The Night Is Alive

2

Augustus 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.”

“My great-grandfather married an Irish girl in the 1890s, fresh from Ellis Island, or so I heard.” Abby smiled back, accepting the tea. She had a feeling that Sullivan had heavily spiked this cup.

He had, but it was good. It burned as she swallowed it, warming her stomach, and then seemed to move outward to her limbs.

“Thanks, Sullivan.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and went back to work.

She watched him leave. Twisting, she saw that someone was standing at the bar with her grandfather’s trio of cronies.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, rising from the table and heading to the bar.

Before she even came near, she realized that the man was the same one who’d been watching her at the cemetery—few people were that tall with hair quite so dark. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that her heart was racing a little as she walked to the bar.

“Here’s our girl now,” Bootsie said affectionately. “Our Abby, more beautiful every day, the finest wench ever to grace such an illustrious tavern.”

“Yep, here I am,” Abby said dryly, slipping in between him and Dirk.

She faced the unknown man. He was minus his sunglasses. His eyes were green, sharp and enhanced by the darkness of his well-defined brows. His features were striking. Weathered, hardened, bronzed, but striking. His chin was a solid square while his cheekbones were high. He had the look of someone who’d seen the harder side of life—but had come out swinging. Still, his dress was entirely appropriate and she had a feeling he’d be courteous and polite.

“Ms. Anderson,” he said, offering her a hand. “My name is Malachi Gordon. I’m here from the bureau.”

“Oh,” she said, taking his hand. Fed? Yes, he could be a fed. But she doubted it. A fed would’ve shown up in a more standard suit, wouldn’t he?

“Thank you. It wasn’t necessary for the bureau to send a representative. Only a few friends in my classes ever met Gus, and the agency sent a beautiful wreath,” Abby explained.

“I’m here to see you, Ms. Anderson,” he said.

She was curious but didn’t want to ask any more in front of the others. She wondered what this was about. Did the agency believe a death in a family could have such a negative effect on an agent that he or she was rendered less able for duty?

“Thank you for being here,” she said, assuming he’d clarify later.

“We’ve been giving him a history of the Dragonslayer,” Aldous said.

“And telling him about Gus,” Bootsie added.

The trio lifted their cups again. “To Gus!” they said in unison.

Malachi Gordon smiled at Abby. She smiled in return.

“This is an incredible place,” he said. “Well-preserved—and yet alive. Living history is always the best.”

“Yes, well, people do love pirates.”

“Thank God!” Dirk shrugged and said, “I make my living by running a pirate ship that we take out for tourists every day. We do birthday parties and other occasions, too.” He produced a card from his wallet to hand the newcomer. “Abby’s worked on her over the years. Go figure—she made a great pirate and now she’s a federal agent.”

“Well, who ever said there weren’t a few pirates among the feds?” Malachi Gordon asked lightly.

That was very amusing to her grandfather’s friends; they all laughed. Glancing around, Abby saw that Roger and Paul were about to leave and she excused herself to say goodbye to them. She’d try to catch the fed on his own soon.

Roger and Paul were old friends and both hugged her warmly. She walked out front with them. “Hey, your freebie newspapers were delivered,” Roger said, picking up the bundle to open them and lay them on top of the stand. As he did, she noticed the headline.

Body of College Student Found in River

A third murder? she wondered, itching to pick up the paper and find out what was going on.

Or...a fourth? Had Gus been murdered by the same person who’d killed three people found in or near the river?

Was her mind going haywire because she was a new graduate from the academy who’d just taken classes taught by a premier behavioral specialist? Was she looking for a mystery where none existed?

But...Savannah’s murder rate for the past few years had been low for a city of its size. Any large city battled violent crime and Savannah had seen its share. But this...

“Hey, you’ll be heading back to Virginia,” Roger reminded her. He took her by the shoulders, his eyes meeting hers. “You have to worry about you right now, Ms. Anderson.”

“What are you going to do?” Paul asked her. “You’ve inherited the Dragonslayer. You wouldn’t close down the tavern, would you?”

“No, no, of course not,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

“That’s going to be tough—you being an absentee owner,” Paul pointed out.

“Macy has it down pat,” Abby said. “We have great bartenders, cooks and waitstaff. I’m sure it’s all going to work out. That’s been the least of...” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want to say worries. “That’s...well, not what I’ve worried about,” she said.

“Yeah, sorry, kid. So sorry,” Roger murmured. “I know how much you loved Gus.”

“We really loved him, too, you know?” Paul said.

She nodded. “Of course. I know.”

Abby went back inside. One of their newest waitresses—a girl named Julie whom Abby had just met—was cleaning up in the dining rooms. The staff who’d been there the longest hadn’t really worked that day, other than stepping in to help get a few things loaded into the bus carts. They’d come as mourners.

She looked around; there was no sign of Malachi Gordon.

“Everyone’s left?” she asked Julie.

“There are a few of us still tidying up in the kitchen. It’s back to full service tomorrow, or so I was told,” Julie said. She hesitated. She was young and sweet, a student at the design school. “I mean, I’m sorry—that’s your call now. But, um, that’s what I was told.”

“Yes, we’re back to regular hours, Julie. Thanks.” Abby smiled. “And thanks for getting everything picked up.”

“Yeah, a real sad thing about Gus. He was so good to all of us.”