The Night Is Alive

6

It was a good thing he’d never really needed much sleep, Malachi thought.

He’d lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over everything he’d seen and everyone he’d met since he arrived. He hadn’t wanted to alarm Abby, but he couldn’t help assuming that the Dragonslayer had been used in some way. Either that or the killer was a patron of the tavern.

Dirk. Most obvious suspect. He ran a pirate ship. He played a pirate daily.

Sullivan? The bartender knew the place like few others.

Aldous, Bootsie, Grant, Macy. Bootsie was an old man. Macy was a woman, which didn’t clear her, but the sexual activity the women had engaged in—rape?—before death had been with a man. Still, she could be in on it. A facilitator.

He wasn’t going to be able to sleep, so he got up and studied Gus’s room. It made him wish he’d had the opportunity to know the man. He’d evidently loved the river and history and ships. His room wasn’t furnished with reproduction pieces; the lamps and harpoons and other paraphernalia were original, probably worth a small fortune.

When he opened the old sea chest at the foot of the bed, he saw that it contained neatly folded blankets. Wandering around the small space, he discovered that the room didn’t have a closet, just an old oak armoire, but it had been emptied except for a few shirts and a woolen captain’s coat.

There was one dresser in the room. On top of it sat a few pictures. One he guessed was Abby as a child with her parents. Another was of Abby and, surely, Gus. Another was Abby’s college graduation photo. She was young and beautiful, and her eyes were filled with the bright light of one anticipating the future.

She still had that look about her, but now it was tempered by loss. The important people in her family had died. She’d made it through the academy and certainly seen enough of the brutality that could exist. It hadn’t silenced the resilient, vibrant chord of life within her; she’d seen something wrong in her grandfather’s death and was determined to get to the root of it.

And, she knew there was more in the world than what was seen by most people. Maybe she hadn’t had a lot of experience—but then, you didn’t really need a lot. Once you’d experienced the dead appearing before you or speaking to you, you recognized that it was possible.

He paused for a moment before opening the first drawer. Although he’d already been prying, he murmured, “Forgive me, Gus, I have to see if there’s anything here that will help us.”

The first drawer held neatly folded briefs and nothing more. It didn’t seem that Abby had gotten around to going through Gus’s more personal items.

In the second drawer he found T-shirts and two sets of long underwear. Savannah, on the river, could get damply cold in winter.

Third drawer contained jeans. He looked under them.

There was a newspaper neatly folded beneath the several layers of jeans. Malachi glanced at the date—three months earlier. He studied the paper. A brief article on the bottom of the front page had a headline that read Savannah Underground!

He scanned the article, which was interesting; apparently, years ago, Savannah had teemed with life below the surface.

He started to put the jeans back, deciding that, with more time, he’d refer back to the article. As he held the jeans, he felt something in one of the pockets.

He pulled out a small plastic bag. There was a Post-it stuck to the bag with a note. “Police. Found at bottom of tunnel ladder. Must get to right person.”

Curious, Malachi examined the contents of the bag. He couldn’t figure out what the object was and then a chill seemed to settle in his bones. The...thing was small and oddly dark, as if it were growing charred. He had to open the bag and let it spill out before he saw what it was.

A finger. Presumably a ring finger. Decaying. He looked at the note again. It had to mean that Gus had found the finger and meant to give it to the police. But he’d wanted to talk to his granddaughter—someone he trusted. Gus had known or suspected something.

“Hello?” Abby tapped at his door. He opened it.

“I heard you rummaging around,” she said. “So I knew you were awake. I wanted to tell you that Grant and Sullivan are gone. The Dragonslayer’s empty except for the two of us.”

He didn’t reply right away.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Gus was onto something.”

“What?”

He hesitated. “Gus found a...um, finger. He found a finger at the bottom of the tunnel. He knew that someone who had some involvement with the murders had been in the tunnel. Except the police never released the fact that the ring finger of the left hand had been taken from each of the victims. So he probably didn’t know exactly what he’d found—which was why he wanted to talk to you.”

Abby lowered her head. “He died,” she said dully, “because I didn’t get here fast enough.”

“Abby,” he said, lifting her chin, “he died because it was his time. He died doing what was right, and that would’ve been important to Gus.”

She nodded and he released her. “You’re right, even though you didn’t know him.”

“I wish I had, but I know that much about him.”

He realized she was far too close. She smelled sweetly of soap and shampoo, and he was surprised that it was suddenly so difficult for him to separate a coworker from someone...

Someone he wanted.

“What should we do with the finger?”

He stepped awkwardly back as her words broke through his thoughts. “Give it to Kat,” he said. “She’ll tell us whether it’s new and showing some kind of decay or if it’s been in the tunnel for ages.”

“Unlikely—since this killer is taking fingers.”

“I agree. But we’ll give it to Kat,” he said.

“All right.”

He paused for a minute. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“And then we’ll give it to the cops, right?”

He nodded. “Okay, now show me the Dragonslayer,” he said.

She led him through the upstairs first, leaving the family apartment behind to show him Gus’s office, the manager’s office, the employee lounge, lockers and restroom. They went to the supply room and she showed him the stairs that went down to the dining room below.

Only the night-lights were on. When they went down the stairs, they were greeted by the image of Blue Anderson standing guard over the grate that led to the tunnel below. The robotic mannequin—handsomely crafted—was eerie in the half-light.

But it wasn’t the Blue he’d met the night he arrived.

“You’ve been in the bar and the dining rooms,” Abby told him. “Oh, and the kitchen is reached through the server entrance over there.” She paused and pointed to a doorway. “It’s always open. Gus thought diners had a right to see where their food was cooked. And there’s a little service window that opens to the bar.”

He gazed carefully around. “If someone knew the routine here—the hours of business, when people were where—it would be possible for that person to be upstairs, maybe, in the storeroom, and come down those stairs...and all the way to the tunnel.”

“But we keep the grating locked,” Abby said.

“It wasn’t locked when I got here.”

She knew he was right. “The lock on the grate is a combination lock Gus had for years.”

“And you really don’t know who—or just how many people—might have the combination.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “New lock in the morning.”

“I think we’re okay for tonight,” he said. “But tomorrow I’ll go out and get a combination lock. How many people have keys to the tavern?”

“Grant, Macy, our morning chef and Sullivan. That’s as far as I know. I don’t think Gus would have given the keys to anyone else. When I was a child, we were almost broken into one night.” She hesitated. “That’s when I saw Blue for the first time. He woke my grandfather. I heard them and came out of bed and looked downstairs—my grandparents were outside with the police by then—and I saw Blue standing by the door. My grandfather suggested I not mention that I’d seen him to anyone else. I never did. Until now...”

“I never talked about seeing people, either,” Malachi told her. “I had—have—a few friends who suspect I see things that they don’t. They tend to think I’m a real psychic, regardless of what I say. Or they accept the work I’m able to do, know I don’t want to explain and let it go at that. Like David. As far as others are concerned, I avoid the topic. Too many people want stock tips and that’s something I truly can’t give,” he added dryly. “Look, I’m a really early riser. I’ll run out to buy a new lock, and I’ll make sure that Jackson and the group get in here to set up some cameras. That’s something we almost always do in this kind of investigation. It’s possible that the killer will realize the Dragonslayer has been identified and try something else. But it’s also possible that...”

He paused, looking at her and wondering if he should go on.

“Possible that?” she urged. She’d stiffened, and he felt she expected his answer, but dreaded hearing it.

“A victim might appear,” he said flatly.

“What?” she whispered.

He drew in a breath, hoping he wasn’t going to sound ghoulish. “It was important for me to touch the victims today. Sometimes, the dead actually talk on the autopsy table. Kat Sokolov can tell you more about that. I may be repeating what you might already know or suspect, but...we should think about it. From what most of us have discovered, ghosts don’t like to be with their mortal remains if they’re trapped on this plane for whatever reason. But if they do stay behind, they may appear where they feel they can find someone to help them achieve justice. If any of the victims did somehow come through here, they could be caught on camera.”

She stared at him, her eyes stricken.

“You okay? You don’t need to fear the dead.”

“It’s one thing to think about Blue hanging around the tavern—he’s my ancestor and he obviously stayed because he loves the family and loves the tavern. But...”

“Murder victims only stay because they need help,” he said.

Abby nodded. “And they just might be caught on camera.”

“Don’t worry. I sleep lightly and I’m just a few steps away.”

He was surprised when her smile was deep and real.

“Funny how things go, huh? You pissed me off when I first met you. That wasn’t very long ago, and tonight I’m really glad you’re here!”

“Let’s go up, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s go up,” she said.

She walked ahead of him, directly for the stairs. When they were both back in the apartment, she locked the door to the outer hallway. It was a good measure, even if they were alone in the restaurant. She walked down the hall to her room, beyond the door that led to Gus’s. She hesitated there. “Good night.”

He found himself hesitating, too. “Good night.”

She started to speak, but paused again. “I, uh, meant what I said. I truly am grateful that you’re here.”

“I’m truly grateful that you let me be here. Though I am curious now.”

“About?”

“Your home on Chippewa Square.”

“It’s pretty,” she told him. “You’ll see.”

“Well, good night.”

“Good night,” she said. That time, she walked in and closed her door.

Malachi did the same. He smiled as he did so. There was something about her...

As he’d said, he was very glad he was there.

Again he lay awake for hours, trying to concentrate on the case and put all the facts in order. Three female victims now, and one male. The killer, to Malachi’s mind, had killed Rupert Holloway for coming too close, so the victimology didn’t completely fit. That meant the killer was after pretty young women.

Those who might be seen the way women were once seen, as damsels. Lovely young women as prizes.

They’d all been found in the river.

As if forced to walk the plank, at least, symbolically.

And then there was Gus. Dead in the tunnel.

He looked around the room in the dim light, once more wishing he could have met the man. He imagined him as temperate, prone to liking people. But he’d lived a long time and been through a lot. He loved the river, history, antiques—and his granddaughter. She’d grown up with confidence and ability and the strength to choose her own path in life.

“She’s a beauty, Gus,” he said aloud. “And a strong, smart person. I couldn’t know you, but I’m proud to know her.”

He realized that his thoughts were going in a direction he’d never expected when he’d headed down to Savannah. But there was no denying she had a beauty any man would instantly admire and somewhere in his heart—or libido—instantly desire. He’d lost Marie five years ago. When she’d died, they’d been young and madly, almost insanely, in love. While he’d engaged in a few brief relationships since her death, he’d never really known any of the women and nothing between them had ever done more than touch the surface of his emotions.

Maybe this was different because of the ghost thing.

And maybe it was because of the way she looked. Or the fire that seemed to simmer within her, a passion for laughter as well as justice.

At some point, he dozed. He wasn’t sure if he opened his eyes and saw Blue Anderson there, standing over him, and then walking to the window—or if he dreamed it. He managed to get some sleep.

His phone rang early around 7:00 a.m. It was Kat Sokolov.

“Did I wake you?” she asked.

“Not really. Yes, but I need to get up.” He liked Kat. But he liked Will, too, and the other members of the Krewes he’d been brought in to meet after Adam, Logan and Jackson had brought him to their offices. She was the tiniest, cutest little blonde and didn’t look like any medical examiner he’d ever met. But she certainly knew what she was doing.

“I just wanted to let you know I’m heading to the morgue. I’ll be attending at the next autopsy,” she said.

“I hope the local guy, Dr. Tierney, likes you better than he seemed to like me,” he told her.

He heard the soft sound of her laughter. “Not to worry. Adam Harrison has done his magic. We’re officially invited in. Jackson and Angela will be down at the local station, giving a heads-up on what we believe, based on what we’ve seen and learned from you and Abby.”

“We’re looking for a would-be pirate,” Malachi said quietly, “who likes to take the ring finger of the left hand as a souvenir. And...I, uh, have a finger to give you.”

“What?”

“Gus was onto something. I think the killer lost one of his trophies in the tunnel, and Gus found it before he had any idea of what was going on. It might be why he asked Abby to come down here.”

“You found it where?”

“In one of his drawers. I need to get it to you.”

“I’ll run by for it,” she said. “Maybe pirates liked to make necklaces out of the bones of people they killed? I’ll research my pirate lore,” Kat promised him. “Oh, and Will’s taking over for Dirk this morning as head pirate on the Black Swan to keep an eye on that ship. And Dirk.”

“The guy really does seem devastated,” Malachi said.

“And I gather he can be a very good actor—as a pirate, at least.”

“Excellent plan. And I’ve heard Jackson gets along well with the local police.”

“He has his ways. Not that he has a lot to say yet. They’re probably looking for a white male, with or without a companion,” Kat said. “Someone who knows the river.”

“And has a boat or a ship, or access to one,” Malachi added.

“Big river,” Kat said.

“Yes, it is. Keep me posted.”

“Back at ya.”

Malachi checked his watch. Time for a cup of coffee before starting the day. In fact, he could smell coffee coming from nearby, not from the restaurant below.

He showered quickly, thinking all the while about the clues they had—his thoughts disrupted now and then by another that intruded. Abby.

He was glad he was going to spend the day with her.

Abby selected two coffee cups and two small plates from the overhead kitchen cabinet. They actually had time for breakfast.

She toasted a couple of bagels, and Malachi spread cream cheese on them while she poured coffee. “You doing okay?” he asked her.

She glanced at him. He seemed exceptionally appealing as he stood in the tiny kitchen area of the apartment. Fresh from the shower, his hair was dark and slick. His hazel eyes were set somberly upon her and seemed to speak of a depth she couldn’t begin to understand. She wondered about his past—the wife he’d lost—and she suddenly wanted to know everything about him.

“I’m fine,” she told him.

“I can’t stop thinking about your grandfather—wishing I’d known him.”

She smiled. “He was great.”

“I can tell,” he said softly.

She put one of the cups of coffee in front of him. “Thanks.” She watched him for a moment. “You’re not going to comfort me by telling me that he was old and lived a full life?”

“Does someone having been old make you miss them any less?” he asked.

“No.”

“It does, however, help if you know that someone did lead a full life. And it should also help if you know just what you meant to him—that you were the most important person in his life. That’s what life is all about. The grief remains, but there’s consolation in those things.”

“What about you?” she asked. She was pushing it, she thought, but her curiosity was beginning to consume her. “How did you cope? What happened to your wife?”

“Cancer. One day she was fine and then, within a year, she was dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate that. And time has helped, as they say.”

“So...you coped.”

“I didn’t, not really. New Orleans was her home. I loved living there, loved the music, the food, the architecture. You name it, I loved it. But when she died...I quit the police force and the city. I left. I can’t bear to go back, even though I loved her family, too. I returned to Virginia, moved into my old family home, and...” His voice trailed off as he looked toward the windows and the river.

“And?”

He shrugged. “I realized that in my state of mind, I wouldn’t be able to play well with others. So I got licensed and became a private investigator.”

“But that is coping,” she said.

He smiled. It was a crooked, rueful smile, and she yearned to walk over to him and stroke his cheek.

“You’re coping,” he told her. “You’re on fire. Going after the killer.”

“But you can’t go after cancer. No one can.”

He shrugged again. “I guess I know that—knew that. I went after God for a while. Didn’t work. But...ah, well. I have an ancestor who hangs around, too. Doesn’t hesitate to speak his mind. He fought a revolution and saw friends die right and left, and wasn’t interested in my self-pity. So...I started really using whatever this ability is that we have. I pursued bad guys. I tried to save lives and sometimes succeeded. That does help.”

Abby made a point of keeping her distance from him. She didn’t think she’d ever wanted to touch another person so badly.

“With any luck, we’ll save Helen Long,” she said.

“Luck—and work,” he agreed. He flicked a glance at his watch. “We meet your friend soon? Where?”

“In front of the tavern. But not until ten.”

Macy was at the host stand when they went down. She greeted them both, acting a little perplexed. “Good morning,” she said. “You came in earlier?” she asked Malachi.

He leaned on the stand and gave her a charming smile. “I’m staying here.”

“Oh. Oh, uh...” Macy looked at Abby. Abby just smiled, too.

“Macy, you’ll see some of my colleagues here in a few hours,” Malachi told her. “They’ll be setting up some security cameras. If they need it, you’ll lend them a hand?”

“Of course,” she said, sounding flustered.

He thanked her and turned to head out of the building.

“What’s going on?” Macy whispered to Abby.

Abby merely shrugged and smiled. She quickly joined Malachi outside.

“She thinks we’re sleeping together,” he said. “Did you set her straight?”

“I don’t know what she thinks. I just followed you. Is there a reason you walked out?”

He nodded. “Kat’s coming by.”

“Oh.” She lifted a questioning brow—and then she remembered. The finger. “Oh.”

A moment later, a dark SUV swung into the lot. Malachi headed for it, reached into his pocket and produced the finger wrapped in a clean silk handkerchief Abby had given him.

“I may be able to match it to a body,” Kat said.

“I hope so. I also hope it doesn’t mean there are more bodies out there.”

Kat nodded and waved to Abby. He stepped back from the SUV and she drove off.

“It’s almost nine, so I’m going out to see if I can buy a better lock. Should be back in half an hour or so.”

Abby spent the time he was gone organizing more of Gus’s papers. By 9:45, she was too anxious to do anything but wait for Malachi downstairs.

He returned just as she stepped outside. “Got it. I’ll leave it in the car until we’re back. Good timing—that’s your friend’s car, right? As he spoke, Roger waved at them from across the parking lot.

Abby waved back. “Be prepared,” she warned Malachi, smiling. “You’re in for a tour. I don’t think Roger can help himself. He should be an ambassador.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” Malachi said. He paused as Roger drew closer. “What I want are the ins and outs tourists don’t usually get. The city secrets,” he told her.

“And no faith in me, huh?” she asked.

“Eternal faith in you, Ms. Anderson. But Roger English made the map that Helen Long might’ve had in her possession.”

“True. And he probably does know more than I do. It’s my home, my heritage, and I love Savannah. But Roger is a fanatic.”

He smiled, head slightly bent, and she liked the way he looked at her. He might see the world through mocking eyes, but if so, he seemed to mock himself first and there was something charming about that. Then again, he seemed more and more charming to her as time went by.

And, of course, she was more and more intrigued by him.

Not to mention attracted...

“Hey!” Roger said, walking up and shaking Malachi’s extended hand. “I’m Roger English, best guide in the city. I’m totally yours for the day, my minions are handling all else...and where shall we go from here?”

“Malachi Gordon, Roger. And the answer is everywhere—the public city and the hidden city,” Malachi told him.

“You’re with the feds.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re taking a tour?” he asked politely.

Malachi grinned at that. “Yeah, with the feds, hoping to catch a killer. I think it’s the killer’s city, so I need to know it, too.”

“You’re with the right man!” Roger studied Malachi for a minute, hands on his hips. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Okay, well...we can walk first, if you’re up to it. My favorite secret is about four blocks up, but I thought we’d walk along the riverfront and start with Colonial Park Cemetery,” he said, glancing at Abby.

“Fine with me,” she said.

“Well, you’ve been in the Dragonslayer, of course,” Roger began.

“Coming to know it well,” Malachi told him.

“The city has another famous restaurant along the same lines,” Roger said. “The Pirates’ House. Tourists, children...everyone loves it. People get off the highway and come to Savannah to dine there. Children grow up and bring their children. Oh.” He looked at Abby apologetically.

“I love Pirates’ House, too,” Abby said, laughing, “almost as much as I love the Dragonslayer.”

“Okay, I’ll talk while we walk along the riverfront. You’ll notice our shops, the monuments, the hotels—the riverfront is the heart of everything. The city of Savannah was established in 1733 and it’s known as our country’s first planned city. It was the first capital of colonial Georgia and, later, the state of Georgia. General James Oglethorpe named the thirteenth and final colony Georgia after King George. He arrived at the city via the ship Anne with one hundred and twenty settlers. He and his company landed on a high bluff above the Savannah River and he dreamed of a port to rival the best. Oglethorpe’s original plan was for total religious freedom and no slavery, but with the marshes to create rich rice fields, his concept of no slaves didn’t last too long. However, the planning of the city gives us the unique beauty of her riverfront and the squares we still have today. Streets are built on a grid with squares providing public meeting places and lovely little areas to enjoy. Today, the downtown area is one of the largest National Historic Landmark areas in North America.”

“Very impressive,” Malachi said.

“We’ll get to the squares and more landmarks later. We’ll start with Colonial Park Cemetery. It was the first graveyard for Christ Church Parish, and we’ll enter by Alercorn and Oglethorpe. More than seven hundred dead from the 1820 yellow fever epidemic rest here, along with a signer of the Declaration of Independence, Button Gwinnett. And, sadly, a number of those killed in duels are buried here, as well. There’s one really great restored stone. Come on, we’ll find it.”

Roger had walked them down the river and then up and through the streets until they reached the regal arched entry, surmounted by a noble eagle. A number of tourists and tour groups were in the cemetery. Roger didn’t even see them; he walked among stones, aboveground sarcophagi, family vaults, mausoleums and memorials to get to his objective. He read aloud, “‘He fell in a duel on the 16th of January, 1815, by the hand of a man who, a short time ago, would have been friendless but for him.... By his untimely death the prop of a Mother’s age is broken: The hope and consolation of Sisters is destroyed, the pride of Brothers humbled in the dust and a whole family, happy until then, overwhelmed with affliction.’ We are looking at the 1815 headstone of James Wilde. Sad, huh? Facing all the dangers of those early days, men still shot one another down in the streets.” He grinned at them for a minute. “Nowadays you just have to go on Facebook and unfriend people who piss you off!”

“True, and much less gruesome,” Abby agreed.

“Save the mother, the sisters and brothers a lot of heartache,” Malachi added.

“Now,” Roger continued, “most Americans know that during the Civil War, General William Tecumseh Sherman began his March to the Sea. He pursued a scorched-earth policy, believing that the only way to beat the Confederacy was to bring her to her knees. So he razed Atlanta and headed on east. When he got to Savannah, the city surrendered, which meant he didn’t have to burn down Savannah. Colonial Park Cemetery was closed to burials in 1853, so there are no Civil War soldiers buried here. But the Civil War left a lasting mark on the cemetery. As I said, Sherman didn’t burn the city. Instead, he wrote a telegram to President Lincoln, presenting him with Savannah as a Christmas gift in December of 1864. Today, we’re grateful. But here’s something interesting. Union troops filled the city with few places to billet. Many were forced to stay here in the graveyard. So, in some instances, they tossed corpses out of the mausoleums and family vaults. Bored, they scratched out the dates on a number of tombs, so in some instances, you can find a grave for someone who was born in 1820, but died in 1777. Names were changed, stones were moved around. They say the cemetery is, to this day, riddled with ghosts, dismayed by the way their graves were so rudely desecrated and disturbed. Now, it was pretty cold, so I’m guessing sometimes the Union soldiers were bitter and that sometimes, when they threw a corpse out for an enclosed place to sleep, it was just because the poor suckers were freezing.”

“Sad story,” Malachi said. “But if the dead were asleep...”

“If they were asleep?” Roger echoed.

“Well, if they’d really gone on, they wouldn’t much care, would they?”

Roger frowned suddenly. “Hey!” he said. Abby saw that he was looking at one of the tour groups.

“Roger? What’s wrong?” Abby asked.

“Huh?” His attention still on the group, he glanced back at her.

“What’s wrong?” Abby repeated.

“My date from last night is cheating on me!”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s out with another tour group!” Roger said indignantly. “You met her last night. Bianca. She’s with that group over there. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

He trotted off. “Ah, young love,” Malachi murmured, watching him go.

Then he gestured in the opposite direction. “See them?” he asked softly.

“Them?”

Malachi pointed again. “An elderly couple there, on the bench. He’s holding her hand very tenderly. They still seem to be in love, a feat during any era. And there...far over there past the bench. Seems to be a lumbering fellow...a huge lumbering fellow. Lord, he must be almost seven feet tall. He’s acting furtive, as if he’s scared....”

She stared out at the far side of the cemetery; she didn’t see what he saw. She was about to tell him that, but then, looking where he looked, listening to his words, she felt she did begin to see.

The elderly couple... They were in Revolutionary-era clothing. He wore a wig and she wore a cap over her white hair. They did hold each other tenderly.

And the bumbling man who seemed frightened, who seemed to stumble around...

She gasped suddenly. The big man was legend—the pure stuff of ghost stories!

Malachi turned to her. “You see them. You could have seen them all along. You didn’t know to look for them. Despite what Roger said, not many people haunt a graveyard. Why would they? They didn’t live here. But those two. Perhaps they’re upset by something written on a stone or some desecration committed during the Civil War and never righted.”

She didn’t reply to that; she pointed at the other man. “Rene Asche Rondolier,” she said. “All the ghost tours talk about him. He was mentally slow. He was accused of killing animals as a child. Whether he did or didn’t, no one’s ever established. His parents tried to keep him on their property behind a huge brick fence, or so the story goes. I often wonder if he was mentally deficient and therefore an automatic whipping boy at a time when a lot of the populace was still superstitious. People made fun of him or they feared him. He was accused of killing two local girls—their bodies were found here in the cemetery. The local people chased him down to the swamps and lynched him. Afterward, the murders continued, and I don’t believe the real killer was ever caught. But Rene had already been hanged for the crimes.”

“Poor man. Sure looks like he’s weeping and still afraid,” Malachi said.

“I don’t know if what we hear about his reputation was true, or if it’s been enhanced over the years,” Abby said. “What is true is that his family owned property that’s now part of the cemetery. It expanded in the late 1700s to allow for...well, more time and more dead.”

“Maybe we should try to speak with him sometime,” Malachi suggested. “And the older couple. There might be a way to find out why they’re still here.”

Abby looked at him. “Why is Blue still here, do you think?”

“Maybe he was here for Gus. Or maybe he’s here for you, to help you learn exactly what happened to Gus.”

Roger came back to join them.

“You okay?” Malachi asked him.

“Yeah, sure. Bianca just knew I’d be busy with you two today and she wanted to see some of the sights. We’ll meet up later. Okay. Now we can walk through the city and I can tell you tales as we go. We can visit Christ Church, or the Juliette Gordon Low birthplace or—”

“How about secret Savannah?” Malachi said. “Secret is the most interesting. What do you know about tunnels?”

“Ah!” Roger brightened. “You’ve heard that the city is riddled with tunnels?”

“Secret tunnels,” Malachi said.

“Yeah, and if you’re game, I know where we’ll find some of the best!”