They all talked about their theories, what they could and couldn’t have done.
David was remorseful over the fact that they searched ship after ship—boat after boat—and never thought to look in the old ramshackle boathouse. A records check, of course, showed that it belonged to a corporation owned by a holding company Bootsie was involved with.
“After Abby pulled Helen Long from the water, and after Helen’s testimony, we were all convinced he held the women on a boat or ship.” Angela smiled at Abby. “Thanks to you, though, two women lived. Helen and Bianca.”
“Yeah—but I got myself hit on the head,” Abby said.
“Only after I fell down a hole,” Malachi reminded her dryly.
“Bianca will live. She’s traumatized, and it’ll take time. But Helen’s already out of the hospital, and Bianca...well, at least she kept her finger,” Kat murmured. “And, hopefully, the police will soon discover the identity of the one girl who remains a Jane Doe.”
“It’s good to know that, for Bianca, the future has real promise. For one thing, she has Roger, who hasn’t left her side since he was allowed in,” Jackson said. “We’ll take all the good we can get.”
Abby felt her phone vibrate; she knew it signaled an email and meant to ignore it. She liked sitting here with the Krewe. They’d be leaving soon, and although she’d be happily accepting the position offered to her, she wouldn’t reconnect with them for a while. They were in Savannah now, and she didn’t want to be distracted.
She glanced at the new email, anyway—and gave a little cry of delight. The others went silent.
She smiled. “Sorry. I just got a note from a friend of mine on the city council. She had her assistant go into the records after I wrote to her, and they’re going to see that the gravestone in Colonial Park Cemetery is repaired. The proper information will be carved on it. The name had been damaged when the stone was vandalized by soldiers when Savannah surrendered to General Sherman.”
“That’s great,” Jackson said, a knowing smile on his lips. He looked at Malachi. “Perhaps the two of you would like to go make that statement at the cemetery?”
“Sounds good. Let’s take a walk,” Malachi told Abby.
“One minute. I want to print out this email to bring to Josiah’s folks,” she said, hurrying off to do that.
She and Malachi left the group with the Krewe planning their last evening in Savannah; they’d have a barbecue at the house on Chippewa Square. Will said he thought it was fine for Kat to shop for the barbecue, but someone else might want to do the cooking. Kat was indignant, and Angela did her best to mollify them both; while Jackson watched with amusement.
Abby and Malachi walked the few blocks to the cemetery. It was late afternoon, just as it had been when they’d gone into the tunnels the day before.
It was a beautiful time of day. The live oaks dripped moss that stirred and moved in the breeze.
Abby was grateful to be alive.
On the one hand, she could still shudder, remembering the fear she’d felt when she realized she’d been taken. But fear wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Jackson wanted them to feel fear—not debilitating fear, but the kind that made them careful and smart. They had managed well, especially since they’d never clearly identified a suspect. They’d had to use what they knew about both the living and the dead to see the situation through to its conclusion. They’d successfully played into the fantasy of a man who’d become a homicidal psychopath. Abby was glad the rest of the Krewe seemed proud of her and Malachi. The Krewe had come to Savannah because Jackson Crow had recognized something in her plea to him. He’d found Malachi and, together, they’d found her. She knew the right future stretched before her now.
“There they are,” Malachi whispered as they entered the cemetery. Josiah’s parents were sitting on their customary bench, as if they mourned someone only recently gone. Perhaps, to them, the sorrow was as deep as if it had occurred yesterday.
Abby walked over to them, her printed email in hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Beckwith,” she greeted them.
Edgar Beckwith immediately stood, bowing to her. Elizabeth rose by her husband’s side, clutching his arm and looking expectantly at Abby.
“Anything?” Edgar asked.
“Abby will read it to you. This message is from someone with the power to help,” Malachi said.
Abby smiled and read the email out loud. She saw that Edgar and Elizabeth Beckwith smiled, too, as they heard the news. Elizabeth stepped forward to touch Abby’s face with a gentle hand. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“There will be a little ceremony when the work is completed,” Abby told them. “We’ll be here for it.”
They bade Edgar and Elizabeth Beckwith goodbye, leaving the couple to stand by the grave, expressions of happiness and relief on their faces.
“That felt wonderful,” Abby told Malachi.
“Yes,” he agreed. And it had. But one thing still troubled her, and Malachi seemed to sense that.
“What?” he asked her softly.
She drew in a deep breath. “We’ve pulled a few good endings out of this, but...how did Bootsie kill Gus? The autopsy showed that Gus died of a heart attack.”
“I wish I could give you a definitive answer. I can’t. But here’s what my instinct tells me. Gus was a fine man, the kind of man who cared about others. I believe he was searching the tunnel, that he suspected something,” Malachi said. “When he stumbled on Bootsie, his heart probably gave out when Bootsie attacked him. Gus died trying to save others, Abby.”
Abby nodded. She knew it would be years before everything Bootsie had done was uncovered. And it was shattering to think that he’d been killing people and coming to the Dragonslayer, becoming more and more convinced that he was the living embodiment of various pirates—including Blue Anderson. Maybe he’d tried out different roles at different times. Blackbeard, Christopher Condent. Henry Morgan. But above all, he’d wanted to be Blue.
And she’d kissed his cheek, cared about him, thought of him as Gus’s dear old curmudgeonly friend...
He had come to Gus’s funeral. Made himself at home in the bar afterward, just waiting to seize another woman.
She shuddered. It was still too hard to believe.
“One more question,” she said. “Everyone was certain we should be searching for Bianca on a boat or a ship. How did you figure out that he was hiding her in the boathouse?”
Malachi turned to her. He smiled and told her, “Blue. The real Blue Anderson.”
Epilogue
They’d needed a change of scenery. And Jackson had given them two weeks. Actually, he’d given Abby two weeks; she was already official. When the two weeks were up, Malachi would have to go through classes at the academy. That was just the way it was. Unless he preferred to stay a consultant, which had its up and downs. But Abby wanted him to be a full part of the Krewe, and he knew Jackson thought that was best, too. So what the hell? He’d go through the academy.
But before that, they had two weeks.
So Malachi and Abby had packed up and come to his home southwest of Richmond and, as he’d hoped, she loved the house and its surroundings. The area was remote, but she didn’t mind. She appreciated the country around them, the richness of the trees and the beauty of the crystal rivers and streams. They spent their time hiking, playing in the lake down the hill from his property and exploring Virginia. They went to a Civil War reenactment and to Richmond to visit some of the sights, and they traveled down to Colonial Williamsburg and took a day to do something that was sheer fun—Busch Gardens.