The Night Is Alive

3

Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the fact that he’d seen Blue Anderson, Malachi thought. But, then again, the young woman seemed to think he was a serial killer himself, so he had to say something.

It hadn’t occurred to him that the place would have emptied out by the time he came back. But the tunnel had fascinated him, and he’d followed it from the tavern to the riverbank and back more than once, marveling at the pirates who had constructed the escape—or kidnapping or shanghai—route. Once in the tavern again, he’d had no choice but to make himself known.

Or maybe he should just have told her he was an agent. Except that he wasn’t. Not yet. If he chose to accept an appointment with the Krewe of Hunters, then, yes, he’d have to go through a course at the academy. But he was still skeptical.

And neither had he expected to be sent out on his own. But, apparently, that was the way Adam Harrison, Jackson Crow and Logan Raintree felt it should be done.

Sort of like a baptism by fire.

Malachi was game, though. Especially after he’d read about the two bodies that were discovered on the riverbank. He hadn’t been convinced that the death of a man in his nineties was murder, but since the man’s granddaughter had just graduated from the academy and had written such an impassioned letter, someone needed to come out here. And these recent murders did give a degree of credence to her beliefs.

So it was a test. For them, and as he’d said, for him. A chance to find out if he was really willing to join a unit or “create his own,” as he’d been offered. They needed more units in Jackson Crow’s specialized area and apparently they thought he was a man who could head up another one.

Actually, it didn’t seem like a bad deal. Work with people who didn’t think he was crazy or that he was a psychic. Trying to convince some people that he wasn’t a psychic was as hard as convincing others that he did have certain...talents.

As Abby Anderson stared at him, Malachi tried to sum her up. She was tall, a stunning woman with a headful of the darkest, richest black hair he’d ever seen and eyes so blue they appeared to be violet or black. Her features were delicate and beautifully chiseled, and while she was lithe and fit, she was still well-endowed. Slim and yet curvy—hard to achieve.

She had to have ability and intelligence; he refused to believe she could have made it through the academy without both. What agents sometimes lacked, in Malachi’s opinion, was imagination and vision. Though not, he had quickly discovered, the agents who wound up in what Adam Harrison had created—the Krewe of Hunters or, as it was generally called now, the Krewes. There was the original Krewe and then the Texas Krewe, although even adding a second was proving to be insufficient. Adam Harrison had told him passionately that it wasn’t a calling that came to just anyone. No two ways about it, forming a new Krewe was difficult. Very few people had the talents they needed—and the ability to physically and mentally work in law enforcement.

She continued to stare at him as time ticked by. She seemed almost frozen, as if she were in a tableau. He feared she had to be in shock, although she didn’t reveal her emotions.

“Hello?” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “Look, Ms. Anderson, I know what I’m doing around a crime scene and I generally know what I’m doing around people. Alive and dead. No, I don’t see hundreds of ghosts walking the streets, but when someone’s hanging around a place like this the way your Blue Anderson seems to be doing, it’s usually for a reason, like safeguarding someone.”

Was he wrong? Had she never seen the ghost of the pirate? If not, he’d just shown himself to be a real quack in her eyes.

No, in her email to Jackson she’d stated there was a ghost at the tavern, a ghost reportedly seen through the centuries. She hadn’t come out and said she’d seen the ghost, but reading between the lines, he was certain she had.

And even if she did think he was a quack, so what? He still wasn’t completely sure he wanted to be here or be part of this. He’d spent the past five years working for himself and he liked it that way. Maybe he should’ve started off with the fact that he’d served in the military and been a cop in New Orleans for several years before Marie’s death from cancer, when he’d come home to his family property in Virginia. That was when he’d chosen to work for himself, getting a P.I. license.

Now...

“He spoke to you?” she whispered.

“Ah, there’s life behind those eyes!” he murmured. “Yes, it seems to take him a great deal of effort. I don’t believe he’s practiced at speaking.”

“Practiced?” she asked, sounding startled. “Practiced? Ghosts have to practice...being ghosts?”

Curious. She didn’t seem worried that he’d seen the ghost. She was worried—or maybe confused—about its being a practiced ghost.

Jackson Crow had been certain, reading her email, that Abigail Anderson was of their own kind. A communicator, as Jackson referred to people who saw more than others did.

“Ms. Anderson, in my own experience, those who remain behind meet the same difficulties we do in life. Some are shy and don’t do much more than watch. They never manage to speak to the living, move objects, even make a room cold. Some discover that they can learn to speak, to move objects—and they can even create a cold wind. Just like some of us on earth speak many languages while others are lucky to speak one. And some can barely walk, while others have athletic talent and prowess or perform in dance or join the Cirque de Soleil. Every ghost is an individual, just as each of us is.”

“And you...saw Blue. And spoke to him?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you. He hardly ever appears. He’s never spoken.”

“Not to you, perhaps.”

“I’m his descendent!” she said indignantly.

He shrugged. “Well, have you ever tried speaking to him?”

She straightened, glaring at him with hostile, narrowed eyes.

No, Malachi decided, it didn’t seem he’d gone about this the right way at all.

“So, you’re old friends. Where is he now?” she asked.

“Certainly not old friends,” Malachi said. “And I haven’t met a ghost yet who appears on demand. I’m sure he’s around somewhere, though. I don’t think he leaves these premises. At least not often.”

“And you spoke with him where, exactly?” she asked.

“In the tunnel.”

“What did he say?”

“I didn’t know he was there at first. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘This is where he died. He was strong of heart. His death was not so simple.’”

She stared at him with such incredulity, Malachi found himself growing irritated. She saw Blue herself.

“Mr. Gordon, even if you are for real, I wish you’d leave right now. My grandfather died. We buried him today. But you know that. You were watching.”

He stared back at her. “I can leave, or we can get started. Your grandfather called you because he suspected something or knew something—at least, that’s what you wrote to Agent Crow.” He tapped the newspaper. “So Gus is dead, possibly a victim, and there are three more—in a city where the murder rate is customarily quite low. Four victims in a short period of time. Do you want to sit there doubting me, or do you want to piece together what we know? Shouldn’t take long. It isn’t a lot.”

“Almost nothing,” she agreed after a moment, disgust in her tone. She picked up the newspaper behind the bar. “Another girl dead, found on the riverbank. The police haven’t released cause of death, and when I tried to speak with them, I got nowhere. I tried to tell them Gus hadn’t just died—that there had to be someone else down there in the tunnel, someone who caused him to die.” She shook her head, studying him. “Look, you’re not even an agent. How are you going to get any information?”

He smiled. “I honestly have a private investigator’s license and I am now on the federal payroll as a consultant. Feel free to check that out. Call Jackson Crow. I think he’ll be expecting you.”

“Call him? I don’t have a number. All I could find in the material I have from Quantico was an email address. And I couldn’t reach him on an official line now. It’s nearly eight!”

“I have his cell number. And he might be in the office, anyway. He works long hours.”

“Right. So I could be calling anyone!”

He smiled at that. “Ever suspicious. That should make you a good agent, but you do have to go with your gut and trust someone at some point.”

“I’m really not seeing why that should be you,” she said.

“Ouch.”

“You could have approached me earlier—while there were still people here.”

“As you said, your grandfather’s funeral was today. And then, I wasn’t sure whether you wanted to advertise the fact that you’d called in...the ghost investigators.”

“Give me that number,” she said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.

He rattled off the numbers and she dialed. She watched him as she spoke. “Mr. Jackson Crow, please.”

Malachi could hear the deep murmur of Crow’s voice from where he stood.

“If you’re Jackson Crow, would you by any wild chance still be at work?” She was silent for a minute. “I see. Then...would you be good enough to call me back on an official line?”

Jackson murmured something again. She pressed the end button on her phone and studied him while she waited for it to ring. When it did, she looked at the exchange. After she’d answered, Malachi could once again hear the deep timbre of Crow’s voice as he spoke to Abby Anderson.

She thanked Crow, then ended the call. She frowned slightly, but now there seemed to be a touch of wonder in her eyes.

“He said that once we get an initial investigation going, he’ll come down himself.”

Malachi nodded.

“He said you do know what you’re doing.”

Malachi laughed at that. “I’ve been working as a P.I. I needed to be on my own. But I was a cop, up until about four years ago in the city of New Orleans. I have a connection in the homicide department here.”

“A connection?” she asked. For the first time he heard a touch of hope in her voice. “What kind of a connection.”

He smiled at that. “Detective David Caswell, homicide. My ex-partner. Have you met him?”

“No.”

He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s David’s card. Keep it with you. He’s a great guy. He married a woman from Savannah about a year ago and moved up here. But when we were both working in New Orleans, he was my partner.”

He waited.

She was still looking at him, as if he were an alien who’d suddenly landed in the tavern. Or...a ghost.

He sighed. “So, I guess you’re with me—or on your own.”

She was silent for another minute. “All right, then,” she said at last. “We’ll work together. I’ve lived here most of my life, and I’ve gone through all the real training, but you have the connections. You said you wanted to get started. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s compile the little that we do know about the victims. Then we’ll figure out what we want to ask when we get in to see David. This is your city. Tomorrow I want to see where the bodies were discovered.”

“Blue Anderson just showed you where I found my grandfather,” she said huskily.

He took out his notepad and pen. A number of law enforcement professionals were now using their smartphones as notebooks, but he still preferred a pen and pad. Maybe actually writing the words gave him time to think about them. “Our first victim, Ruth Seymour, was a young woman who loved the city. She came to Savannah happy, excited and ready to enjoy a bit of history searching on her own before meeting her friends. She did check into her bed-and-breakfast—her car was found in their parking lot. Next victim was Rupert Holloway from Iowa. It’s easy to understand why no immediate connection was made with the first victim, since Rupert was a man and in the city on business. Ms. Seymour would have been searching out tourist haunts. But a mobile phone exec? I’m not so sure. He was due to see business associates for lunch on the river—but he never showed. Our third victim was a student in the city. Her hometown was Memphis, Tennessee. So far, we don’t know where she was last seen, only that her body was discovered on the riverbank.”

“So, they have in common that they were all found by the river,” Abby said. “Plus they were from out of town.”

He nodded.

“And,” she said slowly, “you think that my grandfather died because he knew something about the murders or the murderer.”

“Probably. You found him in the tunnel. The tunnel leads down to the river and a dock. Well, not exactly. There’s landfill now, but basically, when you follow the twists and turns of the tunnel, you come out at the very edge of the Dragonslayer property—about a hundred yards from the embankment and another fifty from the dock.”

“But...Gus really didn’t spend his time walking around in the tunnel,” Abby said.

“No. So he went down there for a reason,” Malachi said. He closed his notebook. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow around ten. We’ll have a talk with David and you can show me around the city, the river and the docks.”

“All right.”

He waited. He thought she’d ask him where he was staying. She didn’t.

“Well, then, lock me out, Ms. Anderson. I made sure that both grates—at the entrance to the tunnel here and at the riverbank—were secured and bolted.” He glanced around. “There should be a better alarm system here.”

“We’ve been fine. And don’t even suggest that we’d harbor a murderer here!” Abby said indignantly.

He raised a brow. “Hard to say, isn’t it—when you don’t know who the murderer might be.”

She didn’t respond to that but said, “Allow me to show you out.”

As Malachi walked to the door, she followed. “This is a big, rambling place for you to stay alone, Ms. Anderson.”

She smiled at him. “Blue’s here, isn’t he? I’m not alone. Good night, Mr. Gordon.” She closed the door and he heard her lock it. Bemused, he headed out to the parking lot for his car. He wasn’t particularly good with people anymore, he realized.

But then again, that was why he’d worked on his own for the past four years.

“Hey!” Abby said aloud when the door was closed. “Blue Anderson! Why don’t you speak to me?”

She got no reply and the tavern was silent. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had grown late. Well, not that late. It was only eight-thirty. Still, she’d been up most of the previous night. She needed to get some sleep. Looking around one last time—wary in case anything had been left unsecured—she decided she should pack it in for the night and go to bed.

Jackson Crow had responded. She should’ve been elated.

But...

He’d sent her a rookie!

She told herself she should be grateful that she received a reply at all—even if it came in the form of Malachi Gordon. The man who claimed he’d spoken to Blue. Well, Crow had told her on the phone that if she and Malachi found a situation in which the Krewe could be of real assistance, he’d come himself and he’d bring more associates. Gordon also claimed to have an in with the police, which could help. And, if she needed someone intimidating, the man was tall and did have a strange air of authority about him. He wore his suit well; he was ruggedly attractive, which could be good with the right people.

She hoped he didn’t usually walk around claiming he’d just spoken with the local ghost.

Abby cleaned up the mess she’d made when she’d broken the liquor to create a makeshift weapon. Then she went upstairs, but rather than turning in, she walked back to Gus’s office. She’d started to go through his papers and invoices during the past week, but had been continually interrupted by someone needing an answer to a restaurant or bar question—or people who wanted to tell her how sorry they were about Gus and then tried to make her feel better by mentioning his age and reminding her that he’d led a good life.

Now she sat back behind his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers.

Invoices from liquor companies.

She looked around, feeling the silence of the tavern weigh down on her.

“Blue?” she said again.

But the ghost of her ancestor didn’t appear.

She looked back at the papers in her hands. She saw Gus’s handwriting on some of them. One note indicated that a certain flavor of vodka had not gone over well with his customers. Another said that the salesman now working for a particular company was one of the best he’d ever met.

As she began to leaf through them, another paper slipped down to the desk, smaller and different from the invoices. It was a sheet ripped from a small notepad. She quickly read the words he’d written, almost as if he’d been thinking out loud and had scribbled them down.

The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.

Just as she read the words, she heard the loud ship’s buzzer that was the tavern’s doorbell.

It startled her so much that she jumped and the sheets she’d been reading flew into the air, wafting back down in disarray.

Glad that she hadn’t gotten into her pajamas yet, and wondering who would come by when most of the city knew the tavern had been closed in honor of Gus, she started to run down the stairs. She hesitated, ran back up to her room and opened the little dresser next to her bed, retrieving her service Glock and sliding it beneath her jacket. Then she ran down the stairs again to the front door. She looked through the ship’s portal to see who was calling.

The man standing outside appeared to be about forty; he was of medium height with sandy-brown hair and was wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and a tie that had been loosened.

Cop, she thought instantly. Plainclothes cop.

That was instinct, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Yes? The tavern’s closed,” she called.

“Ms. Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions.”

“Badge?” she said.

He produced his credentials. His badge looked real, as did the ID he flashed with it.

Abby opened the front door. The cop seemed uncomfortable. “Detective Peters, Ms. Anderson. I just remembered seeing in the papers that you were closed today for your grandfather’s funeral.”

She nodded. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here about this girl,” he said, showing her a picture. “Her name is—”

“Helen Long,” Abby said. “Yes, I know her. She works for a friend of my grandfather’s, Dirk Johansen. He does pirate ship tours and she plays a pirate wench.”

“She’s missing,” Peters said. “Her roommate called it in this morning.”

Abby frowned. “Dirk was here all day. He didn’t mention that she was missing.”

“He might not know yet,” Peters told her. “Helen Long was off today, and she was off yesterday. She had lunch here with friends. Do you remember seeing her?”

Abby nodded. Like so many people, Helen had made a point of approaching her to express her condolences. She hadn’t really known Gus that well. She’d only worked for Dirk for about a month. Helen had grown up in Atlanta but come to Savannah to be an extra in a pirate movie, since the exterior shots were filmed in the city. She’d been waiting to see if she’d gotten a part in another movie about to be filmed down in New Iberia, and she’d been honest with Dirk about her intentions.

“I did see her. She had lunch here, yes.”

“Do you remember seeing her leave?” he asked.

“Yes. Wait, no—she was with some girlfriends and they left first. She stayed at the bar awhile longer. I don’t know when she left. I went back upstairs after I talked to her,” Abby explained. “But my staff and a few customers might be able to tell you more. Dirk was here himself at the time, sitting with Bootsie—Bob Lanigan—and Aldous Brentwood. My bartender, Jerry Sullivan, was on, as was the day manager, Macy Sterling. I’m sure they’d be more helpful.” Abby paused, wondering about something. “Helen’s been missing since she was seen at lunch yesterday? I thought you had to wait until an adult was gone for more than twenty-four hours before you filed a report.”

“Usually,” Peters agreed. “But...we’ve had a few people go missing and then turn up dead. Like I said, her roommate called it in when she woke up this morning. Helen never came home last night. And she hasn’t shown up today. So—” he cleared his throat “—we’re starting early with this one.”

“I see. I’m glad,” Abby told him. “She’s a sweet girl, Detective. I wish I could help you. And you should speak with my staff and my customers. They may know more.”

“I’ll do that tomorrow, thank you. And if you can think of anyone else who might’ve seen her, please get in touch.” He passed her a card, which she tucked into her pocket.

“Of course!”

“Well, then, good night,” Peters said. He looked as if he wanted to say more. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “but this was the last place her girlfriends saw her, so...”

“If you want to search these premises, you’re more than welcome to do so,” she assured him.

“I’ll try to speak with your people first,” Peters said. “Someone might’ve seen her leave—and they might’ve seen who she left with.”

“I hope so. I have a list of numbers. You can call them now, if you wish. It’s really not that late.”

“Thank you.”

Abby hurried back behind the bar and found the list Sullivan kept there of their regulars. He was a good bartender and liked to memorize their drinks. Then she moved over to the host stand to find the sheet with staff contact information, as well. Peters waited politely at the door. She gave him the pages and he thanked her.

Abby locked the door again and stood there for a moment. Where the hell was Blue?

Not making an appearance that night, it seemed. Wearily she went back upstairs, sorted out the papers that had flown everywhere and sat back down.

Helen.

She felt horrible. She knew Helen.

So far, those who’d disappeared had taken a few days to be discovered.

Maybe there was still hope.

She stared down at the paper that was back in her hands, written in Gus’s broad scrawl.

The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.

This time, as she reflected, she nearly jumped sky-high again when the office phone on the desk began to ring.

Once again, papers flew.

“Abby!” It was Dirk Johansen. She knew why he had to be calling....

“Hi, Dirk.”

“Oh, my God! My actress—my pirate wench—Helen. She’s missing,” he said.

“I know, Dirk. I’m so sorry.”

“You know?”

“A detective was just here. Apparently, she was last seen having lunch at the tavern.”

His voice was thick. “Yeah, that’s the last time I saw her, too. I told the cops that,” he added.

“Did you see her leave?”

“Yep. She was teasing about the pirate days with Aldous, Bootsie and me...and Sullivan. Then she looked at her watch and said she had an appointment. She didn’t say who with. She just went running out.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“No, she was actually doing some online dating. She said she’d met at least six guys and found one, maybe, worth a relationship.”

“I’m sure that’ll help the police.”

“Do you think she might’ve taken off on some romantic spree?” Dirk asked hopefully.

“Sure, maybe,” Abby lied. “Dirk, what’s going to be important is that you think of any bit of information that might give the authorities some leads to follow.”

“Right, right...her roommate must have her computer. That should help.”

“Yes, I bet it will.”

An awkward silence followed. Then Abby said, “Dirk, I’m going to get some sleep. In the morning—” She hesitated, thinking about Gordon. The hell with him. He’d have to play it her way. “In the morning, I’ll be your personal agent. We’ll find her. How about that?” The local police might not be impressed with her, but Dirk might want her help.

“Yeah, um, well, actually, that was what I was going to ask you,” Dirk said.

“To help you?”

“I need you to be my wench.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a wench for tomorrow. Helen shared the job with Chrissy Sutton, and Chrissy is in Atlanta, visiting her mom. She won’t be back until late tomorrow night.”

Great. She thought she might be wanted for her investigative skills.

Dirk wanted a wench.

“Oh, my God. She’s missing. I’m terrified for her. But...I still have to keep it going, keep others working.”

But maybe it wasn’t a bad idea. She could talk with shipmates who knew Helen; she could hang out at the dock.

“Sure, Dirk. I’ll be your wench.”

“I hate to ask you after...after Gus and all, but...”

“I’ll be there, Dirk. What time?”

“Ship leaves for the first run at ten. We’re back at one. Second run at three. Last one leaves right at sunset. I’ll need you to show up at about nine for costuming and a few instructions.”

“Okay, Dirk.”

“Bless you, Abby.”

She started to reply but he’d already hung up.

Abby let her head fall on the table. Gus... She’d been sick about Gus.

But two young women and a man had also died. Now Helen was gone....

She really needed help. And what she’d gotten was Malachi Gordon. Maybe he did have a few talents with the dead. But whoever had taken Helen had to be alive.

Very much alive—and very busy in the beautiful city of Savannah.

Dirk’s Black Swan was a beautiful ship. She was a schooner with one large square-rigged mainmast; her figurehead was that of a mermaid crowned with pearls. Topside was the great helm on the forecastle and behind it was a stage of about twenty by thirty feet, surrounded by seating at the inner hull. There were barrels around, advertising rum or gunpowder, and Dirk’s parrot, Achilles, sat on a little perch in the center of the stage. Toward the aft, down a few steps, was a snack shop that also offered gifts and souvenirs, and passengers could step atop the sterncastle, above the captain’s quarters, to catch a great view of the riverfront.

Malachi Gordon had called Abby bright and early—at 7:00 a.m.—to make sure she’d be ready for their planned excursion of the city and the river. She began to tell him about Helen’s disappearance but he already knew. When she explained that not only was she helping out an old friend but she’d get a chance to be on the pirate ship and the docks, he wasn’t angry. Nor was he disappointed. He just said he’d catch up with her.

Dressed in pirate gear, custom-made by a costumer to resemble the real thing rather than a contemporary Halloween fashion, Abby stood with Dirk’s two main performers, Jack Winston and Blake Stewart. “Don’t worry about anything, Abby,” Jack said. “Dirk really runs the show. Our characters serve grog—to the adults—and soda to the kids. It’s fun, honestly. Blake and I get into a fight over you, we split up some treasure and we have a few songs. All you do is respond and react.”

“I’ll do my best,” Abby said.

He grinned. “Well, you’re a child of the Dragonslayer. You’ve been a pirate before, I’m sure.”

“Aye, mate, we’re all pirates at heart, aren’t we?” she responded.

He smiled again. “They’ll be boarding soon. The concept is that they’re all prisoners being held for a fine ransom. We’re good to them because they might be worth a lot.” He grimaced as he added, “Dirk’s character is probably based on Blue Anderson.”

“Could be,” Abby said.

“Just greet people as they come up the gangplank,” he told her, turning to walk back to the dock himself; he took tickets there with Dirk.

Abby looked around. Besides the performers, there were four men and two young women dressed up to man the ship. Unpiratelike, Dirk had plenty of automatic winches to deal with his sails. She watched as they made last-minute preparations to move the ship out onto the river.

She turned to see that their third performer, Blake Stewart, was seated at one of the benches by the hull. He seemed somehow lost. She thought he was young, maybe around twenty-one, the age Dirk required for anyone serving on his ship, since a lot of his money was made on alcohol.

Young and, yes, lost.

She sat down next to him and he gazed at her with wide brown eyes. “Nice of you to do this,” he said.

“It’ll be fun, won’t it?”

He nodded but he didn’t smile.

“You’re worried about Helen?”

Again, he nodded. “It’s not like her. Did you ever meet Helen? She’s very responsible. She really wants to be an actress. She told me once that work ethic is everything. If she’s not here, it’s because something’s wrong.”

“You really care about her.”

He flushed and said, “I’m crazy about her. But she won’t go out with me. Said it’s no good to date people you work with, and besides, she doesn’t expect to be here forever. So, instead, she went online.” His expression was a little desperate. “Who knows what kind of crazy she might’ve met online?”

“Don’t give up hope, Blake.”

He changed his tone abruptly. “Showtime—captives aboard.” He pointed to the gangplank and went straight into action, putting on his best pirate face as he greeted those boarding the ship. “Step lively, step lively! Now, no trouble from you landlubbers, and there be smooth sailing ahead. Eh! And that means you, my fine lad!” He stopped a boy of about ten who was getting on and reached for his ear, pulling out a “pirate coin.” “Ah, we’ll be watching you! You are the treasure, lad! The ransom we’ll be getting for a fine lad like you. Don’t be trying to out-pirate a pirate!”

The Black Swan took a maximum of fifty people per trip. Soon all had boarded and the crew rushed about to set sail. During the first twenty minutes, Abby dipped grog and soda, warned the passengers of dire consequences if they should act up and, as much as possible, talked to the crew.

Everyone, it seemed, loved Helen Long.

No one could fathom where she might have gone.

All of them feared the worst; she was just so responsible.

When they were full out on the river, a good breeze sprang up. Dirk suddenly clanged a bell, calling attention to the show that was about to start. It began with Dirk and the parrot as he told his tale of being a poor lad, shanghaied into the ways of pirate life. He spoke to individual members of the crowd, asking questions, interacting. The parrot was perfectly trained to make wisecracks to him and he responded, bringing delighted giggles from the children aboard. Then he picked up his guitar and sang a sea shanty—and as his rollicking song came to an end, his two key pirates, Jack and Blake, began a loud and boisterous argument, cutting into Dirk’s territory.

“I say you leave her be—the wench is mine!” Blake shouted.

“Not so says the wench!” Jack argued.

“That’s you!” one of the crew whispered to Abby.

She strode forward between them. “Ah, cut the whining, ye scurvy lot!” she told them. “This wench belongs to no man!”

“Um, yes, you do!” Blake said.

“I don’t belong to any man. I can sail these seas on my own!” she declared.

“Technically,” Jack said, addressing the crowd, “we’re not sailing the seas at all. This is a river.”

Abby waited for the laughter to die down. “River, lake, ocean, sea—mud puddle! I can manage it on my own. However...” She walked to each man and touched his face. “I don’t mind bringing on a mate who can prove his prowess should we be boarded!”

“Ah, fight!” Jack cried.

“To the death!” Blake roared back.

Dirk stepped between them. “First touch!” he commanded. “Jeez, it’s hard to get good help these days, even for a pirate! Just first touch—I need you wretched blackguards alive!”

Abby watched as the two of them went into their swashbuckling duel. In the end, Jack made the first contact, and while Blake muttered and the parrot ridiculed him, he sheepishly began to ask people where they were from, and what their opinions of the fray might have been.

“Hey,” Blake called. “This group is from Florida. They’re demanding a recount!”

Dirk knew right when to let the laughter fade and step in. “Recount? Recount? How can I recount? The count was one!”

Abby moved around the crowd. “We have a birthday here!” she called, after speaking with a wide-eyed little girl. “Her name is Jade.”

“A birthday? A birthday?” Dirk shouted. “Well, then!” He picked up his guitar and began to strum “Happy Birthday,” and everyone on the ship seemed to sing along.

Blake found a couple celebrating their anniversary; she ran over with more grog. Jack spoke to a young man about to head off for basic training; she rushed over with two cups of grog as they all assured him he might need both, and then applauded his service to his country.

Abby came upon a young man with wild dark hair, sunglasses and a ridiculous shirt. “And what are you celebrating, sir? Where are you from?”

She couldn’t really see his face—not with the glasses he wore and the baseball cap that sat low on his forehead. Despite that, she could tell he had heavy dark eyebrows.

“Just vacation,” he said. “And I’m from the great Commonwealth of Virginia.”

“Virginia!” Dirk said, and broke into, “Carry me back to old Virginny.”

They continued with the festivities, Jack hauling out a pirate chest next and providing young and old alike with trinkets. Handing a pack of chocolate doubloons to a small child, Abby noted the Virginian had left his seat and was chatting with crew members.

Then he disappeared down the steps into the galley and snack bar below.

A passenger asked her a question about Dirk’s pirate flag and she took the time to explain how pirates created their own flags. When she could, she slipped toward the steps and made a quick getaway to the deck below.

There was a counter at the far end. The price of the cruise included one glass of grog or soda and chips; hungry passengers could buy hot dogs, hamburgers, veggie burgers or salad—and beer or other beverages if they weren’t fond of grog. There were tables alongside a central shelf that held pirate flags, eye patches, “doubloons” and other souvenirs. She glanced at the tables, which were empty. People tended to gather there while the ship moved out to the river and back, rather than during the height of the pirate festivities.

No one on either side.

Abby walked up to the man tending the snack bar and asked, “Hey, I just saw one of the passengers wander this way. Did you see where he went?”

“Um, yeah, below, down to the magazine. Of course, we don’t really carry any powder or guns down there now. It’s food storage, mostly,” he said cheerfully.

“Why would a passenger go down there?” Abby asked.

“Oh, Wiley—one of the crew—was talking to him. This guy owns a similar outfit up in Myrtle Beach and was fascinated to hear about Dirk’s bilge pumps. They’re probably down there by now.”

“Thanks,” Abby said. She headed to the side of the counter, where a velvet rope blocked off the stairs down to the level below. She walked into the vast magazine. It was piled high with all manner of supplies, not just food but costumes, giveaways, makeup and wigs. There were bunks against the inner hulls, as well; Dirk let his workers sleep on board when they needed a place to stay.

“Hello?” Abby said. No one answered. She hurried up and down the length of the magazine. The place was deserted. Searching as she went, she found the hatch to the bilge below and opened it, climbing down the little ladder that led to the lowest area of the ship, where the two sides met at the keel. The bilge was dry. She could hear the pumps working.

No one was there.

Frustrated, she returned to the action topside. She didn’t see the man who’d said he was from Virginia—and who had then disappeared.

“Where ya been, lass?” Dirk roared over to her. “’Tis time to make certain we’ll be getting the ransom from this lot of landlubbers!”

He was playing a pirate captain; he was supposed to sound gruff. But she thought he was irritated with the fact that she hadn’t been on deck—and in sight.

“Captain, we’ve gotten the ransom for all of them!” she told him.

“We did?”

“They paid it before they got on board!”

“Aw, well, then, I guess we’ll be bringing them back in,” Dirk said.

A little boy jumped up and cried out, “No! I want to stay on the ship and be a pirate!”

Dirk was good. He walked over to the boy and pulled an eye patch from his pocket. “There you go, laddie! Now you’re an honorary pirate!”

The Black Swan returned to the dock. Abby kept up her act—but kept looking for the man in the baseball cap, too. She didn’t see him. Had he somehow disappeared off the ship?

Was that what had happened to Helen?

They reached the dock, and the Black Swan was tied up at her mooring. The passengers—all happy—said their goodbyes. Dirk reminded Abby that they’d leave again at three. He seemed to be impatient with her, but he didn’t ask her where she’d been. She was a gift horse, after all.

She walked down the dock and pulled out her cell phone, placing a call to Malachi Gordon. He answered after the first ring.

“Have you found out anything?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Where are you now?”

“Behind you.”

She turned around. She saw him on the phone.

He was the Virginian tourist with the baseball cap and sunglasses.