The Night Is Alive (2 page)

1

“M
r. Gordon, how were you able to find
Joshua Madsen when the police were completely baffled as to where Bradford
Stiles was keeping the child?”

That was the first question shouted, but there were dozens of
reporters in front of the Richmond police station where Malachi Gordon had just
finished the interviews and paperwork that completed the Stiles case as far as
he was concerned. They were like a flock of ring-billed seagulls with their
microphones.

Should’ve had someone sneak me out the
back,
he thought.

He raised a hand. “Please. It’s been a long day and night for
everyone involved.”

At his side, Detective Andrew Collins supported his efforts to
escape. “Everyone who worked this case is drained. There’ll be a police
spokesperson out shortly. Let Mr. Gordon pass!”

That didn’t stop the barrage of questions or change the fact
that Malachi felt as if he was being attacked by a flock of birds as he and Andy
Collins made their way to the street and his SUV.

“Sorry,” Andy muttered. “Should have—”

“Yeah, yeah, should’ve gotten me out through the back. Or maybe
I could’ve called for a ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’” Malachi said. “Not to worry—my
mistake. I guess we’re all worn out.”

They reached the car, which was behind a police fence so the
reporters couldn’t follow them that far. As Malachi slid into the driver’s seat,
Andy asked, “How the hell
did
you find that cabin in
the woods?”

“Pure luck, I think. We’d all fanned out. I just got to it
first. It’s my neck of the woods, so I pretty much knew where it
couldn’t
be,” Malachi said.

“Well, another few hours and... That boy owes you his
life.”

Malachi shook his head. “Everyone worked on this.”

“But his mom came to you—and the case broke once you were on
it,” Andy said. “You know, if you admitted you were a psychic, no one would
think less of you. I mean, yeah, some of those guys can be jerks, and they like
to tease you about your voodoo powers and all that, but—”

“I can’t admit I’m a psychic, Andy, because I’m not,” Malachi
told him. “I’m going to go home and get some sleep. You need to do the
same.”

“Sure thing. Thanks, Malachi.”

“Yep,” Malachi said. He hesitated. On a case like this, cops
could be hard-asses. Big tough guys, they still felt fear. Not fear of a junkie
or a drug dealer or even a brutal killer, but fear of what they didn’t know or
didn’t understand. After he’d left the force in New Orleans, he’d preferred to
work on his own for that very reason. As a P.I., he didn’t mind working with
them; he just didn’t want to be one of them. That way when the ribbing got bad,
he could always walk out.

Some cops, though, like Andy, were all right. They didn’t
understand. Maybe they were even a little afraid. But they were willing to
accept any help they could get, and they weren’t afraid to be grateful for
it.

“Andy,” he said, “thanks to you and your lieutenant for letting
me in on this, and for listening to me. The kid owes
you
his life.”

“Hell, yeah!” Andy said.

Grinning, Malachi waved to him and revved the car into gear,
leaving the parking lot. He headed out of the city then, anxious to get away.
He’d never expected the publicity that would come with this case. He’d taken it
on because Joshua Madsen’s mother, Cindy, had come to him. She had broken his
heart. Joshua had been abducted during the two-block walk from his school bus to
his home yesterday afternoon. A neighbor had seen a nondescript white van pull
away, and when that news came out, police had immediately suspected Stiles, the
Puppy Killer, as he’d been called.

Stiles didn’t kill puppies; he used puppies to lure young
people to his van. They’d rescued a litter of golden retriever pups and their
mom when they’d found Stiles and Joshua Madsen.

Malachi didn’t consider himself particularly brilliant in
finding Stiles. The police investigative work had been excellent. They’d
narrowed down the white vans in the city, thanks to the keen eye of the neighbor
who’d managed to give them a partial on the license plate. Soil found on one of
the victims had placed him in a certain area.

Malachi had known the area.

And he lived not twenty miles away in a home that was over
two-and-a-half centuries old and came complete with pocket doors so that it
could serve as a tavern, way station, home and hideout when need be. And it also
came with Zachary Albright, Revolutionary spy and resident ghost.

No need to try explaining
that
to
Andy, even if they were friends, or any of the other cops. Because, frankly,
Zachary didn’t have all the answers; being dead didn’t make him omniscient. Just
like he’d been in life, Zachary was a passionate man with a strong sense of
right and wrong. He wandered the grounds, and he’d been the one to note the
reclusive hunting lodge near the river. He’d suggested it to Malachi, and
Malachi had remembered it—yes, the perfect place to bring a victim. Cries
couldn’t be heard and the sure-flowing water was always ready to wash away an
abundance of evidence.

It occurred to him that he really shouldn’t be thanked; he’d
been observing the comings and goings on the trail when he was spotted by
Stiles. He’d been forced to kill Stiles or be killed himself. The trail had led
to a run-down shack but there’d been no sign of the missing boy. Police had
searched the woods. Because of the “hideaway” in his own home—floorboards that
lifted to reveal a six-by-six hidden room below—he’d begun to tear apart the
shack. And he’d found Joshua Madsen, bound hand and foot, dehydrated,
unconscious...but still alive.

Kids were resilient, he told himself. And this time, Stiles
hadn’t had a chance to abuse the boy. They got him to the hospital and he’d been
returned to the loving arms of his family. He’d make it, Malachi believed,
without carrying the kind of abuse that might have made him an abuser
himself.

Malachi wished he could say that about all kids who were
abducted.

It was late, past midnight, and once he took the ramp off I-64,
the country road that would take him home was dark. He turned down the
air-conditioning in his car. Summer was quickly changing into fall.

He pulled into his drive and entered the old house he’d
inherited from his uncle, an academic who’d never married, thus leaving him the
place in his will. Malachi had spent time with him there from when he was a kid.
He’d loved it, and his parents had owned a home just minutes away in a suburb of
Richmond. He usually kept the pocket doors open. While the original structure
had been maintained, it was also a home. It had always been a home, even when
the original inhabitants had opened it as a tavern because of the economy. Yep,
things didn’t really change. Back in the 1700s, sometimes the only way to
survive had been to serve up good old country fare and lots of locally brewed
ale and use the home itself as income.

Malachi picked up his mail and dropped his keys on the side
table as he walked in. He was immediately accosted by Zachary. Once, Malachi had
been unnerved by the ghost. Now he was accustomed to Zachary, clad in the black
frock coat and silk vest in which he’d been buried out back in the family
cemetery.

“You found him?” Zachary asked anxiously.

“We did. Thank you. If you hadn’t mentioned that place—”

“You would’ve thought of it. Eventually.”

“And the kid might have been dead by then.”

“Your jacket!” Zachary said. He touched Malachi’s arm. Malachi
felt the movement of air around him, nothing else.

“The killer fired at me.”

“Good God, man, he was close!”

“Too close. I shot back. He’s dead.”

“Quite fine!”

Malachi shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill him. We hadn’t
found the boy yet. But I assumed someone built the shack on the lines of old
places like this, and I was right. Joshua Madsen was in the hideaway.”

“So you saved him. Are you injured?”

“Only my pride. I didn’t think Stiles had seen me. I was trying
to watch the place and get closer, and I didn’t realize he’d come out back. Not
until the bullet grazed my shoulder. I liked this jacket—not as much as
uninjured flesh, but—”

“Then, all ended well,” Zachary broke in, pleased. “I’m out to
tell Genevieve!”

The ghost turned and left him, moving through what was now the
kitchen and outside, dissolving through the walls. He was heading to the small
family cemetery in back, Malachi knew. Zachary’s wife and children were
there—the three who’d died as infants and the three who’d survived childhood
diseases to adulthood. Many of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren were
there, too. Malachi had asked him once why he stayed around when he missed his
Genevieve so much. Zachary had told him, “I believe I will know when it’s time
for me to follow my love.”

Malachi never reminded him that he hadn’t known when it was
time to hide from the British during the Revolution. Zachary had been caught
spying. They’d intended to hang him but he’d escaped and yet, in escaping, he’d
been mortally wounded and had died in the arms of his Genevieve, right in the
house, in front of the large stone hearth.

Then again, Malachi mused, he hadn’t been that bright himself.
Stiles had almost caught him in the chest with a .45.

He walked into the kitchen to pour himself a shot of his
favorite single-malt Scotch. As he did so, there was a tap at his door. He
immediately stiffened.

Aw, come on! His address wasn’t public. The damned reporters
hadn’t found him out here, had they?

He decided to ignore the summons and remained unwaveringly
focused on his shot of Scotch.

His phone rang. He glanced at his caller ID as he passed it.
The number was unavailable, so he didn’t answer. The ringing stopped.

The pounding at the door began again.

Swearing, he strode over to it. He lifted the little cover on
the peephole and looked out. He was ready to swing the door open, oh-so-ready to
berate whoever was knocking at this time of night.

He stopped, surprised by the sight of three somber and
distinguished-looking men in suits. One was elderly—possibly around eighty or
so. The other two were tall and appeared to have Native American blood in their
backgrounds, though mixed with some kind of Northern European ancestry.

The elderly man held a cell phone. He hit the keys.

Malachi’s cell began ringing again.

Seriously, what the hell? These guys had his number and they
knew where to find him.

He opened the door and scowled at the three of them.

“Mr. Gordon, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we’ve been trying
to reach you,” the elderly gentleman said. He held up his cell phone with a
shrug.

“I’ve been a little busy,” Malachi said. “And it is—” he looked
at his watch “—almost 3:00 a.m. Who are you? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve
had a long day and a longer night. What do you want?”

“Your unusual talent, Mr. Gordon,” the elderly man said,
offering his hand. “My name is Adam Harrison. These are agents Jackson Crow and
Logan Raintree.”

“Uh, great, nice to meet you. What unusual talent?”

“The kind explained by your roommate,” one of the other men
said. Raintree, Malachi thought.

“My roommate?” Malachi said.

Raintree indicated someone who stood behind Malachi.

Malachi turned. Zachary was back in the house, watching him—and
the newcomers—with obvious amusement.

“I believe these gentlemen see me, Malachi,” Zachary said.

“Yes, we see you,” the man introduced as Crow acknowledged.
“May we come in, please? You had a long and fruitful day, and we’re pretty sure
you don’t intend to stop when it comes to protecting the innocent who are in
imminent danger.”

“We believe we can make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Adam
Harrison said.

Harrison.
Malachi thought he knew
the name. Harrison had been around a long time; he was known for solving some
horrible crimes, some cases that...

Were unusual.

That had some kind of...

Ghosts.

He opened the door. “Okay, come on in, but I was about to have
a Scotch. You can join me or not. I’ll listen to you—but that’s it. I’ll
listen.”

Harrison walked in, followed by the other two. Malachi closed
the door behind them.

They saw Zachary.

He asked them to go ahead and sit down in the old parlor by the
huge stone hearth. Back in the kitchen, he scooped ice into glasses and poured
Scotch.

He paused, then added a second shot to his own.

He had a feeling his life was about to change.

* * *

“One day I’ll fall, but I will fall to the law on the
high seas, and not to the likes of you, Scurvy Pete! I will go with my ship—and
not with the dregs of the sea!”

“To the death, Blue Anderson! To the death!”

The two young fencers/actors played out the battle between Blue
Anderson and Scurvy Pete Martin with passion and panache on a raised all-weather
stage at the far side of the Dragonslayer parking lot. They were decked out in
full pirate gear, colorful flared and embellished jackets swirling around them
as they accomplished each choreographed step.

The wench they fought over—a British admiral’s daughter named
Missy Tweed—cowered in a corner while they fought. She was customarily played by
a pretty young blonde from the local arts academy. Eyewitness accounts of the
encounter in the river between the two pirates described Blue as a hero, even if
he’d been a pirate. But Blue was known for being a staunch Englishman above all
else; he didn’t mind sacking a non-British ship of her treasure, and he only
went to battle against enemies of the Crown. Blue swore he’d never be caught,
nor would he abandon his crew. He never
was
caught;
he sailed away one summer when storms were rampant and wasn’t seen again.