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.

“You found him?” Zachary asked anxiously.

“We did. Thank you. If you hadn’t mentioned that place—”

“You would’ve thought of it. Eventually.”

“And the kid might have been dead by then.”

“Your jacket!” Zachary said. He touched Malachi’s arm. Malachi felt the movement of air around him, nothing else.

“The killer fired at me.”

“Good God, man, he was close!”

“Too close. I shot back. He’s dead.”

“Quite fine!”

Malachi shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill him. We hadn’t found the boy yet. But I assumed someone built the shack on the lines of old places like this, and I was right. Joshua Madsen was in the hideaway.”

“So you saved him. Are you injured?”

“Only my pride. I didn’t think Stiles had seen me. I was trying to watch the place and get closer, and I didn’t realize he’d come out back. Not until the bullet grazed my shoulder. I liked this jacket—not as much as uninjured flesh, but—”

“Then, all ended well,” Zachary broke in, pleased. “I’m out to tell Genevieve!”

The ghost turned and left him, moving through what was now the kitchen and outside, dissolving through the walls. He was heading to the small family cemetery in back, Malachi knew. Zachary’s wife and children were there—the three who’d died as infants and the three who’d survived childhood diseases to adulthood. Many of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren were there, too. Malachi had asked him once why he stayed around when he missed his Genevieve so much. Zachary had told him, “I believe I will know when it’s time for me to follow my love.”

Malachi never reminded him that he hadn’t known when it was time to hide from the British during the Revolution. Zachary had been caught spying. They’d intended to hang him but he’d escaped and yet, in escaping, he’d been mortally wounded and had died in the arms of his Genevieve, right in the house, in front of the large stone hearth.

Then again, Malachi mused, he hadn’t been that bright himself. Stiles had almost caught him in the chest with a .45.

He walked into the kitchen to pour himself a shot of his favorite single-malt Scotch. As he did so, there was a tap at his door. He immediately stiffened.

Aw, come on! His address wasn’t public. The damned reporters hadn’t found him out here, had they?

He decided to ignore the summons and remained unwaveringly focused on his shot of Scotch.

His phone rang. He glanced at his caller ID as he passed it. The number was unavailable, so he didn’t answer. The ringing stopped.

The pounding at the door began again.

Swearing, he strode over to it. He lifted the little cover on the peephole and looked out. He was ready to swing the door open, oh-so-ready to berate whoever was knocking at this time of night.

He stopped, surprised by the sight of three somber and distinguished-looking men in suits. One was elderly—possibly around eighty or so. The other two were tall and appeared to have Native American blood in their backgrounds, though mixed with some kind of Northern European ancestry.

The elderly man held a cell phone. He hit the keys.

Malachi’s cell began ringing again.

Seriously, what the hell? These guys had his number and they knew where to find him.

He opened the door and scowled at the three of them.

“Mr. Gordon, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we’ve been trying to reach you,” the elderly gentleman said. He held up his cell phone with a shrug.

“I’ve been a little busy,” Malachi said. “And it is—” he looked at his watch “—almost 3:00 a.m. Who are you? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had a long day and a longer night. What do you want?”

“Your unusual talent, Mr. Gordon,” the elderly man said, offering his hand. “My name is Adam Harrison. These are agents Jackson Crow and Logan Raintree.”

“Uh, great, nice to meet you. What unusual talent?”

“The kind explained by your roommate,” one of the other men said. Raintree, Malachi thought.

“My roommate?” Malachi said.

Raintree indicated someone who stood behind Malachi.

Malachi turned. Zachary was back in the house, watching him—and the newcomers—with obvious amusement.

“I believe these gentlemen see me, Malachi,” Zachary said.

“Yes, we see you,” the man introduced as Crow acknowledged. “May we come in, please? You had a long and fruitful day, and we’re pretty sure you don’t intend to stop when it comes to protecting the innocent who are in imminent danger.”

“We believe we can make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Adam Harrison said.

Harrison. Malachi thought he knew the name. Harrison had been around a long time; he was known for solving some horrible crimes, some cases that...

Were unusual.

That had some kind of...

Ghosts.

He opened the door. “Okay, come on in, but I was about to have a Scotch. You can join me or not. I’ll listen to you—but that’s it. I’ll listen.”

Harrison walked in, followed by the other two. Malachi closed the door behind them.

They saw Zachary.

He asked them to go ahead and sit down in the old parlor by the huge stone hearth. Back in the kitchen, he scooped ice into glasses and poured Scotch.

He paused, then added a second shot to his own.

He had a feeling his life was about to change.

* * *

“One day I’ll fall, but I will fall to the law on the high seas, and not to the likes of you, Scurvy Pete! I will go with my ship—and not with the dregs of the sea!”

“To the death, Blue Anderson! To the death!”

The two young fencers/actors played out the battle between Blue Anderson and Scurvy Pete Martin with passion and panache on a raised all-weather stage at the far side of the Dragonslayer parking lot. They were decked out in full pirate gear, colorful flared and embellished jackets swirling around them as they accomplished each choreographed step.

The wench they fought over—a British admiral’s daughter named Missy Tweed—cowered in a corner while they fought. She was customarily played by a pretty young blonde from the local arts academy. Eyewitness accounts of the encounter in the river between the two pirates described Blue as a hero, even if he’d been a pirate. But Blue was known for being a staunch Englishman above all else; he didn’t mind sacking a non-British ship of her treasure, and he only went to battle against enemies of the Crown. Blue swore he’d never be caught, nor would he abandon his crew. He never was caught; he sailed away one summer when storms were rampant and wasn’t seen again.

The tourist performance—and come-on for the restaurant—ended with the death of Scurvy Pete, and Blue’s announcement, “The lady may bring riches, but she’ll not be disrespected whilst in my, er, care!” Abigail applauded with the others. She knew the two young actors playing the parts. Blue was played by Roger English, an old friend; they’d graduated from high school together. Without his long dark braided wig and beard, he had sandy-blond hair and deep brown, expressive eyes. Roger, who was an avid fan of Savannah’s history, also ran one of the best ghost tours in the city.

She smiled, thinking about old times. Even as a kid, he’d loved to tell scary stories, some from history and some he’d made up. It had all paid off for him in the end.

Scurvy Pete was played by Paul Westermark, who’d gradated in the class before them. Paul sometimes worked for Roger, but he was also an accomplished vocalist and guitarist and spent many nights playing local venues.

While their audience, collected from passersby on the street and those who knew that the two pirates performed on Saturdays, grouped around to congratulate them on their performance or ask “pirate” questions, Abby hurried around to the front to reach the restaurant.

She was anxious.

Come home. I need you.

That cryptic summons had come from Gus Anderson, her grandfather, and had brought Abigail Anderson driving down from Virginia. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her about “the situation” on the phone; he needed to see her in person. She feared the worst. Gus was in his early nineties and even if he was in excellent shape for his age, he was certainly no spring chicken. And while she would’ve dropped anything in the world to come home if he was in trouble, she couldn’t help but marvel at his timing. She’d finished at the academy, and she was now waiting for her actual assignment. That made it a perfect time for her to drive home.

Gus’s restaurant, the Dragonslayer tavern, sat right on the river, just as it had since 1758. Abby had arrived in time to see the end of one of the three performances given every Saturday, this one done as the tavern closed after lunch to prepare for the dinner crowd. Whether the show brought diners to the restaurant or not, Gus didn’t really care. As a youth, he’d played his great-great—however many greats—uncle in the shows; now, he simply loved his restaurant. They weren’t the only “pirate” restaurant in town, and they weren’t the most famous. But they were, as far as preservation went, filled with integrity. Diners could get great stories from Gus if they were intrigued by the old-time lure of the establishment.

Approaching the restaurant was part of the charm to Abby, and part of the allure of coming home. Driving the streets with their majestic moss-covered and stately oaks, she always felt a little thrill when she saw the Dragonslayer appear before her. She’d grown up in Savannah, and had often stayed at the Dragonslayer. It wasn’t that her family didn’t have a house, and a lovely house at that, on a nearby square, almost as historic as the restaurant itself. But, as a child, she’d spent days and nights with her grandparents, who’d maintained their apartment right above the tavern where famous men had come for two and a half centuries. She’d been regaled with tales of the pirate days, when her ancestor had built the pub and where his brother—the infamous Blue Anderson—had been known to slip in and shanghai many a ne’er-do-well.

The Dragonslayer never changed. It was lovingly maintained, but it never changed. Its edifice appeared much as it had in the 1750s. There were probably far more adult trees surrounding it now, with their mystical sweep of dripping moss, but other than that, she could well imagine stepping back in time. Of course, that would mean slop pots, pigs, chickens and other animals crowding what was now the parking lot, and a horrendous smell in the midst of a summer like this. But still, there was a touch of magic about a place imbued with history. Gus called it living history—each new generation being a part of the past and creating more history.

She hurried toward the building, anxious to see her grandfather, dreading whatever problem he might have that had brought him to say, “I need you.” A problem he didn’t want to discuss on the phone.

A covered porch with old wooden benches for diners awaiting their tables had been part of the original building. Now steps and a ramp led up to the porch. Near the old double doors to the entry Gus kept the typical wire bin that offered promo materials, maps of the historic section and a free local community paper. The community paper was on the top tier of the bin; Gus’s clientele were locals as often as they were visitors. Even distracted as she was, she noticed the blazing headline in the paper.

Second Body Found; Police Seek Any Information!

She picked up the paper, surprised that she hadn’t seen anything on the news regarding a murder in Savannah. She glanced over the article as she reached for the old iron ring that opened the door.

She learned that tourists leaving an Irish bar around the bend on the river had found the first victim, a young woman. This morning, the second victim, a businessman from Iowa, had come ashore down by one of the coffeehouses. The reporter asked: “Is a River Rat killing in the city?” Abby flinched; she had a feeling the moniker would stick.

Were these deaths related?

The victimology was different—one woman, one man. But both had been tourists or visitors, which meant they didn’t know the city.

Since she’d just come from her FBI classes, it was hard not to speculate on the situation. But while part of her mind wondered if it was the kind of case she might be called in on if the local police invited the feds to take part, she was still too worried about Gus to give the horrible matter her full attention. She folded the paper and slipped it into the large canvas carryall she had over her shoulder. Gus first, paper later.

Pulling off her sunglasses, she stepped through the door. Lights were ablaze inside, but they didn’t compare with the sun burning outside in the late-summer heat of Savannah.

“Abby!”

She’d barely stepped in when she heard Macy Sterling, Gus’s day manager, call her name. Macy came from behind the reservation desk to throw both arms around her in an enthusiastic hug. “Hey, Gus said you were coming today! He’s been talking about nothing else all morning. I’m so glad! Seems like forever since you’ve been here!”

Macy was an attractive woman in her early forties with bright green eyes and sable hair swept up in a chignon. She’d worked for Gus since her mid-twenties and she was a family friend as well as employee. Like all employees here, she was dressed up in Dragonslayer traditional costume, that being pirate mode. Macy made a beautiful wench. She had a lovely figure and did her white cotton blouse, black leggings, boots and red vest proud.

“It’s great to be here,” Abby told her. “But it hasn’t been that long. Only about six months. I did my basic training, twenty weeks, and then I graduated. And after that, I was assigned to more behavioral classes and desk duty. Fortunately, I was in a sort of holding pattern so I could come home now. They’re working on permanent assignments for everyone in my class and my current supervisor told me I could take a break.”

“Well, last time you were here, it was just for a day, and Gus hoarded you selfishly. I hope you have more time this trip. We miss you.”

“Thanks,” Abby said. “And I miss you all when I’m gone. And this place, for sure!” She took a minute to appreciate the bar; it had been there from the beginning and had actually been constructed from the planks of an old ship. Now, of course, it was lovingly tended with wood polish.

The walls were adorned with antique figureheads and pirate flags. An old ship’s wheel separated the entry from the bar area to the left—as well as the steps to the second floor—and the restaurant rooms to the right. The old secondary stairs, cut out of stone, were seldom used now. They led down to the basement and the “secret” passage to the river and were guarded by rails and a life-size robotic mannequin of a 1700s pirate, namely Blue Anderson.

“Oh!” Macy dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I should’ve said congratulations! You passed! I was so sorry we couldn’t attend the ceremony. Our little girl is really all grown up now.”

“Yes, let’s hope so, since I’m twenty-six,” Abby said, smiling. “I mean, if any of us ever really grows up completely.”

Macy studied her as proudly as a parent. “Tell me more. How are you? How’s living there? Who are you dating? Do people still date? How’s the great state of Virginia?” Macy fired questions at her.

Abby laughed. “I’m fine. I rent a little house in a rural district not far from work—it’s historic. The ‘history’ thing must’ve gotten into my blood. I love living there. Yes, I believe people still date, but not me. I’ve been too busy. And Virginia is as hot as Savannah,” she said, trying to answer Macy’s questions in order.

Macy held her at arm’s length, studying her.

“Where’s your hair? You didn’t chop off your hair, did you? One day, you mark my words, you’ll get old and you’ll have to dye it, so you need to have lots of that glorious color while you can!” Macy said.

Yes, it was good to be home.

“My hair’s all here, Macy,” she said. “Just swept up because it’s hot as hell on my neck,” she said. She’d heard that her hair color came down to her from Gus and his family; apparently Blue Anderson, the pirate brother, had enjoyed the same coloring. But whether his moniker had come from the blue-black hair color that appeared in the Anderson clan every so often or the brilliant color of his eyes, no one really knew. Or because he had a reputation for the “black and blue” he could inflict on those who defied his orders...

“We’ll catch up some more later,” she said, then asked, “but where’s Gus?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure. He was up in the office. You want to wait for him there? Oh, are you hungry? Shall I have the cooks whip something up? You drove five-hundred-plus miles, and you are the heir to a wonderful restaurant!”

“No, I’ve eaten, thanks. I stopped at the North-South Carolina border,” Abby told her. “I’m going to run up to the office, okay? If he’s not there, I’ll wait for him.”

“You bet!” Macy gave her another fierce hug. She returned it.

She turned to hurry up the stairs but before she could do so, she was hailed from the bar.

“Abby! Why, Abby’s here, just as old Gus said!”

Abby knew the voice well.

“Bootsie!” she said, turning back to greet the man sitting at the end of the bar with two other familiar faces. Together the three looked every bit the rakish pirate crew. Young compared to her grandfather, Bootsie was still close to seventy—and yet seemed ageless. He had a thick hard-muscled chest and arms like a linebacker. He’d been a fixture on his bar stool as long as she could remember, and if any man had ever resembled an old pirate, it was Bootsie. His real name was Bob Lanigan; he’d been in the marines, followed by the merchant marines, and then he’d captained one of the ships that ran along the river. He’d had a sweet, long-suffering wife who’d indulged his whims and waited patiently at home for whenever he chose to return, but Betty had died about a year ago and Bootsie now spent much of his time on the bar stool. He had a thick thatch of long white hair, a white beard—and a peg leg. He’d lost his left leg from the knee down when he was in the service, and he didn’t “cotton to” any of the new technology. While he owned a number of new, very real-looking prosthetics, his peg leg was just fine for him. Abby only remembered seeing him without it once or twice.

If he wore an eye patch, he’d be perfect for the role of pirate, but thankfully, Bootsie still had both eyes.

“Look at you, lass! Beautiful! Didn’t I tell you she’d grow up beautiful?” he asked Dirk Johansen, one of his companions at the bar. Dirk was the “whippersnapper” of Bootsie’s group of cronies. He was in his late forties and still sailing. A lean, fit man, he often resembled a staff member at the Dragonslayer, since he typically came in straight off one of his “pirate cruises” on the Black Swan. He was handsome and distinguished, an eternal bachelor, or so it seemed. Abby was pretty sure that Macy had maintained a secret crush on him for years. They would have made a handsome couple.

Dirk smiled at her as he replied to the statement. “Bootsie, she’s been a beautiful young woman for quite a while now. Abby, welcome home. It’s always wonderful to see you.”

“Cheers!” said the third member of their group, Aldous Brentwood. Aldous was several times a millionaire from his own—and his family’s—maritime efforts. He was in his mid-fifties, but hard work had kept him toned. He shaved his head bald, had bright blue eyes and wore a single gold earring in his left lobe. Like Bootsie, he could easily pass for a pirate, or, Abby thought, the character for the Mr. Clean line of household products.

“Bootsie, Dirk, Aldous,” Abby said, giving each a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.

“Gus misses you terribly when you’re away,” Dirk said.

“And he grins for a week when you’re coming back!” Aldous told her.

“Well, I’m here now. I figured I’d find him on a bar stool with you gentlemen. So where’s my favorite old grouch? I was on my way up to see if he’s in the office,” she said.

“He might be up there. I’m not sure.” Bootsie shrugged. “He let me in when the kitchen staff started arriving at ten. We sat and talked for a while and he did keep looking at his watch, telling me about where you’d be on your drive.”

“I saw him right at opening,” Dirk offered.

“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

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.”

“That’s great to hear, even though it’s something I know—that Gus was great to work for,” Abby said.

She turned and went back to the front. Sullivan was behind the bar. Macy was collecting glasses that had been left at the tall bar tables.

Aldous, Dirk and Bootsie remained on their bar stools.

“What happened to your new friend?” she asked him. “The man from the bureau?”

Dirk frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe he took off. He wasn’t actually a friend of yours, right? Just a rep from the government?”

“I’d thought he’d speak with me again before he left,” Abby said. “But...I guess not.”

Bootsie stood, his peg leg wobbling. “Listen, Abby, we know today’s been hard on you. Now, the boys and I, we can hang around here as long as you like. Or, better still, we can take you off somewhere else and give you a break from this place.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. It’s okay. To be honest, I’m looking forward to some time alone.”

“Alone?” Bootsie said, surprised.

“Do you want us to walk you to your parents’ house?” Dirk asked her. “I mean, do you really want to stay here right now? You have that beautiful house on the square....”

“She should come with us,” Aldous said. “The house is where...and this is where...” He broke off. The house was where her parents had died; this was where Gus had just died.

“I love my house—it’s beautiful. I really should rent it out again.” The previous tenants had been a writer and his family, and they’d gone back to New York a few months ago. She’d rented the place furnished. Not sure what she wanted to do with it yet, she’d brought over some extra clothes and retrieved boxes of her old belongings from the basement, returning them to her childhood bedroom. “I’m not unhappy in either the house or the Dragonslayer, guys. I have good memories here—and there. I’m fine. Just need a little time to take a deep breath now that the funeral’s over, and then get everything in order. So...out with the three of you! Go wander along the riverfront and give another innkeeper your business tonight. Come back tomorrow. With or without Gus, this remains your place. I don’t know what I’d do if I came home and didn’t find the three of you here. But for now, scat!”

They looked like a group of fathers forced to leave their children for a first day at school.

“Hey, come on now. Out, out,” Abby told them.

They finally left her with a bit more grumbling and a lot of hugs.

Sullivan cleared his throat. “I’ll just get these last glasses....”

“No, no, Sullivan, that’s all right. I’ve got it. I’d like something to do,” Abby said.

“I’m exhausted,” Macy said. “Grant’s upstairs. He’s checking on supplies for the week. After that, I think he plans on leaving for the night. But, Abby, I don’t feel you should be alone here.”

“I’ve spent most of my life here!”

Macy walked behind the bar to get her purse. “All right,” she said with obvious reluctance. “Make sure you lock up. The city can be scary. I don’t ever remember so many people—”

“Dying?” Sullivan finished. “Come on, Macy. Abby doesn’t want us here. I’ll walk you home.”

Macy nodded as she stood behind the bar, looking at Abby. “You have my number. If anything comes up. Or if you just need to talk...”

“You were both wonderful to Gus. He loved you and appreciated your loyalty to the Dragonslayer. And so do I. Now, I’m fine. You two go on home.”

“You know you control the music from behind the bar,” Sullivan said.

“I know,” Abby assured him.

“I wish Gus had gotten a solid alarm system for this place.” Macy glanced at Abby and flushed. “I’m not criticizing. He had cameras put in the front and over by the parking lot, and there’s an emergency police buzzer behind the bar. Most of the downstairs windows are sealed now, but...”

“He thought his security installations were a big deal. State of the art. He started them more than fifteen years ago, when we were nearly broken into,” Abby said. “But, Macy, don’t worry. I’ll see about getting a real alarm system before I go back to Virginia,” Abby promised. She looked up; she heard Grant coming down from the offices upstairs. He joined them, giving her a hug.

She loved Grant. He’d worked for Gus, first as a pirate entertainer. Grant had spent seven years getting his hospitality degree, he’d told her some time ago. He couldn’t decide between acting, modeling and going into the restaurant or hotel business. Once he had his degree in hand, the first person to really believe in him had been Gus.

“I heard the words alarm system,” Grant said. “I have brochures up in my office. Gus asked me to look into a good system just a few days ago,” Grant said.

“Then we’ll take care of it,” Abby promised. “Grant, sometime tomorrow, if you want to go through the different companies with me, that’d be great.”

“Absolutely,” Grant said. “I’m going to head out now—if you’re sure you’re okay.”

Grant, who was gay, had been with his partner, Alden Blaine, for well over ten years. Alden worked for the fire department and had left the tavern earlier, since he had an early call the next day.

“Go home, yes, go home. My Lord, getting you people out of here is a real project.”

At last, with everyone still protesting, she got them all out the door.

As she closed and locked it, she smiled, wondering what they were worried about; she’d been staying here every night since she’d arrived, and—except for today—the Dragonslayer didn’t close until 2:00 a.m. That meant the staff never left until three or four. She’d been going to bed much earlier, leaving Grant to lock up.

And she’d been fine.

Maybe it was the fact that people were here so late—and that the first of the setup crews were usually in by six in the morning, although they didn’t open until eleven. So there were only a few hours when she’d been alone and despite, or because of, the circumstances she’d come home to, she’d been sound asleep during those hours.

They were probably worried about what she might imagine in the darkness, worried that she’d be afraid.

But she wasn’t afraid. She knew what they didn’t know.

Blue Anderson watched over the Dragonslayer.

In the days that had followed her grandfather’s death, she’d hoped Blue would make an appearance. She’d hoped as well, that she’d be haunted by her grandfather.

But no one had appeared to her, upstairs or down, by day or night. Blue had stood by the burial site in the graveyard, though....

With the door finally closed and locked, Abby walked around the downstairs. Figureheads from ships of many centuries stared down at her. She walked past the hostess stand and behind the bar, gathering up the last of the glasses as she did so.

A copy of the day’s paper lay on the bar. She set the glasses by the sanitizer and picked it up.

There was no mention of a serial killer in the article; it stated simply that the body of Felicia Shepherd, twenty-two, had been found on the river embankment by the bridge. The cause of her death would be determined by the medical examiner.

Thoughtfully, Abby walked back to the hostess stand and searched through the papers collected there until she came to the one she had picked up the day she arrived.

The first victim had also been a young woman, aged twenty-five. Her name was Ruth Seymour and she’d come to Savannah on vacation. She’d wanted to stay in the historic city for a night on her own before meeting up with friends at Hilton Head. She had checked into her bed-and-breakfast—the clerk remembered her as bubbly and charming—and that was the last anyone could remember seeing her until her body was discovered.

The second victim was Rupert Holloway, a salesman for a mobile phone company. He never arrived at his hotel. His wife told police he’d planned to meet business associates on the riverfront for lunch.

The associates had gone to lunch; Rupert Holloway had not. He had next appeared on the river embankment—dead.

No cause of death was mentioned for Holloway, either. An autopsy had been pending for both at the time the article was written.

“Foul play suspected,” she read aloud.

She set the first paper down and picked up the most recent one.

Abby didn’t care what the police were saying. Ruth Seymour, Rupert Holloway and now Felicia Shepherd were all out-of-towners, all found by the river.

Serial killer.

She shook her head. The victimology was so different. A serial killer usually liked a type. With Ted Bundy, it had been young women with long dark hair. Jeffrey Dahmer had gone for boys or young men. Some killers preyed on couples.

Maybe he was after young women—and the businessman had been a mistake or had stumbled upon him when he’d been engaged in some other illegal act?

“Ms. Anderson?”

Abby was so startled by the voice that she screamed and threw the newspaper in the air. She swung around.

To her astonishment, she wasn’t alone.

She’d locked herself in, all right, but somehow she’d managed to lock herself in before confirming that everyone else was out.

It was the agent, and he was staring at her from the left dining room. But the lights had been dimmed in the dining rooms, so he would’ve known they were closing.

He hadn’t gone, after all.

He walked toward her quickly, apologizing as he did. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What the hell are you still doing here?” she demanded. “You did scare me—you scared me out of my wits.”

“I might have frightened you because of the circumstances,” he said. “You did just come from the academy, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Gordon?” she asked. “A certain amount of fear is healthy for all of us. It keeps us from being reckless.”

“That’s the line at the academy, is it?” he asked.

She frowned. A small trickle of fear assailed her again. Who the hell was this man? She didn’t know him; he’d said that he’d come from the FBI but he’d done nothing to prove it.

“You don’t remember the academy?” she asked him.

“Remember it? I never went to it.”

There was, she knew, a gun below the bar in the strongbox. A nice safe place during the business day—hard to get to right now. And this guy was probably a full six-foot-four, lean, muscled and hard as nails.

Unease slithered alone her spine.

Serial killer?

He didn’t look like a serial killer.

But, of course, she had just come through the academy, as he’d said. So she was well aware that a serial killer could be charming, credible and handsome. They’d seen enough examples of that.

“I’m sorry. You really are frightened. And you’re thinking that getting your gun from under the bar won’t be easy, and since it was your grandfather’s funeral service today, you aren’t carrying your regulation Glock,” he said.

“I’ve been around this place since I was a kid, Mr. Gordon—or whoever you are. I’m lethal with a broken bottle and I can grab one and smash it before you can blink!”

He smiled and shook his head, frowning. “I told you, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have been hiding in a darkened restaurant. If you needed to speak with me, you might have stayed around and done so instead of just vanishing.”

“I wasn’t hiding in a darkened restaurant—and I didn’t vanish.”

Abby arched her brows and looked toward the dining room.

“I went down into the tunnel,” he told her. He took a step toward the bar. She reached for a bottle and held it by the neck. He stopped, lifting his hands, smiling grimly. “Your grandfather did die in the tunnel, right?”

“The grate from the restaurant to the tunnel is locked.” She could tell that her voice sounded thin.

“Perhaps it’s supposed to be,” he said. “It wasn’t.”

“That tunnel is almost pitch-black.” Her voice was growing even tighter and thinner.

And while she wasn’t armed, she realized he did have a gun worn discreetly beneath his jacket. She wasn’t sure what kind, because the flap of his jacket was covering it.

Her fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle she held.

He reached into his pants pocket; she drew back, slamming the bottle against the wall.

He let out a sigh and stepped back again. “Man, that’s going to be a bitch for someone to clean up,” he said. “I was only getting my light. It’s finger-size but casts a glow big and strong enough to light up Pluto.”

He held up a small flashlight. To add insult to injury, he turned it on. It nearly blinded her.

“What were you doing in the tunnel?” she asked.

“Investigating, Ms. Anderson. That’s what you wanted, right? You think your grandfather was murdered. I’m here to investigate.”

She shook her head in denial. “No one paid any attention to me,” she told him. “And you just said you hadn’t been to the academy—”

“I haven’t been. Yet. I’m here on a trial basis.”

“I don’t understand.”

“At the moment, I’m a consultant. I’ve been asked to join the Krewe and we’re seeing if I work out as a Krewe member. Whether they like me enough—and whether I like the job enough to accept it.”

Wary, Abby said, “Mr. Gordon, you really need to leave. You haven’t been through the academy, so no one I know sent you. And I’ll see to it that the grating is locked. Thank you so much for letting me know it isn’t. Now...”

“Now—yes, now. Can we please have a discussion? A rational discussion. Look, you’re the one who sent for help!” he said irritably.

“Talk about what? I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here if you don’t have the credentials—”

“I was sent here because you asked for help!”

“But—”

“I have a copy of your email, Ms. Anderson. I’ll show you, as long as you don’t drag the whole bar down if I reach into a pocket again. You wrote to Jackson Crow, from the Krewe of Hunters. Jackson Crow sent me. Take me or leave me, Ms. Anderson, but I’m your man. If I agree you’ve got the right kind of problem—and there is a strong possibility that your grandfather was murdered, possibly in connection with those murders you were just reading about—then more Krewe members will step in. For now, you’ve got me.”

Abby swallowed. There were a number of agents in the Krewes who’d been with the FBI for some time now. This man was saying he hadn’t even gone to the academy.

“You’re not an agent?” she asked in a whisper.

“Not yet.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said shaking. “Then...then what are your credentials?”

“Ah,” he murmured. “Well, I’m a private investigator legitimately licensed. At one time I was a detective with the New Orleans police. And now I’m legitimately on the books as a consultant to the feds. Perhaps most important, Ms. Anderson, I just had a conversation with an ancestor of yours. Calls himself Blue. Will that do for starters?”

3

Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the fact that he’d seen Blue Anderson, Malachi thought. But, then again, the young woman seemed to think he was a serial killer himself, so he had to say something.

It hadn’t occurred to him that the place would have emptied out by the time he came back. But the tunnel had fascinated him, and he’d followed it from the tavern to the riverbank and back more than once, marveling at the pirates who had constructed the escape—or kidnapping or shanghai—route. Once in the tavern again, he’d had no choice but to make himself known.

Or maybe he should just have told her he was an agent. Except that he wasn’t. Not yet. If he chose to accept an appointment with the Krewe of Hunters, then, yes, he’d have to go through a course at the academy. But he was still skeptical.

And neither had he expected to be sent out on his own. But, apparently, that was the way Adam Harrison, Jackson Crow and Logan Raintree felt it should be done.

Sort of like a baptism by fire.

Malachi was game, though. Especially after he’d read about the two bodies that were discovered on the riverbank. He hadn’t been convinced that the death of a man in his nineties was murder, but since the man’s granddaughter had just graduated from the academy and had written such an impassioned letter, someone needed to come out here. And these recent murders did give a degree of credence to her beliefs.

So it was a test. For them, and as he’d said, for him. A chance to find out if he was really willing to join a unit or “create his own,” as he’d been offered. They needed more units in Jackson Crow’s specialized area and apparently they thought he was a man who could head up another one.

Actually, it didn’t seem like a bad deal. Work with people who didn’t think he was crazy or that he was a psychic. Trying to convince some people that he wasn’t a psychic was as hard as convincing others that he did have certain...talents.

As Abby Anderson stared at him, Malachi tried to sum her up. She was tall, a stunning woman with a headful of the darkest, richest black hair he’d ever seen and eyes so blue they appeared to be violet or black. Her features were delicate and beautifully chiseled, and while she was lithe and fit, she was still well-endowed. Slim and yet curvy—hard to achieve.

She had to have ability and intelligence; he refused to believe she could have made it through the academy without both. What agents sometimes lacked, in Malachi’s opinion, was imagination and vision. Though not, he had quickly discovered, the agents who wound up in what Adam Harrison had created—the Krewe of Hunters or, as it was generally called now, the Krewes. There was the original Krewe and then the Texas Krewe, although even adding a second was proving to be insufficient. Adam Harrison had told him passionately that it wasn’t a calling that came to just anyone. No two ways about it, forming a new Krewe was difficult. Very few people had the talents they needed—and the ability to physically and mentally work in law enforcement.

She continued to stare at him as time ticked by. She seemed almost frozen, as if she were in a tableau. He feared she had to be in shock, although she didn’t reveal her emotions.

“Hello?” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “Look, Ms. Anderson, I know what I’m doing around a crime scene and I generally know what I’m doing around people. Alive and dead. No, I don’t see hundreds of ghosts walking the streets, but when someone’s hanging around a place like this the way your Blue Anderson seems to be doing, it’s usually for a reason, like safeguarding someone.”

Was he wrong? Had she never seen the ghost of the pirate? If not, he’d just shown himself to be a real quack in her eyes.

No, in her email to Jackson she’d stated there was a ghost at the tavern, a ghost reportedly seen through the centuries. She hadn’t come out and said she’d seen the ghost, but reading between the lines, he was certain she had.

And even if she did think he was a quack, so what? He still wasn’t completely sure he wanted to be here or be part of this. He’d spent the past five years working for himself and he liked it that way. Maybe he should’ve started off with the fact that he’d served in the military and been a cop in New Orleans for several years before Marie’s death from cancer, when he’d come home to his family property in Virginia. That was when he’d chosen to work for himself, getting a P.I. license.

Now...

“He spoke to you?” she whispered.

“Ah, there’s life behind those eyes!” he murmured. “Yes, it seems to take him a great deal of effort. I don’t believe he’s practiced at speaking.”

“Practiced?” she asked, sounding startled. “Practiced? Ghosts have to practice...being ghosts?”

Curious. She didn’t seem worried that he’d seen the ghost. She was worried—or maybe confused—about its being a practiced ghost.

Jackson Crow had been certain, reading her email, that Abigail Anderson was of their own kind. A communicator, as Jackson referred to people who saw more than others did.

“Ms. Anderson, in my own experience, those who remain behind meet the same difficulties we do in life. Some are shy and don’t do much more than watch. They never manage to speak to the living, move objects, even make a room cold. Some discover that they can learn to speak, to move objects—and they can even create a cold wind. Just like some of us on earth speak many languages while others are lucky to speak one. And some can barely walk, while others have athletic talent and prowess or perform in dance or join the Cirque de Soleil. Every ghost is an individual, just as each of us is.”

“And you...saw Blue. And spoke to him?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you. He hardly ever appears. He’s never spoken.”

“Not to you, perhaps.”

“I’m his descendent!” she said indignantly.

He shrugged. “Well, have you ever tried speaking to him?”

She straightened, glaring at him with hostile, narrowed eyes.

No, Malachi decided, it didn’t seem he’d gone about this the right way at all.

“So, you’re old friends. Where is he now?” she asked.

“Certainly not old friends,” Malachi said. “And I haven’t met a ghost yet who appears on demand. I’m sure he’s around somewhere, though. I don’t think he leaves these premises. At least not often.”

“And you spoke with him where, exactly?” she asked.

“In the tunnel.”

“What did he say?”

“I didn’t know he was there at first. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘This is where he died. He was strong of heart. His death was not so simple.’”

She stared at him with such incredulity, Malachi found himself growing irritated. She saw Blue herself.

“Mr. Gordon, even if you are for real, I wish you’d leave right now. My grandfather died. We buried him today. But you know that. You were watching.”

He stared back at her. “I can leave, or we can get started. Your grandfather called you because he suspected something or knew something—at least, that’s what you wrote to Agent Crow.” He tapped the newspaper. “So Gus is dead, possibly a victim, and there are three more—in a city where the murder rate is customarily quite low. Four victims in a short period of time. Do you want to sit there doubting me, or do you want to piece together what we know? Shouldn’t take long. It isn’t a lot.”

“Almost nothing,” she agreed after a moment, disgust in her tone. She picked up the newspaper behind the bar. “Another girl dead, found on the riverbank. The police haven’t released cause of death, and when I tried to speak with them, I got nowhere. I tried to tell them Gus hadn’t just died—that there had to be someone else down there in the tunnel, someone who caused him to die.” She shook her head, studying him. “Look, you’re not even an agent. How are you going to get any information?”

He smiled. “I honestly have a private investigator’s license and I am now on the federal payroll as a consultant. Feel free to check that out. Call Jackson Crow. I think he’ll be expecting you.”

“Call him? I don’t have a number. All I could find in the material I have from Quantico was an email address. And I couldn’t reach him on an official line now. It’s nearly eight!”

“I have his cell number. And he might be in the office, anyway. He works long hours.”

“Right. So I could be calling anyone!”

He smiled at that. “Ever suspicious. That should make you a good agent, but you do have to go with your gut and trust someone at some point.”

“I’m really not seeing why that should be you,” she said.

“Ouch.”

“You could have approached me earlier—while there were still people here.”

“As you said, your grandfather’s funeral was today. And then, I wasn’t sure whether you wanted to advertise the fact that you’d called in...the ghost investigators.”

“Give me that number,” she said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.

He rattled off the numbers and she dialed. She watched him as she spoke. “Mr. Jackson Crow, please.”

Malachi could hear the deep murmur of Crow’s voice from where he stood.

“If you’re Jackson Crow, would you by any wild chance still be at work?” She was silent for a minute. “I see. Then...would you be good enough to call me back on an official line?”

Jackson murmured something again. She pressed the end button on her phone and studied him while she waited for it to ring. When it did, she looked at the exchange. After she’d answered, Malachi could once again hear the deep timbre of Crow’s voice as he spoke to Abby Anderson.

She thanked Crow, then ended the call. She frowned slightly, but now there seemed to be a touch of wonder in her eyes.

“He said that once we get an initial investigation going, he’ll come down himself.”

Malachi nodded.

“He said you do know what you’re doing.”

Malachi laughed at that. “I’ve been working as a P.I. I needed to be on my own. But I was a cop, up until about four years ago in the city of New Orleans. I have a connection in the homicide department here.”

“A connection?” she asked. For the first time he heard a touch of hope in her voice. “What kind of a connection.”

He smiled at that. “Detective David Caswell, homicide. My ex-partner. Have you met him?”

“No.”

He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s David’s card. Keep it with you. He’s a great guy. He married a woman from Savannah about a year ago and moved up here. But when we were both working in New Orleans, he was my partner.”

He waited.

She was still looking at him, as if he were an alien who’d suddenly landed in the tavern. Or...a ghost.

He sighed. “So, I guess you’re with me—or on your own.”

She was silent for another minute. “All right, then,” she said at last. “We’ll work together. I’ve lived here most of my life, and I’ve gone through all the real training, but you have the connections. You said you wanted to get started. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s compile the little that we do know about the victims. Then we’ll figure out what we want to ask when we get in to see David. This is your city. Tomorrow I want to see where the bodies were discovered.”

“Blue Anderson just showed you where I found my grandfather,” she said huskily.

He took out his notepad and pen. A number of law enforcement professionals were now using their smartphones as notebooks, but he still preferred a pen and pad. Maybe actually writing the words gave him time to think about them. “Our first victim, Ruth Seymour, was a young woman who loved the city. She came to Savannah happy, excited and ready to enjoy a bit of history searching on her own before meeting her friends. She did check into her bed-and-breakfast—her car was found in their parking lot. Next victim was Rupert Holloway from Iowa. It’s easy to understand why no immediate connection was made with the first victim, since Rupert was a man and in the city on business. Ms. Seymour would have been searching out tourist haunts. But a mobile phone exec? I’m not so sure. He was due to see business associates for lunch on the river—but he never showed. Our third victim was a student in the city. Her hometown was Memphis, Tennessee. So far, we don’t know where she was last seen, only that her body was discovered on the riverbank.”

“So, they have in common that they were all found by the river,” Abby said. “Plus they were from out of town.”

He nodded.

“And,” she said slowly, “you think that my grandfather died because he knew something about the murders or the murderer.”

“Probably. You found him in the tunnel. The tunnel leads down to the river and a dock. Well, not exactly. There’s landfill now, but basically, when you follow the twists and turns of the tunnel, you come out at the very edge of the Dragonslayer property—about a hundred yards from the embankment and another fifty from the dock.”

“But...Gus really didn’t spend his time walking around in the tunnel,” Abby said.

“No. So he went down there for a reason,” Malachi said. He closed his notebook. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow around ten. We’ll have a talk with David and you can show me around the city, the river and the docks.”

“All right.”

He waited. He thought she’d ask him where he was staying. She didn’t.

“Well, then, lock me out, Ms. Anderson. I made sure that both grates—at the entrance to the tunnel here and at the riverbank—were secured and bolted.” He glanced around. “There should be a better alarm system here.”

“We’ve been fine. And don’t even suggest that we’d harbor a murderer here!” Abby said indignantly.

He raised a brow. “Hard to say, isn’t it—when you don’t know who the murderer might be.”

She didn’t respond to that but said, “Allow me to show you out.”

As Malachi walked to the door, she followed. “This is a big, rambling place for you to stay alone, Ms. Anderson.”

She smiled at him. “Blue’s here, isn’t he? I’m not alone. Good night, Mr. Gordon.” She closed the door and he heard her lock it. Bemused, he headed out to the parking lot for his car. He wasn’t particularly good with people anymore, he realized.

But then again, that was why he’d worked on his own for the past four years.

* * *

“Hey!” Abby said aloud when the door was closed. “Blue Anderson! Why don’t you speak to me?”

She got no reply and the tavern was silent. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had grown late. Well, not that late. It was only eight-thirty. Still, she’d been up most of the previous night. She needed to get some sleep. Looking around one last time—wary in case anything had been left unsecured—she decided she should pack it in for the night and go to bed.

Jackson Crow had responded. She should’ve been elated.

But...

He’d sent her a rookie!

She told herself she should be grateful that she received a reply at all—even if it came in the form of Malachi Gordon. The man who claimed he’d spoken to Blue. Well, Crow had told her on the phone that if she and Malachi found a situation in which the Krewe could be of real assistance, he’d come himself and he’d bring more associates. Gordon also claimed to have an in with the police, which could help. And, if she needed someone intimidating, the man was tall and did have a strange air of authority about him. He wore his suit well; he was ruggedly attractive, which could be good with the right people.

She hoped he didn’t usually walk around claiming he’d just spoken with the local ghost.

Abby cleaned up the mess she’d made when she’d broken the liquor to create a makeshift weapon. Then she went upstairs, but rather than turning in, she walked back to Gus’s office. She’d started to go through his papers and invoices during the past week, but had been continually interrupted by someone needing an answer to a restaurant or bar question—or people who wanted to tell her how sorry they were about Gus and then tried to make her feel better by mentioning his age and reminding her that he’d led a good life.

Now she sat back behind his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers.

Invoices from liquor companies.

She looked around, feeling the silence of the tavern weigh down on her.

“Blue?” she said again.

But the ghost of her ancestor didn’t appear.

She looked back at the papers in her hands. She saw Gus’s handwriting on some of them. One note indicated that a certain flavor of vodka had not gone over well with his customers. Another said that the salesman now working for a particular company was one of the best he’d ever met.

As she began to leaf through them, another paper slipped down to the desk, smaller and different from the invoices. It was a sheet ripped from a small notepad. She quickly read the words he’d written, almost as if he’d been thinking out loud and had scribbled them down.

The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.

Just as she read the words, she heard the loud ship’s buzzer that was the tavern’s doorbell.

It startled her so much that she jumped and the sheets she’d been reading flew into the air, wafting back down in disarray.

Glad that she hadn’t gotten into her pajamas yet, and wondering who would come by when most of the city knew the tavern had been closed in honor of Gus, she started to run down the stairs. She hesitated, ran back up to her room and opened the little dresser next to her bed, retrieving her service Glock and sliding it beneath her jacket. Then she ran down the stairs again to the front door. She looked through the ship’s portal to see who was calling.

The man standing outside appeared to be about forty; he was of medium height with sandy-brown hair and was wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and a tie that had been loosened.

Cop, she thought instantly. Plainclothes cop.

That was instinct, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Yes? The tavern’s closed,” she called.

“Ms. Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions.”

“Badge?” she said.

He produced his credentials. His badge looked real, as did the ID he flashed with it.

Abby opened the front door. The cop seemed uncomfortable. “Detective Peters, Ms. Anderson. I just remembered seeing in the papers that you were closed today for your grandfather’s funeral.”

She nodded. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here about this girl,” he said, showing her a picture. “Her name is—”

“Helen Long,” Abby said. “Yes, I know her. She works for a friend of my grandfather’s, Dirk Johansen. He does pirate ship tours and she plays a pirate wench.”

“She’s missing,” Peters said. “Her roommate called it in this morning.”

Abby frowned. “Dirk was here all day. He didn’t mention that she was missing.”

“He might not know yet,” Peters told her. “Helen Long was off today, and she was off yesterday. She had lunch here with friends. Do you remember seeing her?”

Abby nodded. Like so many people, Helen had made a point of approaching her to express her condolences. She hadn’t really known Gus that well. She’d only worked for Dirk for about a month. Helen had grown up in Atlanta but come to Savannah to be an extra in a pirate movie, since the exterior shots were filmed in the city. She’d been waiting to see if she’d gotten a part in another movie about to be filmed down in New Iberia, and she’d been honest with Dirk about her intentions.

“I did see her. She had lunch here, yes.”

“Do you remember seeing her leave?” he asked.

“Yes. Wait, no—she was with some girlfriends and they left first. She stayed at the bar awhile longer. I don’t know when she left. I went back upstairs after I talked to her,” Abby explained. “But my staff and a few customers might be able to tell you more. Dirk was here himself at the time, sitting with Bootsie—Bob Lanigan—and Aldous Brentwood. My bartender, Jerry Sullivan, was on, as was the day manager, Macy Sterling. I’m sure they’d be more helpful.” Abby paused, wondering about something. “Helen’s been missing since she was seen at lunch yesterday? I thought you had to wait until an adult was gone for more than twenty-four hours before you filed a report.”

“Usually,” Peters agreed. “But...we’ve had a few people go missing and then turn up dead. Like I said, her roommate called it in when she woke up this morning. Helen never came home last night. And she hasn’t shown up today. So—” he cleared his throat “—we’re starting early with this one.”

“I see. I’m glad,” Abby told him. “She’s a sweet girl, Detective. I wish I could help you. And you should speak with my staff and my customers. They may know more.”

“I’ll do that tomorrow, thank you. And if you can think of anyone else who might’ve seen her, please get in touch.” He passed her a card, which she tucked into her pocket.

“Of course!”

“Well, then, good night,” Peters said. He looked as if he wanted to say more. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “but this was the last place her girlfriends saw her, so...”

“If you want to search these premises, you’re more than welcome to do so,” she assured him.

“I’ll try to speak with your people first,” Peters said. “Someone might’ve seen her leave—and they might’ve seen who she left with.”

“I hope so. I have a list of numbers. You can call them now, if you wish. It’s really not that late.”

“Thank you.”

Abby hurried back behind the bar and found the list Sullivan kept there of their regulars. He was a good bartender and liked to memorize their drinks. Then she moved over to the host stand to find the sheet with staff contact information, as well. Peters waited politely at the door. She gave him the pages and he thanked her.

Abby locked the door again and stood there for a moment. Where the hell was Blue?

Not making an appearance that night, it seemed. Wearily she went back upstairs, sorted out the papers that had flown everywhere and sat back down.

Helen.

She felt horrible. She knew Helen.

So far, those who’d disappeared had taken a few days to be discovered.

Maybe there was still hope.

She stared down at the paper that was back in her hands, written in Gus’s broad scrawl.

The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.

This time, as she reflected, she nearly jumped sky-high again when the office phone on the desk began to ring.

Once again, papers flew.

“Abby!” It was Dirk Johansen. She knew why he had to be calling....

“Hi, Dirk.”

“Oh, my God! My actress—my pirate wench—Helen. She’s missing,” he said.

“I know, Dirk. I’m so sorry.”

“You know?”

“A detective was just here. Apparently, she was last seen having lunch at the tavern.”

His voice was thick. “Yeah, that’s the last time I saw her, too. I told the cops that,” he added.

“Did you see her leave?”

“Yep. She was teasing about the pirate days with Aldous, Bootsie and me...and Sullivan. Then she looked at her watch and said she had an appointment. She didn’t say who with. She just went running out.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“No, she was actually doing some online dating. She said she’d met at least six guys and found one, maybe, worth a relationship.”

“I’m sure that’ll help the police.”

“Do you think she might’ve taken off on some romantic spree?” Dirk asked hopefully.

“Sure, maybe,” Abby lied. “Dirk, what’s going to be important is that you think of any bit of information that might give the authorities some leads to follow.”

“Right, right...her roommate must have her computer. That should help.”

“Yes, I bet it will.”

An awkward silence followed. Then Abby said, “Dirk, I’m going to get some sleep. In the morning—” She hesitated, thinking about Gordon. The hell with him. He’d have to play it her way. “In the morning, I’ll be your personal agent. We’ll find her. How about that?” The local police might not be impressed with her, but Dirk might want her help.

“Yeah, um, well, actually, that was what I was going to ask you,” Dirk said.

“To help you?”

“I need you to be my wench.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a wench for tomorrow. Helen shared the job with Chrissy Sutton, and Chrissy is in Atlanta, visiting her mom. She won’t be back until late tomorrow night.”

Great. She thought she might be wanted for her investigative skills.

Dirk wanted a wench.

“Oh, my God. She’s missing. I’m terrified for her. But...I still have to keep it going, keep others working.”

But maybe it wasn’t a bad idea. She could talk with shipmates who knew Helen; she could hang out at the dock.

“Sure, Dirk. I’ll be your wench.”

“I hate to ask you after...after Gus and all, but...”

“I’ll be there, Dirk. What time?”

“Ship leaves for the first run at ten. We’re back at one. Second run at three. Last one leaves right at sunset. I’ll need you to show up at about nine for costuming and a few instructions.”

“Okay, Dirk.”

“Bless you, Abby.”

She started to reply but he’d already hung up.

Abby let her head fall on the table. Gus... She’d been sick about Gus.

But two young women and a man had also died. Now Helen was gone....

She really needed help. And what she’d gotten was Malachi Gordon. Maybe he did have a few talents with the dead. But whoever had taken Helen had to be alive.

Very much alive—and very busy in the beautiful city of Savannah.

* * *

Dirk’s Black Swan was a beautiful ship. She was a schooner with one large square-rigged mainmast; her figurehead was that of a mermaid crowned with pearls. Topside was the great helm on the forecastle and behind it was a stage of about twenty by thirty feet, surrounded by seating at the inner hull. There were barrels around, advertising rum or gunpowder, and Dirk’s parrot, Achilles, sat on a little perch in the center of the stage. Toward the aft, down a few steps, was a snack shop that also offered gifts and souvenirs, and passengers could step atop the sterncastle, above the captain’s quarters, to catch a great view of the riverfront.

Malachi Gordon had called Abby bright and early—at 7:00 a.m.—to make sure she’d be ready for their planned excursion of the city and the river. She began to tell him about Helen’s disappearance but he already knew. When she explained that not only was she helping out an old friend but she’d get a chance to be on the pirate ship and the docks, he wasn’t angry. Nor was he disappointed. He just said he’d catch up with her.

Dressed in pirate gear, custom-made by a costumer to resemble the real thing rather than a contemporary Halloween fashion, Abby stood with Dirk’s two main performers, Jack Winston and Blake Stewart. “Don’t worry about anything, Abby,” Jack said. “Dirk really runs the show. Our characters serve grog—to the adults—and soda to the kids. It’s fun, honestly. Blake and I get into a fight over you, we split up some treasure and we have a few songs. All you do is respond and react.”

“I’ll do my best,” Abby said.

He grinned. “Well, you’re a child of the Dragonslayer. You’ve been a pirate before, I’m sure.”

“Aye, mate, we’re all pirates at heart, aren’t we?” she responded.

He smiled again. “They’ll be boarding soon. The concept is that they’re all prisoners being held for a fine ransom. We’re good to them because they might be worth a lot.” He grimaced as he added, “Dirk’s character is probably based on Blue Anderson.”

“Could be,” Abby said.

“Just greet people as they come up the gangplank,” he told her, turning to walk back to the dock himself; he took tickets there with Dirk.

Abby looked around. Besides the performers, there were four men and two young women dressed up to man the ship. Unpiratelike, Dirk had plenty of automatic winches to deal with his sails. She watched as they made last-minute preparations to move the ship out onto the river.

She turned to see that their third performer, Blake Stewart, was seated at one of the benches by the hull. He seemed somehow lost. She thought he was young, maybe around twenty-one, the age Dirk required for anyone serving on his ship, since a lot of his money was made on alcohol.

Young and, yes, lost.

She sat down next to him and he gazed at her with wide brown eyes. “Nice of you to do this,” he said.

“It’ll be fun, won’t it?”

He nodded but he didn’t smile.

“You’re worried about Helen?”

Again, he nodded. “It’s not like her. Did you ever meet Helen? She’s very responsible. She really wants to be an actress. She told me once that work ethic is everything. If she’s not here, it’s because something’s wrong.”

“You really care about her.”

He flushed and said, “I’m crazy about her. But she won’t go out with me. Said it’s no good to date people you work with, and besides, she doesn’t expect to be here forever. So, instead, she went online.” His expression was a little desperate. “Who knows what kind of crazy she might’ve met online?”

“Don’t give up hope, Blake.”

He changed his tone abruptly. “Showtime—captives aboard.” He pointed to the gangplank and went straight into action, putting on his best pirate face as he greeted those boarding the ship. “Step lively, step lively! Now, no trouble from you landlubbers, and there be smooth sailing ahead. Eh! And that means you, my fine lad!” He stopped a boy of about ten who was getting on and reached for his ear, pulling out a “pirate coin.” “Ah, we’ll be watching you! You are the treasure, lad! The ransom we’ll be getting for a fine lad like you. Don’t be trying to out-pirate a pirate!”

The Black Swan took a maximum of fifty people per trip. Soon all had boarded and the crew rushed about to set sail. During the first twenty minutes, Abby dipped grog and soda, warned the passengers of dire consequences if they should act up and, as much as possible, talked to the crew.

Everyone, it seemed, loved Helen Long.

No one could fathom where she might have gone.

All of them feared the worst; she was just so responsible.

When they were full out on the river, a good breeze sprang up. Dirk suddenly clanged a bell, calling attention to the show that was about to start. It began with Dirk and the parrot as he told his tale of being a poor lad, shanghaied into the ways of pirate life. He spoke to individual members of the crowd, asking questions, interacting. The parrot was perfectly trained to make wisecracks to him and he responded, bringing delighted giggles from the children aboard. Then he picked up his guitar and sang a sea shanty—and as his rollicking song came to an end, his two key pirates, Jack and Blake, began a loud and boisterous argument, cutting into Dirk’s territory.

“I say you leave her be—the wench is mine!” Blake shouted.

“Not so says the wench!” Jack argued.

“That’s you!” one of the crew whispered to Abby.

She strode forward between them. “Ah, cut the whining, ye scurvy lot!” she told them. “This wench belongs to no man!”

“Um, yes, you do!” Blake said.

“I don’t belong to any man. I can sail these seas on my own!” she declared.

“Technically,” Jack said, addressing the crowd, “we’re not sailing the seas at all. This is a river.”

Abby waited for the laughter to die down. “River, lake, ocean, sea—mud puddle! I can manage it on my own. However...” She walked to each man and touched his face. “I don’t mind bringing on a mate who can prove his prowess should we be boarded!”

“Ah, fight!” Jack cried.

“To the death!” Blake roared back.

Dirk stepped between them. “First touch!” he commanded. “Jeez, it’s hard to get good help these days, even for a pirate! Just first touch—I need you wretched blackguards alive!”

Abby watched as the two of them went into their swashbuckling duel. In the end, Jack made the first contact, and while Blake muttered and the parrot ridiculed him, he sheepishly began to ask people where they were from, and what their opinions of the fray might have been.

“Hey,” Blake called. “This group is from Florida. They’re demanding a recount!”

Dirk knew right when to let the laughter fade and step in. “Recount? Recount? How can I recount? The count was one!”

Abby moved around the crowd. “We have a birthday here!” she called, after speaking with a wide-eyed little girl. “Her name is Jade.”

“A birthday? A birthday?” Dirk shouted. “Well, then!” He picked up his guitar and began to strum “Happy Birthday,” and everyone on the ship seemed to sing along.

Blake found a couple celebrating their anniversary; she ran over with more grog. Jack spoke to a young man about to head off for basic training; she rushed over with two cups of grog as they all assured him he might need both, and then applauded his service to his country.

Abby came upon a young man with wild dark hair, sunglasses and a ridiculous shirt. “And what are you celebrating, sir? Where are you from?”

She couldn’t really see his face—not with the glasses he wore and the baseball cap that sat low on his forehead. Despite that, she could tell he had heavy dark eyebrows.

“Just vacation,” he said. “And I’m from the great Commonwealth of Virginia.”

“Virginia!” Dirk said, and broke into, “Carry me back to old Virginny.”

They continued with the festivities, Jack hauling out a pirate chest next and providing young and old alike with trinkets. Handing a pack of chocolate doubloons to a small child, Abby noted the Virginian had left his seat and was chatting with crew members.

Then he disappeared down the steps into the galley and snack bar below.

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