“He came in,” Helen said. “He came in...and he was horrible.”
“I’m so sorry, Helen,” Abby murmured.
“He...told me I was a captive. A pirate’s captive. So I’d better be good. Captives who caused problems didn’t live very long. He said he’d put out the call for my ransom, but if I gave him any trouble, if I tried to escape...he’d kill me.”
“Did you recognize this guy? Was it the businessman you met?” Abby asked.
Helen stared at Abby. “I—I don’t know. I really don’t know if they were the same.”
“What do you mean, Helen?” Abby asked.
“It was...the pirate. The real pirate.”
“Helen,” Malachi said, “was it someone acting as a pirate? You said that this Chris Condent wanted to open a pirate-themed haunted house.”
Helen shook her head, growing agitated. “He wasn’t Chris Condent anymore. He was the pirate, the real pirate. That’s who kidnapped me. And I had seen him before. He was very big and he had dark hair. Rich, dark hair. And blue eyes.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was the pirate, Abby. The pirate from the Dragonslayer.”
She paused, as if waiting for Abby’s comprehension.
“It was Blue,” she said. “The pirate, Blue Anderson.”
9
They left the hospital soon after Helen Long stated that she believed she’d been kidnapped and attacked by a pirate who had been dead for well over two hundred years.
Because it was private and they could watch the Dragonslayer on the screens at Abby’s home on Chippewa Square, they returned there. David Caswell met with the group and they went through everything they knew.
The house on Chippewa had been built in the early 1800s and had come to Abby’s family in the 1850s. Built in the colonial style, it had a handsome porch with eight white pillars standing sentinel. The house wasn’t huge; the front door opened into a hall that stretched to the rear door and small yard. A staircase led to the second floor. There were three bedrooms and a den upstairs—a nursery in days gone by—while on the ground floor, to the left, was a large formal dining room and the pantry-now-kitchen, while the onetime kitchen out in the yard had been turned into a little summer house. The formal parlor was to the right of the front door with the old music room behind it.
Malachi hadn’t seen her actual home yet, and he was curious. It was evident that Abby hadn’t spent much time there in recent years. It was impeccably clean, although not much had been changed, the television in the old music room was as old as the stereo system. The upholstery was colonial-style, as was the furniture throughout the house, except for one massive recliner.
“My father’s. He loved it. He watched Sunday football from that chair every week,” Abby told Malachi.
“My dad had one of those chairs, too,” Malachi said. “I admit I’m fond of it. I watch football on Sunday from that chair, too. And a few other shows, of course.”
“I like the chair. Reminds me of my dad. He was great. So was my mother. They were typical parents, I guess. My mom loved to bake and cook and she had a little business making designer baby clothes. She made all kinds of things, of course, but she especially loved baby clothes. I think she would’ve liked a houseful of children.... She was always the mom in charge of food drives at school and she collected for the Red Cross. She was the epitome of the Southern lady.” Abby paused, a look of fond nostalgia on her face. “They both represented the very best of Southern hospitality. My dad worked for a tech company but he spent as much time at the Dragonslayer as he could. He loved the history, but he was practical. He used to say there was money to be made on the legend of Blue, and it might as well be made by the Anderson family.”
“But they raised a daughter intent on being a federal agent,” Malachi commented.
“They raised me to reach for whatever I wanted, whether that was a rocket scientist or a stay-at-home mom.”
“That’s the best,” Malachi said. “That’s how kids should be raised.”
She nodded. Although she’d been talking to him, she seemed distracted.
They’d left the others in the large formal dining room, where the computer banks and screens had been set up, when Abby set off to show him the rest of the house. And while she’d shown him around with casual enthusiasm, he thought it was forced.
“I enjoy hearing about your family, but what is it? What’s tearing at you?”
She frowned at him, hurt, confused, indignant. “My ancestor is not attacking women and throwing them in the river!” she said.
“Abby, we all know the ghost of Blue is not doing this,” he said.
“Didn’t you tell me ghosts...could be different? Some were shy, some talked, some hid... So who’s to say that some haven’t gotten almost-mortal power—and the ability to hurt people. But I’m positive Blue isn’t one of them!”
“Abby,” he said, aching to draw her to him, but it wasn’t the time or the place. “Abby, I’m sure some ghosts never make contact with anyone. They might be there, but they never show themselves. Others are outgoing and curious and seek out those who might see them. Some can create cold spells or learn a certain ability to move objects. But to my knowledge, there isn’t a ghost out there with the strength or energy to physically attack human beings—to bind them with rope and throw them in the river. No one believes that Blue Anderson is after people.”
Abby let out a breath. “So, you agree it’s someone dressing up as Blue,” she said.
“That I don’t doubt. Let’s go see the others, discuss what we’re all thinking and what moves we should make today.”
Abby smiled. “It’s a good day so far. Helen’s awake.”
“It is a good day,” he said. “Come on. I have some info I should be sharing with everyone.”
In the dining room, they discovered Kat and Angela seated at the side of the room, where they could watch the screens.
Jackson was at one of the computers, a sheaf of papers in front of him.
“Where’s Will?” Malachi asked.
“He went off to spend the day on the Black Swan,” Kat said.
“Glad to hear it.” Malachi pulled out a chair for Abby, taking a seat himself.
“Anything going on at the Dragonslayer?” he asked.
“Macy’s arrived. She’s at the host stand. Looks like she’s checking reservations. Sullivan is hanging glasses. Bootsie just came hobbling in. He’s alone—no Aldous or Dirk at the moment—but David called Dirk to let him know he could see Helen, just for a few minutes. He’s not going out on any of the pirate voyages today. Will’s going to work with his cast instead,” Angela told them.
“It looks like business as usual at the Dragonslayer,” Kat said.
“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 kille
r 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 to 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.”
The Night Is Alive koh-10 Page 17