Thomas J. Brodeur
Candlelight shimmered on a narrow stair. Down the planks wobbled an old man, his bare legs protruding beneath his nightshirt. In one hand he clutched a lighted taper, in the other a pistol. His hair was tousled, his cheeks unshaven, and with blinking eyes he surveyed the chamber…he gasped and toppled backward.
"Saints alive," he said, "’Tis the King’s Chapel ghost!"
Once again the redcoat army has caught a case of the jitters. Has the fearsome specter of Regina Silsby returned to haunt the streets of Boston? Someone betrays their every plan to the minutemen. But who is it, or…what? Major Cauldon tightens his grip and hopes that even a ghost can get careless
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