The Night Is Alive koh-10

by Heather Graham

  “They don’t seem to really know anything,” Grant commented. “They know the cops are holding someone and that’s it.”

  “No news about Bianca is good news, Roger,” Macy said gently.

  But Roger shook his head as he stared glumly up at the screen.

  “No news... But they have to find her!”

  “If they have a suspect, they can make him tell where he’s keeping her,” Sullivan said. He looked at Abby. “Right? Hey, wait—Abby, you must know who it is.”

  She wasn’t comfortable lying but she had no intention of telling the truth.

  “I’ve been here playing wench. All I can do is connect with the feds and see what they know.”

  “Well, call Malachi!” Macy insisted.

  “I just talked to him. He wasn’t at the station,” Abby said. “He isn’t involved with what’s going on there.”

  “But he’s an FBI agent.”

  “Consultant,” Abby corrected.

  “Okay, then you’re an FBI agent!” Grant said.

  “I just passed the academy. I don’t have an official assignment,” Abby said.

  Grant shook his head. “Then you’re running around helping those guys for free?” Grant asked. “Gus should’ve taught you to be a better businesswoman.”

  Abby frowned at him. “Grant, business has nothing to do with it. I tried to get them down here because they’re part of an elite unit who seem to solve situations no matter what.”

  “They need to hurry,” Roger said, walking over to Abby. “Bianca’s out there! She’s not going to last much longer,” he said dully. “If she’s still alive, if she isn’t floating somewhere we haven’t found her yet. Or like that poor Jane Doe they’ve got at the morgue. Shoved into an old crypt somewhere.”

  Abby very much wanted to say something reassuring to him. But the killer almost certainly had her. He’d taken Helen, and attempted to kill her within a few days. She’d failed to fall in love with him, failed to welcome him as her heroic lover.

  How long could Bianca play the game before he got tired of trying to make her love him? Or before he realized that even if she was playing the game, she was lying and despised him?

  The clock was ticking.

  * * *

  Malachi parked the car at the back of the Dragonslayer parking lot but he didn’t go in. Abby was watching the Dragonslayer. He’d just heard from Jackson, who was still at the police station. Will Chan was aboard the Black Swan.

  A plainclothes detective had followed Dirk and Bootsie. Bootsie had returned to his own home, riverside of Colonial Park Cemetery; he’d gone in and was still there.

  Malachi began to walk along the river, back along Bay Street and then into the old section, where Oglethorpe had planned his original streets and squares.

  What was he missing? Tap, tap, tap.

  He started, quickly moving aside, as his distraction almost caused him to walk into a man. “I’m sorry, excuse me,” he muttered. Then he paused as the man stopped—and he realized he was looking at a soldier, a man in a Union uniform. It wasn’t tattered and torn, so he must’ve been wearing his parade best, dark blue adorned with gold braid.

  Cavalry, Malachi thought, the analytical part of his mind making the first judgment.

  Dead, was his second thought.

  He was near the cemetery, but the last burial in Colonial Park Cemetery had been in 1853.

  Then again, ghosts didn’t usually haunt cemeteries. They haunted the places where they’d lived and found happiness, where they feared for those who lived after them, or where they had met trauma.

  He continued to stare at the ghost, incredulous and curious.

  The young ghost stared back at him—incredulous, too, and very curious.

  A couple passed him on the street, clearly disturbed by the way he seemed to stare at some invisible entity. Maybe they felt a strange cold in the air, as well.

  The woman shivered, looked at Malachi as if she feared there was something seriously wrong with him and the couple moved on. Malachi was alone with the young man under the shade of a live oak.

  “I’m sorry,” Malachi said. “I didn’t see you at first. Can I...can I do anything for you?”

  “You are talking to me?” the ghost said.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “You...you see me. You hear me.”

  “Yes. My name is Malachi Gordon.”

  The ghost smiled. “Lieutenant Oliver Mackey. No, sir. There is nothing you can do for me. I was just going home.”

  “Near here?” Malachi asked. “Not Colonial Park Cemetery?”

  “That cemetery has been closed to burials for years, sir. I’m sorry to say I died of a fever before ever proving my mettle in battle. While I was despised in life, sir, for my abolitionist views, I was, in death, returned to the arms of my family and laid to rest in my family plot.” He pointed toward a house around the corner from the Wulf and Whistle. He shrugged, looking at Malachi. “The coffin was never opened here. The war had begun, so I might well have been stripped, tarred and feathered, even burned to ash, had they done so.”

  “The war is long over.”

  “But I know that the fight for real equality, which this country must stand for, continues.” He shook his head. “Broke my heart not to be loyal to my state, but I couldn’t help my beliefs. Slavery was morally wrong, against my God.”

  “Many people agree with you, Lieutenant. But the world is changing, although it changes slowly.”

  “Laws are one thing—it’s harder to change the human mind.”

  “I have faith in the future, but yes, you’re right.” He gestured at the cemetery. “Lieutenant, I didn’t know there were still family vaults or burials in the city area.”

  “There are not. They built over the few graves in my folks’ yard years ago. I am afraid my bones and those of my wife are broken and scattered. Where the earthly remains of my parents and grandparents might be found...I have not yet discovered.”

  “I’m sorry,” Malachi said.

  “They rest, sir, in a far better place. That I know.”

  “So why do you stay?”

  “I stay...” The young soldier started to speak and then broke off, as if perplexed himself. “I stay because I wait to see a better world. Then I will rest.”

  You might well haunt these streets for eternity if you’re waiting for all men to embrace one another, Malachi thought.

  But he said, “Noble indeed, Lieutenant. I wish you well. I believe we are on the way. I honestly believe most men seek the right to life, liberty and happiness for all. But to end all prejudice—the whole world has a way to go. Where one hatred dies, another often springs to life.”

  “Perhaps,” the lieutenant agreed. “Sir, it was a pleasure—you cannot imagine what a pleasure—to make your acquaintance.” He tipped his cavalry hat and started to walk on.

  “Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you could help me.”

  The lieutenant paused, looking at him. “I would be happy, of course, to be of assistance to a visitor to my fine city.”

  “Do you know anything about the tunnels around here? Tunnels that lead to the river?”

  The lieutenant smiled broadly. “I knew quite a bit. My wife, although scorned by society for doing it, still managed to help many a man and woman to escape via the river. Captain Emanuel Vance used to bring a ship in, laden with supplies. He pretended to run the blockade, but what he did was carry many to freedom.”

  The question had brought out enthusiasm in the young lieutenant. “The Dragonslayer, of course, was known for its tunnels since the days of the pirates. As was the Pirates’ House. But a network was dug during the yellow fever. I saw the morgue myself as a young lad. No longer in use at the time, of course, but the remnants were there. Still are, I believe. But what we used for the Underground Railroad, sir, were the tunnels through the vaults. The vaults do not exist anymore, but the tunnels do.”

  “What vaults?”

  “Very old burial vaults,
” the lieutenant said. “The one behind my house is gone, but it connected to a vault beneath a tavern.”

  “The Wulf and Whistle?”

  “Indeed. You know the place?”

  “Yes. I went down to the tunnel, which led to the Dragonslayer—and from there, to the river.”

  The lieutenant smiled. “Oh, sir, there are other branches in that tunnel. Savannah’s secret society of abolitionists knew that tunnels could easily be discovered. There are little pockets, twists and turns down there. Before the shelling of Fort Sumter, those who believed in freedom for all were secretly working down here. Some of the finest engineers in the country were below the ground, along with some of the finest engineers from Europe. Those tunnels are extensive. Explore, but take care. If you are buried in any kind of collapse, sir, I fear you will not come out.”

  Malachi thanked him, furious at his own stupidity.

  They’d found the damned tunnel underneath the Wulf and Whistle. Why hadn’t they broken down all the walls?

  Malachi saw the young lieutenant off, then hurried back to the alley. A man in jeans and a polo shirt leaned against the wall, reading a tourist guide. Malachi walked up to him. “Officer?”

  The man looked at him quizzically; Malachi produced the ID Jackson had given him to use while working the case.

  “Yeah, Shubart. Officer Mike Shubart.”

  “I’m going down,” Malachi said. “If I’m not back up in an hour, alert the troops.”

  “Yes, sir. You got it.”

  Malachi walked to the tunnel and phoned Jackson, telling him what he was about to do. He reached the wooden cover, moved it and crawled into the tunnel. Hitting the ground, he pulled out his flashlight.

  He patted his side, making sure the Colt .45 that was his favorite weapon was exactly where it should be. Then he played his light over the darkness that swallowed even that glow. He proceeded slowly.

  * * *

  Abby couldn’t get hold of Malachi. His cell went straight to voice mail and his recorded voice said, “Leave your message, please.”

  “It’s Abby. A very annoyed Abby. Where are you? What’s going on?” she demanded, and then ended the call.

  Police work, any kind of law enforcement work, could be tedious. Much of it involved watching. And waiting. Endless waiting.

  She was watching at the Dragonslayer. Could be worse, she tried to tell herself. If she got hungry, at least there was food. And the seats were comfortable. The climate was nice.

  And there was enough coffee to keep her wired for a week.

  But try as she might to stay calm, she grew increasingly anxious. She sat at the bar, watching. Waiting.

  Roger and Paul seemed to have nothing to do that day. Maybe Roger was watching her as she watched him. He probably assumed that if anyone was going to know anything, it would be her.

  Every so often, news about the suspect in the River Rat case came on. Everyone went still and stared at the screen.

  And then they turned to Abby.

  She shrugged. “I haven’t been able to reach my colleagues yet,” she told them. That was true in a way. Malachi wasn’t answering.

  To escape them all, she returned to the apartment to make her next phone call. Still no answer when she tried Malachi.

  So she called Jackson next. “Don’t worry. I talked to him. He’s searching the tunnel by the Wulf and Whistle again. Seems he met up with a Union soldier while walking, a man who had worked with the Underground Railroad. The tunnels go all over, according to the soldier. I’m standing at the entrance to the river as we speak, watching from this end, waiting.”

  Watching and waiting. Of course. She hesitated. “Someone’s here, in the Dragonslayer? A cop in plainclothes?”

  “You have the cop of all cops on the way over to spell him. David Caswell is coming. For dinner, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Abby said. “Thank you, Jackson. If you hear from Malachi—”

  “I’ll get in touch right away, Abby. We keep close tabs on one another. It’s what keeps us all alive.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  She left the apartment and came downstairs, to discover that David Caswell had arrived—and Bootsie and Dirk Johansen were back. The Black Swan had finished her afternoon sail.

  David was by the bar, being grilled. Dirk looked as if he were in despair. He turned to Abby, his eyes filled with sorrow. “They think it’s Aldous!” he said.

  “I’m so sorry, Dirk,” she murmured.

  Dirk shook his head. “I know Aldous. He’s one of the best men out there. I refuse to believe the worst of him. He never had to join the military because his family was always rich. He did his stint, anyway. He could’ve sat back on his ass his whole life, but he gave money to charitable projects and worked on them, too. I won’t believe he’s a killer.”

  “We would have known,” Bootsie insisted. “You’re wrong, young man,” he told David Caswell.

  “I’m afraid we have physical evidence against him,” David said. “But this is America. Every man is innocent until proven guilty.” He looked at Abby and inclined his head. She thought he’d been called by Jackson Crow, therefore knew where Malachi had gone—and what she was about to do.

  “Well, we’ll see.” Abby shrugged. “I guess I’ll take a stroll through and talk to a few of the guests.”

  She did. Most of the diners were tourists, and they were intrigued by the case going on in Savannah.

  They were relieved the police had a suspect.

  She made her way into the second dining room and over to the image of Blue. He stared at her with unseeing eyes.

  But he was there somewhere, she knew. Watching.

  That thought made her smile.

  She pretended to adjust the image of Blue and then stepped inside the little fence that surrounded the grate.

  She slipped down into the tunnel without a backward glance.

  * * *

  Malachi came to the fork in the tunnel; he knew that one path led to the Dragonslayer and then to the river.

  He hadn’t thought much about the other, because it didn’t lead to the river.

  Or, he realized, it didn’t appear to lead to the river. He moved in the other direction, his light bouncing over the walls.

  He came to a heap on the floor and paused, ducking down to look.

  Bones.

  Bones caught in fragments of cloth, with the remnants of feet in ancient boots.

  This was no new murder victim. He couldn’t really tell what he was seeing, the remains had been there for so long. They’d almost returned to ashes and dust, as the saying went. But the fact that they were here was interesting; this was clearly a pathway someone had used at some time. There was little he could tell from the stained bits of fabric and crumbling bone, but he had a feeling this dead man had been here at least two hundred years. Had he been abandoned where he lay as a warning to others?

  He tried to imagine the days of the Civil War lieutenant and the slaves who would have been led through the tunnels to escape. Perhaps, at that time, these bones had been left so that if the tunnel was discovered, it wouldn’t be considered an escape route, and those who tried to use it would face the law—or worse.

  He straightened and kept walking.

  His light revealed something else ahead of him, something white, like a woman’s gown, an elegant nightgown. He hurried toward it.

  Then, a grunt of astonishment burst through his lips. He took a step—but there was no ground. He crashed down into a deep hole. His body slammed hard on the earth and rock below.

  * * *

  Abby slowly walked the tunnel to the river; she saw nothing. It didn’t seem anyone had been down recently. But of course they’d kept the grate locked with a new combination lock since last week. She, Malachi and Jackson Crow were the only people who knew the combination to the new lock.

  But she’d learned that the tunnel from the Wulf and Whistle connected to this one. There’d been a guard on at the W
ulf and Whistle, though. No one could have used these tunnels since the situation was discovered—not without being seen. And if she looked at it the way the police and Malachi and Jackson’s Krewe were looking at it, all the suspects were currently accounted for. Aldous was at the station; the others were in the Dragonslayer.

  It took her a few minutes to work the catch on the false or pocket door that led from tunnel to tunnel. She wished she’d paid more attention when Malachi had opened it. But, eventually, she heard the catch give and then the pocket door gave, as well.

  She moved farther, running her light carefully over the walls. First, she retraced the steps they’d taken when she came down with Malachi.

  When she reached the junction, where the second tunnel branched off, she hesitated, casting her light to either side. She saw nothing. Then she heard a cry. Ragged, throaty.

  “Help...help.”

  The sound was weak, but it seemed to ricochet off the tunnel walls.

  “Malachi?” she called.

  No response.

  She instantly took out her phone to call for help. Of course, there was no signal. She was so angry she nearly threw the phone against the wall but refrained, sliding it back into her pocket. “I’m here!” she shouted. “Where are you?”

  Still no response. She was sure the sound hadn’t come from behind her, so she started forward, into the second tunnel, calling out, “Malachi!”

  “Abby, stop!” she heard him call back, but it wasn’t with the same voice she’d heard before.

  “Where are you?” she cried.

  “Don’t move any farther. I’m in some floor trap in the tunnel.”

  “I’ll get you out,” she said, moving carefully, step by step.

  “It’s a trap in the floor. I walked right into it,” he said with disgust. “There aren’t any holds here, anywhere. Get help. Go get Jackson. I’m okay.”

  His voice had become clearer, louder. She must be almost on top of him. She fell to her knees and crawled ahead, carefully covering the distance, feeling the ground as she did so. She’d just about reached him when she heard something behind her.

  It wasn’t a tap, tap, tap...

  It was a thump, thump, thump.