The Night Is Alive

“That’s not true! I’ve been focused on my career, that’s all.”



Malachi was coming to join her at the bar. She frowned fiercely at Sullivan.



“Well, then, just jump his bones. Everybody’s life is better with some hot sex in it,” Sullivan told her.



“Stop it!”



He made a show of buttoning his lips. Malachi slid his suitcase up beside his bar stool. “I’m...back,” he said a little lamely. “Everything okay here?”



“Right as rain,” Sullivan said before she could respond.



“Come on up. I’ll show you Gus’s room.” Abby smiled sweetly at her bartender.



“Yep, and don’t worry about anything,” Sullivan said. “Grant and I will see that the place is locked up tight.”



“Thanks,” Abby said.



Malachi smiled at Sullivan, got his bag and followed her up the stairs. She flicked on the light as she opened the door to the apartment. “I talked to Roger English. We’re all set to meet him in the morning.”



“Good,” Malachi said absently. He stepped into the apartment and glanced around. “Nice.” He walked in, noted the little coffee nook and moved into the center of the living room area. He went straight to the balcony. “Do you mind if I look out?” he asked her.



“Of course not.”



He opened the door and stepped onto the balcony. Leaning, he looked to the left. She followed him.



“So you grew up here?” he asked.



“Here, and at our family’s house on Chippewa Square,” she said. “When my parents died—my mom and then my dad—I spent my time here with Gus. And my grandmother, of course, when she was still with us.”



“It’s hard to lose family,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate.



A moment later, he gave his attention to the view. “You can see the river from here.”



“You can,” Abby agreed. “Of course, if they build up anymore, it’ll block the view.”



“It’s pretty,” he said. “And made sense for old pirates.”



“And maybe new pirates?”



He turned and looked at her. “You’re worried that this place is somehow being used. But because a woman was last seen here doesn’t mean the Dragonslayer has anything to do with what’s going on.”



“What about Gus?” she asked.



He was thoughtful for a minute and then said, “Kat will go over the M.E.’s records for Gus. I believe he did die of a heart attack—but the heart attack might have been brought on when he accosted someone or vice versa. Whatever happened, it won’t happen again. With your blessing, Will Chan will set up a camera system in the tunnel. No one will get down there by any means without being seen. Does that make you feel better?”



“Yes, thank you.” She hesitated. “How did you wind up on this case? You said you’re not an agent, that you’re a consultant.”



He shrugged. “I was recently part of a high-profile case in Virginia. Then Jackson Crow, Logan Raintree and a man named Adam Harrison—you probably know he started the whole Krewe of Hunters branch—came to see me. I told you, this is on a trial basis. And...” He paused, lowering his head, smiling slightly. “I’d been working alone since I left New Orleans because I got tired telling fellow workers that I’m not a psychic. Most people want to lock you away when you tell them you came up with some of your deductive reasoning because of a ghost—and therefore you don’t tell them. Jackson apparently knew what I was doing because he’d studied the work I’d done. After I got to spend time with him, Logan and the other agents, I felt right at home. As if I’d found my people, so to speak. Jackson sent me down here to see what’s going on, and I let him know what I’ve learned. They work in groups, which is why the others have joined us.”



“I’m glad,” she said. “Did you leave New Orleans because you lost your partner—David Caswell?”



He looked back out at the night.



“No. I left New Orleans when my wife died. It was her home and I always saw it through her eyes. When she was gone, I couldn’t stay anymore.”



“I’m sorry,” she told him.



He turned to her. “It was a long time ago now. We all lose people, and we learn to go on. That’s life—and death. So, show me Gus’s room. I’ll get that bag put away. And maybe we should try to grab a couple of hours’ sleep, because during those few hours in between shifts when this place is empty, I’m going to want a private tour. If you’re up to it...? Maybe old Blue will let himself be known when it’s just you and me.”



“Definitely. Gus’s room is over here.”



She led him down the little hall within the apartment to the first door. Stepping inside, she switched on the light. The old captain’s bed was just as it had been. She’d spent some time in the week since he’d died cleaning up, gathering up his clothes and donating them to the Salvation Army. Gus had been almost fanatically clean, but she’d given the room a once-over, too. It was decorated with ships’ lamps, a whaling harpoon and other memorabilia from the sea. The walls were paneled, very much like a ship’s cabin.



Malachi nodded approvingly. He set his suitcase on the floor and said, “I guess you accept that I’m more or less legitimate now?”



“Yes, I do.”



He studied her for a minute, and offered her a smile. “I think you’re legitimate, too, you know.”



“Thanks.” She felt strange, looking at him there, feeling that subtle smile of his as if it were a caress.



And liking it.



She stepped back into the hallway. Tall, dark and very handsome.



He was suddenly far too appealing.



“Okay, then...see you in a few hours,” she told him.



She turned and walked the few steps down the hall that led to her own bedroom. She quickly walked in, leaned against the door and realized she was shaking. And she knew then that she was impossibly attracted to him.



Sleep. Oh, hell, yeah. Sure thing.



“Blue, you’re supposed to come when we need help!” she whispered aloud. “And, Blue, I definitely need some help now!”



6



It was a good thing he’d never really needed much sleep, Malachi thought.



He’d lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over everything he’d seen and everyone he’d met since he arrived. He hadn’t wanted to alarm Abby, but he couldn’t help assuming that the Dragonslayer had been used in some way. Either that or the killer was a patron of the tavern.



Dirk. Most obvious suspect. He ran a pirate ship. He played a pirate daily.



Sullivan? The bartender knew the place like few others.



Aldous, Bootsie, Grant, Macy. Bootsie was an old man. Macy was a woman, which didn’t clear her, but the sexual activity the women had engaged in—rape?—before death had been with a man. Still, she could be in on it. A facilitator.



He wasn’t going to be able to sleep, so he got up and studied Gus’s room. It made him wish he’d had the opportunity to know the man. He’d evidently loved the river and history and ships. His room wasn’t furnished with reproduction pieces; the lamps and harpoons and other paraphernalia were original, probably worth a small fortune.



When he opened the old sea chest at the foot of the bed, he saw that it contained neatly folded blankets. Wandering around the small space, he discovered that the room didn’t have a closet, just an old oak armoire, but it had been emptied except for a few shirts and a woolen captain’s coat.



There was one dresser in the room. On top of it sat a few pictures. One he guessed was Abby as a child with her parents. Another was of Abby and, surely, Gus. Another was Abby’s college graduation photo. She was young and beautiful, and her eyes were filled with the bright light of one anticipating the future.



She still had that look about her, but now it was tempered by loss. The important people in her family had died. She’d made it through the academy and certainly seen enough of the brutality that could exist. It hadn’t silenced the resilient, vibrant chord of life within her; she’d seen something wrong in her grandfather’s death and was determined to get to the root of it.



And, she knew there was more in the world than what was seen by most people. Maybe she hadn’t had a lot of experience—but then, you didn’t really need a lot. Once you’d experienced the dead appearing before you or speaking to you, you recognized that it was possible.



He paused for a moment before opening the first drawer. Although he’d already been prying, he murmured, “Forgive me, Gus, I have to see if there’s anything here that will help us.”



The first drawer held neatly folded briefs and nothing more. It didn’t seem that Abby had gotten around to going through Gus’s more personal items.



In the second drawer he found T-shirts and two sets of long underwear. Savannah, on the river, could get damply cold in winter.



Third drawer contained jeans. He looked under them.



There was a newspaper neatly folded beneath the several layers of jeans. Malachi glanced at the date—three months earlier. He studied the paper. A brief article on the bottom of the front page had a headline that read Savannah Underground!



He scanned the article, which was interesting; apparently, years ago, Savannah had teemed with life below the surface.



He started to put the jeans back, deciding that, with more time, he’d refer back to the article. As he held the jeans, he felt something in one of the pockets.



He pulled out a small plastic bag. There was a Post-it stuck to the bag with a note. “Police. Found at bottom of tunnel ladder. Must get to right person.”



Curious, Malachi examined the contents of the bag. He couldn’t figure out what the object was and then a chill seemed to settle in his bones. The...thing was small and oddly dark, as if it were growing charred. He had to open the bag and let it spill out before he saw what it was.



A finger. Presumably a ring finger. Decaying. He looked at the note again. It had to mean that Gus had found the finger and meant to give it to the police. But he’d wanted to talk to his granddaughter—someone he trusted. Gus had known or suspected something.