The Night Is Alive (4 page)

“Yeah, I did, too, but I didn’t see him after that,” Aldous
said.

Sullivan, the lunchtime bartender, a handsome thirty-year-old
with green eyes and flaming red hair, plus a neatly coiffed mustache and beard,
came by to check on his “barflies” as the three referred to themselves. He
smiled at Abby; she didn’t know him well. He’d only worked for her grandfather
about four years and she’d been gone most of that time. His given name was
Jerry, but he went by Sullivan.

“Abby, he said something earlier about working on the books, so
you’re probably right. He’s got to be up in his office. I haven’t seen him since
before the lunch crowd started coming in.”

“Thanks, Sullivan,” Abby said. “And, gentlemen, see you later,”
she told the three older men seated at the bar.

They responded with an out-of-sync chorus of “Aye, Abby,” “See
you, Abby,” “Glad you’re here!”

She smiled and walked over to the winding iron stairway that
had been there forever and was watchfully maintained, since it was still used on
a daily basis.

The second floor of the establishment had a low ceiling. No
food was stored on the upper level, but a long room housed wine, spirits,
kitchen utensils and other restaurant supplies. The second floor also had a nice
lounge for the employees with lockers and closets full of costumes so no one had
to come as a pirate or wench and leave as a pirate or wench. On one side of
Gus’s office was the apartment he’d lived in with her grandmother until Brenda
Anderson’s death eight years ago. Now he remained there alone. It had a little
sitting room and access to a balcony that looked over the rear grounds and out
to the river. Beside the sitting room were the two bedrooms, the one Abby had
always slept in and the one her grandfather now maintained for himself. On the
other side of Gus’s office was the manager’s office, shared by Macy and Grant
Green, the night manager.

Gus wasn’t in his office nor was he in the manager’s office.
She tried his apartment door. It was open, but Gus was nowhere to be seen. The
room was sparse and spotless. The only pictures on the walls here were images of
his family.

Abby called his name as she hurried through the apartment, and
then went out to check the supply room, as well. She walked past carefully
stored rows of different liquors and the wine vault. There were boxes marked
Dragonslayer plates, salad bowls and glasses, tablecloths and more, but none of
the employees were up there now.

“Gus!” Abby called again, but all she heard in return was the
distant sound of the “pirate” track that played during lunch hours.

Frustrated, she went into the lounge, but she seemed to be the
only person on the second floor. Abby walked back to Gus’s office and sat at his
desk. Despite his age, Gus had entered the age of technology with gusto; he had
a new computer, a printer and, to the side, a file cabinet. There was a little
office carrier filled with incoming and outgoing mail. She looked anxiously at
the incoming mail, hoping she wouldn’t find a stack of doctors’ bills. She
didn’t—most of the mail was solicitation letters. She knew he read most of it,
always looking to see if there was something the restaurant could use.

“No important mail from doctors or diagnostic clinics,” she
murmured aloud.

She didn’t think it was anything to do with his health that had
made him summon her in such a manner, and yet couldn’t help being concerned. And
curious. Gus had an impressive history. He’d served in the navy during World War
II, then he’d returned to Savannah—where he was guaranteed to make a living
since his family owned the restaurant—to join the police force. But when his
father passed away, he’d left the force to concentrate on the Dragonslayer.
She’d admired him all her life. It was thanks to Gus that she’d gone to the FBI
academy; he’d encouraged her in every action she’d ever wanted to take. He
hadn’t pushed her toward law enforcement, but he’d told her she was smart and
could do anything she wanted to do.

There was nothing on his desk giving her any indication that
something might be wrong with Gus.

Had he run out to do an errand? She drummed her fingers on the
desk and then took the newspaper from her handbag to study the article on the
murders.

Both victims had drowned. Both had been found with their hands
tied behind their backs. Police were withholding other information, as it was an
ongoing investigation. Next of kin had been notified, and anyone with any
information regarding either victim was urged to contact law enforcement.

She set the paper down, then started, certain she’d heard a
sound coming from the storage area—but she’d just been there. At the rear of the
storage area was a wrought-iron stairway from the back of the dining area to the
second floor. It was far narrower than the main staircase and it was gated.
Diners were prohibited from taking those stairs, as was the staff, she reminded
herself. Gus didn’t consider them safe. At one time, they’d allowed pirates who
were drinking, wenching and enjoying their liberty in Savannah to escape quickly
from the upstairs to the underground passage that led to the river and their
ships. While Robert Anderson—brother of Blue, and Abby’s direct ancestor—had
been a legitimate businessman, he and his pirate brother were known to be close
and Blue Anderson was known to have frequented the tavern. British officers were
prone to burst in on the Dragonslayer in search of Blue, and thus the easy
escape route.

Thanks to the secret passage, they’d never caught Blue—or any
of his men—at the tavern.

The door to the passage was covered with a grating now. Before,
it had been hidden under wooden planks that matched the rest of the floor. Now
it was a curiosity and guarded by chains, a locked metal grate and the robotic
Blue Anderson. Blue was set up beside the grate, and diners loved to have their
pictures taken with him.

Abby stood up, then walked down the hall to the storage room.
The lights remained on as they always did during business hours. She moved
silently along the rows of modern chrome restaurant equipment and boxes to the
back of the room.

Halfway there, she paused.

Her heart seemed to rise to her throat and catch there.

Blue!
She could see him. He was
standing right by the winding iron stairs. He beckoned to her and went down
them.

She might have been a kid again, frozen there. For long
moments, she wasn’t sure she was even breathing.

He only comes when he’s needed,
Gus
had told her.

Abby came to life. She sprinted across the room and to the
stairs.

A chain stretched across the iron railing of the landing here;
it was in place as it should have been.

Abby slid underneath it and quickly followed the winding steps
to the main floor.

A few diners lingered, but she’d been quiet and hadn’t been
noticed. The grating was in place. She knelt down—and saw that the lock was
open.

Heedless of anyone who might see her, Abby lifted the grating.
It was dark below. There were lights, but Gus kept them off except for the ones
directly by the grate. She hurried down the stairs, calling his name. “Gus!”

She reached the bottom and the dank tunnel that led out to the
river.

“Gus!”

Someone seemed to be ahead of her. A shadow moving almost as
one with the darkness.

She followed.

And then, ten feet along the tunnel, she found him.

Gus.

She fell to her knees at his side. “Gus, Gus, Gus!”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t feel her touch when she felt for a
pulse, for any sign that he was breathing.

He was so cold!

Yes, cold, she realized, horrified and heartbroken.

Stone-cold dead.

2

A
ugustus Anderson was laid to rest a week after his death at the city’s incredibly beautiful Bonaventure Cemetery.

Abby’s family had a plot there, a group of tombstones that ran the gamut from the mid-1800s, when the cemetery was founded, to the last burial before this one, when her father had passed away. A lovely low fence surrounded the small plot. The number of people who’d come to the church ceremony and now to the cemetery to honor Gus was almost overwhelming. The crowd didn’t fit into the actual plot area and many waited on the other side of the fence, listening to Father McFey as he spoke his final words over the coffin and Gus was left to rest in peace.

Abby barely heard the service. Despite the fact that he’d been gone a week, she was in no less a state of mental turmoil. Friends had sympathetically reminded her of his age and that he’d died quickly and hadn’t suffered a long and debilitating illness, which would have mortified him. She didn’t need to be told. She knew she was blessed that she’d had him for so many years—and that he’d been lucky to have led such a robust and healthy life.

All of that was true.

But it wasn’t right. What had
happened
wasn’t right.

Gus, she was certain, had been murdered.

Making the suggestion to the police had merely brought her more sympathy.

Gus had been as old as the hills. She’d recognized the looks that the officers who were called to the scene had given her.

Poor girl’s lost her only living relative. She just came out of the academy at Quantico, and she can’t accept an old—old!—man dying, so she had to turn it into a mystery.

An autopsy had revealed that he’d died because his heart had given out.

She believed that. But his heart had given out for a
reason.

Gus had expected her; he’d been anxious to see her. Gus never got up and suddenly decided he needed to go down into the old pirate tunnels—he hadn’t been down there for years. To ensure that the tunnel remained safe and supported the structures above, he sent workers down every few months. He maintained the tunnel because of its historic value. It wasn’t a place he went for exercise or to commune with his ancestors or anything of the kind.

She’d tried to be logical. Gus had been very old. She’d heard of a number of cases like his, cases in which someone had led a long and healthy life, and just dropped dead. Young runners occasionally dropped dead, for God’s sake.

She couldn’t forget how and when it had happened. Couldn’t forget what he’d said.

Come home. I need you.

She wished now that she’d insisted he talk to her over the phone, that she’d demanded he provide
some
sort of explanation.

But she hadn’t.

And still his words haunted her. If she didn’t discover
why
he’d said those words to her, they’d haunt her for the rest of her life.

She suddenly realized that everyone was silent, that Father McFey was looking at her. He’d finished with the ceremony, and everyone was waiting for her.

She held the folded American flag that had draped his coffin, since he’d seen military service in two wars, and a single rose. She was supposed to drop the rose on the coffin, allow others to do the same thing and officially end the burial of a man who had become an icon.

It seemed that half of Savannah had come out for the occasion. They needed to get back to their lives.

She needed to figure out how to organize hers.

She walked over to the coffin, which still sat above the ground; they wouldn’t lower it into the earth until she and the rest of the mourners were gone.

The soprano from Gus’s church was singing “Amazing Grace” as they finished and Abby was aware that Macy—and several other people—were sniffing and trying to hold back sobs.

Abby didn’t cry; she’d cried herself out over the past week. She stood and touched the coffin and spoke to him within her own mind.

Thank you, Gus. Love you, Gus. Thank you for loving me the way you did. You will always be a part of me, with me. I will never forget you....

She set her rose on the coffin and stepped back, gazing into the crowd. As she’d expected, Blue Anderson was there, across from the coffin, a little to the left, behind Gus’s old cronies—Bootsie, Dirk and Aldous. The men had dressed in their best suits for the occasion. But even in their tailored and proper attire, they looked like pirates. Bootsie had his peg leg, of course, and Aldous was still bald, still wore his earring.

Maybe the pirate resemblance came from the fact that Blue Anderson, in his splendid frock coat and sweeping pirate hat, stood behind them.

She stared gravely at Blue. He nodded to her, a gesture of consolation that somehow seemed reassuring.

Father McFey took her arm and led her from the burial site. A uniformed chauffeur waited to open the door to the black limo that would take her back to the Dragonslayer. Those who could join them would be there for a repast in honor of Gus.

It was what he’d wanted; he had let his wishes be known in his will. He’d wanted to lie next to his wife and his son, Abby’s father, and he’d wanted “Amazing Grace” and Father McFey. He’d left explicit instructions.
And then bring our friends back to the Dragonslayer. Please laugh with them and remember the wonderful events in my life. Celebrate for me, for I was blessed, and life comes to an end for us all.

She turned before getting into the car. A very tall man she didn’t know leaned against another car, a silver SUV. He hadn’t come to the grave site, she thought. But he’d been watching—he’d watched the burial rites, just as he watched her now.

He was interesting-looking, certainly. He appeared to be six-three or -four. He was appropriately dressed for a funeral in a dark suede jacket, white shirt and a dark vest. Black hair was neatly clipped, with one swatch that sat slightly low over his forehead. She couldn’t see his eyes because he was wearing sunglasses but she knew he was watching her.

An old friend of Gus’s? Or a new one? Definitely someone she hadn’t met.

But he hadn’t really taken part in the service. He’d stood at a distance, as if he had needed to watch—and still meant to be respectful. Odd, to say the least.

“Ms. Anderson?”

She realized she’d been staring at him when the driver suggested that she enter the car.

She was alone on the short drive back to the Dragonslayer. Macy had gone on ahead to see that they were set up for the reception to follow the service. Reception? No, party. Gus had insisted they celebrate his life, not the passing of it.

She thought about the week since his death and the funeral. Many people considered that a long time, but there’d been an autopsy and she’d wanted to arrange for those who’d loved Gus—some of them from out of town—to show up for the service.

The parking lot was half-full when the limo drove up to let Abby out. She wasn’t sure why she felt she needed more fortitude for Gus’s party than she had for the church or the graveside service. She knew a lot of people were going to cry—party or no—but she felt drained of tears, numb. Gus’s death was the end of her world as she’d known it.

“Hey!”

When she walked in, she almost smiled. The first people she saw were Gus’s old cohorts already at the bar. Bootsie, Dirk and Aldous.

They had teacups in front of them but she knew the tea had been spiked with whiskey—Gus’s favorite drink and cure-all.

They swung their stools around to greet her, all raising their cups. “Abby!”

She felt oddly as if they were saluting a monarch. Maybe they were afraid she’d oust them from their seats at the bar.

“Hey, guys,” she said.

Aldous reached for something and came over to her. She noted the way his bald head shimmered in the tavern’s lights. His blue eyes seemed gray, sad, solemn.

He’d collected another cup from the bar. “We had it ready for you,” he said. “We thought we’d have a private toast before you got caught up in all the craziness. Gus was one of a kind. A lot of people loved him. But I think we’re going to miss him the most, the four of us.”

“Thanks, Aldous,” she said, taking the cup from him. She lifted it. “To Gus!”

“To Gus! Long may his legend live!” Bootsie said.

She gave Aldous a kiss on the cheek and walked over to do the same with Bootsie and Dirk. “You guys all okay, workwise?” She looked specifically at Dirk. His “pirate” ship went out every day. Dirk loved to play the pirate master of ceremonies and he was very good at it.

“It’s handled. I have the crew taking care of everything. No way I wouldn’t honor Gus,” Dirk told her.

Macy came striding over to her. “Abby, the mayor wants to convey his condolences and the chief of police is here.” She glanced at the men. “If I can steal you away for a minute.”

“See you in a bit, guys,” she said as she accompanied Macy.

And so continued what already felt like a long day.

She was cordial to the chief, despite the fact that she wasn’t feeling especially fond of the local police at the moment. She supposed she couldn’t blame them. Her insistence that something was wrong with the circumstances of an old man’s death couldn’t compare with some of the very real and obvious crimes they were facing.

And the autopsy did conclude that Gus had died of a heart attack, not surprising for someone of his age who wanted to crawl around in historic tunnels as if he were a young man.

But that was the point they
weren’t
getting. Gus didn’t crawl around in tunnels!

Fine. There was very little she could do about their lack of interest in the tunnels. She’d contacted the officer in charge of her assignment at Quantico, who didn’t seem to have much understanding of her situation. An old man had died. It happened; that was life. But, of course, she should take whatever time she needed and report in as soon as possible, let them know when she’d be returning.

And she’d probably be in a boatload of trouble when she
did
return for an assignment. Because she’d gone over her supervisor’s head to contact another FBI unit leader.

Jackson Crow.

Crow was in charge of a special section of the agency; he and his people were based in a field office of their own in Arlington, Virginia. From there, they were sent across the country.

At the regular offices, they were referred to as the “ghost busters.” Despite that reference, they were held in awe by most of the other agents. They had a spectacular record of solving cases. She knew about Jackson Crow because he was a legend at the agency; he’d solved cases with various units before being asked to form a special one dedicated to situations that were...out of the ordinary.

They were officially known as the Krewe of Hunters. She assumed that was because the first assignment as a new unit had been in New Orleans, when the wife of a U.S. senator had mysteriously died.

Abby didn’t want any ghosts “busted.” She wanted someone to believe that her grandfather had been onto something, that he’d needed to speak with her for a very real reason. And from what she understood, while there were rumors about the Krewe agents having “special” abilities, they worked with evidence and cold hard facts. Even so, Jackson’s units had often been called in when cases involved historic properties that were supposedly haunted.

Heart attack or not, she was convinced Gus had been murdered. His heart had stopped because he’d been startled or come upon some sight so horrible that he’d died of shock. She hoped that her email to Jackson Crow, filled with information on the history of Savannah and the Dragonslayer, would bring him out to investigate. She wasn’t sure how she could make a federal case out of the death of a Georgian in Georgia, but she couldn’t let it rest. She owed Gus way more than that.

So, as she greeted the local law and government personnel who’d turned out in respect for Gus, she was polite and circumspect. She moved from one to another, thanking them all.

She didn’t mention again her belief that he’d been murdered. She didn’t need more pitying stares from those who thought she was a little crazy with grief—or suspected that, fresh from the academy, she’d try to create problems between federal and local law enforcement.

Luckily, the people she didn’t know didn’t stay long. An hour and a half later, she found herself at a table near the life-size image of Blue Anderson, still sipping the spiked tea Aldous had handed her, with Grant Green, the night manager, and a couple of her old friends, Roger English and Paul Westermark. She’d seen Roger and Paul portraying Blue Anderson and Scurvy Pete Martin when she’d arrived a week ago.

“I thought he was immortal,” Roger said, sighing. “Lord, I loved that man. He knew how to keep the fun and magic in history. When we were kids, remember, he’d let us dress up? Sometimes we’d pretend to be captives that Blue had taken. Or mates running around, trying to shanghai other men down to the ships.”

“Never, ever paid us late.” Paul smiled. “I remember during one of the storms that hit Savannah a few years back, Gus had us go and do a whole pirate day for a bunch of kids at one of the shelters. He just did it out of the goodness of his heart.”

“He put me in a wig and dressed me up as a silly maiden in distress for that one,” Grant Green recalled, sipping on a beer. “Gus was the best. The day I applied to work here, I hadn’t even filled out a form and he was short a server, so he stuck an order pad in my hand and said, ‘Just sing some kind of pirate song if you mess up—you’ll be fine!’”

“Gus was like that,” Abby said.

“Ah, Gus!” Grant said sadly. “He was a force of nature. I don’t think any of us believed we’d ever really lose him.”

She could see that Macy was thanking some of Gus’s church friends and saying goodbye. She should have gotten up and joined her.

She couldn’t quite manage it.

As she watched, Jerry Sullivan came to the table, bearing a fresh cup.

“New one for you,” Sullivan told her. “The one you’re holding must be iced tea by now.” He shrugged. “Gus did think that a shot of whiskey in hot tea solved all.” He grinned at her, green eyes sympathetic. “It’s kind of an Irish thing—I know, ’cause of my folks.”