Read Online The Night Is Alive by Heather Graham - Free Book Online

Alive and dead. No, I don’t see hundreds of ghosts walking the streets, but when someone’s hanging around a place like this the way your Blue Anderson seems to be doing, it’s usually for a reason, like safeguarding someone.”
    Was he wrong? Had she never seen the ghost of the pirate? If not, he’d just shown himself to be a real quack in her eyes.
    No, in her email to Jackson she’d stated there was a ghost at the tavern, a ghost reportedly seen through the centuries. She hadn’t come out and said she’d seen the ghost, but reading between the lines, he was certain she had.
    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