Dead, was his second thought.
He was near the cemetery, but the last burial in Colonial Park Cemetery had been in 1853.
Then again, ghosts didn’t usually haunt cemeteries. They haunted the places where they’d lived and found happiness, where they feared for those who lived after them, or where they had met trauma.
He continued to stare at the ghost, incredulous and curious.
The young ghost stared back at him—incredulous, too, and very curious.
A couple passed him on the street, clearly disturbed by the way he seemed to stare at some invisible entity. Maybe they felt a strange cold in the air, as well.
The woman shivered, looked at Malachi as if she feared there was something seriously wrong with him and the couple moved on. Malachi was alone with the young man under the shade of a live oak.
“I’m sorry,” Malachi said. “I didn’t see you at first. Can I...can I do anything for you?”
“You are talking to me?” the ghost said.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“You...you see me. You hear me.”
“Yes. My name is Malachi Gordon.”
The ghost smiled. “Lieutenant Oliver Mackey. No, sir. There is nothing you can do for me. I was just going home.”
“Near here?” Malachi asked. “Not Colonial Park Cemetery?”
“That cemetery has been closed to burials for years, sir. I’m sorry to say I died of a fever before ever proving my mettle in battle. While I was despised in life, sir, for my abolitionist views, I was, in death, returned to the arms of my family and laid to rest in my family plot.” He pointed toward a house around the corner from the Wulf and Whistle. He shrugged, looking at Malachi. “The coffin was never opened here. The war had begun, so I might well have been stripped, tarred and feathered, even burned to ash, had they done so.”
“The war is long over.”
“But I know that the fight for real equality, which this country must stand for, continues.” He shook his head. “Broke my heart not to be loyal to my state, but I couldn’t help my beliefs. Slavery was morally wrong, against my God.”
“Many people agree with you, Lieutenant. But the world is changing, although it changes slowly.”
“Laws are one thing—it’s harder to change the human mind.”
“I have faith in the future, but yes, you’re right.” He gestured at the cemetery. “Lieutenant, I didn’t know there were still family vaults or burials in the city area.”
“There are not. They built over the few graves in my folks’ yard years ago. I am afraid my bones and those of my wife are broken and scattered. Where the earthly remains of my parents and grandparents might be found...I have not yet discovered.”
“I’m sorry,” Malachi said.
“They rest, sir, in a far better place. That I know.”
“So why do you stay?”
“I stay...” The young soldier started to speak and then broke off, as if perplexed himself. “I stay because I wait to see a better world. Then I will rest.”
You might well haunt these streets for eternity if you’re waiting for all men to embrace one another, Malachi thought.
But he said, “Noble indeed, Lieutenant. I wish you well. I believe we are on the way. I honestly believe most men seek the right to life, liberty and happiness for all. But to end all prejudice—the whole world has a way to go. Where one hatred dies, another often springs to life.”
“Perhaps,” the lieutenant agreed. “Sir, it was a pleasure—you cannot imagine what a pleasure—to make your acquaintance.” He tipped his cavalry hat and started to walk on.
“Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you could help me.”
The lieutenant paused, looking at him. “I would be happy, of course, to be of assistance to a visitor to my fine city.”
“Do you know anything about the tunnels around here? Tunnels that lead to the river?”
The lieutenant smiled broadly. “I knew quite a bit. My wife, although scorned by society for doing it, still managed to help many a man and woman to escape via the river. Captain Emanuel Vance used to bring a ship in, laden with supplies. He pretended to run the blockade, but what he did was carry many to freedom.”
The question had brought out enthusiasm in the young lieutenant. “The Dragonslayer, of course, was known for its tunnels since the days of the pirates. As was the Pirates’ House. But a network was dug during the yellow fever. I saw the morgue myself as a young lad. No longer in use at the time, of course, but the remnants were there. Still are, I believe. But what we used for the Underground Railroad, sir, were the tunnels through the vaults. The vaults do not exist anymore, but the tunnels do.”
“What vaults?”
“Very old burial vaults,” the lieutenant said. “The one behind my house is gone, but it connected to a vault beneath a tavern.”
“The Wulf and Whistle?”
“Indeed. You know the place?”
“Yes. I went down to the tunnel, which led to the Dragonslayer—and from there, to the river.”
The lieutenant smiled. “Oh, sir, there are other branches in that tunnel. Savannah’s secret society of abolitionists knew that tunnels could easily be discovered. There are little pockets, twists and turns down there. Before the shelling of Fort Sumter, those who believed in freedom for all were secretly working down here. Some of the finest engineers in the country were below the ground, along with some of the finest engineers from Europe. Those tunnels are extensive. Explore, but take care. If you are buried in any kind of collapse, sir, I fear you will not come out.”
Malachi thanked him, furious at his own stupidity.
They’d found the damned tunnel underneath the Wulf and Whistle. Why hadn’t they broken down all the walls?
Malachi saw the young lieutenant off, then hurried back to the alley. A man in jeans and a polo shirt leaned against the wall, reading a tourist guide. Malachi walked up to him. “Officer?”
The man looked at him quizzically; Malachi produced the ID Jackson had given him to use while working the case.
“Yeah, Shubart. Officer Mike Shubart.”
“I’m going down,” Malachi said. “If I’m not back up in an hour, alert the troops.”
“Yes, sir. You got it.”
Malachi walked to the tunnel and phoned Jackson, telling him what he was about to do. He reached the wooden cover, moved it and crawled into the tunnel. Hitting the ground, he pulled out his flashlight.
He patted his side, making sure the Colt .45 that was his favorite weapon was exactly where it should be. Then he played his light over the darkness that swallowed even that glow. He proceeded slowly.
Abby couldn’t get hold of Malachi. His cell went straight to voice mail and his recorded voice said, “Leave your message, please.”
“It’s Abby. A very annoyed Abby. Where are you? What’s going on?” she demanded, and then ended the call.
Police work, any kind of law enforcement work, could be tedious. Much of it involved watching. And waiting. Endless waiting.
She was watching at the Dragonslayer. Could be worse, she tried to tell herself. If she got hungry, at least there was food. And the seats were comfortable. The climate was nice.
And there was enough coffee to keep her wired for a week.
But try as she might to stay calm, she grew increasingly anxious. She sat at the bar, watching. Waiting.
Roger and Paul seemed to have nothing to do that day. Maybe Roger was watching her as she watched him. He probably assumed that if anyone was going to know anything, it would be her.
Every so often, news about the suspect in the River Rat case came on. Everyone went still and stared at the screen.
