The Night Is Alive

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.



4



Once again, Abby Anderson stared at him, her frown intense, her manner completely unnerved and highly irritated.



“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded in a harsh whisper, coming up to him.



He arched one of his heavy dark brows and felt the spirit gum on it tighten. “You said you thought it was important to be on the ship. So I thought that it was important, too.”



“You were supposed to be investigating the murders—seeing your friend, David Caswell, and finding out what’s going on.”



“I did see David,” he told her. “I met him for coffee at eight. Weird situation. He’s investigating the murders, but the other detective—the man you met last night—has been assigned the missing-person situation. So he’s asked that he be paired up with Ben Peters. All the stations and all law enforcement officers in the area have been alerted about the murders, but my friend David is the head of the task force. I learned a great deal today—before boarding the ship.”



That didn’t seem to make her happy. “Why are you in this ridiculous getup?” she asked.



“I’d met Dirk. I didn’t want him to know I was on board, observing.”



She turned around and started walking toward the end of the dock.



He followed her. “Hey!”



She spun on him. She made a good wench, he thought. A pirate hat with little pearl strings attached sat over her forehead. She wore boots, black leggings, a long-sleeved blouse, fitted red vest and frock coat—male attire, which certainly might have been chosen by a woman who found herself sailing the seas. She had long shapely legs and the boots added to her height. The color of her eyes was so rich and deep a blue that it was mesmerizing, especially when framed by the near-ebony darkness of her hair. He was surprised to feel something stir in him. But she stirred more than his senses; she seemed to touch something deeper than the simple lust that biology and nature dictated. She had passion. She seemed to breathe vitality.



“Do you enjoy sneaking up on me, playing dress-up?”



He cast his head to the side with a small, amused smile. “I often worked undercover when I was in New Orleans and, quite frankly, I used disguises in my work as a private investigator. As a matter of fact, Jackson Crow actually mentioned that some members of his unit have found their acting talents to be of use. In a way, acting is part of human behavior. I’m sure you’ve learned that criminals, especially psychopaths, have a tendency to act incredibly sane and rational. We need to be able to play certain parts, as well. And while you’re busy commenting on me, you might take a look in a mirror. I think you’re dressed up, too?”



“Not to make a fool of anyone,” she muttered.



He frowned. “I wasn’t trying to make a fool of you, Ms. Anderson. I was trying to take a ride on the high seas—or river, as it may be—and get a take on the man who owns the ship. A man you might not see with open eyes because he’s been a friend for so long,” Malachi said.



Abby gasped. “Dirk? You think Dirk could be guilty of...this? Of...of anything?” she asked.



Malachi caught her arm and walked her down the dock toward the street. “Ms. Anderson, as I told you, the first thing I did this morning was meet with my friend, David Caswell. And I discovered several things about the deaths. The victims had marks at their wrists that indicated they’d been bound, probably with heavy rope, according to the medical examiner. They all showed signs of blunt force trauma. In other words, they were hit on the head. But in all three cases, the actual cause of death was drowning. So, Ms. Anderson, it looks as if they were held captive, knocked out—and then forced into the water. Water...hmm. That could mean a ship. Look at it this way. They’d been bound and—metaphorically, at least—forced to walk the plank. That kind of implies a ‘pirate’ might have wanted them dead, or they might have met their end off the deck of a pirate ship.”



Abby stared at him. “Oh, no! All right—maybe. But they could’ve gone off a rowboat or...or an oil tanker just as easily.”



“Yes,” Malachi said, “they could have. But how likely is that?”



She shook her head. “I’ve known Dirk most of my life. This is his livelihood. Why would he suddenly go insane and start killing people off his ship—especially without any of us seeing a change in him?”



“No one ever really knows another human being,” Malachi said simply.



“Oh, I think I would’ve noticed bodies popping up in my city over the years!”



“People sometimes crack, Ms. Anderson. Strain, pressure. All the same, no one completely understands the human brain. It’s the most wonderful computer in the world—but just like a computer it can short-circuit. And I didn’t say your friend was the killer. I merely thought it prudent to investigate. Under the circumstances.”



“And you knew I was on that ship.”



“I’m not trying to fight you, Ms. Anderson. I’m not trying to go against you. Look!” he said with exasperation. “I’m here because you wrote to Jackson Crow. I’m here to help you.”



“If you’re going to stalk me, you can quit calling me Ms. Anderson. It’s Abby,” she said. “And—”



She broke off suddenly, blue eyes growing large as saucers as she stared past him.



“Abby?” he said.



She didn’t respond. She was still staring.



“Helen?” she whispered, her voice thick.



Malachi spun around to see where she was pointing.



She was looking at the water, to the far side of the dock. They’d done a good job in the past years, cleaning up the river, but it was impossible to stop a certain amount of natural growth and unnatural garbage from cresting the water and drifting up against the embankment.



There was sea grass or fungus, a plastic soda bottle someone had tossed away and a few cigarette butts. Oil slick covered the water right at the docks, creating little curlicues of blue and purple on the water.



And caught there, just by one of the pilings for the dock, was a body.



Facedown, it appeared to be a woman—long strands of river-sodden hair fanned out from the head. And it appeared that she’d just washed up.



On the slim chance that she might be alive, Malachi took his phone out of his pocket and let it fall on the deck before he dove into the river. Surfacing by the body, he quickly turned her over.



It was indeed a woman. That was all he could really tell as he looked at her face.



And she was dead. River life had already been eating at her flesh. The tip of her nose was gone and her flesh was icy cold and a grotesque shade of gray.



He looked up the five or six feet from the water to where Abby stood on the dock. She was almost as gray as the corpse.



“Call 9-1-1,” he told her.



Despite her pallor, she was functioning. “I already did.”



“Is it Helen?” he asked her.



“I wouldn’t begin to know,” she said, “she doesn’t even look...real.”



* * *



An hour later, the corpse was in an ambulance bound for the morgue, crime scene techs were scouring the water and the embankment, and police divers had been dispatched to see if any evidence might remain in the water. Shaken, Dirk had canceled his afternoon and evening pirate cruises, rescheduling or refunding the money of those who’d bought tickets. Abby sat with Malachi Gordon—who had cast off all vestiges of a costume—at a desk in police headquarters.



She liked Malachi’s former partner from the get-go.



David Caswell’s desk was surrounded by others. There was a fair amount of activity at the station. A hooker was arguing with her arresting officer and two other cops were trying to deal with a junkie on a bad trip.



David had arrived at the dock soon after the initial response team had cordoned off the area and plucked Malachi and the corpse from the water. About six-one, sandy-haired, green-eyed, he was serious without being somber, smart and probing without being aggressive or demanding. Abby thought he had to be in his early thirties. He spoke with a slow, smooth Southern accent that matched his steadfast but easy manner.



Maybe he didn’t have to be demanding; he knew he’d get a straight story from Malachi, no matter what the story—and there really wasn’t much of it.



“Your statements are being typed up. You can sign them and get out of here for now,” Caswell told them. “I figure you want to attend the autopsy?” he asked Malachi.



Malachi, hands clasped in front of him, nodded.



“It’ll be scheduled for later today. I’ll call you when I know the exact time. Before I let you go, can we run through what happened? Ms. Anderson...” He paused, looking at Abby, and smiled. “Or is it Agent Anderson?”



She smiled. “I just realized it is. Agent Anderson. I am official. But please call me Abby.”



“Okay, Abby. So you were working on your friend’s pirate boat because his usual actress is the young lady reported as missing. Helen Long.” He studied her. It wasn’t that costumes and pageantry didn’t abound in Savannah. But it could also be a very conservative, old Southern city. She was hardly dressed as a respectable young local in her plumed hat, frock coat, breeches and boots.



“Yes, I was being his wench for today. He’s very upset. Dirk is a great employer. He provides sleeping space when his people need it. He takes on part-time help so his employees can go to school if they choose. He really cares about Helen,” Abby said.