The Night Is Alive

by Heather Graham

Page 37

 

  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 victims 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 h
air 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.

  Will. He beckoned to them and they joined him behind a pillar.

  The three stood there silently as they observed Roger English.

  Roger paced and then stood still and stared out at the river. Malachi looked down the length of shops. There were other people in the shadows, he realized.

  True to his word, David Caswell had officers on surveillance. Watching the river.

  And now, watching Roger.

  Was he about to call someone—someone out on the river who had a captive?

  They waited what seemed to be a very long time while Roger walked up and down, continuing to stare out at the water.

  He clutched the cell phone and pulled something from his pocket, then stuffed it back. He began to dial.

  Who was he calling?

  Malachi jumped as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Stepping back, he looked at it.

  Roger was calling him.

  He glanced at the others and hurried a distance away, then answered his phone.

  “Roger?” he whispered.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Roger said. As Malachi watched, Roger glanced at his phone, as if trying to figure out how Malachi had known it was him.