The Night Is Alive

8

Leaving the morgue, Malachi drove straight back to the Dragonslayer. The historic district of Savannah was beautiful, even by night. Great oaks dripped moss onto streets where the architecture whispered of the past. Flowers bloomed copiously in beautifully grown yards and night-lights lay gently all around.

When he’d parked, he wasn’t ready to go in.

He sat remembering all the times he felt he’d been cursed with his strange ability to talk to the dead. In his generation, it had been his and his alone. Zachary had told him once that his grandmother had been able to talk to spirits and she’d explained to him that it was just like sound. Some folks could simply see and hear what others couldn’t quite grasp or get into their field of vision.

He’d quickly learned not to talk about it. But when he’d seen the dead and the dead had been able to help him, show him where to go—show him how to stop a dangerous situation—he’d had no recourse but to act. And so people had thought he was psychic. Friends had trusted him for whatever it was they believed he had. Luckily, the jerks and idiots had left him alone, either scornful or intimidated. He didn’t care which.

In New Orleans, he’d gotten lucky, being partnered with David Caswell. Caswell could be a by-the-book cop, but he was also a big believer in “gut” reactions and in hunches. Malachi had trusted in David’s intuition; in turn, David had trusted him and never pressed when Malachi had known where to go to help someone, especially after the summer of storms, when a dead man had led them to his children, alive and well and praying for rescue.

The problem with this kind of “talent” was that you never knew when it would kick in. And, of course, you couldn’t explain to the living that ghosts were like the living; they could only tell you about a situation if they’d been there at the time. Or if they’d seen something. Blue, for instance, could only point him to the killer if he knew who the killer was. Blue was aware that the tunnel had been used recently. He’d known Gus was in the tunnel and he had led Abby there. But unless he’d actually seen the killer...

Parking, Malachi started for the restaurant. But as he approached it, he paused. A few late-nighters were walking toward the front door.

They didn’t see the pirate standing there, the man in the frock coat with the rakish hat and pitch-black hair.

Blue Anderson.

But Malachi saw him and saw him clearly. Blue, he thought, was waiting for him.

He stood still but the pirate didn’t come any closer. Malachi strode toward him, hoping no one was watching from inside.

When he reached Blue, he heard the crackling whistle of the man’s voice on the air—or he heard it in his own mind, he was never sure.

“The river. Abby is at the river. He went through this tunnel...in the midst of the flurry over Gus. I did not see him...just the leaving. And I saw the boat...saw the rowboat out. When the rowboat is out, the bodies appear. Abby is out there.”

“Where, Blue, where?” Malachi asked anxiously. Abby was a trained agent. She knew how to use a Glock and she surely had it with her.

Blue drew a pattern in the air. “The little park—little patch of ground by the river, by the embankment. Go now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He began to run, heedless of the fact that he ran past the rear of several other businesses and dashed between parked cars and a monument, then tore across a street where he might have been hit by oncoming traffic.

He reached the place; he knew it, of course. He’d followed the tunnel to its end when he had first arrived. He’d checked the hatch, put in by the city years ago.

The hatch was unsealed?

It wasn’t just unsealed, it had been thrown open.

He turned toward the river. There was someone in it—someone swimming, towing another person. He raced to the water, digging for his phone, then called Jackson and told him where he was and what was happening. Then he threw the phone aside and dove into the water.

Abby seemed to be a strong swimmer but she was slowing down. She had a young woman in a life-saving hold as she swam toward the embankment. He made his way to her with strong, hard strokes, swimming as quickly as he could. The current was fierce that night.

She seemed startled as he approached her. He saw her eyes widen with alarm. He could almost see her mind working as she weighed her options in fighting off an attacker while preserving the life of the victim. He saw the woman she held; she was unconscious—possibly dead. A trickle of blood streamed through the water but he couldn’t figure out its source. As the water sloshed around them, he saw that the skin on the woman’s wrists was raw and red, badly chafed.

She’d recently been bound. And she was bleeding—she might be alive.

He realized that Abby was trying to kick away from him.

“It’s me, it’s Malachi!” he said.

He saw relief flood her face.

“I’ll take over,” he told her.

He had no idea how far she’d swum out, and knowing her as he was beginning to know her, she would have made it in with her burden.

But she was tiring.

When she nodded, he slipped his arm around the woman’s torso and Abby eased her hold. The woman seemed to be dressed in voluminous clothing; in fact, the weight of her clothes was enough to have drowned her.

The sound of sirens was loud in the night. Abby began to swim toward the embankment and he followed. River water lapped into his mouth, and as he neared the embankment, he felt sea grass pull at his feet. But he was there.

He saw Jackson leaning over the supporting wall, grasping Abby’s arms. Abby was hauled up. “Hang on!” Jackson called to him. A moment later, he saw paramedics and police divers. Two more men jumped in, as well as a floating stretcher. The rescue team relieved him of his burden. He saw Jackson reaching down again and he grasped his friend’s arms, grateful for the assistance.

Abby stood near him, shivering. He walked over to her without thinking and put his arms around her. He felt chilly in the night air, as well. They were both cold, but together, they seemed warmer.

They watched in silence as the rescue workers hoisted the stretcher from the water. When the stretcher and the woman on it were brought up, the EMTs started artificial respiration. He listened to the counts as two men worked together, trying to breathe life into the victim.

Water suddenly spurted from the woman’s lips.

“She’s alive?” Abby whispered.

“She’s alive,” an EMT said.

Malachi saw the river-diluted blood that was smeared on much of her tangled clothing. He winced, suspecting what it signified.

Abby began to shake in earnest.

Malachi held her more tightly. “Pretty incredible, Abby,” he told her. “A few more minutes in that river with all that clothing tangled around her... She wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Abby looked at him, her blue eyes enormous against the ashen color of her face.

“It’s Helen, Malachi. It’s Helen Long. And thank God, she’s alive.”

Hard to believe how quickly the media arrived on the scene.

Or maybe not. The newscasters followed calls for police and rescue vehicles.

David Caswell moved to keep the media at bay, but before anyone could decide what information to keep secret, someone had guessed that the missing Helen Long had been found, and reporters immediately began setting up, even while rescue personnel and police worked the scene.

Abby stood there shivering, watching it all, grateful for Malachi at her side. And grateful that David was shielding them from inquisitive—and sometimes aggressive—reporters.

The situation seemed personal to her, very personal. She was grateful; they’d saved a woman.

They’d saved a woman she knew.

Helen Long was rushed to the hospital, and Jackson climbed into the ambulance to drive with her. Soaking wet, Abby and Malachi again made the drive to the police station, where David Caswell met them. Encased in blankets, they gave more statements.

David kept them as briefly as possible. He looked at Abby curiously and asked how she’d known Helen was in the river. Abby told him she hadn’t known—she’d just been there and seen the disturbance in the water. They called Jackson at the hospital before they left; Helen Long was still unconscious. But the doctors hoped she’d make a complete recovery.

When they returned to the Dragonslayer, Grant Green and Sullivan were just shutting down, and Abby realized they’d gone into the wee hours of the morning.

It had been a long day. They’d found the body of one dead woman—unknown, but surely loved and missed, and there would be sad news for a family somewhere.

But, she reminded herself again, they’d also saved a woman. Someone she knew and even considered a friend.

“Oh, my God, you both look like bloody hell!” Grant told them.

“We took a swim,” Malachi said. He didn’t mention Helen, but Abby knew everyone would hear about it soon enough. No need to come up with something clever to explain their sodden shape.

“A good swim. We found Helen,” Abby said.

“You found her?” Sullivan demanded.

“She was in the river,” Abby explained.

“You just found her—in the river?” Grant asked. “I mean, that’s wonderful! I haven’t had the news on. Oh, no, wait, is she...dead?” he asked, the last word a whisper.

Abby shook her head. “She’s alive. They’ve taken her to the hospital.”

“Then...then she’ll be able to tell them what happened,” Grant said. “Thank God! The cops will catch this bastard. Maybe he’ll resist arrest and they’ll have to shoot him. That would be justice!”

“Grant, we have courts for justice, but, yes, we hope she’ll be able to tell the police what happened to her,” Abby said.

“She hasn’t said anything yet?” Sullivan asked.

“She isn’t conscious,” Malachi answered.

Sullivan let out a sigh. “But she will regain consciousness?”

“They’re hoping for a full recovery,” Abby told him.

“Thank God!” Grant breathed.

“Yes, thank God,” Sullivan echoed.

“Well.” Grant wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “They’ve done a lot to clean up that river, but you two are pretty disgusting. Abby, that hairstyle—plastered to your face—is not your best. We’ll finish locking up. You two go take showers. And get some sleep. We’ll take care of this place. Go on.”

“Going now,” Abby said.

She turned and started up the stairs. “Good night, you two,” Malachi said. He followed Abby and they went into the apartment together.

“It’s not locked,” Malachi noted.

“I rushed out,” Abby said.

“I’ll just take a quick look around, huh?”

She nodded. Malachi went down the hall. His “look” wasn’t really that quick. She heard him open doors and she was pretty sure he checked under the beds. When he returned to the living room, he headed straight to the bank of cameras. He knew how to use the equipment, running through the time they’d been out, scanning it all, screen by screen. He sat back after a minute. “Nope, no one even tried this door. Sullivan came up at about nine to get two bottles of bourbon. Grant came and worked in the office for a while.... Everyone else just worked. All seems well here.” He looked over at her. “Why did you go to the river?”

“I saw a shadow by the grating—it was Blue. He led me all the way through the tunnel and to the river. Malachi, the hatch was open. It should have been sealed.”

Malachi drummed his fingers on the computer desk. “When you found Gus, he was at the end of the tunnel.”

“Yes.”

“The police and emergency crews came, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but...well, no one checked the hatch.”

Malachi pulled out his cell. He called David and winced when his friend answered, then covered his phone. “Sounds like I woke him and he’s cranky,” he said. But she could dimly hear David’s voice; he might’ve just fallen asleep, but he was already awake, telling Malachi he’d get crews right on it.

He walked over to the apartment door and locked it. Smiling, he said, “Despite Grant’s comment, I’m not sure you could find a bad hairstyle, Agent Anderson. Even dank from the river, you don’t look bad.”

“Thank you. We’re locked in, so we’re fine, aren’t we?” she asked him.

“We are,” he assured her. “And I have some news.”

“What?”

“We found out about the finger—from Gus’s drawer,” he said.

“Oh?”

“It belonged to Ruth Seymour. The first victim.”

“Gus couldn’t have known that!”

“No, I don’t believe he could have. But I do believe he called you because of it.”

“Why not the police?” she murmured.

“He must have been worried—and perhaps he knew you’d never suspect him of such brutality, but the police might. Still...I don’t think it would’ve changed anything if he had called them.”

She nodded.

“You’re okay?”

“Of course. I know Gus was doing his best.” She gave him a weak smile. “I’m going to have a shower.”

“I’ll go do the same,” he said.

Abby walked down the hallway to her own room. She stripped, but before she went into the shower, she tended to her Glock. This wasn’t a night she wanted to discover that she’d damaged her service weapon. When she was sure it had dried properly and was back in good shooting order, she set it in a drawer of her bedside table, then finally walked into the shower. The heat that suffused her, the sense of being clean again, was almost sinfully delicious.

When she emerged, she slipped into a terry robe and returned to the living room. A figurehead gazed sternly down at her from the far wall; she smiled, looking at the various flags that adorned the walls. Gus had loved his heritage, loved this place.

She loved it, too. No monstrous killer making use of it would change that. She would find him.

She sat down to check the screens. There was no movement anywhere in or near the Dragonslayer.

As Malachi came out of Gus’s room, she stood up. She saw that he was wearing a blue terry robe, his dark hair slicked back and wet. “Everything okay?” he asked her huskily.

“Quiet. Just like it should be.”

She sat at the computer table again and he leaned over her to study the screens. She became very aware of the heat of his body and couldn’t help thinking that he might be naked under the robe. She was naked under hers.... She focused on his face as he watched the screen. She noted again the character that seemed etched in the rugged planes of his cheekbones and jaw. She felt the vitality of his muscles.

“Looks good,” he agreed. “And these same screens are on at your home. Someone will be up all night—they’ll take shifts.”

“We don’t have to take a shift?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “We’re the principal agents,” he told her. “I admit I’m new to this, too, but I did spend some time getting to know the people in both Krewes. Usually there are one—or sometimes two—agents closest to what’s happening. The people most connected to the situation. That’s us, in other words. So...we sleep when we can. The others cover the watches and do the research on people, places or possible suspects.”

She wasn’t really listening. There was something exceptionally compelling about the scent of soap on newly washed male flesh. There was something about...him.

He looked from the screen, into her eyes. She saw a sudden change in their mercurial hazel color.

Time passed, and then he touched her face, his fingers caressing and following the lines of her cheeks and jaw. She stood up, coming straight into his arms, and when his hands fell away, it was only because he needed them to pull her against him.

He kissed her, a pressure on her lips that was, at first, a request. She drew closer to him, responding, parting her lips, welcoming his tongue. Arousal swept through her, and she continued to feel the hunger of his lips, his touch. They seemed to stand there for an eternity, their kiss going on and on. It was as if a kiss were a brand-new thing, as if they’d invented it.

But in time, the kiss wasn’t enough, and she felt his hands under her robe, moving along her skin. His touch was almost...reverential. She threaded her fingers through his hair, moved closer and closer to him. And as they stumbled in their haste to touch and kiss again and again he whispered, “Bedroom.”

She whispered back, “Mine.”

He inhaled sharply, his teeth grating. “Wait. We have to slow down. I’m not—”

She smiled. “I am. I wasn’t planning on anything, but I’m on the Pill.”

He returned her smile.

They made their way down the hall, still touching, still kissing, crashing into a wall here and there. Finally they reached her bedroom and they fell onto the softness of her bed, the robes a tangle around them. Straddling her, Malachi wrangled out of his robe and helped remove hers. He paused for a minute, and she wasn’t sure what went through his mind. She didn’t care; she rose against him, loving the feel of her breasts against the heat of his chest. Again, they kissed, still kissing as they eased back down.

She felt him slide down the length of her body. She felt his touch, so evocative, so arousing that she was nearly delirious. Her life had been the Dragonslayer and the academy for so long...but she knew that wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing would have mattered. There were people who changed reality for others, created magic for them, and Malachi was that magic for her. She had never wanted anyone so much, never felt so afire, so hungry. And his every touch fulfilled her. His intimacy brought her almost to the brink, teased her and let her slip to become almost insanely aroused again. And then, he thrust deeply into her, filled her, and his movements elicited that same fevered urgency.

The world around her seemed to spin, to disappear, and yet to become achingly real. She was fascinated by his touch. His hair, the wicked movement of his muscles. She arched and writhed against him until the fire within her seemed to explode. She felt him explode within her as well, and for a moment, she simply luxuriated in the sensation of winding down. When she did, she felt the coolness of the air around them and she smiled. Sex wasn’t new; it was as old as life on earth. And yet she couldn’t help feeling that they had somehow reinvented the wonder of it all that night.

She smoothed back a lock of her hair and curled up against his chest. “Is...was that allowed?” she asked.

She saw the curve of his lips. “I didn’t ask anyone’s permission.”

“Yes, but...”

“I think it’s okay. Jackson is with Angela. Will is with Kat. We have two other couples in the teams. Maybe it has to do with our unique talents.” He rolled so that they faced each other. “And maybe it’s because, somehow, these situations just bring us together with the most fascinating people in the country.”

She smiled again and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m fascinating?”

“Entirely.”

“You’re a bit unusual yourself, you know.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“I’d never have imagined...”

He rose up on one elbow, gazing down at her. “Actually, I’d never imagined any of this. I made a rather awkward start of it. My social graces may be a bit...lacking.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Your other skills aren’t.”

He leaned down and kissed her once more. She’d never, ever believed a kiss could be so deep, do so much, enter her every cell.

That kiss...

They began making love again, more slowly at first, and then more frantically, and when they’d finished she lay in his arms. She thought they’d talk afterward, but they didn’t. Exhaustion must have overwhelmed her. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She didn’t hear when the kitchen crew arrived in the morning.

She didn’t awaken until she felt Malachi bolt up and go running out to the living area. Then she became aware of the sound of a ringing phone.

A minute later, he returned to the bedroom, pausing naked and perfect in the doorway. His tone was strange—anxiety combined with regret. “We’ve got to get moving,” he told her. “Helen Long is conscious and talking. We have to get to the hospital.”

Jackson was there to meet them when they arrived.

“How is she?” Abby asked.

“She’s doing all right. She’s suffering from dehydration more than anything else.”

“What has she said so far?” Malachi asked.

“Very little. She’s only been conscious for a couple of hours, and David asked her what she remembered, who hurt her, but she still seemed disoriented. David thought she might be better once Abby got here,” Jackson said. “And she might have had enough time now to reorient and remember at least some of what happened.”

“Let’s hope so,” Abby said.

Malachi nodded and looked at Jackson. “Was I right about what I saw? She was bleeding in the water. I figured she had to be alive but I couldn’t see the injury. Was her ring finger taken?”

“Yes. She cried for a while when she realized that. In fact, the hospital staff had to sedate her. She’s calmer now, but still lucid,” Jackson told them. “There was a plastic surgeon on duty and he explained that they could do a prosthetic that she’d hardly notice. Then, of course, she cried because she’s grateful to be alive.” He turned to Abby. “She knows you saved her, although she can’t figure out how you knew she’d be in the middle of the river.”

“I saw movement,” Abby murmured.

Jackson didn’t question that. “Did you notice what she was wearing?” he asked.

“A lot of fabric,” Malachi said. “Let me guess—she was dressed as a wench?”

Jackson nodded. “She was wearing a costume like the one she wears when she works on the Black Swan.”

“Let’s see if we can get her to tell us anything,” Malachi said.

Helen Long’s hospital room was fairly large, which was a good thing since David Caswell, Jackson Crow, Abby and Malachi were all huddled in it, trying to be mindful of the patient but eager to hear what she had to say.

Malachi was aware of the hum of the IV monitors, of the hospital staff tending to the sick and injured. Outside the door was a chair; an officer would sit there day and night. They feared that whoever had wanted Helen dead would know where she was—and come back to finish the job.

Helen looked pale as she lay against the pillows. She was weak, but her eyes were bright and her mind seemed to be clear.

“Helen, Abby is here now. She’d like to talk to you. I know you can do it,” Jackson said gently.

Helen looked at Abby and tried to smile. “Thank you!” she whispered.

“Helen, thank you. You made it,” Abby said.

Helen’s eyes touched Malachi’s for a minute. “And thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he told her. “You’re a survivor, Helen. And we believe in your strength. You’re going to help us catch him.”

“Maybe.” Helen glanced down at her bandaged hand. It looked as if tears were welling in her eyes again but she blinked them furiously away.

Abby said, “Please, Helen, tell us—how did he get you? Or how did they get you? Please, help us catch him.”

“I don’t think you can catch him,” she whispered.

“Tell us what happened,” Malachi urged.

Helen took a deep breath and began. “I met a man on the Black Swan one day. He told me he wanted to bring a tourist attraction to Savannah. He wanted to open a haunted house. A pirate-themed haunted house. He was nice—just pleasant, not lecherous—and when we spoke, he was easy to talk to. He asked me if I could make any suggestions about properties that might be available and would work for a haunted house. I told him I knew the best guide in the city—Roger, of course—and that I knew where he might find the perfect spot. I said he’d have to follow certain historical guidelines, especially since it’s owned by a private restoration society. But the society hasn’t had the funds to restore it. Anyway, I got one of Roger’s maps and I remembered what I’d learned about the old church. Roger and I had talked about it. I had his map, I walked around, using it, and I was going to get together with the man I met on the Black Swan. It was...before Gus’s funeral, after we were all talking one afternoon—at the Dragonslayer.”

“Everyone remembers that day,” Abby said.

“Well, I thought we were meeting in the parking lot at the tavern, but I didn’t see him. Instead, there was a note on my car, along with his business card. He said to meet him at the church.”

“Helen,” Malachi asked urgently, “what did this man look like?”

“I...I don’t know. He was just a businessman. Maybe about six feet tall? I guess he was getting started early on his whole pirate-theme thing. He had long hair and a beard and mustache. Dark. You could barely see his face.”

“Did you know him? Had you ever seen him before?”

Helen frowned. “There was something familiar about him...I feel I should have known him, but I didn’t. Or maybe he reminded me of someone I knew, but I couldn’t place who it was.”

“What was his name?” Malachi asked.

Helen frowned. “Chris...Chris Condent. Christopher on the card, I think. He told me to call him Chris.”

Malachi didn’t allow a flicker of change on his face but his mind was racing. Chris...Christopher Condent. Christopher Condent had been a pirate, active from about 1718 to 1720. After taking a great prize, he retired from the sea and lived in France until a ripe old age. He’d become very rich by taking his ill-gotten gains and investing them in a career as a merchant.

“So,” Malachi said, “you found the note on your car with the man’s business card, telling you to go to the church. What then?”

“I went there—and I was surprised. The church door was open. I figured the man had gotten hold of the owners or one of the owner’s representatives and been given a key,” Helen explained.

“And then?” Abby asked.

Helen let out a long breath. “I went in.” She stopped speaking and just stared ahead.

“Helen?” Malachi said quietly.

She didn’t move; she didn’t seem to hear.

Abby moved closer and squeezed her hand. “Helen, please, go on.”

Helen shook her head. Tears gathered in her eyes.

“What?” Abby said very softly. “What happened then?”

“I don’t know,” Helen said. “I walked in and suddenly I felt a searing pain in my head. Someone or something had hit me. I didn’t see anything, anything at all.”

She fell silent again, her expression anguished.

Malachi nodded at Abby, and she understood what he meant. Helen knew her, trusted her. She was the one who could probe where the rest of them couldn’t.

“You were hit—and you were unconscious. But...you came to?”

“I was tied up. My wrists were bound. And I was in a cabin. A ship’s cabin. At least, I think it was a ship’s cabin. It seemed like I could hear water...and whistles and ships’ horns. It was dark, really dark. There were portholes or windows but they were covered and I couldn’t move to try to see out.”

Abby sat on the bed next to Helen. “I know this is hard, but it’s important. What happened next?”

“He came in,” Helen said. “He came in...and he was horrible.”

“I’m so sorry, Helen,” Abby murmured.

“He...told me I was a captive. A pirate’s captive. So I’d better be good. Captives who caused problems didn’t live very long. He said he’d put out the call for my ransom, but if I gave him any trouble, if I tried to escape...he’d kill me.”

“Did you recognize this guy? Was it the businessman you met?” Abby asked.

Helen stared at Abby. “I—I don’t know. I really don’t know if they were the same.”

“What do you mean, Helen?” Abby asked.

“It was...the pirate. The real pirate.”

“Helen,” Malachi said, “was it someone acting as a pirate? You said that this Chris Condent wanted to open a pirate-themed haunted house.”

Helen shook her head, growing agitated. “He wasn’t Chris Condent anymore. He was the pirate, the real pirate. That’s who kidnapped me. And I had seen him before. He was very big and he had dark hair. Rich, dark hair. And blue eyes.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was the pirate, Abby. The pirate from the Dragonslayer.”

She paused, as if waiting for Abby’s comprehension.

“It was Blue,” she said. “The pirate, Blue Anderson.”