The Night Is Alive

MIDNIGHT IN SAVANNAH…

It’s a city of beauty, history…hauntings. And one of the most haunted places in Savannah is a tavern called The Dragonslayer, built in the 1750s. The current owner, Gus Anderson, is a descendant of the original innkeeper and his pirate brother, Blue.

Gus summons his granddaughter, Abigail, home from Virginia, where she’s studying at the FBI Academy. When she arrives, she’s devastated to find him dead. Murdered. But Abby soon learns that Gus isn’t the only one to meet a brutal and untimely end; there’ve been at least two other victims. Then Captain Blue Anderson starts making ghostly appearances, and the FBI’s paranormal investigation unit, the Krewe of Hunters, sends in Agent Malachi Gordon.

Abby and Malachi have a similar ability to connect with the dead…and a similar stubbornness. Sparks immediately begin to fly—sparks of attraction and discord. But as the death toll rises, they have to trust each other or they, too, might find themselves among the dead haunting old Savannah!

Praise for the novels of

New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep

the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“Suspenseful and dark. The culture and history

surrounding San Antonio and the Alamo are described

in detail. The transitions between past and present

flow seamlessly, the main characters are interesting

and their connection to one another is believable.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unseen

“A fast-paced story, involving history and ghost stories. Graham is skilled at creating intriguing,

mature characters involved in challenging situations.”

—Lesa’s Book Critiques on The Unseen

“I am amazed at Graham’s ability to create a magical story that works so well in the present when part of the facts lie in the past. The Uninvited is a saucy romantic murder mystery with ghosts taking center stage.”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“The paranormal romantic mystery

is exhilarating and fast-paced.”

—Genre Go Round on The Unspoken

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest.… Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Vision

The Night Is Alive

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Savannah!

For family trips, ghost hunts, a road

trip with Pablo the cat,

an incredible stay

at the 17hundred90 Inn

and Restaurant, the

hearse tour, and so many

more wonderful times!

And to my children,

Jason, Shayne, Derek, Bryee-Annon, and Chynna

and the magic they added to the city with

their imaginations each time we traveled through.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Prologue

Then

Abby didn’t know why she awoke; she might have heard a sound in the night. Whatever it was, she’d gone from being curled up, enjoying a dream about the great tenth birthday party she was going to have at her grandparents’ tavern, the Dragonslayer, to being pulled out of her dream, as if she needed to be awake. And aware.

There was someone in her room, she thought. Someone with a kind, handsome face staring down at her, eyes filled with great concern.

Then the face was gone and she was instantly wide-awake.

And scared.

She slipped from her bed and out of the room in the apartment above the Dragonslayer, running to the door in the little hallway that led to her grandparents’ suite. Neither of them was in bed.

That scared her more. Her grandparents weren’t in their bed.

She instantly knew she should be quiet. The fear she felt was instinctive, and she tiptoed in bare feet down the curving metal stairs to the ground floor.

Halfway there, she stopped. Her heart seemed to squeeze and her whole body froze.

She wasn’t afraid of the tavern, she never had been. It was filled with old ships’ wheels, countless figureheads, paintings, etchings, maps and more. The elegant beauties, dragons and mythical creatures that gazed down at her from the walls were part of her heritage.

No, she wasn’t afraid of anything in the Dragonslayer, but...

Someone was there, someone who shouldn’t be. He was standing at the entry, looking through the cut-glass window on the front door, and it wasn’t her grandpa Gus.

He was tall, and beneath his tricorn hat, his rich black hair fell down his back in curls. He had a neatly manicured beard and mustache. His black boots were tight on his calves over tan breeches. He wore a crimson overcoat with elegant buttons that matched those on his vest, and a white shirt with lace at the throat and sleeves. He seemed improbably imposing as he stood there—as if nothing could pass by him. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but she knew their color.

Just as she knew him.

He was the man who’d been standing by the bed, watching over her.

She’d seen images of him dozens of times. He’d been loved—and hated. He’d sailed the seas on a constant quest for adventure, some said. For his own riches, according to others. He’d never killed a man, although he’d made good on many threats regarding severe thrashings. He’d kidnapped a wealthy man’s daughter and held her for a fortune, but when she was rescued, the girl had wanted to go back to her captor. He never broke his word.

Of course, despite his sense of honor, he’d been hunted. He had been the pirate, Blue Anderson. He was her umpteen-great-great-uncle.

Had been.

He was dead. He had been dead for more than two hundred and fifty years.

But there he was—standing in the darkness, watching whatever was happening outside the door. Watching with intense interest.

He looked up at her suddenly, as if he realized she was there.

He studied her for a moment and then he smiled, inclining his head curiously and nodding.

He could tell that she saw him.

If she’d been able to move, she would have. She would have screamed and gone running back to her room to hide under the bed.

But she couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe, much less scream.

He smiled again, tipped his tricorn hat, glanced outside one more time and then slowly disappeared.

As he did, she heard the door open. Her eyes darted to it with fear.

It was her grandparents coming back into the building. But it had to be about four in the morning, and they didn’t go out at 4:00 a.m. From the stairway window—she hadn’t managed to move yet—she realized there were flashing lights in the parking lot.

Flashing lights. The kind police cars had.

“Not to worry. They got him, Brenda, my love,” Gus told her grandmother.

“Yes, but... Oh, Gus! That horrible man might have gotten in.” Her grandmother sounded worried. She was such a wonderful grandmother—different from most, perhaps; she wasn’t much of a cookie baker. But she came to all of Abby’s school events. She loved to dress up, she read stories and acted out all the characters. She was slim and energetic, too; she loved a long bike ride.

“Hey, so what? He would’ve stolen what little cash we have in the register. But he didn’t get in. We woke up, we called the police, all is good,” Gus said. He looked up then—just as Blue had done, but of course, she couldn’t really have seen Blue. That would’ve been seeing a...

A ghost.

“Hey, munchkin, what are you doing up?” Gus called to her.

She willed her frozen lungs to function. “I woke up,” she said. Her voice sounded funny, and she forced herself to move. “I—I just woke up. And I couldn’t find you.”

“It’s okay, now, Abby. Everything’s okay. You can go back to sleep,” Gus told her.

“What happened?” she asked.

Her grandmother turned to her grandfather, and Gus answered. “A thief trying to break in, baby. But the police got him. We’re fine.”

“Back to bed, child!” her grandmother said. She smiled to lighten the sternness of her words. “It’s late. Or early. Whichever. Time for young’uns to be asleep! What would your parents say about the way we keep you up?”

“Mom and Dad wouldn’t mind. Mom always says you’re the best. She said that if you and Gus weren’t so wonderful, she’d never be able to travel with Dad as much as she does. Not many kids are so lucky. I get to stay with you.” Her father worked for a major tech company and traveled frequently. She had a room at the tavern with almost as much stuff in it as her room in the house on Chippewa Square.

“Be that as it may!” her grandmother began. “I want you back in your bed. It’s a school night.”

Abby gave her grandfather a wide-eyed look. He was an easier mark than her grandmother. She couldn’t possibly go back to bed—alone. Not yet.

“Come on down. We’ll have a cup of tea, and then we’ll go back to bed. How’s that?”

She managed to nod. And to come running the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Abigail Anderson!” Brenda said sternly. “I told you not to run around barefoot! Glasses do break, my darling, and even when we clean up, you can’t be sure we get all the little slivers.”

“Leave her be right now, Brenda,” Gus suggested.

Brenda wagged a finger at her. “Tonight. Just tonight. You follow the tavern rules—my rules, young lady—or you don’t stay here anymore!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Abby said.

Brenda spun on Gus. “And you! Don’t go putting a shot of whiskey in her tea to calm her down, do you hear me? She’s barely ten.”

“Oh, Brenda, it’s what our parents did for us—”

“And nowadays, it’s considered child abuse. You two behave. I’m going back up.”

She caught Abby’s chin and gave her a kiss on the cheek before she went up the winding staircase.

Gus winked at Abby. “Come into the kitchen,” he said. “We’ll brew some tea.”

In the tavern’s large, modernized kitchen, she sat on a stool and watched Gus place the kettle on a burner and bring out the makings for tea. There was a bottle of whiskey on one of the top shelves. He hesitated, and then shrugged. “One little nip. Cured me of colds, stubbed toes and a broken heart, and I had a wonderful mother, God bless her!” He crossed himself and looked upward. “Now, think you’ll be able to sleep after this?”

She nodded enthusiastically. A few minutes later, he’d made tea—with a “nip” of whiskey in it for the two of them. He brought the cups out front and they sat together beneath the figureheads and other artifacts. She cherished these occasions with him; there weren’t many.

“So, why are you scared?”

“You weren’t there,” she said.

He ruffled her hair. “I wasn’t gone. I’d die before I’d leave you, munchkin, you know that.”

She nodded again and sipped her tea. It was sweet and good with a lot of milk and sugar. Whatever else was in it, she couldn’t tell.

“Something’s bothering you,” he said.

“Well, Gus, of course!” she said. She didn’t know why she called him Gus, since she called her grandmother Nana.

He sighed and turned to her and stroked her face. “A bad man was trying to break in. But we heard him...saw him. Called the police, they came right away and now all is well.”

She bit her lip. She couldn’t get rid of the image of the dead pirate watching her grandparents through the door. Watching her.

“What is it?” Gus persisted.

“How did you know someone was trying to break in, Gus?” she asked him.

He looked away from her quickly. “Ah, just heard him.”

“Gus...”

He studied her, as if trying to read her mind. She was afraid to speak, afraid to say she’d seen a ghost. She was almost ten, and she didn’t want him thinking she was a scaredy-cat baby. Or worse—having mental problems. Benny Adkins had acted weird at school, and they’d taken him out and sent him to some kind of special home for children.

She didn’t have to speak. Gus sipped his tea thoughtfully. Eventually he said, “You saw old Blue, didn’t you?”

Her heart thumped. “What?”

“I guess I was about your age when I saw him for the first time,” Gus said. “Where was he?”

“Blue?” she whispered.

Something about the somber tenderness in her grandfather’s eyes made her believe it was going to be all right. She could admit to him what she’d seen.

“I—I think he was over my bed. I think...maybe he... I think he was making sure I was all right. But I was scared and I jumped out of bed and I came running down the stairs. I saw him standing there...at the entry.”

He didn’t laugh or tell her she was crazy or seeing things. He nodded gravely and smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid of Blue. He’s kind of like a guardian angel for us. Some of us see him—some of us in the family—but the rest of the world? I don’t know. We don’t see him often. I figure we’re very lucky, but also that others wouldn’t understand. So let’s keep it a secret, okay?”

“Did he wake you up, Gus? Is that how you knew the tavern was in danger?”

“He woke me up. Yes. I hadn’t seen him in years and years. Hey, this is between us. Drink that tea now so you can get some sleep.”

“But—”

“Abby,” he said, “don’t tell people that you see Blue. They’ll think you’re some kind of fake or crazy, one or the other. And seeing Blue is...well, it’s special. So, just know that if he’s around, he’s looking after you.”

She nodded.

“We won’t speak about it unless we’re alone, okay?”

“Okay.”

She drank her tea and they went back to bed. She was surprised she fell asleep easily and that she wasn’t afraid.

But she wasn’t. The way her grandfather had explained it...Blue was looking after her.

The next day, although her family tried to keep the facts from her, Abby learned that the man who was trying to get in had broken into a tavern in Charleston a few nights before—and killed the owner. Thanks to her grandparents calling the police so quickly and quietly, they’d never have to find out what their fate might have been had he gotten in. And thanks to them, he’d been apprehended.

Thanks to Blue, she thought.

But she didn’t see the pirate in the tavern again, and as the years went by, she convinced herself that she’d seen him standing there because she knew so much about him, because actors portrayed Blue all the time, and because she’d been so frightened.

Once, when she was thirteen, she talked to Gus about it. “I never saw him after that night,” she said.

And Gus had smiled and put an arm around her shoulders. “He comes when we need him, Abby. He comes when we need him. He made an appearance during the American Revolution when a family member needed to escape after spying on the British. And he came during the Civil War...and he came again when an Anderson was hiding from a fed during prohibition,” Gus admitted dryly. “Blue watches, you know. And he finds the one who sees him, and...well, he’s not on call. God save us all from ghost hunters. I won’t let them in here. Blue isn’t a séance away. Like I said, he comes when he’s needed.”

She saw him the night her mother died of pneumonia, and again two years later when her father died, his heart having given out. Blue stood in the cemetery and watched solemnly as they were buried, and Abby felt his touch on her hair as she sobbed each time.

She thought she saw him at her bedside, occasionally, just watching over her.

But life was busy. Years passed, and her memory of Blue faded and settled back into history, exactly where it belonged.

1

“Mr. 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.