“Yep,” Malachi said. He hesitated. On a case like this, cops could be hard-asses. Big tough guys, they still felt fear. Not fear of a junkie or a drug dealer or even a brutal killer, but fear of what they didn’t know or didn’t understand. After he’d left the force in New Orleans, he’d preferred to work on his own for that very reason. As a P.I., he didn’t mind working with them; he just didn’t want to be one of them. That way when the ribbing got bad, he could always walk out.
Some cops, though, like Andy, were all right. They didn’t understand. Maybe they were even a little afraid. But they were willing to accept any help they could get, and they weren’t afraid to be grateful for it.
“Andy,” he said, “thanks to you and your lieutenant for letting me in on this, and for listening to me. The kid owes you his life.”
“Hell, yeah!” Andy said.
Grinning, Malachi waved to him and revved the car into gear, leaving the parking lot. He headed out of the city then, anxious to get away. He’d never expected the publicity that would come with this case. He’d taken it on because Joshua Madsen’s mother, Cindy, had come to him. She had broken his heart. Joshua had been abducted during the two-block walk from his school bus to his home yesterday afternoon. A neighbor had seen a nondescript white van pull away, and when that news came out, police had immediately suspected Stiles, the Puppy Killer, as he’d been called.
Stiles didn’t kill puppies; he used puppies to lure young people to his van. They’d rescued a litter of golden retriever pups and their mom when they’d found Stiles and Joshua Madsen.
Malachi didn’t consider himself particularly brilliant in finding Stiles. The police investigative work had been excellent. They’d narrowed down the white vans in the city, thanks to the keen eye of the neighbor who’d managed to give them a partial on the license plate. Soil found on one of the victims had placed him in a certain area.
Malachi had known the area.
And he lived not twenty miles away in a home that was over two-and-a-half centuries old and came complete with pocket doors so that it could serve as a tavern, way station, home and hideout when need be. And it also came with Zachary Albright, Revolutionary spy and resident ghost.
No need to try explaining that to Andy, even if they were friends, or any of the other cops. Because, frankly, Zachary didn’t have all the answers; being dead didn’t make him omniscient. Just like he’d been in life, Zachary was a passionate man with a strong sense of right and wrong. He wandered the grounds, and he’d been the one to note the reclusive hunting lodge near the river. He’d suggested it to Malachi, and Malachi had remembered it—yes, the perfect place to bring a victim. Cries couldn’t be heard and the sure-flowing water was always ready to wash away an abundance of evidence.
It occurred to him that he really shouldn’t be thanked; he’d been observing the comings and goings on the trail when he was spotted by Stiles. He’d been forced to kill Stiles or be killed himself. The trail had led to a run-down shack but there’d been no sign of the missing boy. Police had searched the woods. Because of the “hideaway” in his own home—floorboards that lifted to reveal a six-by-six hidden room below—he’d begun to tear apart the shack. And he’d found Joshua Madsen, bound hand and foot, dehydrated, unconscious...but still alive.
Kids were resilient, he told himself. And this time, Stiles hadn’t had a chance to abuse the boy. They got him to the hospital and he’d been returned to the loving arms of his family. He’d make it, Malachi believed, without carrying the kind of abuse that might have made him an abuser himself.
Malachi wished he could say that about all kids who were abducted.
It was late, past midnight, and once he took the ramp off I-64, the country road that would take him home was dark. He turned down the air-conditioning in his car. Summer was quickly changing into fall.
He pulled into his drive and entered the old house he’d inherited from his uncle, an academic who’d never married, thus leaving him the place in his will. Malachi had spent time with him there from when he was a kid. He’d loved it, and his parents had owned a home just minutes away in a suburb of Richmond. He usually kept the pocket doors open. While the original structure had been maintained, it was also a home. It had always been a home, even when the original inhabitants had opened it as a tavern because of the economy. Yep, things didn’t really change. Back in the 1700s, sometimes the only way to survive had been to serve up good old country fare and lots of locally brewed ale and use the home itself as income.
Malachi picked up his mail and dropped his keys on the side table as he walked in. He was immediately accosted by Zachary. Once, Malachi had been unnerved by the ghost. Now he was accustomed to Zachary, clad in the black frock coat and silk vest in which he’d been buried out back in the family cemetery.
“You found him?” Zachary asked anxiously.
“We did. Thank you. If you hadn’t mentioned that place—”
“You would’ve thought of it. Eventually.”
“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.