And even if she did think he was a quack, so what? He still wasn’t completely sure he wanted to be here or be part of this. He’d spent the past five years working for himself and he liked it that way. Maybe he should’ve started off with the fact that he’d served in the military and been a cop in New Orleans for several years before Marie’s death from cancer, when he’d come home to his family property in Virginia. That was when he’d chosen to work for himself, getting a P.I. license.
Now...
“He spoke to you?” she whispered.
“Ah, there’s life behind those eyes!” he murmured. “Yes, it seems to take him a great deal of effort. I don’t believe he’s practiced at speaking.”
“Practiced?” she asked, sounding startled. “Practiced? Ghosts have to practice...being ghosts?”
Curious. She didn’t seem worried that he’d seen the ghost. She was worried—or maybe confused—about its being a practiced ghost.
Jackson Crow had been certain, reading her email, that Abigail Anderson was of their own kind. A communicator, as Jackson referred to people who saw more than others did.
“Ms. Anderson, in my own experience, those who remain behind meet the same difficulties we do in life. Some are shy and don’t do much more than watch. They never manage to speak to the living, move objects, even make a room cold. Some discover that they can learn to speak, to move objects—and they can even create a cold wind. Just like some of us on earth speak many languages while others are lucky to speak one. And some can barely walk, while others have athletic talent and prowess or perform in dance or join the Cirque de Soleil. Every ghost is an individual, just as each of us is.”
“And you...saw Blue. And spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you. He hardly ever appears. He’s never spoken.”
“Not to you, perhaps.”
“I’m his descendent!” she said indignantly.
He shrugged. “Well, have you ever tried speaking to him?”
She straightened, glaring at him with hostile, narrowed eyes.
No, Malachi decided, it didn’t seem he’d gone about this the right way at all.
“So, you’re old friends. Where is he now?” she asked.
“Certainly not old friends,” Malachi said. “And I haven’t met a ghost yet who appears on demand. I’m sure he’s around somewhere, though. I don’t think he leaves these premises. At least not often.”
“And you spoke with him where, exactly?” she asked.
“In the tunnel.”
“What did he say?”
“I didn’t know he was there at first. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘This is where he died. He was strong of heart. His death was not so simple.’”
She stared at him with such incredulity, Malachi found himself growing irritated. She saw Blue herself.
“Mr. Gordon, even if you are for real, I wish you’d leave right now. My grandfather died. We buried him today. But you know that. You were watching.”
He stared back at her. “I can leave, or we can get started. Your grandfather called you because he suspected something or knew something—at least, that’s what you wrote to Agent Crow.” He tapped the newspaper. “So Gus is dead, possibly a victim, and there are three more—in a city where the murder rate is customarily quite low. Four victims in a short period of time. Do you want to sit there doubting me, or do you want to piece together what we know? Shouldn’t take long. It isn’t a lot.”
“Almost nothing,” she agreed after a moment, disgust in her tone. She picked up the newspaper behind the bar. “Another girl dead, found on the riverbank. The police haven’t released cause of death, and when I tried to speak with them, I got nowhere. I tried to tell them Gus hadn’t just died—that there had to be someone else down there in the tunnel, someone who caused him to die.” She shook her head, studying him. “Look, you’re not even an agent. How are you going to get any information?”
He smiled. “I honestly have a private investigator’s license and I am now on the federal payroll as a consultant. Feel free to check that out. Call Jackson Crow. I think he’ll be expecting you.”
“Call him? I don’t have a number. All I could find in the material I have from Quantico was an email address. And I couldn’t reach him on an official line now. It’s nearly eight!”
“I have his cell number. And he might be in the office, anyway. He works long hours.”
“Right. So I could be calling anyone!”
He smiled at that. “Ever suspicious. That should make you a good agent, but you do have to go with your gut and trust someone at some point.”
“I’m really not seeing why that should be you,” she said.
“Ouch.”
“You could have approached me earlier—while there were still people here.”
“As you said, your grandfather’s funeral was today. And then, I wasn’t sure whether you wanted to advertise the fact that you’d called in...the ghost investigators.”
“Give me that number,” she said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.
He rattled off the numbers and she dialed. She watched him as she spoke. “Mr. Jackson Crow, please.”
Malachi could hear the deep murmur of Crow’s voice from where he stood.
“If you’re Jackson Crow, would you by any wild chance still be at work?” She was silent for a minute. “I see. Then...would you be good enough to call me back on an official line?”
Jackson murmured something again. She pressed the end button on her phone and studied him while she waited for it to ring. When it did, she looked at the exchange. After she’d answered, Malachi could once again hear the deep timbre of Crow’s voice as he spoke to Abby Anderson.
She thanked Crow, then ended the call. She frowned slightly, but now there seemed to be a touch of wonder in her eyes.
“He said that once we get an initial investigation going, he’ll come down himself.”
Malachi nodded.
“He said you do know what you’re doing.”
Malachi laughed at that. “I’ve been working as a P.I. I needed to be on my own. But I was a cop, up until about four years ago in the city of New Orleans. I have a connection in the homicide department here.”
“A connection?” she asked. For the first time he heard a touch of hope in her voice. “What kind of a connection.”
He smiled at that. “Detective David Caswell, homicide. My ex-partner. Have you met him?”
“No.”
He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s David’s card. Keep it with you. He’s a great guy. He married a woman from Savannah about a year ago and moved up here. But when we were both working in New Orleans, he was my partner.”
He waited.
She was still looking at him, as if he were an alien who’d suddenly landed in the tavern. Or...a ghost.
He sighed. “So, I guess you’re with me—or on your own.”
She was silent for another minute. “All right, then,” she said at last. “We’ll work together. I’ve lived here most of my life, and I’ve gone through all the real training, but you have the connections. You said you wanted to get started. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s