The Night Is Alive koh-10

by Heather Graham

  “We’ll just hang back for a minute. Let me call Jackson and get him talking to David. I’ll tell him what we’ve found and why we don’t want to make it public yet.” He put the call through to Jackson, who said he’d be there soon, and then leaned against the wall as they waited. The alley smelled of rotting garbage.

  “Great place to hang around,” Abby said.

  Malachi grinned. “I’ve been in worse.”

  He stared at her and she asked, “What?”

  “You even look good festooned in dirt.”

  “So do you!”

  He smiled, but his smile faded. His mind, she realized, was always moving, often along a number of different tracks at once.

  “Timing is everything in a crime like this,” he said. “It’s not that it’s difficult to get around. We’ve been within blocks of the same area, so someone who needs to get from place to place with very little time can do it easily. But still, if we could just pinpoint who was where when... At least we could eliminate people.”

  “Do you believe that Roger is really in the clear?” Abby asked.

  He shrugged. “I do. There isn’t any proof.”

  A moment later, Jackson Crow walked into the alley. He was with a man who was close to six feet with beautiful café-au-lait skin, thirty-five or so, and wearing an I Love Savannah T-shirt, the kind sold in dozens of tourist shops.

  “Officer Dale Kendrick,” Jackson said, introducing him. “He’ll be keeping an eye on the alley. And he transferred in from Atlanta recently, so it’s not likely he’d be recognized by anyone here.”

  They shook hands with Kendrick. Malachi handed the gum wrapper over to Jackson, who would bring it to Forensics. Will was back on the Black Swan, and Angela and Kat were spelling each other on the screens. Will had enhanced the footage showing the strange figure approaching the Dragonslayer the night before. But no matter how enhanced, the face was hidden. However, they could eliminate anyone under six feet. Jackson left them to head down to the station; he was due to meet with David at Forensics to see if anything had been discovered regarding the rowboat they’d found in the river. He left them.

  “On to Chippewa Square,” Malachi announced.

  He shook hands with Kendrick again, thanking him. “It’s my job,” Kendrick told him, waving as they walked off.

  They hurried to the house, hoping no one would notice them in their dirty, disheveled state. Luckily, tourists were distracted by their own destinations or the beauty of the homes, the street and the moss-draped live oaks.

  Angela came to the door and looked them up and down, a trace of amusement on her face. “Cute. You’re like children out of a very dirty sandpile.”

  “That’s something to think about,” Malachi said.

  “What’s that?” Abby asked.

  “The dirt. This person has to come out of these tunnels dirty—unless he’s going all the way through, and not coming back until he’s been out on whatever vessel he has on the river.”

  “Good point,” Angela said. “And, by the way, Will worked with the city and got a camera up on the exit to the riverbank from the Dragonslayer. They were careful setting it up so they weren’t seen doing it. We won’t want to scare anyone off. No one will be able to use that venue again without being instantly visible. Come into the dining room and I’ll show you.”

  They followed her. There’d been another camera set up; it looked out over the embankment where Abby had plunged into the river to save Helen Long.

  “That’s good. See anything?” Malachi asked.

  “A lot of tourists,” Angela said with a sigh. She smiled at Abby. “So, you’re thinking about joining us?”

  “What?” Abby asked, startled by the question.

  “You’ve already been through the academy. I’m assuming you’re expecting an assignment when this is over. I believe Jackson intends to suggest you join us.”

  “Be—be part of the Krewe?” Abby stammered.

  “The rest of the bureau may talk about us behind our backs,” Angela said, “but we’re actually considered a pretty elite group.”

  Abby glanced at Malachi. He’d known, she thought. He was watching her, waiting for her reaction.

  “I guess we should get through this first,” Abby said. She turned quickly. “I’ll go up and shower,” she said. “Oh.” She looked at Malachi. “I have a few clothes here. But—”

  “Malachi and Jackson are about the same size. It’s not a problem,” Angela said. “If it was, one of us would just run over to the tavern. So, go and shower. There’s nothing like a shower to wash away dirt and to clear the mind.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Abby said, and sped up the stairs to her own room.

  She’d given the Krewe carte blanche with her house; she noted that they’d apparently recognized this room as hers and chosen other ones.

  She looked around. She’d rented it furnished and during her most recent visit, with the place empty, she’d brought her old treasures back to this room, out of nostalgia more than practicality. Maybe because her life was on the verge of change... The bookshelves were filled with her beloved fiction—and the books she’d devoured on law enforcement, the FBI, profiling, unsolved cases and the minds of killers.

  I must have been a pretty scary kid, she thought.

  The guitar she’d never quite learned to play sat, once again, in its stand near her closet. A stack of board games lay on a table in a corner. The room was still decorated in royal blue with black trim, nothing girly or frilly about it.

  She had never owned a doll.

  She examined her old CDs and DVDs, which she’d arranged on one of the shelves. She’d collected some weird and obscure music and some classics. She’d been in love with the Traveling Wilburys and the various band members and their solo careers and work. She’d watched everything ever done by M. Night Shyamalan.

  She’d also owned Blythe Spirit, which her father had taken her to see on Broadway, and Ghost, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir...

  Because she had her own ghost?

  She smiled a little bitterly. “Blue, I do have my own ghost—so where are you? It’s you and me now, you know?”

  Her half smile cracked some of the dried mud on her face.

  The shower. She went in and turned the spray on hot and hard. A shower felt great on the body and great for the mind, as Angela had suggested.

  However, it didn’t really do much for her mind. Although it did make her forget—for the moment—that they were in a battle against time if they were going to find Bianca Salzburg.

  It made her wish she wasn’t in the shower alone.

  She winced.

  She was becoming obsessed with Malachi. A good thing? Or not? What if they’d just discovered each other simply because of the circumstances? What if what she felt wasn’t real and what if their personal relationship fell apart and they both became part of the Krewe?

  She needed to think carefully.

  She still wished he was there in the shower with her.

  * * *

  A shower could clear the mind.

  Malachi didn’t really want his mind cleared; he wanted to put everything within it in order.

  First. Theories he was convinced could be proven, or were, in effect, proven by what they knew.

  Like his belief that the killer was someone who knew Savannah, knew it extremely well, and knew the history of the city.

  Second. The killer thought he was a pirate or wished he was a pirate in days gone by. He’d given Helen Long a card with a name on it, Christopher Condent, and Condent had been a brutal pirate who’d never faced justice, eventually becoming a rich man.

  Third. The killer was dressing up as Blue Anderson.

  Because there were so many good images of Blue? Or because of the sweeping hat Blue had worn, his long dark hair and the facial hair that could hide a real identity? And did the motivation involve his theory that the killer wanted to discredit the real Blue Anderson? If so, was there any connection to the fact tha
t the victims had all been to the Dragonslayer before they were abducted?

  Fourth. A mental note, really. He thought he had the killer narrowed down; he’d be shocked if he was wrong. It was someone close to Abby. Someone who was close to the Dragonslayer and had known Gus well. Someone familiar with the legends of Blue and other pirates, and, perhaps, someone in a solid business position. He’d need a certain amount of money to move about easily, to join others at a bar, to appear to be part of the everyday community. Perhaps he wasn’t young or attractive, but he would know how to make others think he was kind and nice. He was dressing up and proud of the fact that he was fooling people, including his own peers. No one knew him when he went into pirate mode to attack his victims.

  Malachi got out of the shower. Angela had left him several pieces of Jackson’s clothing. He didn’t want to look like an agent but he wanted clothing that didn’t advertise the fact that he was carrying a weapon. He chose jeans, a polo shirt and a navy windbreaker. He was going to drink with the barflies today, get them talking, learn more about them. And he’d do it with Abby, who would know what was true and what wasn’t and if any of the trio—or even Sullivan, Macy or Grant Green—behaved strangely.

  Downstairs, he was glad to find Kat Sokolov at the dining room table, watching the screens that patrolled the Dragonslayer and now the river embankment, too.

  “Kat, what about the victim from the tunnels? Have they identified her yet?”

  Kat shook her head. “They have her DNA and took dental X-rays, but there’s nothing to compare them to. I received some possible candidates from the database, but nothing definitive.”

  Malachi sighed. “A woman’s murdered and we don’t even know who she is.”

  “Do you think it would it help us find the young woman who may still be alive if we did know who the other victim is?”

  “Maybe not. But the thing is we have three dead women, one who escaped and a dead man. We also believe Gus was a victim. We assume that both men were killed because they stumbled onto something. The women were new to Savannah, although Helen Long had been here for a while. They were all attractive—all beautiful female captives. But I suspect the killer saw them, watched them, before he took them. I suspect he’s looking for a woman to be the perfect mate in his life of pirate crime.”

  Abby had come down and stood in the doorway.

  “He has a whole fantasy built up,” Abby said, continuing Malachi’s narrative. “He’s the pirate who seizes a captive and the captive falls in love with him, eschews her old life and joins him on the high seas. Perhaps the killer thought he had the right woman with Helen—but she kept saying she was repulsed by him. She didn’t want him to touch her, and she couldn’t pretend. That’s what happens when he gets to the point where he feels rejected, he kills. And then he searches for another woman.”

  The others nodded.

  Abby lifted her hands. “How does this help us, though?”

  “It does help us. We watch for someone who...watches,” Malachi told her. “Let’s head back to the Dragonslayer.”

  “Because we’re going to find the killer there?”

  He studied her for a moment. She was obviously trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  “Yes,” he said. “Because we’ll find him there.”

  * * *

  It was late for lunch, but the Dragonslayer was still doing a booming business. Macy was at the host stand, and Bootsie and Aldous were at the bar. Abby got up onto the stool next to Aldous. He’d just finished a plate of fish and chips, and while she affectionately called him a barfly, he wasn’t drinking; he sipped from a cup of coffee.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked, nodding at Malachi, who sat beside Abby.

  “I’m fine, Aldous. Just confused—like everyone else. And scared. There’s another girl out there somewhere, and I’m hoping we can find her, as we did Helen. Alive, I mean.”

  “Yeah, alive. It’s a sorry thing, huh? And your friend Roger English—is he broken up over it!”

  “I know. They’d just started dating, but he felt he’d found the ‘one,’” Abby said.

  Bootsie did have a beer in front of him. He let out a snort. “Roger, ah, that boy! Well, she was—sorry, is a pretty girl. But I don’t think she’s the one for him. Roger is falling apart now, but that boy is a passionate soul. He loves the city, he loves dress up and history. She’s a little namby-pamby for him. He’ll figure that out.”

  “Let’s hope he gets to figure that out,” Malachi said.

  “Let’s hope,” Aldous repeated. “He’s here now—over there, at a table. With your other high school bud, Abby. What’s that other kid’s name? The one he works with?”

  “Paul Westermark?”

  “Yeah. Apparently the girl playing Missy Tweed isn’t available tomorrow—she’s up in Charleston for her mother’s birthday. You said the show was to go on, so...I guess they’re trying to come up with someone to fill in or rewrite or whatever.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a problem,” Malachi said. “They have Abby. She’s a wench at heart, the best wench ever, I’d think. She’s related to Blue Anderson. His descendent, I should say.”

  “He was my great-great-great-whatever uncle.”

  “Still, the whole swashbuckling thing is in the genes,” Malachi said. “It sounds like great fun. I’d love to get in on it, too.”

  “Lad, I’m betting they’d welcome you!” Bootsie assured him. “There’s nothing like playing pirate.”

  “Aye-aye!” Aldous said.

  “Not when you have to do it every day and make drinks in costume and wash these bleached cotton shirts all the time!” Sullivan chimed in. He’d finished preparing a tray of drinks for one of the waitresses but was listening to them and now walked down on his side of the bar to join them.

  “You don’t really mind, do you?” Abby asked him. “The pirate and wench outfits here have become tradition. Maybe I could spruce them up, though. We haven’t changed in while. Maybe get you a nice new frock coat?”

  Sullivan laughed, running his fingers through his red hair. “It’s not so bad, Abby. I’m just bitching. Well, we could spruce up some of them. I’m not sure I want a frock coat. It can be hot as hell in Savannah.” He looked at Abby anxiously. “Were you planning to make a lot of changes?”

  She smiled. “No, Sullivan. I love the Dragonslayer, and Gus handled it brilliantly by leaving things alone. I won’t be here all the time, anyway. And Macy and Grant do a great job. But I’ll okay new uniforms if we can improve on tradition.”

  Sullivan seemed pleased. “Cool. I love my job here. And I agree that the costumes add to the ambience. One day, I’ll save enough to buy my own place. Oh, I’m not going to compete with you—it won’t be pirate-themed! Maybe I’ll go with a high-Victorian type of place. And it won’t be for years.”

  Abby couldn’t help laughing at his conciliatory tone. “Savannah abounds with fine places and the Dragonslayer is only one of them. When you open your own place, Sullivan, we’ll all celebrate.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll make my bartenders dress to the nines! I know—I’ll have them look like the butler in Downton Abbey. Grant will love it—whoops, don’t worry. I won’t steal him away.”

  “I’m not worried,” Abby shook her head.

  “You might want to worry about Rog over there, Abby,” Bootsie murmured. “He’s down in the dumps.”

  “Yep, he’s broken up about that girl,” Sullivan said. “I don’t blame him. She seemed to be nice. He was so pleased and proud to introduce her around.”

  “I’ll go talk to him.” Abby slid off her bar stool. She walked over to the tables in the dining room with the Blue Anderson statue by the grate. Roger and Paul Westermark were there. She wasn’t sure what they were talking about because they glanced up at her approach and grew silent. Paul quickly stood and gave her a hug. Roger did so more slowly. He looked at her anxiously.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  �
�Not yet, Roger. But the police are following new leads.”

  “New leads?” he asked. “Like what?”

  “They’re inspecting the rowboat we found last night. They’re still combing the river and the ships and boats. They will find her, Roger. You have to have faith and...and keep living your life,” Abby said.

  “Abby just lost her grandfather,” Paul reminded him. “One of the greatest old guys on earth. And she’s doing things. She’s not sitting around moping.”

  “That’s hardly the same thing!” Roger waved a hand in the air. “Besides, Abby wanted to be a cop. Or an agent. She’s good at this. I’m not.”

  “Nobody’s good at worrying about someone they care about, Roger. It’s a terrifying situation,” Abby told him. “But you do have to keep on with your life while we’re searching.”

  “So, yeah, are we doing the street show tomorrow?” Paul asked. “We did it every Saturday until...well, until Gus died.”

  “Gus would want it go on, of course. Yes—and I’ll be your Missy Tweed.”

  Paul sat back, grinning at her. “Wow. I was afraid you’d come back here thinking you were above such things.”

  “Hey, this is my heritage we’re talking about.”

  “You remember the lines and everything, right?”

  “More or less. It’s half ad-lib, anyway,” Abby said, rolling her eyes. “It was never my favorite role. Missy Tweed just screams a lot and gets tossed from man to man.”

  “The crowds love Missy Tweed. Look at me—I get to play Scurvy Pete. I’ve had people throw stuff at me,” Paul said. “And I had such high Shakespearean hopes!”

  Abby smiled at that. “Paul, you act beautifully and you always seem to have work, here or in commercials or with your singing. I heard you’re going to start recording.”

  “Yeah, I’m planning on getting into a studio. A producer showed up at one of my performances in the Irish bar. He’s going to finance it for me. I’m pretty happy with that,” he said.

  “I used to be happy,” Roger moaned.

  “He’s had a few beers,” Paul told Abby in a low voice.

  “Did you eat anything?” Abby asked.