The Restorer (24 page)

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, a strangely expressive gesture that seemed to convey everything and nothing at all. “People in high places are starting to pull strings.”

“A cover-up?”

“Let’s just say there’s interest at the highest levels. The thing is…we need a break in this case and we need it quickly, before the investigation gets booted upstairs. For whatever reason, this cemetery is being used to dispose of the bodies. As much as I hate to admit it, Gerrity could be right. If the killer is leaving clues in headstone symbols or in those epitaphs, you may be the only one who can unravel his motive. I’ve already dragged you into this. I won’t involve you any further unless you know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

All of a sudden, my heart was pumping ice water into my veins. “What
are
we dealing with? What did that detective tell you about Afton Delacourt’s murder?”

“How she died, for one thing. In explicit detail.” His voice was quiet, but inflected with something I couldn’t quite decipher.

I caught my breath at the look on his face. “How did she die?”

“Exsanguination.”

Something bleak and cold rose inside me. Dread, fear and maybe just a tinge of excitement. “Just like Hannah Fischer.”

“Yes. Just like Hannah Fischer…”

The way he trailed off made me think there was something more. My fingers itched to take his arm and turn him toward me so that I could look into his eyes, study his expression. But, of course, touching him was not a good idea. Though I certainly wanted to.

“What else did he tell you?” I asked.

“There were ligature marks on Afton Delacourt’s body. The way he described them sounded like the ones we found on Hannah Fischer.”

“Ligature marks? They were both tied up?”

He hesitated. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to tell me.

“It’s all right. I want to know,” I told him.

His eyes pinned me for the longest time, until I shivered as though an icy wind had swept over me. “They were strung up by their feet with leg irons,” he said.

The blunt description took a moment to process. Then I stared at him in revulsion. “Strung up…
like meat?”

“Strung up and bled out,” he said grimly.

A wave of nausea washed through me. I felt hot and cold all over. Sweat trickled down my back, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I had the most awful, bloody images in my head. Dripping carcasses, strung up on hooks in packing houses.

I tried to blink away the vision, along with the spots that swam before my eyes. “What kind of monster would do something like that?”

Devlin’s voice was level, his face expressionless, but I saw something in his eyes that scared me. “My guess is, he’s a hunter.”

TWENTY-FIVE

I
couldn’t say anything to that. The chill that slid over me was more pervasive than a ghost’s touch.

Devlin watched with sympathy as I struggled for control. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, glanced up at the sky and tried to focus on a small cloud shot through with sunlight. It was luminous and ethereal and reminded me of one of the dancing angels at Rosehill.

Drawing another shaky breath, I nodded again, as much to reassure myself as Devlin. “I’m fine.”

But, of course, I wasn’t fine. How could I be fine when I might already be in the sights of this sadistic madman?

I thought about those epitaphs posted to my blog—messages or a warning?

I thought about that black sedan—coincidence, or was I being stalked?

“What are you thinking?” Devlin asked.

“About being hunted.”

He stared down at me for the longest moment. I thought he might offer me a bit of comfort by taking my hand or patting my shoulder or—what I really wanted—pulling me into his arms. He did none of those things, but there was a feral gleam in his eyes that sent a little shiver through me. That told me the hunter was about to become the hunted.

Maybe comfort wasn’t what I wanted after all.

“You don’t have to be involved in this, you know. You can walk away right now, go home and put it all behind you,” Devlin said. “You have no obligation here.”

“And if I did see something that day? If my knowledge of cemeteries really is the key? You said yourself, you need a break in the case before it’s covered up.”

“That’s not exactly what I said.”

I shrugged. “Close enough. I can read between the lines.”

“So it would seem.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes. But there’s not a lot more I can tell you.”

“You said yesterday that if I had a question about your personal life, I should ask. I’m asking.”

I could sense his wariness, but he nodded. “What’s the question?”

“It’s about those students that came forward after Afton’s death. The ones who talked about Dr. Shaw’s séances and his theory on death.”

“What about them?”

I paused, wondering how best to go about this. I decided to be blunt. “Was your wife one of them?”

“She wasn’t my wife then. But to answer your question, she did attend one of Shaw’s séances. She was too scared to go back.”

“What happened?”

“She was repulsed by what Shaw was trying to do. According to her beliefs, a person’s power isn’t diminished with death. A bad or sudden passing can result in an angry spirit wielding that power to interfere with the lives of the living. Even enslave them, in some cases. The prospect of bringing back the dead terrified her.”

I could hardly comprehend the tragic irony of that statement.

“She was a very superstitious woman,” Devlin said. “She wore amulets to bring good luck, painted all the doors and windows in the house blue to ward off evil spirits. I thought it charming…at first…”

I pictured the amulet underneath my pillow, felt the coolness of the stone I wore around my neck. And I wondered what Devlin would say to the rules I’d followed all my life.

I thought it charming…at first…

“I’m going inside,” he announced abruptly.

“Inside the mausoleum? There can’t be any evidence after all this time.” Then I realized that his intent might have nothing to do with Afton Delacourt’s murder and everything to do with his wife. “Should I wait out here?”

“Only if you’re too spooked to go in.”

“I’m not at all spooked. I’ve been in lots of mausoleums. I’ve never been bothered by any of them, and even if I were, I’d be hard-pressed to avoid them in my line of work.”

“That’s a very sensible outlook. Sometimes you surprise me.”

“I do?”

He hesitated. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but those photos in your office were very revealing,” he said. “I wager you feel safer in your cemeteries than you do in the city, in the company of people.”

“Not an unreasonable assessment,” I admitted.

He nodded. “It seems you’ve created your own world be hind these walls, and yet at times you can be stunningly practical.”

Yes, a practical woman who consulted with directors of parapsychology institutes about shadow beings and egregores. Who followed her father’s rules to the letter so that the ghosts floating through the veil at twilight wouldn’t latch onto her and drain away her life force.

“Speaking of practical,” I said, as I followed him up the steps, “rattlesnakes tend to like these kinds of places. Take care sticking your hand in a vault.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He pushed open the dilapidated door and stepped inside.

Late-afternoon sunlight slanted in through the broken windows, illuminating the thick cobweb drapes that hung from the ceiling and in every corner. There was a smell, too, something earthy and ancient.

I paused just inside and glanced around. Nothing slithered away. No telltale sound of a rattle. That was a relief.

Vines and briars crept in through the windows and moss carpeted the brick floor. Layers of dust covered everything. I wondered if anyone had been inside since Afton Delacourt’s body had been recovered fifteen years ago.

“Where was she found?” My voice sounded harsh and intrusive in the utter stillness of the mausoleum.

“On the floor. About here, I’d say.” By contrast, Devlin’s voice was silky smooth.

I glanced down at the floor. The bloodstains had long since disappeared with the crumbled brick and mortar.

“Who found her?” I asked, shooing away a fly that buzzed around my head.

“There was a groundskeeper back then. He didn’t do much in the way of upkeep, obviously. His job was to chase away trespassers, mainly kids climbing over the wall to party. He spotted the body in here. The door was open, sunlight shining through…”

Just like now, I thought.

“Was he a suspect?”

“He was questioned, but he was an old guy. He died of a heart attack within weeks of finding the body.”

“Shock or coincidence?”

“A little of both, I would guess.”

I moved to the back wall where the vaults were better preserved. Using my hand to sweep away some of the grime, I read the vertical row of names—Dorothea Prescott Bedford, Mary Bedford Abbott, Alice Bedford Rhames, Eliza Bedford Thorpe—slowly lowering myself until I squatted before the bottom vault that had once housed the remains of Dorothea’s youngest daughter, Virginia Bedford, who had died only weeks before her mother.

The day breaks…

The shadows flee…

The shackles open…

And now blessed sleep.

Above the inscription was a symbol of a broken chain hanging from a disembodied hand. A broken chain, a broken family.

I went back and reread the last two lines of the epitaph:

The shackles open…

And now blessed sleep.

There was another symbol at the bottom of the plaque. I had to press my head almost to the floor to see it. Three poppies tied together with a ribbon, the symbol of eternal sleep.

Once again I returned to the verse, absently swatting a fly from my face. It landed at the corner of the plaque and slipped through a crack in the vault door. I watched in disgust as another followed suit. Then another and another…

I scooted back, slapping at my hair.

Devlin saw me and came to my side. “Are you okay?”

“I hate flies.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see them? There must be dozens.”

He knelt beside me and I pointed toward the plaque where several had alighted. One by one they disappeared through the crevice.

“Where are they coming from?” I asked, still shooing them away from my hair.

“The better question is, where are they going?” Devlin muttered, reaching inside his pocket for a penknife. He inserted the blade at the edge of the vault and pried open the door. Then he lowered himself all the way to the floor to peer into the chamber.

“Do you see anything? There can’t be a body in there.” I was almost afraid to hear his answer.

“No body, but I think I see something farther back. I need a flashlight.”

“I have one in my bag.” I scrambled to my feet. “Hang on. I’ll go get it.”

Outside the sun was low, splashing crimson through the trees and across the monuments. I could smell marsh and pine and honeysuckle in the air, and the scent that lingered over every cemetery—the gentle perfume of mortality.

It was quiet outside, though I fancied I could hear voices in the distance. Cops milling around outside the walls perhaps, chatting about what they’d seen, reflecting on the grim business of murder.

I ran down the steps and as I bent to grab my backpack, I could have sworn I felt someone’s gaze on me. Slowly, I straightened and turned. Nothing there. Just the yawning doorway of the mausoleum.

Clutching the straps of my bag, I hurried back inside, back to Devlin.

He was halfway inside the chamber. I could see nothing of his body past his knees.

“What are you doing?” I asked in alarm.

He backed out, brushing dust from his shirt. A cobweb clung to his eyelashes and I reached up to remove it. I must have startled him because he caught my hand reflexively, an automatic response to a sudden move.

“Sorry. You have a…” I motioned with my finger. “On your eyelash.”

He swept the strand aside, his gaze inscrutable in the grayish light. “Did you find a flashlight?”

“Oh, right here.” That incident rattled me a little and I felt clumsy as I fumbled through my bag, searching for one of two flashlights I always kept handy.

He turned on the light, tested the strength of the beam on the wall, then flattened himself on the floor and shined the light back into the chamber.

I lowered myself, as well, and peered into the opening.

“Do you see it?” Devlin asked.

I squinted. “What?”

“All the way back.” There was a note of—not excitement exactly—but tension in his voice.

I wiggled forward on my stomach. “What am I supposed to see?”

“Some of the bricks are missing from the back wall. When I shine the light through the hole, there’s nothing but empty space.”

“Meaning…”

“That’s where the flies are going. There must be a tunnel or a chamber behind that wall.”

Now my own excitement started to mount. “I’ve heard about tunnel systems underneath old graveyards. Some of them were used by the Underground Railroad to hide fleeing slaves. Do you realize what this could mean? A discovery like this could be exactly what Camille Ashby needs to get Oak Grove entered into the National Register.”

“I’d hold off on the celebration,” he said drily. “It could be nothing more than a big hole in the wall. But there’s only one way to find out.”

He slithered headfirst into the vault, shoulders disappearing, then torso, then legs and feet, while I rummaged in my bag for the spare flashlight.