have taken the lives of one man and three young women, to have kidnapped and tortured a fourth young woman and may possibly be holding another captive, even as he’s being questioned by the police. While our information has not been verified, it seems that the city of Savannah may soon breathe a huge sigh of relief. Our source has told us that the evidence in this case is based on hard science from the forensic lab. We’ll be back with more information the minute it’s available. Stay tuned.”
Abby had to sit down. Aldous. It seemed impossible.
Her hands were trembling when she pulled out her cell phone to call Malachi. He answered immediately.
“Hey, wench,” he said. “Is the show over?”
“It is. Where are you? What’s going on? The media are announcing that the man suspected to be the killer is in custody.”
“The media have it already?”
“They do,” she said. “And I assume they’re referring to Aldous.”
“I imagine. He’s the only suspect. He’s not really being held. So far, he’s actually there voluntarily. I suggested to him that he didn’t want to leave yet.”
“You don’t really think it’s Aldous, do you?”
“I think it’s important that people—especially the real killer—believe the police are convinced the killer’s in custody.”
“But if the killer isn’t in custody...or if he is, for that matter, Bianca is still out there somewhere.”
“I’m at the hospital. I’m on my way back, though. I may walk around for a while. I’m trying to clear my head. Are you all right?”
“Of course. I’m fine. I’m in the apartment. I just got out of pirate-wench mode.”
“Who’s there, at the Dragonslayer?”
“When I came up? Roger and Paul. They were still pirates, talking to diners. Bootsie and Dirk were at the bar, although Dirk will have to leave soon. Macy and Grant Green are both here.”
“Just go down and be friendly, okay? They should start questioning the fact that Aldous isn’t there. Isn’t there a TV behind the bar?”
“Yes, for games and events. It wasn’t on.”
“Make sure it’s on. See what happens when your patrons watch the news about the suspect who’s being held. I’ll be there soon.”
Abby ended the call. She stepped out of the apartment and carefully locked the door. Straightening her shoulders, she hurried down to the bar.
Macy was at the host station, Sullivan behind the bar.
Roger was seated at a table with a family, entertaining their three children. Paul was in the dining room as well, speaking with a young couple.
Neither Bootsie nor Dirk was at the bar.
“Where are our favorite barflies?” she asked Sullivan.
“Who knows?” Sullivan shrugged. “I guess Dirk went back for the afternoon sailing of the Black Swan. Bootsie went with him. Maybe he’s sailing with Dirk today. Aldous hasn’t shown up, so he might have wanted to hang with a friend.”
“Possibly.” Abby nodded. “Can you turn on the TV, Sullivan?”
“Sure. Anything special?” he asked.
“Whatever. How about news?”
Sullivan picked up the remote and switched on the flat-screen television that hung over the low etched mirror behind the call-brand whiskeys.
Abby had no idea how much good it was going to do, the two barflies who were supposed to see the news weren’t there.
But the same newscaster came on, reporting that a suspect was being held in what was now called the River Rat case. She didn’t have anything new to add, but she rephrased things so that it almost sounded as if she were telling her audience more.
Looking up at the screen, she could sense people walking up and crowding behind her. Roger and Paul were suddenly beside her; so was Macy. Abby hadn’t even known Grant was still there, but he was with the group staring up at the screen.
“They caught him?” Macy breathed.
“But they’re not revealing a name,” Sullivan said.
“What about Bianca?” Roger asked. “They’re not saying anything about Bianca!”
“They don’t seem to really know anything,” Grant commented. “They know the cops are holding someone and that’s it.”
“No news about Bianca is good news, Roger,” Macy said gently.
But Roger shook his head as he stared glumly up at the screen.
“No news... But they have to find her!”
“If they have a suspect, they can make him tell where he’s keeping her,” Sullivan said. He looked at Abby. “Right? Hey, wait—Abby, you must know who it is.”
She wasn’t comfortable lying but she had no intention of telling the truth.
“I’ve been here playing wench. All I can do is connect with the feds and see what they know.”
“Well, call Malachi!” Macy insisted.
“I just talked to him. He wasn’t at the station,” Abby said. “He isn’t involved with what’s going on there.”
“But he’s an FBI agent.”
“Consultant,” Abby corrected.
“Okay, then you’re an FBI agent!” Grant said.
“I just passed the academy. I don’t have an official assignment,” Abby said.
Grant shook his head. “Then you’re running around helping those guys for free?” Grant asked. “Gus should’ve taught you to be a better businesswoman.”
Abby frowned at him. “Grant, business has nothing to do with it. I tried to get them down here because they’re part of an elite unit who seem to solve situations no matter what.”
“They need to hurry,” Roger said, walking over to Abby. “Bianca’s out there! She’s not going to last much longer,” he said dully. “If she’s still alive, if she isn’t floating somewhere we haven’t found her yet. Or like that poor Jane Doe they’ve got at the morgue. Shoved into an old crypt somewhere.”
Abby very much wanted to say something reassuring to him. But the killer almost certainly had her. He’d taken Helen, and attempted to kill her within a few days. She’d failed to fall in love with him, failed to welcome him as her heroic lover.
How long could Bianca play the game before he got tired of trying to make her love him? Or before he realized that even if she was playing the game, she was lying and despised him?
The clock was ticking.
Malachi parked the car at the back of the Dragonslayer parking lot but he didn’t go in. Abby was watching the Dragonslayer. He’d just heard from Jackson, who was still at the police station. Will Chan was aboard the Black Swan.
A plainclothes detective had followed Dirk and Bootsie. Bootsie had returned to his own home, riverside of Colonial Park Cemetery; he’d gone in and was still there.
Malachi began to walk along the river, back along Bay Street and then into the old section, where Oglethorpe had planned his original streets and squares.
What was he missing? Tap, tap, tap.
He started, quickly moving aside, as his distraction almost caused him to walk into a man. “I’m sorry, excuse me,” he muttered. Then he paused as the man stopped—and he realized he was looking at a soldier, a man in a Union uniform. It wasn’t tattered and torn, so he must’ve been wearing his parade best, dark blue adorned with gold braid.
Cavalry, Malachi thought, the analytical part of his mind making the first judgment.
