The Night Is Alive
Page 36

“What about the other girl? The one Roger was seeing?” Grant asked.
“No one knows yet,” Malachi told him.
“That—that bastard!” Grant sputtered. “He takes a new one the minute he...loses one. Can’t you stop him?”
“We will stop him,” Malachi said.
“Are you getting any closer?”
No! Abby wanted to scream. How is he doing this? How is he eluding this kind of manhunt?
“I believe we are,” Malachi responded. “Thanks to Abby, one girl is alive. And with the police prowling the river now and all the searches taking place out there...he’ll be caught.”
“Soon, I hope!” Grant said.
“Every criminal makes a mistake at some point,” Malachi insisted. “That’s when we’ll get him.”
“Uh, you might want to clean up first,” Grant said, looking pointedly at Abby.
“I’m going upstairs now. Oh, Grant, can you ask the chef to make us something to eat?” she asked. “You can send it up—”
“Or,” Malachi interrupted, “we can eat at the bar. Join Dirk, Bootsie and Aldous.”
“Okay,” Abby said. “But first, a shower.”
Malachi came with her, but didn’t seem to notice that she was shrugging out of her muddy clothing as they entered the apartment. He repeated his inspection, making sure no one was inside, under the beds, in the closets. He headed back to the bank of computer screens to watch what was going on in the restaurant.
Abby cleared her throat. “I’m hopping in the shower,” she told him.
He nodded; he didn’t even glance up. So much for her appeal.
Hot water had seldom felt so good. Well, other than the night before, after she’d plunged into the river...
It felt sensuously good. Despite everything they were frantically doing in their desperate new search to find another young woman, she wished Malachi would join her.
She almost needed him.
She pictured him walking into the bathroom, stripping off his clothing, imagined the sleek feel of his naked flesh and his hands on her breasts.
But he didn’t come in.
She emerged, feeling a little embarrassed. When she returned to the living room area, having donned jeans and a T-shirt to head back down for dinner, Malachi was still studying the screens, fixated on them. But he immediately sensed her standing behind him.
“The soap... You smell wonderful,” he told her. There was a husky note in his voice and a darkening in the hazel of his eyes as he watched her; it made her knees tremble.
“You would’ve been welcome to join me,” she said.
He smiled, an ironic twist to his lips. “I had to know that this apartment was safe.”
She smiled. He stood and started to touch her but drew back. “Go down and join our friends at the bar. Try to casually find out what they’ve been doing all day.”
She wanted to argue with him. Bootsie, Dirk and Aldous—these men were bulwarks in her life. They couldn’t be guilty of anything. Will Chan had been watching Dirk and the Black Swan. Bootsie was old. Aldous...
Aldous was healthy and fit—and not all that old. He’d always looked like a pirate with his gleaming bald head and single gold earring.
He had money. Enough money to do whatever he wanted. His business was a shipping company; he had ships and boats at his disposal.
She didn’t say anything, but Malachi gave her another rueful smile. “I see your mind working,” he said.
“Aldous?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I’m sure your FBI friends have checked out everything they possibly can on him. As far as I know, he’s never even had a parking ticket.”
His grin deepened at that. “Hey, you’re the one who’s actually a fed at the moment,” he reminded her.
Abby rolled her eyes. “I’ll be downstairs,” she said, and left him in the apartment. She was grateful to see that Grant had ordered dinner for her and Malachi. Two covered plates were set on the bar, next to Bootsie. Aldous was sitting between him and Dirk.
Abby kissed the three of them on the cheek, hitched herself onto the bar stool beside Bootsie’s and took the cover off her food. Chicken potpie. It smelled wonderful.
“You doing okay?” Bootsie asked her, his eyes grave.
“I’m just feeling sick that this killer may have taken another young woman,” she said.
“But,” he said, lifting a glass of ale to her, “you saved Helen. She seems to be doing just fine—minus a finger, unfortunately. But you can live perfectly well with one less finger. I should know. I’ve lived most of my life without a leg.”
Dirk bent over the bar to speak to her across the other men. “Did you see Helen again tonight? She’s really doing well?”
“She’s really doing well,” Abby assured them. “So, what about you gentlemen? What have you been up to today?”
“We went with Dirk to see Helen,” Aldous said, looking at her as if she should have realized that.
“That was this morning,” Abby said. “How about later? Have you been sitting on these chairs all day?”
Frowning, Dirk surveyed the restaurant and said, “Abby, you know I’ve been back on the Black Swan. That handsome young Asian fellow, or whatever he is, has been working with me. You know that,” he repeated.
“Will Chan.”
“Yeah, Will. He’s a good guy. A great performer.”
“I don’t really know him but I have heard he’s a pretty talented magician, as well,” Abby said.
“Yeah, he’s something else. He pulls doubloons out of kids’ ears, has ’em laughing. Wish I could keep him,” Dirk said. “He was with me for the afternoon tour. I assume he’s keeping an eye on me, right?”
“An eye on the guests, the river...everything, Dirk.”
“Yeah. Like I’m a suspect!” Dirk said, sounding a little bitter.
Sullivan walked up to Abby. “Water? Beer, soda—anything to drink?”
“Just water, thanks, Sullivan,” Abby told him.
“And not to worry—these old barflies haven’t been here all day!” Sullivan said, grinning. “They’ve only been back for about three hours now.”
Three hours. So, ever since Dirk had berthed the Black Swan. There’d been at least three hours when they could’ve been doing anything. Separately or together.
And of course, there were two hours between sailings on the Black Swan. Right around lunchtime...
Right around the time Bianca Salzburg had disappeared.
“Is your food okay?” Sullivan asked.
“Yes, it’s fine. I just started talking and got distracted.”
“Ah, there’s your colleague,” Sullivan said. He waited as Malachi, fresh from the shower, came to join her.
“Hello,” Dirk said in greeting. The others echoed him.
“Gentlemen.” Malachi took his seat next to Abby.
“Cops, FBI people wasting their time watching me and God knows who else,” Dirk muttered. “And they’ve come up with...nothing.”
“Sometimes a killer’s never caught,” Aldous reminded him.
“They’d better catch this one, or Savannah will run out of women,” Bootsie commented.
Malachi turned on his bar stool to face them. “You don’t feel the police are doing everything they can?” he asked.
“Killer hasn’t been caught,” Bootsie said. “And they’re hounding good people, like our friend Dirk here.”
“Oh, they’ll catch this killer,” Malachi spoke with all the confidence he could muster. Grant had moved over toward the bar. Sullivan remained where he’d been, right behind it. All five men stared at him. “This killer...well, he’s pretending to be Blue Anderson.”
“Yeah, I heard. The media got hold of Helen Long’s story about being attacked by a ‘pirate,’” Sullivan said. “So he’s pretending to be Blue?”
“Here’s the thing,” Malachi went on. “And I’m not talking out of line. The police want some of Helen’s information out there to prevent other women from being taken. The man who lured her to the abandoned church had given her a business card with the name Christopher Condent on it. I’m sure you gentlemen know who the real Christopher Condent was?”
“A pirate. A brutal pirate who got away with it,” Sullivan said.
“He died in France, right?” Dirk asked.
“Rich as Midas, from what I’ve read,” Aldous added.
“Yes, I think our killer believes he can do whatever he wants, get away with it and then sail off into the sunset. Christopher Condent. Students of piracy or local history might know the name, but it’s not like Blackbeard or any of the really well-known names. So, he amuses himself by using the name and the business cards, but then dresses up as Blue. Everyone in this area knows what Blue looks like. There are dozens of paintings of him, including the replica of him right here in the dining room. But there’s a problem with that.”
“What?” Bootsie asked. “Other than the guy getting his pirates confused.”
“Well, Blue, of course.”
Everyone stared at Malachi. “What do you mean?” Aldous asked.
“I mean the real Blue won’t stand for it.”
Bootsie began to laugh. Dirk let out a choked cough that became a chuckle.
“Blue Anderson’s been dead for two and a half centuries!” Sullivan said.
“Blue is here in spirit,” Malachi told them all.
“Yep—in all the spirits behind this bar,” Sullivan said, grinning.
“Oh, no, my friends. Don’t kid yourselves. Blue is very much here, in every brick and beam of this tavern. And his anger will grow—and when it does, the killer had best beware.”
11
“I bet they’ve decided the FBI has brought in a certifiably crazy person as a consultant,” Abby said as the door to the apartment closed behind them.