The Night Is Alive

Page 30

“Did you recognize this guy? Was it the businessman you met?” Abby asked.
Helen stared at Abby. “I—I don’t know. I really don’t know if they were the same.”
“What do you mean, Helen?” Abby asked.
“It was...the pirate. The real pirate.”
“Helen,” Malachi said, “was it someone acting as a pirate? You said that this Chris Condent wanted to open a pirate-themed haunted house.”
Helen shook her head, growing agitated. “He wasn’t Chris Condent anymore. He was the pirate, the real pirate. That’s who kidnapped me. And I had seen him before. He was very big and he had dark hair. Rich, dark hair. And blue eyes.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was the pirate, Abby. The pirate from the Dragonslayer.”
She paused, as if waiting for Abby’s comprehension.
“It was Blue,” she said. “The pirate, Blue Anderson.”
9
They left the hospital soon after Helen Long stated that she believed she’d been kidnapped and attacked by a pirate who had been dead for well over two hundred years.
Because it was private and they could watch the Dragonslayer on the screens at Abby’s home on Chippewa Square, they returned there. David Caswell met with the group and they went through everything they knew.
The house on Chippewa had been built in the early 1800s and had come to Abby’s family in the 1850s. Built in the colonial style, it had a handsome porch with eight white pillars standing sentinel. The house wasn’t huge; the front door opened into a hall that stretched to the rear door and small yard. A staircase led to the second floor. There were three bedrooms and a den upstairs—a nursery in days gone by—while on the ground floor, to the left, was a large formal dining room and the pantry-now-kitchen, while the onetime kitchen out in the yard had been turned into a little summer house. The formal parlor was to the right of the front door with the old music room behind it.
Malachi hadn’t seen her actual home yet, and he was curious. It was evident that Abby hadn’t spent much time there in recent years. It was impeccably clean, although not much had been changed, the television in the old music room was as old as the stereo system. The upholstery was colonial-style, as was the furniture throughout the house, except for one massive recliner.
“My father’s. He loved it. He watched Sunday football from that chair every week,” Abby told Malachi.
“My dad had one of those chairs, too,” Malachi said. “I admit I’m fond of it. I watch football on Sunday from that chair, too. And a few other shows, of course.”
“I like the chair. Reminds me of my dad. He was great. So was my mother. They were typical parents, I guess. My mom loved to bake and cook and she had a little business making designer baby clothes. She made all kinds of things, of course, but she especially loved baby clothes. I think she would’ve liked a houseful of children.... She was always the mom in charge of food drives at school and she collected for the Red Cross. She was the epitome of the Southern lady.” Abby paused, a look of fond nostalgia on her face. “They both represented the very best of Southern hospitality. My dad worked for a tech company but he spent as much time at the Dragonslayer as he could. He loved the history, but he was practical. He used to say there was money to be made on the legend of Blue, and it might as well be made by the Anderson family.”
“But they raised a daughter intent on being a federal agent,” Malachi commented.
“They raised me to reach for whatever I wanted, whether that was a rocket scientist or a stay-at-home mom.”
“That’s the best,” Malachi said. “That’s how kids should be raised.”
She nodded. Although she’d been talking to him, she seemed distracted.
They’d left the others in the large formal dining room, where the computer banks and screens had been set up, when Abby set off to show him the rest of the house. And while she’d shown him around with casual enthusiasm, he thought it was forced.
“I enjoy hearing about your family, but what is it? What’s tearing at you?”
She frowned at him, hurt, confused, indignant. “My ancestor is not attacking women and throwing them in the river!” she said.
“Abby, we all know the ghost of Blue is not doing this,” he said.
“Didn’t you tell me ghosts...could be different? Some were shy, some talked, some hid... So who’s to say that some haven’t gotten almost-mortal power—and the ability to hurt people. But I’m positive Blue isn’t one of them!”
“Abby,” he said, aching to draw her to him, but it wasn’t the time or the place. “Abby, I’m sure some ghosts never make contact with anyone. They might be there, but they never show themselves. Others are outgoing and curious and seek out those who might see them. Some can create cold spells or learn a certain ability to move objects. But to my knowledge, there isn’t a ghost out there with the strength or energy to physically attack human beings—to bind them with rope and throw them in the river. No one believes that Blue Anderson is after people.”
Abby let out a breath. “So, you agree it’s someone dressing up as Blue,” she said.
“That I don’t doubt. Let’s go see the others, discuss what we’re all thinking and what moves we should make today.”
Abby smiled. “It’s a good day so far. Helen’s awake.”
“It is a good day,” he said. “Come on. I have some info I should be sharing with everyone.”
In the dining room, they discovered Kat and Angela seated at the side of the room, where they could watch the screens.
Jackson was at one of the computers, a sheaf of papers in front of him.
“Where’s Will?” Malachi asked.
“He went off to spend the day on the Black Swan,” Kat said.
“Glad to hear it.” Malachi pulled out a chair for Abby, taking a seat himself.
“Anything going on at the Dragonslayer?” he asked.
“Macy’s arrived. She’s at the host stand. Looks like she’s checking reservations. Sullivan is hanging glasses. Bootsie just came hobbling in. He’s alone—no Aldous or Dirk at the moment—but David called Dirk to let him know he could see Helen, just for a few minutes. He’s not going out on any of the pirate voyages today. Will’s going to work with his cast instead,” Angela told them.
“It looks like business as usual at the Dragonslayer,” Kat said.
“All right.” Malachi sat forward, folding his hands on the table. “There’s something I happened to catch because I started researching when I first came down here—Savannah and then the Dragonslayer and pirates in general. The name Helen Long gave us was Christopher Condent. I know David Caswell is searching local records to see if anyone with that name was registered at a hotel or bed-and-breakfast or used a credit card at a restaurant, gas station, shop or any other venue. I don’t believe he’ll find such a person. I think the man Helen met chose the name because it was that of a real pirate, one who survived his days of piracy to become a rich man and live happily in France after his career on the high seas. My guess is that he intends to ‘retire’ from piracy one day and live on his proceeds, so to speak. The real Condent was born in the 1690s, fled Jamaica in 1718 when Woods Rogers came in and went on to practice all kinds of atrocities. He cut off the ears and noses of many of his captives and tortured others. He was known to be brutal to those he captured. Karma didn’t ever catch up with him. He and his men captured an Arab ship worth a fortune and Condent went on to negotiate a pardon with the governor of Bourbon. He became a merchant and died fat and wealthy in France in 1770. I’m telling you all this history—or legend, whichever it might be—because I think our killer specifically picked this pirate. This was a man who practiced atrocities, got away with it and prospered. Supposedly, he was the man behind the ever-popular Jolly Roger flags. His own flag had a row of three skulls.”
“If this person wants to be a pirate and retire happily—after doing horrendously cruel and brutal things—why would Helen have thought she was attacked by Blue?” Abby asked him. “Blue was revered as a gentleman pirate. He never hurt anyone, he didn’t rape his female captives and he had a strict code for his men.”
“I believe this guy dresses up as Blue because Blue’s such a famous pirate in Savannah. Blue’s image is used at the Dragonslayer, and there are shops with his image worked into their décor. There’s a wooden image of him down by the river, with the face cut out so people can stick their own faces in for their pictures. Then, looking at the psychology of it—” he glanced at Jackson, who nodded, clearly intrigued by Malachi’s theory “—he may resent Blue, since the real Blue didn’t behave the way this creep thinks a pirate should. He didn’t rape, torture or murder. This killer may find it amusing to think that if he’s ever seen, people will believe Blue is somehow walking the streets again and that his reputation was a lie because he was as vicious as the rest.”
“What’s consistent is that he has to kill his victims by forcing them off his ship or boat—or whatever conveyance he has them on,” Abby said slowly. She looked around the room, as if assuring herself that they wanted to hear her opinions. “So, we’re back to the river. He uses the underground, not so much to get his victims to the docks, but because he figures a pirate would use the tunnels to secure captives or shanghai crew members.”
Jackson nodded. “I also think this man is no tourist or newcomer to the city. I think he’s known and that, until now, if he were caught in costume, he’d be able to explain it easily. He’d claim he was going to help out a friend—like Dirk—on a ship.”
“Or...he is Dirk,” Malachi said.
Abby raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you believe that if Dirk was guilty, he’d stay away from Helen?” she asked.
Malachi shrugged. “Not necessarily. He might be confident in his disguise.”