“And the kid might have been dead by then.”

“Your jacket!” Zachary said. He touched Malachi’s arm. Malachi felt the movement of air around him, nothing else.

“The killer fired at me.”

“Good God, man, he was close!”

“Too close. I shot back. He’s dead.”

“Quite fine!”

Malachi shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill him. We hadn’t found the boy yet. But I assumed someone built the shack on the lines of old places like this, and I was right. Joshua Madsen was in the hideaway.”

“So you saved him. Are you injured?”

“Only my pride. I didn’t think Stiles had seen me. I was trying to watch the place and get closer, and I didn’t realize he’d come out back. Not until the bullet grazed my shoulder. I liked this jacket—not as much as uninjured flesh, but—”

“Then, all ended well,” Zachary broke in, pleased. “I’m out to tell Genevieve!”

The ghost turned and left him, moving through what was now the kitchen and outside, dissolving through the walls. He was heading to the small family cemetery in back, Malachi knew. Zachary’s wife and children were there—the three who’d died as infants and the three who’d survived childhood diseases to adulthood. Many of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren were there, too. Malachi had asked him once why he stayed around when he missed his Genevieve so much. Zachary had told him, “I believe I will know when it’s time for me to follow my love.”

Malachi never reminded him that he hadn’t known when it was time to hide from the British during the Revolution. Zachary had been caught spying. They’d intended to hang him but he’d escaped and yet, in escaping, he’d been mortally wounded and had died in the arms of his Genevieve, right in the house, in front of the large stone hearth.

Then again, Malachi mused, he hadn’t been that bright himself. Stiles had almost caught him in the chest with a .45.

He walked into the kitchen to pour himself a shot of his favorite single-malt Scotch. As he did so, there was a tap at his door. He immediately stiffened.

Aw, come on! His address wasn’t public. The damned reporters hadn’t found him out here, had they?

He decided to ignore the summons and remained unwaveringly focused on his shot of Scotch.

His phone rang. He glanced at his caller ID as he passed it. The number was unavailable, so he didn’t answer. The ringing stopped.

The pounding at the door began again.

Swearing, he strode over to it. He lifted the little cover on the peephole and looked out. He was ready to swing the door open, oh-so-ready to berate whoever was knocking at this time of night.

He stopped, surprised by the sight of three somber and distinguished-looking men in suits. One was elderly—possibly around eighty or so. The other two were tall and appeared to have Native American blood in their backgrounds, though mixed with some kind of Northern European ancestry.

The elderly man held a cell phone. He hit the keys.

Malachi’s cell began ringing again.

Seriously, what the hell? These guys had his number and they knew where to find him.

He opened the door and scowled at the three of them.

“Mr. Gordon, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we’ve been trying to reach you,” the elderly gentleman said. He held up his cell phone with a shrug.

“I’ve been a little busy,” Malachi said. “And it is—” he looked at his watch “—almost 3:00 a.m. Who are you? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had a long day and a longer night. What do you want?”

“Your unusual talent, Mr. Gordon,” the elderly man said, offering his hand. “My name is Adam Harrison. These are agents Jackson Crow and Logan Raintree.”

“Uh, great, nice to meet you. What unusual talent?”

“The kind explained by your roommate,” one of the other men said. Raintree, Malachi thought.

“My roommate?” Malachi said.

Raintree indicated someone who stood behind Malachi.

Malachi turned. Zachary was back in the house, watching him—and the newcomers—with obvious amusement.

“I believe these gentlemen see me, Malachi,” Zachary said.

“Yes, we see you,” the man introduced as Crow acknowledged. “May we come in, please? You had a long and fruitful day, and we’re pretty sure you don’t intend to stop when it comes to protecting the innocent who are in imminent danger.”

“We believe we can make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Adam Harrison said.

Harrison. Malachi thought he knew the name. Harrison had been around a long time; he was known for solving some horrible crimes, some cases that...

Were unusual.

That had some kind of...

Ghosts.

He opened the door. “Okay, come on in, but I was about to have a Scotch. You can join me or not. I’ll listen to you—but that’s it. I’ll listen.”

Harrison walked in, followed by the other two. Malachi closed the door behind them.

They saw Zachary.

He asked them to go ahead and sit down in the old parlor by the huge stone hearth. Back in the kitchen, he scooped ice into glasses and poured Scotch.

He paused, then added a second shot to his own.

He had a feeling his life was about to change.

* * *

“One day I’ll fall, but I will fall to the law on the high seas, and not to the likes of you, Scurvy Pete! I will go with my ship—and not with the dregs of the sea!”

“To the death, Blue Anderson! To the death!”

The two young fencers/actors played out the battle between Blue Anderson and Scurvy Pete Martin with passion and panache on a raised all-weather stage at the far side of the Dragonslayer parking lot. They were decked out in full pirate gear, colorful flared and embellished jackets swirling around them as they accomplished each choreographed step.

The wench they fought over—a British admiral’s daughter named Missy Tweed—cowered in a corner while they fought. She was customarily played by a pretty young blonde from the local arts academy. Eyewitness accounts of the encounter in the river between the two pirates described Blue as a hero, even if he’d been a pirate. But Blue was known for being a staunch Englishman above all else; he didn’t mind sacking a non-British ship of her treasure, and he only went to battle against enemies of the Crown. Blue swore he’d never be caught, nor would he abandon his crew. He never was caught; he sailed away one summer when storms were rampant and wasn’t seen again.

The tourist performance—and come-on for the restaurant—ended with the death of Scurvy Pete, and Blue’s announcement, “The lady may bring riches, but she’ll not be disrespected whilst in my, er, care!” Abigail applauded with the others. She knew the two young actors playing the parts. Blue was played by Roger English, an old friend; they’d graduated from high school together. Without his long dark braided wig and beard, he had sandy-blond hair and deep brown, expressive eyes. Roger, who was an avid fan of Savannah’s history, also ran one of the best ghost tours in the city.

She smiled, thinking about old times. Even as a kid, he’d loved to tell scary stories, some from history and some he’d made up. It had all paid off for him in the end.

Scurvy Pete was played by Paul Westermark, who’d gradated in the class before them. Paul sometimes worked for Roger, but he was also an accomplished vocalist and guitarist and spent many nights playing local venues.

While their audience, collected from passersby on the street and those who knew that the two pirates performed on Saturdays, grouped around to congratulate them on their performance or ask “pirate” questions, Abby hurried around to the front to reach the restaurant.

She was anxious.

Come home. I need you.

That cryptic summons had come from Gus Anderson, her grandfather, and had brought Abigail Anderson driving down from Virginia. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her about “the situation” on the phone; he needed to see her in person. She feared the worst. Gus was in his early nineties and even if he was in excellent shape for his age, he was certainly no spring chicken. And while she would’ve dropped anything in the world to come home if he was in trouble, she couldn’t help but marvel at his timing. She’d finished at the academy, and she was now waiting for her actual assignment. That made it a perfect time for her to drive home.

Gus’s restaurant, the Dragonslayer tavern, sat right on the river, just as it had since 1758. Abby had arrived in time to see the end of one of the three performances given every Saturday, this one done as the tavern closed after lunch to prepare for the dinner crowd. Whether the show brought diners to the restaurant or not, Gus didn’t really care. As a youth, he’d played his great-great—however many greats—uncle in the shows; now, he simply loved his restaurant. They weren’t the only “pirate” restaurant in town, and they weren’t the most famous. But they were, as far as preservation went, filled with integrity. Diners could get great stories from Gus if they were intrigued by the old-time lure of the establishment.

Approaching the restaurant was part of the charm to Abby, and part of the allure of coming home. Driving the streets with their majestic moss-covered and stately oaks, she always felt a little thrill when she saw the Dragonslayer appear before her. She’d grown up in Savannah, and had often stayed at the Dragonslayer. It wasn’t that her family didn’t have a house, and a lovely house at that, on a nearby square, almost as historic as the restaurant itself. But, as a child, she’d spent days and nights with her grandparents, who’d maintained their apartment right above the tavern where famous men had come for two and a half centuries. She’d been regaled with tales of the pirate days, when her ancestor had built the pub and where his brother—the infamous Blue Anderson—had been known to slip in and shanghai many a ne’er-do-well.

The Dragonslayer never changed. It was lovingly maintained, but it never changed. Its edifice appeared much as it had in the 1750s. There were probably far more adult trees surrounding it now, with their mystical sweep of dripping moss, but other than that, she could well imagine stepping back in time. Of course, that would mean slop pots, pigs, chickens and other animals crowding what was now the parking lot, and a horrendous smell in the midst of a summer like this. But still, there was a touch of magic about a place imbued with history. Gus called it living history—each new generation being a part of the past and creating more history.