“Just say it came up when the bureau was investigating. They won’t ask anything else if you do that. I’ll tell Jackson. He really can get someone on the research,” Malachi said.

Abby nodded and she retrieved her notepad before she quickly sat down.

“‘Lieutenant Josiah Beckwith,’” she read. “‘Born April 9, 1790. Died for his country, September 12, 1814, at the Battle of North Point during the War of 1812. Beloved son, husband and father. A patriot.’ I have it all—yes?”

“Yes.”

Abby looked through her list of email contacts, selected a few of the influential people she knew on city council and wrote something vague about finding the information while investigating the cemetery on an FBI case. She asked that the situation be rectified, that the gravestone defaced during the Civil War be repaired.

As she typed, Malachi walked over to her.

“How many people around here dress up as pirates?” he asked. She realized that he was holding a cup of coffee for her, which she accepted gratefully.

“Lots of people dress up as pirates,” Abby said. “Why?”

“Come on back to the computers when you’re done there,” he told her. “Finish your emails first.”

She did, and when she approached the computer screens, she saw that Malachi had frozen a frame of the video. It showed someone standing in front of the Dragonslayer.

Someone who looked very strange.

She could see nothing of the actual person. A massive, plumed pirate hat hid the face, and a sweeping black cloak encompassed him to a degree that hid his size. If it was a him. Abby thought that it was—the person appeared to be tall.

“When was that?” she asked Malachi.

“At 3:32 a.m.,” Malachi told her.

“When we were down by the river,” Abby said.

“He was trying to get in here?”

“So I assume. But he stopped.”

“Did he try the door? Or did he not even reach it?”

“Never tried it,” Malachi said, leaning back. “They saw it on the screens at your house on Chippewa, too, of course. They called the police right away, but by the time a couple of officers arrived...”

“He was already gone,” Abby concluded with a sigh.

“Yup. And I don’t think he was afraid of the cameras. I think he knew about them and that’s why he was smart enough to keep his head down. I think he was afraid of Blue.”

Abby stepped back. “You saw Blue? Was he on one of these screens?”

“No,” Malachi told her. “But...here’s an image the camera did pick up.”

Abby looked over his shoulder as he replayed the footage of the host stand and bar area, along with the front of the restaurant.

A dark shadow appeared just behind the entry door.

“Is that a trick of the video, of the light? Or is it...something?” Abby asked.

“Well,” Malachi mused. “It’s definitely something.”

“Do ghosts record this way?”

He smiled at her. “Maybe. I don’t really know. But...I do believe that Blue is watching over this place.”

“And you believe this...killer is someone who spends a lot of time in the Dragonslayer. And it’s the guy in the plumed hat.”

He nodded. “Let’s head over to the cemetery. We’ll see what our old folks have to say.”

Macy was at the host stand, and Abby went over to her. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course, Abby. What about you? How are you doing with all this?”

“I’m okay.”

Macy glanced past Abby at Malachi and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here—all of you. For Abby.”

“Thank you, Macy,” Malachi said. “By the way, do you remember much about the day before Gus’s funeral?”

“Um, it was pretty much a day like any other. We had the signs up, that the restaurant would be closed the next day. There was an announcement made at the service that the mourners were welcome to join us here after, and we wanted to limit it to the people who’d known Gus well, not have casual tourists wandering in.”

She seemed perplexed, uncertain about his reasons for asking.

“I’m talking about the time just after Helen Long left the restaurant,” he said. “Do you remember anyone who might’ve left soon after she did? How about our barflies?”

Macy looked at him blankly for a moment. Her lower lip trembled slightly. “Helen’s been found. Abby saved her.”

“Yes, but another young woman is missing and Helen hasn’t been able to give us much information. I’m hoping you can help us.” He leaned on the host stand, meeting her eyes. He really had a curiously charming way about him, Abby thought. More so, perhaps, because he had no idea.

“I’d love to help you!” Macy said. “I wasn’t down here the whole time. I was going back and forth, between the restaurant and supply room. And we were so distracted that day, too. But...oh, I think both Aldous and Bootsie left in the early afternoon. And wait! Yes, I know Dirk left even before they did because he took his ship out. He worked the Black Swan’s morning and afternoon shifts because he knew he wouldn’t do either one the next day. But...I could be off on my times.”

“Terrific, Macy. Anything else?”

Macy shook her head. “No, I was here. Later Sullivan went up to do an inventory to get our orders in, since we knew everyone would be preoccupied the next day. More than that, I can’t say.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Macy,” Malachi told her. “Thank you.”

“If there’s ever anything I can do...” Macy’s voice trailed off.

Malachi thanked her again and turned to leave; Abby followed. They walked the few blocks to Colonial Park Cemetery.

That day, Abby let herself really look around the cemetery and see. She saw the old couple, vigilant as ever on their bench. A young woman in a long white gown seemed to float behind a live oak that dripped with moss. A grinning soldier stood behind a group of tourists; he blew on a girl’s neck and his grin broadened when she spun around, looking for the prankster. Across the way, hovering by one of the monuments, two young women in early-nineteenth century clothing seemed to be taking a casual walk through the stones.

Malachi, she thought, noticed them all. He was, however, fixated on the older couple.

“Good morning,” he said, pausing by the bench.

“Good morning, young sir,” the man said, standing politely.

“We wanted to let you know that Abby has written the necessary people about your son’s gravestone. We are in the process of getting the situation rectified,” Malachi told him.

“We thank you sincerely.” The man bowed. “My love,” he said to his wife, “a great dishonor will be set right.”

The woman rose, as well. She looked at them, and Abby could almost believe there were real tears in her eyes.

But she wasn’t there. Except as...

Heart, soul, spirit?

“I wish I could set every situation right.” Abby decided not to add that, through the years, gravestones hadn’t just been defaced, some had disappeared altogether. She wanted to tell them that cemeteries were really for the living. The dead remained alive in their loved one’s memories.

“We found a tunnel in an old building,” Malachi said. “Right down the street, in the area you kindly pointed out to me. But it brought us to a dead end. Have you noticed anything else?”

“You looked inside, not in the alley?” the man asked.

“We’ll go back,” Malachi said. “We’ll keep looking. Inside and out.”

“There was a time, not long after the war—the war that took our son—when the dead were often taken beneath the ground. The dead and dying. The yellow fever...they did everything they could to fight it. And when it was over, I believe they tried to hide the epidemic and how many it claimed.” He spoke thoughtfully. “We were the South. Our economy was cotton—and the river. The cotton plantations, of course, depended on slaves. But there were those who hated slavery. Early on before the other war, I heard they began to use some of those tunnels to hide people who were escaping. We, my wife and I, we closed our eyes. I was a merchant here, and I knew how the plantations worked, but...in my heart, I also knew it was wrong. If I remember...” He looked at his wife. “If I remember, we saw people in the night back then. Hurrying down the streets. Disappearing into the alley, into the darkness.”

“Thank you,” Malachi went to shake the man’s hand; Abby watched a ghostly hand touch Malachi’s in return.

She lowered her head, smiling. He thought he was awkward with people. He wasn’t. He was very good.

With the living and the dead.

“Thank you,” Abby echoed. She and Malachi hurried across the cemetery to leave by the main entrance. They passed tour groups and couples, parents and children.

They walked back toward the Wulf and Whistle. The buildings on the street were flush with one another; space here was at a premium. But a narrow alley stretched between streets, an alley that was no longer passable by any kind of conveyance. A tree that had taken root blocked it at the sidewalk. Malachi and Abby crawled over the roots that sprouted through the concrete, and they stood in the narrow alley behind the Wulf and Whistle.

“Who knows exactly what was going on when,” Malachi murmured, studying the building. “But there was a tunnel in the Wulf and Whistle. Presumably, during the yellow fever epidemic, they were bringing the sick and the dead down to various tunnels and underground rooms. Then, when the Underground Railroad became active, they reopened the tunnels. After the war—the Civil War, this time—the local owners, aware of what went on at the cemetery, which was now under military rule, might have hurried and covered up their secrets.”

“But we went down into the Wulf and Whistle. You tapped all the walls in the tunnel there yourself.”