The Sinner (12 page)

Seventeen

T
he two officers hadn't been gone long when the sound of a car engine drew my attention back to the road. I was still sitting on the front porch reflecting on all that had happened when a black SUV pulled into the driveway.

My heart skipped a beat, but whether in excitement or apprehension, I wasn't certain, nor did I care to examine my reaction too closely. Given Malloy's vague warning and my own suspicions regarding Lucien Kendrick, it was only natural that I should have a few palpitations at the unexpected sight of him.

As I watched him get out of his vehicle and walk toward me, I told myself those tiny flutters were the result of trepidation and nothing more. It was foreboding, not anticipation, that tingled down my spine and pulsed at my throat. It couldn't be anything else because I wasn't ready for it to be anything else.

But Malloy had touched upon an uncomfortable truth, one that I didn't like to dwell on. I did get lonely. I enjoyed the solitude of my cemeteries and the tranquility of my own company, but there were moments in the middle of the night when the bed seemed too big and the house too quiet. Moments when the weight of my aloneness became almost more than I could bear. It was during those times when sleep remained elusive and daylight seemed a distant memory that I wondered if it might be time to let go. If it might be time to move on.

No easy thing, letting go. The pain I carried in my heart was constant and at times served as a comfort and a touchstone, the only thing I had left of Devlin. Once the pain went away, he might be lost to me forever.

In all the time we'd been apart, my feelings for him had never wavered, may even have grown stronger. But I couldn't wait forever. I couldn't trust that he would eventually resolve the issues that had torn him from my side. Carrying a torch for too long could easily turn into bitterness, or worse, an unhealthy obsession.

But Lucien Kendrick wasn't the man to help me get over a broken heart. In some ways, he was too much like Devlin. Too intense, too driven, too secretive. There was a difference, though. An important distinction between the two men that had been encapsulated in a single moment of understanding.
I've seen a lot of things in my lifetime
,
he'd said to me in the cemetery.
Unexplainable things. I learned a long time ago that it's best to keep an open mind.

Such a pronouncement might seem a small thing to most people, but not to someone like me. Not to someone with my gift. With the exception of Papa and Dr. Shaw, I'd never known anyone with whom I could share my experiences. Certainly not Devlin.

I shivered as Kendrick paused at the bottom of the steps. My gaze went to that mysterious raised skin at the side of his neck, to the skull tattoo on the back of his hand and then to those tiny telltale marks where his eyebrow had once been pierced. His adornments intrigued me and yet I found his nonconformity a little unsettling, which undoubtedly said more about me than it did about him.

The silence stretched for an uncomfortably long time. I began to worry that he'd picked up on my thoughts, but when he spoke, his voice sounded briskly professional. “Someone came by to take your statement?”

“Officers Malloy and Reeves were here a few minutes ago. You just missed them. Malloy said you'd gone to the cemetery to have a look around.” I leaned forward anxiously. “Did you find anything? Or see anyone?”

He propped a foot on the bottom step, gazing up at me. “The place was deserted. He probably fled the scene knowing you'd call the police.”

“He?”

“I'm using your pronoun. You told the dispatcher you saw a man lurking in the woods, right? This was after you'd smelled smoke.”

“Yes.”

“You also said he wore a mask over his face. Can you describe it?”

“I think it must have been a mask. I don't know how else to explain what I saw. He looked...” I trailed away. “Animalistic.”

A brow lifted. “Can you be more specific?”

“Not really. He was some distance away and my eyes were still burning from the smoke.”

If my observation struck him as peculiar, he didn't let on. “What about the rest of him? Was he tall, short, thin, heavyset?”

“He was thin. Not short, but not really tall, either. I would say less than six feet.” I paused, lifting my hand helplessly from my knee. “I'm sorry. I'm not being very helpful, but it was hard to tell about his height. He stood hunched over, gripping a machete.”

“A machete.” Kendrick's gaze on me seemed to deepen. “You sometimes use a machete in the cemetery, don't you?”

“Yes, why?”

“Is it accounted for?”

“It's in the back of my vehicle with the rest of my tools.”

“Did you check to make sure it's still there?”

“Yes, as soon as I got home. Do you want to see it?”

“That's not necessary.”

He came up the steps then and sat down beside me on the porch. I scooted over to make room for him, but our arms brushed, making my pulse jump.

“You think I'm making this up, don't you?”

“No, I'm sure you saw someone,” he said. “But you just admitted that you're an unreliable witness. Even if you'd been close enough to get a good look at his face, your vision was blurred by smoke. And about that smoke...” He paused. “I didn't smell any in the cemetery or even in the woods. Not a whiff.”

I glanced at him in alarm. “How far into the woods did you go?”

“All the way to the swamp. It's possible the wind shifted by the time I got there so the scent was carried downstream. But if there'd been a recent fire in those woods, I would have found some evidence.”

“What about footprints?”

“I saw plenty of prints in the woods and along the side of the road, but that's hardly surprising, considering the recent activity.” He hesitated again as if trying to calculate how best to proceed. “Let's go back to the physical description. You say the person wore a hood and possibly a mask. Is it possible he was a she?”

“A woman?” An image of Annalee Nash hunkered at the edge of the orchard flashed in my head. “Why? Do you have someone in mind?”

“I'm just trying to get a clear picture of what you actually saw. What about the two boys you said were hanging around the gate earlier? Would either of them match the description?”

I gave him a long look. “I know where you're going with this. Officer Malloy is convinced those boys pulled a prank on me. Sounds like you think so, too.”

“It's not out of the realm of possibility with everything that's happened lately. That's probably why they were there in the first place. They heard about the body and were trying to find a way down to the clearing. That would also explain why you weren't actually threatened, let alone attacked. You said you were blinded for a time by the smoke. Surely it's occurred to you that if this person meant to harm you, he or she had ample opportunity to do so.”

It had also occurred to me that the smoke might have been another of Darius Goodwine's tricks, but I couldn't dispel that bestial facade so easily. Not after everything I'd learned about Atticus Pope.

“I wouldn't be surprised if those boys had also heard about the recovery of the skeleton,” Kendrick said.

“How would they know about that? The information hasn't been released to the public, has it?”

“We try to keep a close rein on the flow of information, but this is a small town and word gets out. And our activities in and around the cemetery haven't exactly been discreet.”

I gave him another look. “I saw you and James Rushing out there again today. Has he already begun the excavations?”

“I'm not sure this is the best time to get into that.”

I felt a chill of excitement along my nerve endings. “You found something else, didn't you?”

“I didn't say that. Most of the afternoon was spent photographing the mortsafes. Rushing is bringing in a couple of his colleagues to help with the excavations so the actual work may not begin until the end of the week. But just so you won't be alarmed if you see him coming and going, I've asked Martin Stark to begin removing the locks in a way that will cause the least amount of damage to the cages.”

“So you're planning to exhume all the graves regardless of what you find in the first one?”

“Let's just say, we plan to be prepared for any contingency.”

I took that as a yes. “Have you used Stark before on other cases?” I asked carefully.

Kendrick seemed surprised by the question. “Once or twice. Why?”

“I'm just a little curious about him.”

“Curious about a locksmith?”

“More specifically about his shop. I've been drawn to the key painted on the front window ever since I arrived in town. The work is beautifully detailed. Not the kind of artistry one normally sees on a commercial building.”

“I can see why that key would catch your attention.” Kendrick's gaze dropped subtly to my throat. “It's a lot like the one you wear around your neck.”

I resisted the urge to grasp Rose's key in protection against his scrutiny and my reaction to it. “You're very perceptive.”

“I wouldn't be worth much as a detective if I didn't notice things. You have a tendency to reach for that key when you're nervous or preoccupied. It must mean a lot to you.”

“It belonged to my great-grandmother.”

“More of your roots?” His smile was cynical.

“Yes. Unlike you, however, I don't consider having roots as a bad thing. But that's neither here nor there. We were talking about Martin Stark.”

He looked amused. “Surely we've exhausted that topic.”

“Not quite. At the risk of sounding like a gossip, I'd like to ask you something. Do you know of any connection between Martin Stark and Annalee Nash?”

He thought for a moment. “The only connection I'm aware of is a vague one. Stark sells old locks and keys in his shop and the Willoughbys were in the antique business. I've heard that the two families had a professional arrangement at one time, but anything beyond that...” He shrugged. “Why all the interest in Martin Stark?”

“It's not just about Stark,” I evaded. “I saw him in town with Annalee and I can't stop thinking about the story you told me. About what happened here.” I still wondered why he had decided it necessary to inform me of the house's gruesome history, but there were a lot of things about Lucien Kendrick I had yet to figure out. I found the prospect of delving into his motives, let alone his psyche, more than a little daunting. “I followed your suggestion and searched the internet, but there's not a lot of information available. I did find one interesting tidbit. Mary Willoughby wasn't the only one who disappeared back then. Atticus Pope and twelve of his closest followers vanished at around the same time. But I'm sure you already knew that.” I eyed him closely.

He didn't seem too impressed with my findings. “I've heard a lot of stories about Atticus Pope. I doubt very many of them are true.”

“Twelve missing disciples, twelve caged graves? You don't find that at all suspicious?”

“Disciples?”

“That's how they were referred to in the article. The skeletal remains recovered from the center grave may well be Pope's.”

“And you came to all these conclusions after reading one article online?”

I frowned. “The conclusions are logical, aren't they? At the very least, it's a starting place once the graves are exhumed. There must be dental and medical records still available. DNA if any relatives remain in the area.”

“Slow down,” he said with a flash of annoyance. “I'd rather not have that kind of talk getting out. We've got enough of a circus on our hands as it is. Even if we do find evidence that Pope and his followers are buried in those graves, my priority is still to the victim.”

“Of course. But don't you think it could all be related? You said yourself that someone has been using that circle for years. Maybe the killer was close to Pope. Another of his followers.” Or the spirit of Pope operating inside another body. “Removing the skull from the grave may have been ceremonial or ritual, like the wrapping of the remains in linen before reburial. As Rushing said, the shroud indicates respect, if not reverence, for the deceased.”

Kendrick didn't say anything for the longest moment. Then suddenly he leaned in and my heart lurched. He was so close I could see shadows in his eyes, could trace the sharp curve of his cheekbones. I could smell the mint on his breath and a dark, heady scent that seemed to emanate from his skin. It was dangerous, that scent. It lured me in when I knew that I should run away. It dared me to throw caution to the wind when I needed my defenses more than ever. I was wounded and human and Lucien Kendrick was right there.

He moved closer still and I thought for a moment he meant to kiss me. A fleeting and foolish notion because his eyes had gone very cold save for a spark of something that might have been suspicion. Whatever attraction I'd entertained a moment ago fled as my pulse pounded in agitation. I wanted to scramble away or at the very least put my hands up and shove him back to a safe distance. But I remained motionless, my gaze fixed on his pupils.

In that moment I knew that Lucien Kendrick wouldn't be as forgettable as I'd wanted to believe. I had a feeling if I let him in, my life would never be the same.

His hands were at his sides and yet I felt as though he held me in a death lock. His expression never changed, but there was an underlying menace hanging between us.

“Why do I get the feeling you know a lot more about all this than you're saying?” he asked softly.

I tried to glance away, but I felt myself sinking more deeply into his gaze. “I don't know what you mean. I did some research as you suggested and I found a reference to what happened in this house. To Atticus Pope and his followers. I formed an opinion, which you seem to think is inconsequential to your current case. Fair enough. I'm not a detective, obviously. I'm just a cemetery restorer who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”