The Night Is Alive

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.

She walked into the tavern. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

Grant and Macy were at the host stand, talking. She assumed Grant had come in to make sure that their return to the Saturday-morning theatrical events went smoothly.

But, as she watched, Grant gave Macy a kiss on the cheek. Macy walked over to the bar where Bootsie and Dirk were now seated together. She sat down next to Dirk and let out a sigh.

“How was the show?” she asked.

“It went very well,” Bootsie said. “Very well. You and Grant are keeping everything moving along. Gus would be pleased.”

“I’m relieved.” Macy shrugged. “Why I thought anything would be different...I don’t know.” She sighed again. “I miss Gus.”

Abby hurried over to where Macy was sitting. “We all miss him,” she said.

“Oh, Abby! I didn’t see you there.” Macy turned, touching Abby’s arm. “I’m sorry—I mean we all miss Gus, but he was your grandfather. We don’t have the same right to miss him that you do.”

Abby smiled at that. “Macy, you were just as much family. Miss him all you like—and I’m grateful that you do!”

“I wish you were staying around, Abby,” Sullivan said.

“You don’t need me,” Abby assured him.

Grant came striding over, watching the host stand as he did, but grinning. “We have to let her move on, you know!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think love is in the air.”

“Love!” Bootsie scoffed. “Love? Who are you in love with, young lady?”

“Tall, dark, handsome and somewhat mysterious—seems to almost read minds,” Grant said, teasing Abby.

“Love! Bah. Abby and that fed, they’re both cops,” Bootsie muttered.

“Cops fall in love,” Macy said.

Dirk winked. “And everyone falls in lust from time to time.”

“Come on, Abby,” Grant said. “What’s the deal with the tall, dark and handsome G-man?”

“You mean Malachi?” she asked innocently.

“Let’s hope—or else our girl’s become a home wrecker,” Dirk said. “I get the impression that the cute little blonde G-woman is with tall, dark, exotic actor G-man. And the pretty blondish one is with tall, dark, handsome and Native American G-man. That leaves intriguing G-man who’s staying up in the apartment.”

“Now, why would you be worried about my love life, anyway, huh?” Abby asked Dirk, avoiding the question.

“We’ll always worry about you, Abs,” Bootsie said.

“We’re like the great-uncles you’re really glad you never had,” Dirk told her, which made Abby laugh.

“Hey, I’m just the bartender,” Sullivan said lightly.

“You guys know I dreamed about working for the federal government, that all my life I wanted to be an agent,” Abby said. “You know I’ll go back to work with a unit, wherever I’m assigned.”

“Yeah, but I looked this unit up,” Grant said sagely. “They’re the Krewe of Hunters.”

“What does that mean?” Bootsie asked.

“They ask the dead questions—and the dead help them find the killers,” Grant explained.

Macy giggled at that. “Seriously? Come on, Grant. The one woman is a medical examiner. If they could talk to the dead, she’d just ask the corpses who...who turned them into corpses. Oh, I sound terrible—I’m concerned, really. I’m grateful you found Helen, Abby, and praying that Roger’s girlfriend will be found, as well. But it’s not looking good for her, is it?”

“We don’t have any real answers,” Abby said.

Bootsie made a sound of derision. “All those feds and cops—and nothing. You people, all that schooling—and a pirate’s walking all over you.” He raised his beer. “Ask the dead questions, my ass!”

“Bootsie,” Dirk remonstrated quietly.

“It’s just us here,” he said. He looked around. “Hey, where’s our third? I haven’t seen Aldous all day.”

“I’m sure he’ll be around,” Sullivan said, pushing away from the bar to get a drink order from one of the waitresses.

“Yes, I’m sure he will,” Macy agreed.

“Hey, you make a great wench, Abby,” Grant told her.

“Gee, thanks. Which reminds me, I want to go and get out of this now.” Abby turned but then paused, looking back. “Do me a favor, will you, Macy? Why don’t you and Dirk go out on a date instead of staring at each other all the time? It’s not like you just met or anything.”

Macy’s face went bright red. “Abby!”

Dirk was silent.

“Now there’s a sensible question,” Bootsie said. He gave Dirk a nudge. “Here’s your chance, boy. Ask her out.”

“Um...” Dirk said.

Macy found her voice. “Dirk, I don’t know what these people are doing, but don’t you dare feel obliged to ask me anything.”

“I don’t feel obliged, Macy.”

“Good.”

“But...we should go out sometime. To a restaurant. We’re in a restaurant. I mean, a different restaurant. One where you’re not working. Or we could go dancing. Or...”

“Dirk Johansen, are you asking me out?” Macy demanded.

“I guess I am. Except you don’t have to feel obligated or anything. I’m not trying to put you in a bad position—”

“I would love to go out with you, Dirk!” Macy said.

“Thank God! That’s settled,” Bootsie said. “Now, can we get back to sitting around the bar and bitching about everyone we see? Macy, shoo! Go back to work.”

Macy smiled and walked back to the host stand. Grant took a seat at the bar.

“That,” he announced, “was really cool. Good work, Abby!”

“Thank you, thank you. Now, I’m finally going to get out of this ridiculous outfit!”

Leaving them at last, she ran up the stairs as quickly as she could, encumbered by the skirts that had defined her as Missy Tweed for a few hours.

Helen was doing much better.

When Malachi arrived, her police guard was seated in the hallway, reading the newspaper.

Angela Hawkins was in the room with Helen, as were her coworkers, Jack and Blake. They were still in their pirate attire from the morning sail of the Black Swan; Malachi assumed that, like Dirk, they usually took the two hours between sailings of the “pirate” vessel to either have lunch or get their errands done.

Helen seemed to be beaming; she was, he thought, maybe a year or two older than Blake—the one who was so obviously—and awkwardly—in love with her.

But that afternoon, she was thrilled by his attention.

“Malachi!” she said, greeting him with a warm smile.

He bent down to kiss her cheek. “Helen, you look wonderful.”

“I’m feeling good,” she said. “And the doctor said I’m doing well, right, Angela?”

“He said you’re almost ready to go home.”

Helen frowned. “You need to talk to me again, don’t you, Malachi?”

“If you don’t mind,” Malachi said. “When you’re ready.”

“I think that’s a hint to the two of us, Jack, but that’s okay,” Blake said. He’d been sitting by her on the other side of the bed. “Jack and I have to get back for the afternoon sail of the old Black Swan. We’ll be back, Helen.”

“I may not be. Hot date tonight.” Jack grinned. “With a pretty, pretty—and I do mean pretty!—redhead who sailed this morning. She agreed to do me the honor of joining me for dinner this evening. So, my beloved colleagues, it might be tomorrow before I stop by. But I’ll bring you delicious details!”

“Get out of here! If she’s smart, there won’t be that many details!” Helen joked.

“I’ll be here tonight,” Blake promised.

“Thanks. You really help the time pass,” Helen said softly.

Blake beamed. He and Jack left, waving as they walked out the door.

Malachi sat next to Helen. Angela sat on her other side, taking her hand. “You’re very strong, Helen.” Angela smiled, encouraging her. She looked over at Malachi. “A therapist was in to see her. She’s doing brilliantly, he says.”

“He also said I’ll never forget,” Helen told him. “And he said...he said I’ll be able to go forward again, have a good time, even have a relationship again.”

“Of course you will. We’ll get him, and you’ll know we did it because of you. You’ll know you saved others. He had you, but you beat him, Helen,” Malachi said.

She gave him a weak smile. “It’s strange. I always thought I was so liberal. But if I had a gun and he was in front of me, I’d want to shoot him. I want him strung up, I want his skin flayed from his body...” Her voice broke.

“That’s human nature, Helen.” Malachi spoke as reassuringly as he could.

“Is it? I hope so.”

“Helen, I’m not a hypnotist or any kind of therapist. But I want you to try to relax when we talk,” Malachi said. “Angela is here. We’re both here. You’re protected. I know it hurts, that it’s painful, but I really need you to try to remember every detail.”

“I wish I could remember more,” she said. “I went into the church...and I remember the searing pain in my head—and then nothing.”

“And then, the lapping of water against a cabin. You were in a ship’s cabin.”

“I think so,” Helen said.

“What made you think it was a ship’s cabin?” Malachi asked.

“There was a lot of wood. Paneling. I was in a bunk.”

“Big cabin or little cabin?”

“Tight...it was a tight cabin. When he was in it, I could feel him as soon as he came in.” She kept her eyes closed.

“And you remember a sound?”

“Yes.”

“Tap, tap, tap?”

She frowned. “Yes, it was an odd sound.”

“Was he with you all the time when you heard it?”

“No...sometimes, he wasn’t.” She thought for a moment. “But...when I heard it, I was so afraid.”

“Why?”

“It meant he was coming for me.”

Up in the apartment, Abby turned on the television in the living area for company while she ran down the little hall to her room and changed out of her pirate clothing. She chose jeans, a T-shirt and finally a denim jacket—a perfect way to hide the Glock she didn’t intend to leave behind.

She was anxious to call Malachi and see what was going on. Had they found something that proved Aldous could be the killer?

Had Aldous confessed?

She felt shaky and weak considering the possibility. Aldous seemed like a good man, as well as a powerful one. He was rich, but he’d always spent a lot of time working for various causes. How could a good man, who was willing to donate his money and his labor when needed, prove to be such a heinous criminal?

But it made her shake, too—thinking that it could be someone she’d known most of her life. That she might have gone to school with someone who’d grown up to be a killer.

As she came down the hallway and went back into the living room area, she heard the television. She suddenly stopped; a newscaster, a sleek, attractive blonde, was speaking from an anchor desk while an insert on the screen showed a scene at the police station.

“While the Savannah police are not making any statements at this time, inside sources, choosing to remain anonymous, have stated that a suspect in the infamous River Rat murders is in custody and being questioned. The River Rat Killer—so dubbed because of his ability to disappear on the water or under the ground—is suspected to have taken the lives of one man and three young women, to have kidnapped and tortured a fourth young woman and may possibly be holding another captive, even as he’s being questioned by the police. While our information has not been verified, it seems that the city of Savannah may soon breathe a huge sigh of relief. Our source has told us that the evidence in this case is based on hard science from the forensic lab. We’ll be back with more information the minute it’s available. Stay tuned.”

Abby had to sit down. Aldous. It seemed impossible.

Her hands were trembling when she pulled out her cell phone to call Malachi. He answered immediately.

“Hey, wench,” he said. “Is the show over?”

“It is. Where are you? What’s going on? The media are announcing that the man suspected to be the killer is in custody.”

“The media have it already?”

“They do,” she said. “And I assume they’re referring to Aldous.”

“I imagine. He’s the only suspect. He’s not really being held. So far, he’s actually there voluntarily. I suggested to him that he didn’t want to leave yet.”

“You don’t really think it’s Aldous, do you?”

“I think it’s important that people—especially the real killer—believe the police are convinced the killer’s in custody.”

“But if the killer isn’t in custody...or if he is, for that matter, Bianca is still out there somewhere.”

“I’m at the hospital. I’m on my way back, though. I may walk around for a while. I’m trying to clear my head. Are you all right?”

“Of course. I’m fine. I’m in the apartment. I just got out of pirate-wench mode.”

“Who’s there, at the Dragonslayer?”

“When I came up? Roger and Paul. They were still pirates, talking to diners. Bootsie and Dirk were at the bar, although Dirk will have to leave soon. Macy and Grant Green are both here.”

“Just go down and be friendly, okay? They should start questioning the fact that Aldous isn’t there. Isn’t there a TV behind the bar?”

“Yes, for games and events. It wasn’t on.”

“Make sure it’s on. See what happens when your patrons watch the news about the suspect who’s being held. I’ll be there soon.”

Abby ended the call. She stepped out of the apartment and carefully locked the door. Straightening her shoulders, she hurried down to the bar.

Macy was at the host station, Sullivan behind the bar.

Roger was seated at a table with a family, entertaining their three children. Paul was in the dining room as well, speaking with a young couple.

Neither Bootsie nor Dirk was at the bar.

“Where are our favorite barflies?” she asked Sullivan.

“Who knows?” Sullivan shrugged. “I guess Dirk went back for the afternoon sailing of the Black Swan. Bootsie went with him. Maybe he’s sailing with Dirk today. Aldous hasn’t shown up, so he might have wanted to hang with a friend.”

“Possibly.” Abby nodded. “Can you turn on the TV, Sullivan?”

“Sure. Anything special?” he asked.

“Whatever. How about news?”

Sullivan picked up the remote and switched on the flat-screen television that hung over the low etched mirror behind the call-brand whiskeys.

Abby had no idea how much good it was going to do, the two barflies who were supposed to see the news weren’t there.

But the same newscaster came on, reporting that a suspect was being held in what was now called the River Rat case. She didn’t have anything new to add, but she rephrased things so that it almost sounded as if she were telling her audience more.

Looking up at the screen, she could sense people walking up and crowding behind her. Roger and Paul were suddenly beside her; so was Macy. Abby hadn’t even known Grant was still there, but he was with the group staring up at the screen.

“They caught him?” Macy breathed.

“But they’re not revealing a name,” Sullivan said.

“What about Bianca?” Roger asked. “They’re not saying anything about Bianca!”

“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 Wulf 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.

“Abby!” she heard Malachi yell.

She started to turn, started to reach for her Glock.

That was when the object slammed into her head, and only then did it register exactly what the sound was.

“Abby!”

Malachi heard the thud. Abby made a sound—not a scream but a gasp of surprise and pain. He pulled out his gun but he was afraid to fire; he couldn’t see from the depths of the hole and he was afraid he’d hurt her.

He shouted out instead. “Let her be. We all know who you are now. It’s over!”

“Ah, me hearty young lad! No, no, I think not. They’ll hang old Aldous for my sins, and it’s a shame, but that’s the fate of seamen such as ourselves!” came the answer.

Malachi began to scrabble at the earth. The killer had her. He heard the soft thunk, thunk, thunk, as the killer moved away with Abby.

And Abby...

Abby hadn’t let out another sound.

Swearing, Malachi scratched and clawed at the earth, desperate to find a handhold.

At some point while she was being jostled, Abby started to come to.

Bootsie had used the hard end of an old blunderbuss to strike her. She was astonished that she had come to, although her awareness was dulled by the sharp pain in her head.

Thump, thump, thump turned to tap, tap, tap, and then she felt herself thrown down. She was in a boat. Yes. Thump, thump, thump. The sound of Bootsie’s peg leg. The sound she’d been told about.

And now...a rowboat.

Blue had said something about a rowboat. When the rowboats were out...

She could hear laughter and conversation but it seemed to come from far away. She heard another sound—the splash of oars. She was on the water.

She tried to open her eyes without betraying that she was awake. Raising her eyelids slightly, she could see the riverfront easing away from her. Bootsie was facing her as he rowed. She realized that he’d tied her wrists together. He’d used sailor’s knots. Struggling would only tighten her bonds.

Police were all over the riverfront! Why hadn’t they seen her?

She tried to calculate where she was. South on the river—south, and that was why the sounds of life were so distant. They’d come up well below the customary tourist area and she thought he must have kept the tiny boat beneath one of the docks. It wouldn’t have been obvious, and therefore probably hadn’t been searched. It was a rowboat, and there was nowhere to hide a woman in a rowboat.

He’d easily eluded the police time and time again.

Not now, she told herself. Not now. He was caught. He hadn’t stopped to kill Malachi. Maybe he thought Malachi would die in the hold. That no one knew he’d gone below the earth. But Jackson and the Krewe did, and they’d find him.

Before he killed her?

Bootsie. Her grandfather’s old and dear friend. Bootsie.

A man she’d known most of her life.

The killer...the River Rat...was Bootsie. Robert Lanigan.

Impossible. Bootsie was nearly seventy. He didn’t fit any profile. What had suddenly turned him into a murderer? And when?

The questions that seemed to arise in a flurry didn’t matter. Her life was at stake. Bootsie wasn’t stupid; she was sure he’d taken her Glock and her cell phone. What he’d done with them, she had no idea.

That particular question was quickly answered. She heard two splashes in the water and knew her phone and Glock were about to meet the river bottom.

She feigned unconsciousness.

Which didn’t bother Bootsie. He began to talk. “Ah, pretty girl, pretty girl! You always were the best wench, Abigail. I have been searching and searching, but I didn’t see, didn’t realize. You were the real beauty, the prize of the river—of the whole vast sea. You’re the one I’ve searched for, Abigail. Aye, we’ve only now to chuck the other. She wasn’t worthy, so we’ll toss her into the water. It will be a fitting end for such a one! Women, you see, can be evil. Protect the women and the children! Bah, vicious little bastards—that be the children! And wicked, horrid creatures—that be women. Most of them, anywise. But now, perhaps, we’ll sail the seas together, eh, Abby? As it should be.”

Chuck the other...

She hoped that meant Bianca was still alive.

And that he was taking her to wherever he had Bianca.

A moment later, the rowboat hit something. Hard. Opening her eyes a little, Abby saw that it wasn’t a ship; they’d come to a rickety old boathouse on the river.

Clip, clip, clip...

That was the sound Bootsie’s peg leg made against the wood of the rowboat as he beached it and then grabbed her.

The sun was dying as he threw her over his shoulder and began to walk, his gait jagged as he sank a bit on the left side of his body each time he took a step.

She heard the bang of a door and they entered the shack. It was old—Civil War era, she thought. He threw her down and she continued to feign unconsciousness. When he’d hobbled off, she looked around. She was on a flat surface. Old boats in various stages of disrepair littered the ramshackle structure. There was a door that led to a room, an old office or such.

The cabin Helen Long had told them about?

That had to be it.

And somehow, she had to stop him before he drowned the other young woman.

Malachi didn’t waste his breath screaming or shouting. He forced himself to be calm, trying to find anything that could serve as a grip.

He was startled when things started to fall on him.

Dirt...an old box...even the old bones...

He looked up. In the spill of light from his flashlight, lying on the ground by his feet, he saw a face appear before him.

He’d hoped for a cop.

Or anyone living, for that matter.

It was Blue.

“Get me help, Blue. I’m begging you, get me some help. Find my friends from the agency—they’ll see you, Blue, they’ll get me out.”

“There’s no time. He has Abigail,” Blue said.

“What are you doing?”

“Building up the ground. He would not mind. The bones belong to Blackheart McCready. He went to the devil long ago, my friend. Use them, step on them, use everything you have.”

Blue fell flat on the ground, pushing in more dirt, dirt and rocks.

Malachi understood what he was doing. Piling up all the refuse Blue sent down to him, picking up his flashlight to use as a tool as well as for whatever illumination it could provide, he set to work. He built the refuse up and clawed at the walls above, creating a handhold for himself. He created a foothold next, and gripped the earth wall with his toes. The bones of the long-dead pirate helped him dig into the earth walls. He hollowed out another hold and then another. Blue reached down to him; they both knew that the ghost had no real ability to grab him and yet...he felt as if he was helped, pulled upward.

He rolled onto the ground. “Which way, Blue? Where the hell is he taking them?”

“This way...and then...follow me!”

He ran after Blue, who was speeding through the darkness as if he were a bolt of fire. They seemed to run forever, until they came to a series of steps dug into the ground many years ago. They were far down the river. Dusk had fallen, and he could see nothing on the water.

“Blue, where?” he said desperately.

“He comes out here... There are boats under that old dock.”

Malachi stared at the river. And then he saw it—an old boathouse on a jut of land that curved about fifty feet into the water.

He began to run again.

Abby felt she must have been doing a decent job of feigning unconsciousness. Bootsie walked around—tap, tap, tap, tap, tap—muttering. She had to find a way to take him by surprise—difficult when her hands were tied.

He was old, for God’s sake, close to seventy. But he was in good shape, good health—except for his mind, obviously—and he was decked out with a blunderbuss and sword.

How the hell had he gotten those weapons? Where and when had he changed into the frock coat and hat he was wearing?

He couldn’t have come from the Dragonslayer. David Caswell would have seen him—would have followed him, would have stopped him.

She heard Bootsie still moving around, still muttering to himself. “Ach, I’ll worry about this one later... We’ll need time. Best wench, yes, I have Abby now, and she is the one. I should have known before, yes. This will work. But I must get the other one out of the cabin...get rid of her now, out in the river. Poor lass—not good enough. She’ll have to die....”

He was going for Bianca. He walked toward the closed room in the boathouse. At this moment, she was alive. But he was going to take her out and kill her. Bootsie didn’t keep more than one woman at a time. He had taken her that night, Abby thought, because he’d had the opportunity.

Because he was losing control.

Tap, tap, tap, tap...

He was going for Bianca.

She heard Bianca’s muffled scream as the door was thrown open. Abby twisted around and got to her feet, looking for a weapon. At least he’d tied her hands in front of her. If he’d tied them behind her...

She could see nothing in the shadowy expanse of the old boathouse except a discarded fishing pole. It was better than nothing. With her head still pounding, she took a step and staggered. She froze, afraid he’d heard her, willing herself to find her balance. Bianca screamed again. Bootsie must have reached her.

She hunkered down for the fishing pole and got it in her hands, then rushed for the door. Bootsie was inside, hauling Bianca over his shoulder.

He had powerful shoulders, a powerful physique he’d maintained all the years she’d known him.

The room in the boathouse was just as Helen had described it—small, paneled, like a cabin on an old sailing vessel of days long gone. A pirate’s vessel, perhaps.

Bootsie started to turn; she slammed the fishing pole over his head with all her strength. He lurched backward, dropping Bianca. She struck him again with the fishing pole, and he fell against the wood, almost on top of Bianca.

But as Abby drew back, ready to strike again, Bootsie recovered his balance. Blood poured from a wound on his forehead and he was infuriated. He bellowed out a curse and came after her. Abby lifted the fishing rod again, but he caught it and wrenched it from her hands. She backed away, faltering only a little, watching him with the same fury.

“Ah, lass! I will break you, you will see!” He walked toward her, bringing them to the main room of the boathouse. “There is no defying me! I am the king of the seas. Governments fall down before me, none may rule me. And you will obey me or you will die! I am Blue Anderson! I am Blue Anderson, and I will rule the seas from here to eternity.”

“You’re not Blue! Blue didn’t hurt anyone!”

“You’re not hurt! You’re a captive, and you want to stay with me!” he roared.

Abby stared at him in shock. But he seemed to believe what he was saying—that he was Blue Anderson.

“You will. You will be the wench, and you will want me!”

He walked over to her; she raised her hands in self-defense. He was incredibly strong—slapping her arms down and throwing her back to the floor. Again, the world seemed to spin. He wrenched her up, gripping her arms with viselike strength.

“Don’t want to scar you, lass, but I won’t mind beating you within an inch of your life,” Bootsie told her. “Now, I’ll have to be hog-tying you until I get rid of the other one.”

“Touch her again and you’re dead!”

The threat rang out with cold assurance.

Relief filled Abby.

Malachi.

He was soaked and muddy; he’d apparently crawled up to the boathouse from the river. He had his gun trained on Bootsie and his eyes were centered on the man.

But Bootsie didn’t release her. He spun her around in front of him, whipping something from his pocket. She suddenly felt steel against her neck.

“Can your bullet move fast enough to stop the blade of my knife, boy?”

Malachi strode closer to Bootsie. “Let her go.”

“Fight for her. Fight for her like a man, Scurvy Pete! You won’t take my woman!”

Malachi frowned.

“He can’t fight you, Blue,” Abby said. “He has no weapon with which to fight. Blue wouldn’t fight him without a weapon. It’s a pirate’s honor!”

“He’s got himself a mighty pistol there,” Bootsie said. She felt the knife scratch against her throat.

“Give him a sword. He’ll put the pistol down.”

Malachi must have seen the madness in Bootsie’s eyes. “A sword! No pirate captain would claim his captive without a fair fight!” He shoved his gun back into the shoulder holster. “Leave your hostage. Play out the scene, Blue Anderson. Give me a sword!”

Bootsie wasn’t crazy enough just to let her go. He dragged her with him, backing toward one of the chests. “Here—take your sword. Throw the gun to the corner of the room and take up your sword, Scurvy Pete!”

“I’ve put the gun away,” Malachi began.

“No! Throw it across the floor!” Bootsie commanded.

Malachi took his weapon from the holster, bent down and let it slide across the floor to a corner of the room.

“My sword now, sir! Blue Anderson, it will be a fair fight.”

Bootsie, still holding his knife against Abby’s throat, thrust her away from the chest. “Get your weapon, Scurvy Pete, get your weapon.”

His eyes never leaving Bootsie’s, Malachi reached into the chest, piled high with swords and knives. He chose a sword.

He stepped back, lifting the sword. Abby saw him judge her position and that of Bianca, who’d sidled back against the cabin door and sat there now, eyes wide with shock, not making a sound.

“Shall we, Blue?”

Bootsie pushed Abby from him, sending her to her knees. He turned. Malachi was ready, and still Bootsie went after him with a vengeance that was startling.

Malachi fought hard. She didn’t know where he might have learned about this kind of sword fighting—and perhaps he knew nothing. At first, he struggled just to defend himself from the fury of Bootsie’s attack. And then, finally, he began to move forward, managing to attack rather than merely defend. The two men dodged and maneuvered about the room.

Abby rolled away from the action, coming at last to where Malachi’s gun had ended up. He carried a Colt .45.

She got her hands around it. It was a larger gun than hers with a higher caliber bullet, but she wasn’t afraid to fire it.

She tried to take aim; the men kept moving about.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...

Bootsie could move fast with his peg leg; he could all but dance.

Malachi lunged forward, slamming Bootsie’s weapon, and the sword went flying across the room. Malachi staggered back, wearied by the fight.

“Stand down, Blue, stand down!” he cried.

Bootsie seemed to falter. Abby realized he was reaching down to his thigh—to grab a knife from its sheath.

She had a clear shot.

She fired as he drew the knife, about to throw it into Malachi’s heart.

The sound was deafening; the recoil sent Abby flying back, her arm in agony.

Bootsie froze. Then he crashed to the floor, his peg leg moving at an awkward angle as his twisted body fell.

Malachi rushed to Abby, drawing her into his arms, loosening the ties that bound her wrists. As he did, they heard sirens.

A floodlight suddenly lit up the interior of the boathouse.

“You are surrounded. Put down your weapons. Come out with your hands up!” someone ordered over a megaphone.

Bianca gave a strangled sob and Malachi started toward her.

Thankfully he didn’t have to leave Abby.

Police were pouring in, Jackson Crow and David Caswell at the head of the group.

Since Bootsie was dead, it was difficult to put together the complete history of what had happened—where his madness had begun and exactly how he’d managed all his feats of kidnapping, disappearances and murder.

David Caswell told them they might never know; it was sad to say, but there were people who might remain missing forever—and there were bodies that might never be found.

A search of his house led them to a stairway, which went to the cellar. There they discovered a pocket door that opened into the labyrinth of tunnels—and his hidden store of frock coats, breeches, hats and pirate weapons.

As the Krewe and David Caswell sat around the table at Abby’s house on Chippewa, they learned that the police had been examining other unsolved cases they’d had over the years. They couldn’t be sure. But Bootsie might have started his murder spree as much as a decade before. Back then, he might have lived out his fantasies at a slower rate. His wife had been alive then; she’d probably kept him from totally indulging in his longing to be a pirate captain who kidnapped women and tried to get them to fall in love with him. But they’d always wonder about a number of other situations. They’d uncovered a drowning victim in their records from ten years earlier. Foul play had been suspected, but the case had grown cold. Two years later, the body of a young woman, decomposed beyond recognition, had been found south of them, off North Hutchison Island in Florida. There were missing-person cases that had never been solved in the following years. So, yes, it was possible that Bootsie had begun killing slowly—and had then escalated into his mad world of piracy, seizing young women and killing them at a more frantic rate.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Abby said. She was glad to be at the table; she’d stayed at the hospital the night before because of the concussion she’d received. “Why didn’t Helen recognize Bootsie? He approached her with a business card identifying him as a man named Christopher Condent. But Helen knew Bootsie. And he didn’t use Blue’s name. He used the name of a different pirate.”

“I was in the behavioral unit for years before the Krewe,” Jackson said. “I’ve taken so many courses on the human mind that I should have answers. But I don’t believe any of us have ever gotten to the core of what can make a man—or woman—so twisted. How they can be insane and yet behave sanely. He dressed up and hid his identity so well she didn’t know him.”

“She said there was something familiar about him—that she felt she should have known him,” Malachi said. “That’s why I suspected one of the men who hung around the Dragonslayer. That, and the fact that every victim had eaten at the tavern.”

“But Dirk would have been on the ship at the same time the so-called businessman, Christopher Condent—aka Bootsie Lanigan—was on board. And Dirk didn’t recognize him, either.”

“That just goes to show how skilled he’d become at disguise,” David remarked.

“But Bootsie had a peg leg!” Abby said. She looked at David and then murmured, “Oh. Right.”

“Exactly,” David said. “He had his peg leg, which he preferred to use. But we know he also had several newer prosthetics.”

“I knew that, too.” Abby nodded. “He claimed to like his peg leg best, said he hated the newer so-called ‘real’ prosthetics.”

“A peg leg is best for a pirate,” Kat said quietly.

“Playacting.” Will shook his head. “It can become far too real.”

“In Bootsie’s case, definitely,” Kat said. “And he was taking the fingers from his victims because it was part of—of being a pirate?”

“Obviously we’ll never be able to ask him,” Jackson replied, “but whether much of what we hear is legend or not, it is known that Blackbeard—among others—didn’t hesitate to cut off a man’s finger when he wouldn’t hand over a diamond ring. This might be a detail Bootsie added later on. The earlier potential victims weren’t missing any fingers.”

They all talked about their theories, what they could and couldn’t have done.

David was remorseful over the fact that they searched ship after ship—boat after boat—and never thought to look in the old ramshackle boathouse. A records check, of course, showed that it belonged to a corporation owned by a holding company Bootsie was involved with.

“After Abby pulled Helen Long from the water, and after Helen’s testimony, we were all convinced he held the women on a boat or ship.” Angela smiled at Abby. “Thanks to you, though, two women lived. Helen and Bianca.”

“Yeah—but I got myself hit on the head,” Abby said.

“Only after I fell down a hole,” Malachi reminded her dryly.

“Bianca will live. She’s traumatized, and it’ll take time. But Helen’s already out of the hospital, and Bianca...well, at least she kept her finger,” Kat murmured. “And, hopefully, the police will soon discover the identity of the one girl who remains a Jane Doe.”

“It’s good to know that, for Bianca, the future has real promise. For one thing, she has Roger, who hasn’t left her side since he was allowed in,” Jackson said. “We’ll take all the good we can get.”

Abby felt her phone vibrate; she knew it signaled an email and meant to ignore it. She liked sitting here with the Krewe. They’d be leaving soon, and although she’d be happily accepting the position offered to her, she wouldn’t reconnect with them for a while. They were in Savannah now, and she didn’t want to be distracted.

She glanced at the new email, anyway—and gave a little cry of delight. The others went silent.

She smiled. “Sorry. I just got a note from a friend of mine on the city council. She had her assistant go into the records after I wrote to her, and they’re going to see that the gravestone in Colonial Park Cemetery is repaired. The proper information will be carved on it. The name had been damaged when the stone was vandalized by soldiers when Savannah surrendered to General Sherman.”

“That’s great,” Jackson said, a knowing smile on his lips. He looked at Malachi. “Perhaps the two of you would like to go make that statement at the cemetery?”

“Sounds good. Let’s take a walk,” Malachi told Abby.

“One minute. I want to print out this email to bring to Josiah’s folks,” she said, hurrying off to do that.

She and Malachi left the group with the Krewe planning their last evening in Savannah; they’d have a barbecue at the house on Chippewa Square. Will said he thought it was fine for Kat to shop for the barbecue, but someone else might want to do the cooking. Kat was indignant, and Angela did her best to mollify them both; while Jackson watched with amusement.

Abby and Malachi walked the few blocks to the cemetery. It was late afternoon, just as it had been when they’d gone into the tunnels the day before.

It was a beautiful time of day. The live oaks dripped moss that stirred and moved in the breeze.

Abby was grateful to be alive.

On the one hand, she could still shudder, remembering the fear she’d felt when she realized she’d been taken. But fear wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Jackson wanted them to feel fear—not debilitating fear, but the kind that made them careful and smart. They had managed well, especially since they’d never clearly identified a suspect. They’d had to use what they knew about both the living and the dead to see the situation through to its conclusion. They’d successfully played into the fantasy of a man who’d become a homicidal psychopath. Abby was glad the rest of the Krewe seemed proud of her and Malachi. The Krewe had come to Savannah because Jackson Crow had recognized something in her plea to him. He’d found Malachi and, together, they’d found her. She knew the right future stretched before her now.

“There they are,” Malachi whispered as they entered the cemetery. Josiah’s parents were sitting on their customary bench, as if they mourned someone only recently gone. Perhaps, to them, the sorrow was as deep as if it had occurred yesterday.

Abby walked over to them, her printed email in hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Beckwith,” she greeted them.

Edgar Beckwith immediately stood, bowing to her. Elizabeth rose by her husband’s side, clutching his arm and looking expectantly at Abby.

“Anything?” Edgar asked.

“Abby will read it to you. This message is from someone with the power to help,” Malachi said.

Abby smiled and read the email out loud. She saw that Edgar and Elizabeth Beckwith smiled, too, as they heard the news. Elizabeth stepped forward to touch Abby’s face with a gentle hand. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“There will be a little ceremony when the work is completed,” Abby told them. “We’ll be here for it.”

They bade Edgar and Elizabeth Beckwith goodbye, leaving the couple to stand by the grave, expressions of happiness and relief on their faces.

“That felt wonderful,” Abby told Malachi.

“Yes,” he agreed. And it had. But one thing still troubled her, and Malachi seemed to sense that.

“What?” he asked her softly.

She drew in a deep breath. “We’ve pulled a few good endings out of this, but...how did Bootsie kill Gus? The autopsy showed that Gus died of a heart attack.”

“I wish I could give you a definitive answer. I can’t. But here’s what my instinct tells me. Gus was a fine man, the kind of man who cared about others. I believe he was searching the tunnel, that he suspected something,” Malachi said. “When he stumbled on Bootsie, his heart probably gave out when Bootsie attacked him. Gus died trying to save others, Abby.”

Abby nodded. She knew it would be years before everything Bootsie had done was uncovered. And it was shattering to think that he’d been killing people and coming to the Dragonslayer, becoming more and more convinced that he was the living embodiment of various pirates—including Blue Anderson. Maybe he’d tried out different roles at different times. Blackbeard, Christopher Condent. Henry Morgan. But above all, he’d wanted to be Blue.

And she’d kissed his cheek, cared about him, thought of him as Gus’s dear old curmudgeonly friend...

He had come to Gus’s funeral. Made himself at home in the bar afterward, just waiting to seize another woman.

She shuddered. It was still too hard to believe.

“One more question,” she said. “Everyone was certain we should be searching for Bianca on a boat or a ship. How did you figure out that he was hiding her in the boathouse?”

Malachi turned to her. He smiled and told her, “Blue. The real Blue Anderson.”