“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.

And then they turned to Abby.

She shrugged. “I haven’t been able to reach my colleagues yet,” she told them. That was true in a way. Malachi wasn’t answering.

To escape them all, she returned to the apartment to make her next phone call. Still no answer when she tried Malachi.

So she called Jackson next. “Don’t worry. I talked to him. He’s searching the tunnel by the Wulf and Whistle again. Seems he met up with a Union soldier while walking, a man who had worked with the Underground Railroad. The tunnels go all over, according to the soldier. I’m standing at the entrance to the river as we speak, watching from this end, waiting.”

Watching and waiting. Of course. She hesitated. “Someone’s here, in the Dragonslayer? A cop in plainclothes?”

“You have the cop of all cops on the way over to spell him. David Caswell is coming. For dinner, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Abby said. “Thank you, Jackson. If you hear from Malachi—”

“I’ll get in touch right away, Abby. We keep close tabs on one another. It’s what keeps us all alive.”

“I know,” she said softly.

She left the apartment and came downstairs, to discover that David Caswell had arrived—and Bootsie and Dirk Johansen were back. The Black Swan had finished her afternoon sail.

David was by the bar, being grilled. Dirk looked as if he were in despair. He turned to Abby, his eyes filled with sorrow. “They think it’s Aldous!” he said.

“I’m so sorry, Dirk,” she murmured.

Dirk shook his head. “I know Aldous. He’s one of the best men out there. I refuse to believe the worst of him. He never had to join the military because his family was always rich. He did his stint, anyway. He could’ve sat back on his ass his whole life, but he gave money to charitable projects and worked on them, too. I won’t believe he’s a killer.”

“We would have known,” Bootsie insisted. “You’re wrong, young man,” he told David Caswell.

“I’m afraid we have physical evidence against him,” David said. “But this is America. Every man is innocent until proven guilty.” He looked at Abby and inclined his head. She thought he’d been called by Jackson Crow, therefore knew where Malachi had gone—and what she was about to do.

“Well, we’ll see.” Abby shrugged. “I guess I’ll take a stroll through and talk to a few of the guests.”

She did. Most of the diners were tourists, and they were intrigued by the case going on in Savannah.

They were relieved the police had a suspect.

She made her way into the second dining room and over to the image of Blue. He stared at her with unseeing eyes.

But he was there somewhere, she knew. Watching.

That thought made her smile.

She pretended to adjust the image of Blue and then stepped inside the little fence that surrounded the grate.

She slipped down into the tunnel without a backward glance.

Malachi came to the fork in the tunnel; he knew that one path led to the Dragonslayer and then to the river.

He hadn’t thought much about the other, because it didn’t lead to the river.

Or, he realized, it didn’t appear to lead to the river. He moved in the other direction, his light bouncing over the walls.

He came to a heap on the floor and paused, ducking down to look.

Bones.

Bones caught in fragments of cloth, with the remnants of feet in ancient boots.

This was no new murder victim. He couldn’t really tell what he was seeing, the remains had been there for so long. They’d almost returned to ashes and dust, as the saying went. But the fact that they were here was interesting; this was clearly a pathway someone had used at some time. There was little he could tell from the stained bits of fabric and crumbling bone, but he had a feeling this dead man had been here at least two hundred years. Had he been abandoned where he lay as a warning to others?

He tried to imagine the days of the Civil War lieutenant and the slaves who would have been led through the tunnels to escape. Perhaps, at that time, these bones had been left so that if the tunnel was discovered, it wouldn’t be considered an escape route, and those who tried to use it would face the law—or worse.

He straightened and kept walking.

His light revealed something else ahead of him, something white, like a woman’s gown, an elegant nightgown. He hurried toward it.

Then, a grunt of astonishment burst through his lips. He took a step—but there was no ground. He crashed down into a deep hole. His body slammed hard on the earth and rock below.