Abby thought about stopping her; she didn’t.
As she stared at one of the screens, she gasped. She’d been looking at the dining room with the grate to the tunnel and the image of Blue Anderson. But as she watched, Blue seemed to step out of his own image. He peered into the grate, then slipped through.
Abby jumped up and hurried down the stairs. Luckily, it was growing later by then. There were a few diners but none near the image of Blue. Rather than taking the main stairway, she hurried to the back of the storage room and came down the winding stone steps. At the grate, she fell to her knees and opened the combination lock that held the grating closed. She’d moved casually, but quickly and silently. With the grate open, she caught hold of the sides and slid down, hopping the last foot. It was dark in the tunnel but she’d come with her light and her Glock—she wasn’t taking chances.
She shone the light over the tunnel.
There was something—someone—in the shadows.
She lifted the light higher.
For a moment, it was as if she saw Blue in the flesh, he was that solid and real to her. He seemed to stand there in living color.
“Blue.” She whispered his name.
He looked at her, then turned and walked toward the river. Then he paused and looked back. He seemed to be waiting for her to follow.
She did.
The tunnel twisted and meandered and came to an end near the Savannah River. At one time, the entrance had been even closer to the river, but now it opened onto grass and parkland. The original hatch had been welded shut, but ancient, metal, ladderlike steps led up to the newer hatch.
She was in the area where she’d found Gus.
Abby tried not to remember finding him and realizing he was dead.
Determined, she fumbled with the grate and pushed at it; years ago, it had been set over the tunnel for public safety. It was supposed to be sealed. At first, she thought it was, that it wouldn’t give, wouldn’t budge.
Then, to her amazement, it did.
She pushed hard and hoisted herself out. She heard the lap of water against the supporting wall.
She hurried over to the wall, staring at the river.
She could see something there. Something in the darkness of the water.
Something that...moved.
Abby cried out and forgot everything else. She kicked off her shoes and removed her jacket and plunged into the Savannah River.
8
Leaving the morgue, Malachi drove straight back to the Dragonslayer. The historic district of Savannah was beautiful, even by night. Great oaks dripped moss onto streets where the architecture whispered of the past. Flowers bloomed copiously in beautifully grown yards and night-lights lay gently all around.
When he’d parked, he wasn’t ready to go in.
He sat remembering all the times he felt he’d been cursed with his strange ability to talk to the dead. In his generation, it had been his and his alone. Zachary had told him once that his grandmother had been able to talk to spirits and she’d explained to him that it was just like sound. Some folks could simply see and hear what others couldn’t quite grasp or get into their field of vision.
He’d quickly learned not to talk about it. But when he’d seen the dead and the dead had been able to help him, show him where to go—show him how to stop a dangerous situation—he’d had no recourse but to act. And so people had thought he was psychic. Friends had trusted him for whatever it was they believed he had. Luckily, the jerks and idiots had left him alone, either scornful or intimidated. He didn’t care which.
In New Orleans, he’d gotten lucky, being partnered with David Caswell. Caswell could be a by-the-book cop, but he was also a big believer in “gut” reactions and in hunches. Malachi had trusted in David’s intuition; in turn, David had trusted him and never pressed when Malachi had known where to go to help someone, especially after the summer of storms, when a dead man had led them to his children, alive and well and praying for rescue.
The problem with this kind of “talent” was that you never knew when it would kick in. And, of course, you couldn’t explain to the living that ghosts were like the living; they could only tell you about a situation if they’d been there at the time. Or if they’d seen something. Blue, for instance, could only point him to the killer if he knew who the killer was. Blue was aware that the tunnel had been used recently. He’d known Gus was in the tunnel and he had led Abby there. But unless he’d actually seen the killer...
Parking, Malachi started for the restaurant. But as he approached it, he paused. A few late-nighters were walking toward the front door.
They didn’t see the pirate standing there, the man in the frock coat with the rakish hat and pitch-black hair.
Blue Anderson.
But Malachi saw him and saw him clearly. Blue, he thought, was waiting for him.
He stood still but the pirate didn’t come any closer. Malachi strode toward him, hoping no one was watching from inside.
When he reached Blue, he heard the crackling whistle of the man’s voice on the air—or he heard it in his own mind, he was never sure.
“The river. Abby is at the river. He went through this tunnel...in the midst of the flurry over Gus. I did not see him...just the leaving. And I saw the boat...saw the rowboat out. When the rowboat is out, the bodies appear. Abby is out there.”
“Where, Blue, where?” Malachi asked anxiously. Abby was a trained agent. She knew how to use a Glock and she surely had it with her.
Blue drew a pattern in the air. “The little park—little patch of ground by the river, by the embankment. Go now.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He began to run, heedless of the fact that he ran past the rear of several other businesses and dashed between parked cars and a monument, then tore across a street where he might have been hit by oncoming traffic.
He reached the place; he knew it, of course. He’d followed the tunnel to its end when he had first arrived. He’d checked the hatch, put in by the city years ago.
The hatch was unsealed?
It wasn’t just unsealed, it had been thrown open.
He turned toward the river. There was someone in it—someone swimming, towing another person. He raced to the water, digging for his phone, then called Jackson and told him where he was and what was happening. Then he threw the phone aside and dove into the water.
Abby seemed to be a strong swimmer but she was slowing down. She had a young woman in a life-saving hold as she swam toward the embankment. He made his way to her with strong, hard strokes, swimming as quickly as he could. The current was fierce that night.
She seemed startled as he approached her. He saw her eyes widen with alarm. He could almost see her mind working as she weighed her options in fighting off an attacker while preserving the life of the victim. He saw the woman she held; she was unconscious—possibly dead. A trickle of blood streamed through the water but he couldn’t figure out its source. As the water sloshed around them, he saw that the skin on the woman’s wrists was raw and red, badly chafed.
She’d recently been bound. And she was bleeding—she might be alive.
He realized that Abby was trying to kick away from him.
“It’s me, it’s Malachi!” he said.
He saw relief flood her face.
“I’ll take over,” he told her.
He had no idea how far she’d swum out, and knowing her as he was beginning to know her, she would have made it in with her burden.
But she was tiring.
When she nodded, he slipped his arm around the woman’s torso and Abby eased her hold. The woman seemed to be dressed in voluminous clothing; in fact, the weight of her clothes was enough to have drowned her.
The sound of sirens was loud in the night. Abby began to swim toward the embankment and he followed. River water lapped into his mouth, and as he neared the embankment, he felt sea grass pull at his feet. But he was there.
He saw Jackson leaning over the supporting wall, grasping Abby’s arms. Abby was hauled up. “Hang on!” Jackson called to him. A moment later, he saw paramedics and police divers. Two more men jumped in, as well as a floating stretcher. The rescue team relieved him of his burden. He saw Jackson reaching down again and he grasped his friend’s arms, grateful for the assistance.
Abby stood near him, shivering. He walked over to her without thinking and put his arms around her. He felt chilly in the night air, as well. They were both cold, but together, they seemed warmer.
They watched in silence as the rescue workers hoisted the stretcher from the water. When the stretcher and the woman on it were brought up, the EMTs started artificial respiration. He listened to the counts as two men worked together, trying to breathe life into the victim.
Water suddenly spurted from the woman’s lips.
“She’s alive?” Abby whispered.
“She’s alive,” an EMT said.
Malachi saw the river-diluted blood that was smeared on much of her tangled clothing. He winced, suspecting what it signified.
Abby began to shake in earnest.
Malachi held her more tightly. “Pretty incredible, Abby,” he told her. “A few more minutes in that river with all that clothing tangled around her... She wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
Abby looked at him, her blue eyes enormous against the ashen color of her face.
“It’s Helen, Malachi. It’s Helen Long. And thank God, she’s alive.”
Hard to believe how quickly the media arrived on the scene.
Or maybe not. The newscasters followed calls for police and rescue vehicles.
David Caswell moved to keep the media at bay, but before anyone could decide what information to keep secret, someone had guessed that the missing Helen Long had been found, and reporters immediately began setting up, even while rescue personnel and police worked the scene.
Abby stood there shivering, watching it all, grateful for Malachi at her side. And grateful that David was shielding them from inquisitive—and sometimes aggressive—reporters.
The situation seemed personal to her, very personal. She was grateful; they’d saved a woman.
They’d saved a woman she knew.
