent Gordon. You can’t prove I ever had that rowboat. I own the ship, yeah, but I don’t work on it.”

  “I’m not an agent,” Malachi told him. “Just a consultant.”

  “Consult yourself out of here. My attorney is going to make mincemeat out of all of you.” Aldous sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve got nothing on me. Does Abby know you’ve brought me here?”

  “She knows. And, Aldous, I’m afraid we have more on you than that.”

  “What? That I go to the Dragonslayer? That I was friends with Gus?” He shook his head. “You’d have to arrest half the city.”

  “Didn’t they tell you what this is?” Malachi asked. A pirate scarf—the one he’d found half under the bunk in the yacht’s master cabin—was on the table between them, carefully folded in a plastic bag.

  “It’s a scarf in a plastic bag.”

  “Your scarf,” Malachi said. He watched the man intently for his reaction. Aldous Brentwood didn’t appear to be anything other than perplexed.

  “I don’t buy those stupid tourist scarves!” he said.

  “But you did. This one was found on your yacht.”

  “What? It was not! I let the police search my yacht. I’ve cooperated since this whole thing began. I am not guilty of anything! Hell, what’s the matter with you? I’d never have hurt Helen. I was crazy about Helen. Am crazy about her.”

  “Maybe you liked her too much.”

  “You’re sick!” Aldous spat.

  “Am I? You’ve bought into the legend of pirates and their swashbuckling adventures since you were a kid. Look at your normal mode of appearance. You’re not married and never were. You own all kinds of ships. You’re rich, and you’re rich because of the sea. You know the Dragonslayer, you know Savannah and the river. And you know your pirate history. Come on, Aldous. You want to live a fantasy. You probably imagined from the first that you could kidnap a girl and convince her you were a charming rogue, an Errol Flynn or a Johnny Depp. But you could never get the right girl.”

  Aldous Brentwood’s eyes widened with incredulity as he stared at Malachi. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” he shouted. “And I sure as hell don’t know what this scarf—that isn’t mine—means!”

  “It was used as a blindfold, Aldous,” Malachi said. “Poor Felicia cried—cried in fear and terror and despair—when she was bound in a cabin on one of your ships. She cried, and she left traces of her DNA to prove that you were her killer.”

  “I’m not—and that wasn’t on my yacht!” Aldous protested. “The police were on my yacht.” His eyes narrowed. “They didn’t find anything there—unless it was planted!”

  “Planted by the police?” Malachi asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “By the police,” Aldous agreed energetically. “Or...or someone!” He pointed at Malachi. “Or you. You! We don’t know you—you don’t belong here. You’re not one of us. Maybe you planted it on the yacht!”

  “Aldous, get over it. I was the one who found the scarf, but I wasn’t in Savannah when this spree of kidnapping and murders began,” Malachi told him.

  “But you found it, right? You went on my boat illegally. I don’t know the law all that well, but I know you can’t use evidence in court when you got it illegally. And don’t you get it? You’re harassing the wrong person. I didn’t do any of this. I’m innocent—I swear it!”

  Malachi decided wearily that he believed him. Aldous was passionate in his denial. But he pushed a little further.

  “Actually, I’m not a cop. I’m a civilian and I thought I heard you screaming on your yacht. I went out to see if you needed help. I saw that scarf, and took it in case you’d been kidnapped or injured—one victim was a man, you know—and it meant something. I gave it to the police.”

  “That’s the biggest crock I’ve ever heard,” Aldous sneered.

  Malachi shrugged. “Maybe. We know you have all the right credentials—and a rowboat and a scarf with a victim’s DNA.”

  Aldous shook his head. “But...it’s not me. I didn’t do it.”

  “So, how did your rowboat wind up loose and how did the scarf wind up on your yacht?”

  “I don’t know! I’m telling you, someone put them there,” Aldous said. “I swear to you, I know nothing about that scarf.”

  “Who else is on your yacht on a regular basis?” Malachi asked.

  “I have a cleaning crew that comes in once or twice a month.” He paused. “There are ten berths there, so one of the other owners could have gotten on my yacht. And, then, of course—”

  Aldous broke off. He looked ill.

  “And then, of course—what?”

  “Gus, Bootsie and Dirk. The three of them had keys to the dock,” he said. “They’re my best friends. They were always welcome on my yacht.”

  Something cold hardened inside Malachi. Aldous could be lying, trying to shift the blame.

  But he didn’t know; he didn’t have a definite sense that yes, he was guilty, or no, he was innocent. He believed Roger, and even though he wasn’t completely certain, he leaned toward believing Aldous.

  That left Dirk or Bootsie.

  Or...

  Someone else who was always at the Dragonslayer, someone who knew everything about the way it ran, day in and day out.

  Grant Green, Macy Sterling, Jerry Sullivan.

  Macy? Doubtful—unless she was someone’s accomplice. Grant? Not around during the day. And yet, that could mean he was able to be anywhere else, without even having to slip away.

  Jerry Sullivan, the bartender, friendly, ever listening, knowing everything and everyone. Always there from lunch until closing.

  “Aren’t there any cameras around that river that might’ve been aimed at my Lady Luck?” Aldous asked him. “I’m telling you—someone was on my boat and planted that scarf.”

  “Say it was planted, and the police didn’t do it. Who would it have been?”

  Aldous shook his head, lost and dejected. “I...I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I’ve never attacked anyone, I just happen to be bald, and I don’t have any fantasies about being a pirate,” he said.

  “I’m going to see what I can do for you, Aldous.” Malachi got to his feet.

  “You’re going to let me go?”

  “I’m going to ask that you stay here for the moment. They’ll get you some coffee.”

  “Yeah, sure, if it’s going to clear me. I’ll drink coffee and play Tiddlywinks all night if it’ll make you people believe me.”

  “Great. I’ve got to go.”

  Malachi was anxious to be on the move.

  They only had one real connection to the killer. Helen Long. He had to talk to her again.

  There had to be some clue in her story. There was something he should be seeing clearly, but couldn’t, not yet. The answer to the riddle was in the back of his mind somewhere; he just hadn’t figured it out.

  Tap.

  Tap, tap.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  14

  “Pirates were really bad, right?” a little boy asked Abby, his smiling mother beside him. She might have been portraying a girl who was an utter nitwit, but the audience seemed to have sympathy for the damsel in distress.

  “Hmm. Well, yes, piracy is bad. There are still pirates out there today, and they’re very bad,” Abby said, crouching down to his height. “But Blue Anderson walked a middle ground. He started out as a privateer. That means, more or less, that
he was asked to be a pirate.”

  “People can ask you to be a pirate?” The towheaded boy stared at her, eyes wide.

  “Back then, we weren’t a country yet. We were a group of colonies governed by the English. England and Spain always seemed to be at war. So the king or queen of each country would allow men to seize ships—as long as they were ships that sailed under the enemy’s flag. So, Blue was a privateer to begin with. He never did seize an English ship. You remember the story in today’s show? He actually saved the crew of a foundering ship, but kept Missy because he thought he was owed something for his work.”

  “What happened to Blue?” the boy asked.

  “Tyler, you’re driving the lady crazy,” his mother said apologetically.

  “Not at all,” Abby assured her. “Blue never begged for a pardon, but he wasn’t a bad guy. Legend had it that the Royal Navy could have sunk his ship several times, but they let him sail by. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. One day he sailed out—and he never came back. No one heard from him or any of his crew again, so history records that he was caught in a storm at sea and went down with his men and his ship.”

  “Wow, cool!” Tyler said. Gripping his mother’s hand, he asked, “Can we go in there—to Blue’s tavern—and have lunch? The menus for kids are supposed to be pirate hats!”

  “Paper pirate hats, but yes,” Abby told him.

  “Yes, lunch!” his mother said. “Come on now. Thank you...Missy.”

  Abby grinned. “My pleasure.”

  Standing, she looked around. Will Chan was heading into the restaurant; Jackson Crow was keeping an eye on her and talking on the phone.

  Roger and Paul were still talking to tourists.

  Aldous, she knew, was at the police station.

  She went into the restaurant herself—and saw Dirk just ahead of her and glanced at her watch. The Black Swan would have finished the first tour of the day.

  He was probably on his way to the bar for lunch before the second tour.

  Abby quickened her pace. The show was over; she wanted out of Missy Tweed’s voluminous gown and into her own clothing—and she especially wanted her Glock.