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.
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.