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the boatman’s presence before continuing, ultimately deeming the man an unlikely spy.
    “The mayor has a problem and I agreed to help.”
    “What kind of problem?”
    “The kind that doesn’t want to be addressed in public.”
    The marshal’s brow furrowed. “He a crook?”
    “No,” Joseph said, suppressing a grin. “I wouldn’t work for the man if I thought he was flaunting the law. It’s simply a delicate situation, something that requires a certain amount of flexibility that local law enforcement can’t provide.”
    “What?” said the marshal, leaning a little farther back against his saddle. “Like the Pinkertons?”
    “Definitely not. Those men are too up front with their tactics. We offer a more discreet investigation.”
    The marshal’s attention refocused on Joseph. “‘We’?”
    Joseph smiled. “You know as well as I that Kate is more than capable of handling herself.”
    “Do I?”
    “Yes, Marshal, I believe you do. Besides, we’re not exactly going after hardened criminals. Most of what we do is simply to help folks uncover the truth.”
    It was the marshal’s turn to smile. “It’s been my experience that gettin’ the truth outta someone is a lot harder than chasin’ some half-wit road agent.”
    Joseph laughed. “Can’t say as I disagree, but that’s what makes a service like ours particularly valuable.”
    The marshal nodded. “I’m guessing you don’t advertise in the local paper.”
    “Word of mouth, mostly.”
    “So, how do you spread the word if all your clients want to keep their secrets?”
    Joseph considered this. In the past five years he and Kate had done perhaps three dozen jobs for various residents of the city, most connected by family, friends, or local politics. A few clients had arrived without a reference, but Joseph assumed they were simply being discreet.
    “We rely on a certain amount of shared information among our clients,” he offered. “We’re not trying to hide. The folks we help are free to discuss what we’ve done.”
    “You trust ’em?”
    “I think you’ve dealt with too many criminals in your time, Marshal.” Joseph braced himself as the boat came to a stop in the shallows of the Sixth Avenue intersection. “Most people are trustworthy. The ones that aren’t are easy to spot.”
    The marshal got to his feet and stepped out of the boat into six inches of water. Kate and the twins were already there, sitting on the edge of the buckboard cart. The marshal turned back to Joseph.
    “You might think you can see ’em, the bad ones, but they’re not always so obvious. Sometimes they look pretty good.”
    Joseph remembered a much younger man, a man with no scars about his eyes, no family, and no fears save for those that came with running from the law every day and night. What did he look like? Did he look like a bad man or just a man?
    It was a question Joseph had long since answered, but one that someone, somewhere, asked every day.

 
    3
    Henry Macke was having a bad day.
    He was tired and his head hurt. Bad dreams had once again forced him to rise before the sun rather than suffer another minute lying in bed afraid to close his eyes. The nightmares didn’t make a lick of sense, but Henry was certain he knew what they meant.
    The dead man was his responsibility.
    The reason why he’d suddenly recalled every detail of the Hanged Man’s demise bothered Henry more than the memory itself. Everyone knew the story—half the town of Astoria had witnessed the bloody shootout on Second Street, if local accounts were to be trusted—but Henry knew more. He knew what had happened after the smoke cleared. He’d seen the confrontation and the last shot fired. He knew the body was buried on the hill without a marker, and he knew exactly where to find it.
    Five times he’d caught himself climbing the hill with no recollection of starting the journey. On two of those trips he’d been carrying a shovel. Was he supposed to watch over the body?