The Night Is Alive
Page 48

“While the Savannah police are not making any statements at this time, inside sources, choosing to remain anonymous, have stated that a suspect in the infamous River Rat murders is in custody and being questioned. The River Rat Killer—so dubbed because of his ability to disappear on the water or under the ground—is suspected to have taken the lives of one man and three young women, to have kidnapped and tortured a fourth young woman and may possibly be holding another captive, even as he’s being questioned by the police. While our information has not been verified, it seems that the city of Savannah may soon breathe a huge sigh of relief. Our source has told us that the evidence in this case is based on hard science from the forensic lab. We’ll be back with more information the minute it’s available. Stay tuned.”
Abby had to sit down. Aldous. It seemed impossible.
Her hands were trembling when she pulled out her cell phone to call Malachi. He answered immediately.
“Hey, wench,” he said. “Is the show over?”
“It is. Where are you? What’s going on? The media are announcing that the man suspected to be the killer is in custody.”
“The media have it already?”
“They do,” she said. “And I assume they’re referring to Aldous.”
“I imagine. He’s the only suspect. He’s not really being held. So far, he’s actually there voluntarily. I suggested to him that he didn’t want to leave yet.”
“You don’t really think it’s Aldous, do you?”
“I think it’s important that people—especially the real killer—believe the police are convinced the killer’s in custody.”
“But if the killer isn’t in custody...or if he is, for that matter, Bianca is still out there somewhere.”
“I’m at the hospital. I’m on my way back, though. I may walk around for a while. I’m trying to clear my head. Are you all right?”
“Of course. I’m fine. I’m in the apartment. I just got out of pirate-wench mode.”
“Who’s there, at the Dragonslayer?”
“When I came up? Roger and Paul. They were still pirates, talking to diners. Bootsie and Dirk were at the bar, although Dirk will have to leave soon. Macy and Grant Green are both here.”
“Just go down and be friendly, okay? They should start questioning the fact that Aldous isn’t there. Isn’t there a TV behind the bar?”
“Yes, for games and events. It wasn’t on.”
“Make sure it’s on. See what happens when your patrons watch the news about the suspect who’s being held. I’ll be there soon.”
Abby ended the call. She stepped out of the apartment and carefully locked the door. Straightening her shoulders, she hurried down to the bar.
Macy was at the host station, Sullivan behind the bar.
Roger was seated at a table with a family, entertaining their three children. Paul was in the dining room as well, speaking with a young couple.
Neither Bootsie nor Dirk was at the bar.
“Where are our favorite barflies?” she asked Sullivan.
“Who knows?” Sullivan shrugged. “I guess Dirk went back for the afternoon sailing of the Black Swan. Bootsie went with him. Maybe he’s sailing with Dirk today. Aldous hasn’t shown up, so he might have wanted to hang with a friend.”
“Possibly.” Abby nodded. “Can you turn on the TV, Sullivan?”
“Sure. Anything special?” he asked.
“Whatever. How about news?”
Sullivan picked up the remote and switched on the flat-screen television that hung over the low etched mirror behind the call-brand whiskeys.
Abby had no idea how much good it was going to do, the two barflies who were supposed to see the news weren’t there.
But the same newscaster came on, reporting that a suspect was being held in what was now called the River Rat case. She didn’t have anything new to add, but she rephrased things so that it almost sounded as if she were telling her audience more.
Looking up at the screen, she could sense people walking up and crowding behind her. Roger and Paul were suddenly beside her; so was Macy. Abby hadn’t even known Grant was still there, but he was with the group staring up at the screen.
“They caught him?” Macy breathed.
“But they’re not revealing a name,” Sullivan said.
“What about Bianca?” Roger asked. “They’re not saying anything about Bianca!”
“They don’t seem to really know anything,” Grant commented. “They know the cops are holding someone and that’s it.”
“No news about Bianca is good news, Roger,” Macy said gently.
But Roger shook his head as he stared glumly up at the screen.
“No news... But they have to find her!”
“If they have a suspect, they can make him tell where he’s keeping her,” Sullivan said. He looked at Abby. “Right? Hey, wait—Abby, you must know who it is.”
She wasn’t comfortable lying but she had no intention of telling the truth.
“I’ve been here playing wench. All I can do is connect with the feds and see what they know.”
“Well, call Malachi!” Macy insisted.
“I just talked to him. He wasn’t at the station,” Abby said. “He isn’t involved with what’s going on there.”
“But he’s an FBI agent.”
“Consultant,” Abby corrected.
“Okay, then you’re an FBI agent!” Grant said.
“I just passed the academy. I don’t have an official assignment,” Abby said.
Grant shook his head. “Then you’re running around helping those guys for free?” Grant asked. “Gus should’ve taught you to be a better businesswoman.”
Abby frowned at him. “Grant, business has nothing to do with it. I tried to get them down here because they’re part of an elite unit who seem to solve situations no matter what.”
“They need to hurry,” Roger said, walking over to Abby. “Bianca’s out there! She’s not going to last much longer,” he said dully. “If she’s still alive, if she isn’t floating somewhere we haven’t found her yet. Or like that poor Jane Doe they’ve got at the morgue. Shoved into an old crypt somewhere.”
Abby very much wanted to say something reassuring to him. But the killer almost certainly had her. He’d taken Helen, and attempted to kill her within a few days. She’d failed to fall in love with him, failed to welcome him as her heroic lover.
How long could Bianca play the game before he got tired of trying to make her love him? Or before he realized that even if she was playing the game, she was lying and despised him?
The clock was ticking.
* * *
Malachi parked the car at the back of the Dragonslayer parking lot but he didn’t go in. Abby was watching the Dragonslayer. He’d just heard from Jackson, who was still at the police station. Will Chan was aboard the Black Swan.
A plainclothes detective had followed Dirk and Bootsie. Bootsie had returned to his own home, riverside of Colonial Park Cemetery; he’d gone in and was still there.
Malachi began to walk along the river, back along Bay Street and then into the old section, where Oglethorpe had planned his original streets and squares.
What was he missing? Tap, tap, tap.
He started, quickly moving aside, as his distraction almost caused him to walk into a man. “I’m sorry, excuse me,” he muttered. Then he paused as the man stopped—and he realized he was looking at a soldier, a man in a Union uniform. It wasn’t tattered and torn, so he must’ve been wearing his parade best, dark blue adorned with gold braid.
Cavalry, Malachi thought, the analytical part of his mind making the first judgment.
Dead, was his second thought.
He was near the cemetery, but the last burial in Colonial Park Cemetery had been in 1853.
Then again, ghosts didn’t usually haunt cemeteries. They haunted the places where they’d lived and found happiness, where they feared for those who lived after them, or where they had met trauma.
He continued to stare at the ghost, incredulous and curious.
The young ghost stared back at him—incredulous, too, and very curious.
A couple passed him on the street, clearly disturbed by the way he seemed to stare at some invisible entity. Maybe they felt a strange cold in the air, as well.
The woman shivered, looked at Malachi as if she feared there was something seriously wrong with him and the couple moved on. Malachi was alone with the young man under the shade of a live oak.
“I’m sorry,” Malachi said. “I didn’t see you at first. Can I...can I do anything for you?”
“You are talking to me?” the ghost said.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“You...you see me. You hear me.”
“Yes. My name is Malachi Gordon.”
The ghost smiled. “Lieutenant Oliver Mackey. No, sir. There is nothing you can do for me. I was just going home.”
“Near here?” Malachi asked. “Not Colonial Park Cemetery?”
“That cemetery has been closed to burials for years, sir. I’m sorry to say I died of a fever before ever proving my mettle in battle. While I was despised in life, sir, for my abolitionist views, I was, in death, returned to the arms of my family and laid to rest in my family plot.” He pointed toward a house around the corner from the Wulf and Whistle. He shrugged, looking at Malachi. “The coffin was never opened here. The war had begun, so I might well have been stripped, tarred and feathered, even burned to ash, had they done so.”
“The war is long over.”
“But I know that the fight for real equality, which this country must stand for, continues.” He shook his head. “Broke my heart not to be loyal to my state, but I couldn’t help my beliefs. Slavery was morally wrong, against my God.”
“Many people agree with you, Lieutenant. But the world is changing, although it changes slowly.”