The Night Is Alive (Krewe of Hunters #10)

The Night Is Alive (Krewe of Hunters #10) Page 41

He hoisted Abby up and out of the hole. She turned around to help him, but he’d gotten a grip on the tenuous ladder to get himself up.

“Wow,” he said, looking at her. “Let’s hope we don’t run into anyone we know.”

“That’s not easy here. I know a lot of people.”

“We’ll just hang back for a minute. Let me call Jackson and get him talking to David. I’ll tell him what we’ve found and why we don’t want to make it public yet.” He put the call through to Jackson, who said he’d be there soon, and then leaned against the wall as they waited. The alley smelled of rotting garbage.

“Great place to hang around,” Abby said.

Malachi grinned. “I’ve been in worse.”

He stared at her and she asked, “What?”

“You even look good festooned in dirt.”

“So do you!”

He smiled, but his smile faded. His mind, she realized, was always moving, often along a number of different tracks at once.

“Timing is everything in a crime like this,” he said. “It’s not that it’s difficult to get around. We’ve been within blocks of the same area, so someone who needs to get from place to place with very little time can do it easily. But still, if we could just pinpoint who was where when... At least we could eliminate people.”

“Do you believe that Roger is really in the clear?” Abby asked.

He shrugged. “I do. There isn’t any proof.”

A moment later, Jackson Crow walked into the alley. He was with a man who was close to six feet with beautiful café-au-lait skin, thirty-five or so, and wearing an I Love Savannah T-shirt, the kind sold in dozens of tourist shops.

“Officer Dale Kendrick,” Jackson said, introducing him. “He’ll be keeping an eye on the alley. And he transferred in from Atlanta recently, so it’s not likely he’d be recognized by anyone here.”

They shook hands with Kendrick. Malachi handed the gum wrapper over to Jackson, who would bring it to Forensics. Will was back on the Black Swan, and Angela and Kat were spelling each other on the screens. Will had enhanced the footage showing the strange figure approaching the Dragonslayer the night before. But no matter how enhanced, the face was hidden. However, they could eliminate anyone under six feet. Jackson left them to head down to the station; he was due to meet with David at Forensics to see if anything had been discovered regarding the rowboat they’d found in the river. He left them.

“On to Chippewa Square,” Malachi announced.

He shook hands with Kendrick again, thanking him. “It’s my job,” Kendrick told him, waving as they walked off.

They hurried to the house, hoping no one would notice them in their dirty, disheveled state. Luckily, tourists were distracted by their own destinations or the beauty of the homes, the street and the moss-draped live oaks.

Angela came to the door and looked them up and down, a trace of amusement on her face. “Cute. You’re like children out of a very dirty sandpile.”

“That’s something to think about,” Malachi said.

“What’s that?” Abby asked.

“The dirt. This person has to come out of these tunnels dirty—unless he’s going all the way through, and not coming back until he’s been out on whatever vessel he has on the river.”

“Good point,” Angela said. “And, by the way, Will worked with the city and got a camera up on the exit to the riverbank from the Dragonslayer. They were careful setting it up so they weren’t seen doing it. We won’t want to scare anyone off. No one will be able to use that venue again without being instantly visible. Come into the dining room and I’ll show you.”

They followed her. There’d been another camera set up; it looked out over the embankment where Abby had plunged into the river to save Helen Long.

“That’s good. See anything?” Malachi asked.

“A lot of tourists,” Angela said with a sigh. She smiled at Abby. “So, you’re thinking about joining us?”

“What?” Abby asked, startled by the question.

“You’ve already been through the academy. I’m assuming you’re expecting an assignment when this is over. I believe Jackson intends to suggest you join us.”

“Be—be part of the Krewe?” Abby stammered.

“The rest of the bureau may talk about us behind our backs,” Angela said, “but we’re actually considered a pretty elite group.”

Abby glanced at Malachi. He’d known, she thought. He was watching her, waiting for her reaction.

“I guess we should get through this first,” Abby said. She turned quickly. “I’ll go up and shower,” she said. “Oh.” She looked at Malachi. “I have a few clothes here. But—”

“Malachi and Jackson are about the same size. It’s not a problem,” Angela said. “If it was, one of us would just run over to the tavern. So, go and shower. There’s nothing like a shower to wash away dirt and to clear the mind.”

“Here’s hoping,” Abby said, and sped up the stairs to her own room.

She’d given the Krewe carte blanche with her house; she noted that they’d apparently recognized this room as hers and chosen other ones.

She looked around. She’d rented it furnished and during her most recent visit, with the place empty, she’d brought her old treasures back to this room, out of nostalgia more than practicality. Maybe because her life was on the verge of change... The bookshelves were filled with her beloved fiction—and the books she’d devoured on law enforcement, the FBI, profiling, unsolved cases and the minds of killers.

I must have been a pretty scary kid, she thought.

The guitar she’d never quite learned to play sat, once again, in its stand near her closet. A stack of board games lay on a table in a corner. The room was still decorated in royal blue with black trim, nothing girly or frilly about it.

She had never owned a doll.

She examined her old CDs and DVDs, which she’d arranged on one of the shelves. She’d collected some weird and obscure music and some classics. She’d been in love with the Traveling Wilburys and the various band members and their solo careers and work. She’d watched everything ever done by M. Night Shyamalan.

She’d also owned Blythe Spirit, which her father had taken her to see on Broadway, and Ghost, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir...

Because she had her own ghost?

She smiled a little bitterly. “Blue, I do have my own ghost—so where are you? It’s you and me now, you know?”

Her half smile cracked some of the dried mud on her face.

The shower. She went in and turned the spray on hot and hard. A shower felt great on the body and great for the mind, as Angela had suggested.

However, it didn’t really do much for her mind. Although it did make her forget—for the moment—that they were in a battle against time if they were going to find Bianca Salzburg.

It made her wish she wasn’t in the shower alone.

She winced.

She was becoming obsessed with Malachi. A good thing? Or not? What if they’d just discovered each other simply because of the circumstances? What if what she felt wasn’t real and what if their personal relationship fell apart and they both became part of the Krewe?

She needed to think carefully.

She still wished he was there in the shower with her.

A shower could clear the mind.

Malachi didn’t really want his mind cleared; he wanted to put everything within it in order.

First. Theories he was convinced could be proven, or were, in effect, proven by what they knew.

Like his belief that the killer was someone who knew Savannah, knew it extremely well, and knew the history of the city.

Second. The killer thought he was a pirate or wished he was a pirate in days gone by. He’d given Helen Long a card with a name on it, Christopher Condent, and Condent had been a brutal pirate who’d never faced justice, eventually becoming a rich man.

Third. The killer was dressing up as Blue Anderson.

Because there were so many good images of Blue? Or because of the sweeping hat Blue had worn, his long dark hair and the facial hair that could hide a real identity? And did the motivation involve his theory that the killer wanted to discredit the real Blue Anderson? If so, was there any connection to the fact that the victims had all been to the Dragonslayer before they were abducted?

Fourth. A mental note, really. He thought he had the killer narrowed down; he’d be shocked if he was wrong. It was someone close to Abby. Someone who was close to the Dragonslayer and had known Gus well. Someone familiar with the legends of Blue and other pirates, and, perhaps, someone in a solid business position. He’d need a certain amount of money to move about easily, to join others at a bar, to appear to be part of the everyday community. Perhaps he wasn’t young or attractive, but he would know how to make others think he was kind and nice. He was dressing up and proud of the fact that he was fooling people, including his own peers. No one knew him when he went into pirate mode to attack his victims.

Malachi got out of the shower. Angela had left him several pieces of Jackson’s clothing. He didn’t want to look like an agent but he wanted clothing that didn’t advertise the fact that he was carrying a weapon. He chose jeans, a polo shirt and a navy windbreaker. He was going to drink with the barflies today, get them talking, learn more about them. And he’d do it with Abby, who would know what was true and what wasn’t and if any of the trio—or even Sullivan, Macy or Grant Green—behaved strangely.

Downstairs, he was glad to find Kat Sokolov at the dining room table, watching the screens that patrolled the Dragonslayer and now the river embankment, too.

“Kat, what about the victim from the tunnels? Have they identified her yet?”

Kat shook her head. “They have her DNA and took dental X-rays, but there’s nothing to compare them to. I received some possible candidates from the database, but nothing definitive.”