Abby rolled her eyes. “I’ll be downstairs,” she said, and left him in the apartment. She was grateful to see that Grant had ordered dinner for her and Malachi. Two covered plates were set on the bar, next to Bootsie. Aldous was sitting between him and Dirk.
Abby kissed the three of them on the cheek, hitched herself onto the bar stool beside Bootsie’s and took the cover off her food. Chicken potpie. It smelled wonderful.
“You doing okay?” Bootsie asked her, his eyes grave.
“I’m just feeling sick that this killer may have taken another young woman,” she said.
“But,” he said, lifting a glass of ale to her, “you saved Helen. She seems to be doing just fine—minus a finger, unfortunately. But you can live perfectly well with one less finger. I should know. I’ve lived most of my life without a leg.”
Dirk bent over the bar to speak to her across the other men. “Did you see Helen again tonight? She’s really doing well?”
“She’s really doing well,” Abby assured them. “So, what about you gentlemen? What have you been up to today?”
“We went with Dirk to see Helen,” Aldous said, looking at her as if she should have realized that.
“That was this morning,” Abby said. “How about later? Have you been sitting on these chairs all day?”
Frowning, Dirk surveyed the restaurant and said, “Abby, you know I’ve been back on the Black Swan. That handsome young Asian fellow, or whatever he is, has been working with me. You know that,” he repeated.
“Will Chan.”
“Yeah, Will. He’s a good guy. A great performer.”
“I don’t really know him but I have heard he’s a pretty talented magician, as well,” Abby said.
“Yeah, he’s something else. He pulls doubloons out of kids’ ears, has ’em laughing. Wish I could keep him,” Dirk said. “He was with me for the afternoon tour. I assume he’s keeping an eye on me, right?”
“An eye on the guests, the river...everything, Dirk.”
“Yeah. Like I’m a suspect!” Dirk said, sounding a little bitter.
Sullivan walked up to Abby. “Water? Beer, soda—anything to drink?”
“Just water, thanks, Sullivan,” Abby told him.
“And not to worry—these old barflies haven’t been here all day!” Sullivan said, grinning. “They’ve only been back for about three hours now.”
Three hours. So, ever since Dirk had berthed the Black Swan. There’d been at least three hours when they could’ve been doing anything. Separately or together.
And of course, there were two hours between sailings on the Black Swan. Right around lunchtime...
Right around the time Bianca Salzburg had disappeared.
“Is your food okay?” Sullivan asked.
“Yes, it’s fine. I just started talking and got distracted.”
“Ah, there’s your colleague,” Sullivan said. He waited as Malachi, fresh from the shower, came to join her.
“Hello,” Dirk said in greeting. The others echoed him.
“Gentlemen.” Malachi took his seat next to Abby.
“Cops, FBI people wasting their time watching me and God knows who else,” Dirk muttered. “And they’ve come up with...nothing.”
“Sometimes a killer’s never caught,” Aldous reminded him.
“They’d better catch this one, or Savannah will run out of women,” Bootsie commented.
Malachi turned on his bar stool to face them. “You don’t feel the police are doing everything they can?” he asked.
“Killer hasn’t been caught,” Bootsie said. “And they’re hounding good people, like our friend Dirk here.”
“Oh, they’ll catch this killer,” Malachi spoke with all the confidence he could muster. Grant had moved over toward the bar. Sullivan remained where he’d been, right behind it. All five men stared at him. “This killer...well, he’s pretending to be Blue Anderson.”
“Yeah, I heard. The media got hold of Helen Long’s story about being attacked by a ‘pirate,’” Sullivan said. “So he’s pretending to be Blue?”
“Here’s the thing,” Malachi went on. “And I’m not talking out of line. The police want some of Helen’s information out there to prevent other women from being taken. The man who lured her to the abandoned church had given her a business card with the name Christopher Condent on it. I’m sure you gentlemen know who the real Christopher Condent was?”
“A pirate. A brutal pirate who got away with it,” Sullivan said.
“He died in France, right?” Dirk asked.
“Rich as Midas, from what I’ve read,” Aldous added.
“Yes, I think our killer believes he can do whatever he wants, get away with it and then sail off into the sunset. Christopher Condent. Students of piracy or local history might know the name, but it’s not like Blackbeard or any of the really well-known names. So, he amuses himself by using the name and the business cards, but then dresses up as Blue. Everyone in this area knows what Blue looks like. There are dozens of paintings of him, including the replica of him right here in the dining room. But there’s a problem with that.”
“What?” Bootsie asked. “Other than the guy getting his pirates confused.”
“Well, Blue, of course.”
Everyone stared at Malachi. “What do you mean?” Aldous asked.
“I mean the real Blue won’t stand for it.”
Bootsie began to laugh. Dirk let out a choked cough that became a chuckle.
“Blue Anderson’s been dead for two and a half centuries!” Sullivan said.
“Blue is here in spirit,” Malachi told them all.
“Yep—in all the spirits behind this bar,” Sullivan said, grinning.
“Oh, no, my friends. Don’t kid yourselves. Blue is very much here, in every brick and beam of this tavern. And his anger will grow—and when it does, the killer had best beware.”
11
“I bet they’ve decided the FBI has brought in a certifiably crazy person as a consultant,” Abby said as the door to the apartment closed behind them.
Malachi smiled, shrugged and immediately pulled her to him and into his arms.
She felt... The only word was melting.
They needed to talk, of course. His words downstairs had been met with laughter, then blank stares and awkwardness. Sullivan had started cleaning the bar. Grant had cleared his throat and walked away. Dirk said he’d had enough to drink for the night, and Aldous and Bootsie had quickly agreed. They were out the door before Abby and Malachi had made it to the stairs.
But now...
Nothing seemed to matter. Her body’s memory kicked in, a physical memory that resided in her skin, her muscles, her very cells. Sliding against him, she felt guilty for a millisecond, but she was doing everything she possibly could to assist the police and Krewe unit in finding the killer. Jackson had said they needed sleep. But she needed this more than she needed sleep.
And Malachi obviously wasn’t giving a second’s thought to Jackson’s advice.
They began to shed their clothing, their lips meeting as shoes and fabric went flying. They touched, then broke away, helped each other and moved slowly down the hall, still kissing. Soon they were back in the bedroom, tangled in the sheets, and she wasn’t thinking about anything but this man—the taste of his flesh, the feel of his lips and hands upon her. His kisses warmed her where they fell; her body sparked to life with the brush of his fingers. The pressure of his body was vital and arousing, and she returned his passion with an urgent hunger of her own. The thundering of her heart seemed shockingly loud.
They moved, then kissed again. They looked at each other, and they whispered words that meant everything, although they were intelligible. They broke apart to deliver hot wet kisses, then arched together, teasing and arousing, until he thrust into her and their pace became frantic. Moments later, it slowed, building to a sweet crescendo, exploding fiercely, and taking them into an even sweeter spiral of release. Their bodies gradually relaxed, and the glow of completion merged with the indefinable sensation of being with someone who meant so very much....