The Night Is Alive (29 page)

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.”

“Laws are one thing—it’s harder to change the human mind.”

“I have faith in the future, but yes, you’re right.” He gestured at the cemetery. “Lieutenant, I didn’t know there were still family vaults or burials in the city area.”

“There are not. They built over the few graves in my folks’ yard years ago. I am afraid my bones and those of my wife are broken and scattered. Where the earthly remains of my parents and grandparents might be found...I have not yet discovered.”

“I’m sorry,” Malachi said.

“They rest, sir, in a far better place. That I know.”

“So why do you stay?”

“I stay...” The young soldier started to speak and then broke off, as if perplexed himself. “I stay because I wait to see a better world. Then I will rest.”

You might well haunt these streets for eternity if you’re waiting for all men to embrace one another,
Malachi thought.

But he said, “Noble indeed, Lieutenant. I wish you well. I believe we are on the way. I honestly believe most men seek the right to life, liberty and happiness for all. But to end all prejudice—the whole world has a way to go. Where one hatred dies, another often springs to life.”

“Perhaps,” the lieutenant agreed. “Sir, it was a pleasure—you cannot imagine what a pleasure—to make your acquaintance.” He tipped his cavalry hat and started to walk on.

“Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you could help me.”

The lieutenant paused, looking at him. “I would be happy, of course, to be of assistance to a visitor to my fine city.”

“Do you know anything about the tunnels around here? Tunnels that lead to the river?”

The lieutenant smiled broadly. “I knew quite a bit. My wife, although scorned by society for doing it, still managed to help many a man and woman to escape via the river. Captain Emanuel Vance used to bring a ship in, laden with supplies. He pretended to run the blockade, but what he did was carry many to freedom.”

The question had brought out enthusiasm in the young lieutenant. “The Dragonslayer, of course, was known for its tunnels since the days of the pirates. As was the Pirates’ House. But a network was dug during the yellow fever. I saw the morgue myself as a young lad. No longer in use at the time, of course, but the remnants were there. Still are, I believe. But what we used for the Underground Railroad, sir, were the tunnels through the vaults. The vaults do not exist anymore, but the tunnels do.”

“What vaults?”

“Very old burial vaults,” the lieutenant said. “The one behind my house is gone, but it connected to a vault beneath a tavern.”

“The Wulf and Whistle?”

“Indeed. You know the place?”

“Yes. I went down to the tunnel, which led to the Dragonslayer—and from there, to the river.”

The lieutenant smiled. “Oh, sir, there are other branches in that tunnel. Savannah’s secret society of abolitionists knew that tunnels could easily be discovered. There are little pockets, twists and turns down there. Before the shelling of Fort Sumter, those who believed in freedom for all were secretly working down here. Some of the finest engineers in the country were below the ground, along with some of the finest engineers from Europe. Those tunnels are extensive. Explore, but take care. If you are buried in any kind of collapse, sir, I fear you will not come out.”

Malachi thanked him, furious at his own stupidity.

They’d found the damned tunnel underneath the Wulf and Whistle. Why hadn’t they broken down all the walls?

Malachi saw the young lieutenant off, then hurried back to the alley. A man in jeans and a polo shirt leaned against the wall, reading a tourist guide. Malachi walked up to him. “Officer?”

The man looked at him quizzically; Malachi produced the ID Jackson had given him to use while working the case.

“Yeah, Shubart. Officer Mike Shubart.”

“I’m going down,” Malachi said. “If I’m not back up in an hour, alert the troops.”

“Yes, sir. You got it.”

Malachi walked to the tunnel and phoned Jackson, telling him what he was about to do. He reached the wooden cover, moved it and crawled into the tunnel. Hitting the ground, he pulled out his flashlight.

He patted his side, making sure the Colt .45 that was his favorite weapon was exactly where it should be. Then he played his light over the darkness that swallowed even that glow. He proceeded slowly.

* * *

Abby couldn’t get hold of Malachi. His cell went straight to voice mail and his recorded voice said, “Leave your message, please.”

“It’s Abby. A very annoyed Abby. Where are you? What’s going on?” she demanded, and then ended the call.

Police work, any kind of law enforcement work, could be tedious. Much of it involved watching. And waiting. Endless waiting.

She was watching at the Dragonslayer.
Could be worse,
she tried to tell herself. If she got hungry, at least there was food. And the seats were comfortable. The climate was nice.

And there was enough coffee to keep her wired for a week.

But try as she might to stay calm, she grew increasingly anxious. She sat at the bar, watching. Waiting.

Roger and Paul seemed to have nothing to do that day. Maybe Roger was watching her as she watched him. He probably assumed that if anyone was going to know anything, it would be her.