The Sinner (8 page)

I glanced at him sharply. “Trophies are usually associated with serial killers, aren't they? Is that what you think you're dealing with here? Do you think the circle is his burial ground?”

“Serial killer in the way that you mean is a reach. But like I said, someone's obviously been using that place for decades. As to the purpose...” He trailed off again on the same question, as if reluctant to take the speculation any further. “For now, let's concentrate on the victim. The woman in the cage. How did you know to look at her arm when you viewed the body?”

Was that a note of suspicion I heard in his voice? “When I first came upon the grave, I glimpsed part of the tattoo on her wrist through the cage.”

He nodded. “And the tattoo itself—
memento mori
. That phrase means something to you, doesn't it? I saw your face as you translated.”

“It doesn't mean anything to me personally, but I was startled to find such a message on the arm of a woman who had been buried alive. Weren't you?”

He didn't answer. “What else can you tell me about that phrase?”

“I'm hardly an expert, except perhaps when it comes to cemetery
memento mori
, but I suppose it can best be described as a reflection on mortality.”

“Remember to die.” He repeated the words to himself as if he were trying to work something out.

“Sometimes translated as ‘remember death' or ‘remember that you must die.'” I pushed back the damp tendrils at my temples. “
Memento mori
was both a philosophy and an art movement that sprang up in Europe around the time of the Black Death. Poems were written about the fleeting nature of earthly pursuits and portraits were often painted with the subject holding a human skull.”

We exchanged a glance and I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. We were approaching day's end and the elongated shadows that fell across our path seemed menacing.

“Go on,” he said.

“The depictions can seem a little gruesome nowadays, but in the context of the time, it was a reminder that life on earth is just the beginning of our journey and that one's thoughts and deeds are best focused on the afterlife. As you might imagine, death images were especially prevalent in religious-themed art. Other than museums and cathedrals, the most common places to find examples in this country are old churchyards, particularly the Puritan cemeteries on the Eastern seaboard. The symbols etched into seventeenth-century gravestones—death's-heads, skeletons in coffins, scythes, winged hourglasses—are all examples of
memento mori
art. As is the skull tattoo on the back of your hand.”

“And here I thought it was just a memento of an unfortunate night in Amsterdam.” Kendrick kept his gaze focused straight ahead, but a smile flashed so brief I almost didn't catch it. The teasing glimpse made me wonder why he didn't do it more often. That smile made him seem more approachable. More human.

But maybe that wasn't such a good thing.

I studied his profile from the corner of my eye. “You mentioned earlier that you'd been to the Czech Republic. An example of
memento mori
on a very grand scale is the Sedlec Ossuary.”

“The Church of Bones,” he said. “I've been there.”

Somehow I wasn't surprised. “I've always wanted to visit.”

“It's quite a sight if you aren't too squeamish. I was particularly impressed by the bone chandelier and the garlands of skulls in the nave.”

“I've seen pictures. They're really very beautiful in their own way.”

He paused, giving me another glance. “You seem to know a lot about all this.”

“I obviously don't know as much as you as I've never seen the chapel in person.”

“I don't mean the ossuary. I'm talking about
memento mori
in general.”

“Given my profession, it's only natural I'd be drawn to gravestone art and symbolism. It's a passion of mine. I've done a lot of research over the years.”

“Which is precisely why I asked for your opinion,” he said.

By this time we were back inside Seven Gates Cemetery walking side by side through the headstones and monuments and then pausing when we came to the cottonwood grove where we'd talked before. We stood watching the procession pass through the main gate to the coroner's van parked at the side of the road.

As the vehicles pulled away one by one, Kendrick's gaze came back to rest on me, causing little tingles of unease at the back of my neck.

“Thank you for coming into the morgue,” he said. “I know that wasn't easy for you.”

“I'm just sorry I wasn't more help, but we knew positive identification would be a long shot.”

“It's possible you may yet remember something.”

I thought of those flashing rubies and that waiting silhouette in the shop window, but still I held my silence.

“If you do remember something, you have my number,” he said.

I nodded.

“It's getting late.” We turned as one to glance at the horizon where the sun had started to sink beneath the treetops. “Not a good idea for you to be out here alone. There aren't any streetlights along the road and it'll get dark fast once the sun goes down.”

“I appreciate your concern, but working alone in remote locations comes with the territory.”

A scowl flickered across his brow. “Yes, but you did just stumble across a woman's body and her killer is still on the loose. He might start to wonder at some point if you caught a glimpse of him.”

“I didn't see anything,” I insisted.

“He can't be sure of that.”

“Then I'll be careful. I'll lock all the gates until I'm ready to leave and I'll keep my phone handy. Please don't concern yourself with my safety. As I said, I'm accustomed to working alone in remote places. I know how to take precautions. I'll be fine.”

He leaned in a little closer and lifted his hand. My instinct was to recoil, but something kept me rooted to the spot as my breath caught unexpectedly.

“You have something in your hair.” He plucked a leaf from the tangled strands and let it float to the ground.

“Thanks.” I didn't outwardly react to the contact, but a pulse jumped in my throat. I knew that I should pull away at that moment, step back and take a breath. But I didn't and neither did Kendrick. Instead, we remained so close I could feel his breath against my face. He smelled surprisingly of mint, a fresh scent that seemed at odds with the direness of his warning. I had the strangest urge to cup my hands around my nose and mouth and draw that cleansing scent deep into my lungs.

I didn't understand my fascination for Detective Kendrick. What I felt wasn't physical attraction or a fleeting infatuation and it certainly wasn't love at first sight. I was still very much in love with Devlin. I would never want any man as deeply as I desired John Devlin.

But there was an undeniable pull to Kendrick. He was a curiosity, an enigma. A rebound that I instinctively knew could be my downfall.

Tread carefully and trust no one.

I could see the sun reflected in his eyes. Like his scent, the glow belied the darkness that I knew must thrive inside him. Those eyes were enticing and so mesmerizing it took me another moment before I managed to glance away.

Kendrick stirred restlessly at my side, but he made no move to leave. It was as if something had rooted him to the spot, as well.

We were all alone in the cemetery and the situation affected me on a surprisingly emotional level. Lucien Kendrick was the first man I'd been alone with since the last time Devlin and I had been together. Unless, of course, I counted Darius Goodwine's visit, but I wouldn't allow Darius to intrude upon the moment because I couldn't afford a diversion. I needed to maintain my focus on Lucien Kendrick. I had to keep up my guard around him. Not because I thought he would try anything untoward. His behavior had been nothing but professional. It wasn't even about my suspicions. I needed to stay alert and on guard because I suddenly found myself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.

“Not a good idea,” Kendrick said.

His response startled me. “What?” My hand flew to my neck as if the supernatural properties of Rose's key could chase away my embarrassment. “What isn't a good idea?”

“Being out here by yourself.” Those scintillating eyes took me in. I could feel the stroke of his gaze at my throat, on my shoulders and all down the length of my bare arms, making my fingertips tingle.

His voice lowered, quickening my breath and triggering a dangerous response. “Like I said, you shouldn't linger once the sun goes down. That's when the monsters come out.”

I knew about monsters. I knew about the dark, inhuman things that came calling once twilight fell.

But I didn't know if Lucien Kendrick was one of them.

Ten

A
fter Kendrick left, I locked all the gates and made sure my phone and pepper spray were well within reach. I wasn't afraid, but I couldn't deny a growing sense of unease. What if Kendrick was right? What if the killer thought that I had caught a glimpse of him?

For all I knew, he could be watching me from the woods at that very moment, waiting for the chance to tie up a pesky loose end. What better time to strike than now, while I was alone in the cemetery? The nearest house was a quarter of a mile away and the road was completely deserted. No one would hear me scream.

Not afraid, huh?

I forced myself to take a deep breath as I picked up the scrub brush and ran a hand over the soft bristles. I had no reason to believe that I was a target. I hadn't seen or heard anything to indicate that I was in danger, and despite Detective Kendrick's supposition to the contrary, the killer wouldn't have dared bring his victim through the cemetery in front of a witness. More than likely, the crime had been committed at night while I lay sleeping peacefully in my hammock. I had nothing to fear. The killer was long gone by now. Why would he hang around the cemetery when the police had only just left?

But try as I might to calm my prickly nerves, I kept glancing up to check my surroundings. The sun was barely visible above the horizon. Soon the light would fade and dusk would fall. The ghosts would come out. So far I'd been able to keep the manifestations at bay with Rose's key, but how long until Darius Goodwine's prophecy came true? How long until I no longer had the means or the fortitude to protect myself?
You'll likely suffer the same fate as your great-grandmother unless...

Unless I found her long-lost key. Darius had vowed to help me if I unmasked the killer, but it was a little too easy for him to make such a promise. He didn't even want anyone to know that we'd spoken. He couldn't get involved, he'd said. Because he wasn't physically present or because he knew more than he wanted to reveal?

I sensed with every fiber of my being that he was up to something. That he hadn't yet told me the whole story. I would be a fool to consider his scheme for even a moment except for two very important reasons. He knew about Rose's lost key and he'd shown me the arrangement of her numbers. How he'd acquired that knowledge, I couldn't imagine unless he truly did have eyes and ears on the other side.

The light grew steadily thinner and the silence in the cemetery became so profound that I could hear nothing beyond my own breathing as I worked. It was time to call it a day and head home before twilight. Angus would want his dinner soon, and besides, it was the smart thing to do. I could turn in early and get a fresh start in the morning.

For some reason, though, I didn't want to leave that section of the headstones unfinished. Why I felt such a compulsion to complete the task I really couldn't say except that I wasn't anxious to return to the house. But even more than that, my job was the only thing in my life I had any control over. My work ethic was the last bit of normalcy I could cling to and so I scrubbed and scrubbed at the delicate stone as if I could somehow wash away all the bad things that had happened.

I bent my back to the chore, letting time and daylight slip away as my mind wandered back to the confrontation with Darius Goodwine. Back to the conversation with Lucien Kendrick. Back to Annalee Nash's crouching form, to the corpse's tattoo and to the watcher in the woods.

Suddenly my mouth went dry as a premonition skirted along the curvature of my spine. My head came up and I once again scanned the woods, peering into the shadows cast by the church ruins, searching along the shady tree line before focusing my gaze upon the north entrance.

Someone was there.

I could feel the penetration of an uncanny stare through the gate, but unlike the day before, I wasn't coerced from my work to follow a silent command. This was a different scrutiny. A cold and calculating surveillance. Like a hunter stalking its prey.

Goose bumps popped on my arms as a thrill of panic raced across my scalp. I drew a deep breath and steadied my nerves as I reached for the pepper spray in my pocket. Thumbing off the top, I stared unblinking at the gate. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Not so much as a squirrel foraged in the underbrush.

But someone was there.

I could feel a presence. Could almost hear the shallow breaths and thudding heartbeat of excitement.

Turning my head slightly, I listened and observed with my heightened senses. Sniffing the air for a telltale fragrance and peering into the shadows for a deeper silhouette. Then opening my mind to try and pick up a stray thought or even slip into the watcher's memory.

The wall was still there, an impenetrable fortress. I shivered and withdrew, concentrating instead on my own defenses as I took a quick assessment of my setting.

Seven Gates had once been a churchyard, presumably built on hallowed ground. Between that and my great-grandmother's key, I'd been safe here from ghosts and those strange beings I called in-betweens. But a human monster was a different matter. In some ways a deeper terror.

I reminded myself yet again that no one could enter the cemetery without difficulty. I'd locked all the gates and scaling the fence would be no easy feat. By the time someone crawled over, I could be up and through the front gate, in my car and long gone.

But why was I so determined to tempt fate? What did I really hope to accomplish by remaining here alone with dusk fast approaching? Was I really that desperate to prove to myself and to Detective Kendrick that I was unafraid and untouched by recent events? That with the evolution of my dark gift, I was more capable than ever of taking care of myself? I didn't need Kendrick, I didn't need Devlin and I certainly didn't need the likes of Darius Goodwine.

Even so, I was being reckless and I knew it.

Sliding the pepper spray back into my pocket, I dumped the water bucket, and then gathered up all my tools and brushes, trying not to panic but all the while keeping a wary eye on the north gate.
Where George Willoughby had been buried.

With everything in hand, I headed for the main entrance, stooping to grab the handle of the cooler on my way out. Quickly, I loaded everything into my vehicle and then went back to relock the main gate. As I fumbled with the key, I glanced out over the cemetery.

The north gate hung open and swung ever so slightly on its hinges as if someone had just entered the cemetery.

I'd secured all the entrances earlier. No mistake about that.

Which meant that someone with a key had unfastened the gate and slipped through while I had been busy with the tools. The same someone who still watched me from the shadows. Possibly the same someone who had buried that poor woman alive in a caged grave, insuring there would be no escape.

Blood pounded at my temples as I stood there clutching the gate. I saw nothing out of the ordinary, but I had the strongest sensation that someone—something—moved steadily toward me through the headstones, using the crumbling statuary for cover. Whatever was out there had no fear of hallowed ground.

I held my breath, searching and searching.

And then I caught sight of her. The dead woman I'd last seen in the morgue.

She stood in the deep shade of an ivy-covered obelisk. So still, so silent, I hadn't even noticed her at first.

Her appearance...

She looked as if...

A wave of revulsion rolled over me. I wanted to believe that I was seeing things, that I was trapped in another lucid dream or a waking nightmare. But I was wide awake and there she was.

Risen from the dead.

Immortal.

I tried to swallow past the knot of fear in my throat as I peered at her through the shadows. She didn't present herself in the way of a ghost. Most of the spirits I encountered manifested as they'd looked in life, even the ones who'd met with a violent demise.

Not this one. She appeared exactly as I'd seen her in the morgue—pale, bluish, filthy from the grave, dark hair matted with twigs and rolled leaves. Nor was she transparent. There was nothing airy or ethereal about her form. Instead, she looked solid and fleshy. Earthbound.

I blinked to see if I could make her go away. No such luck. She was still there, half a graveyard between us but near enough that I could detect a faint smell emanating from her body. Not jasmine, not lavender, not any of the scents I'd come to associate with certain ghosts, but rather a sickly sweet putrescence that brought to mind the premature decay of a terminal patient. Someone more dead than alive.

Or someone recently dead and brought back to life.

If not a ghost, what are you?

I didn't want to ponder that question at length, didn't dare put a name to her presence. It couldn't be. But the truth stood right there before me.

Panic swelled in my chest as I watched her, watched
it
. And
it
watched me back, head slightly cocked, mouth agape.

At last I tore my gaze away, glancing past the wretched manifestation to the woods that loomed over the cemetery. The shadows near the north gate were deeper than those along the fence. Someone was out there just beyond my field of vision. Someone with intelligence and cunning. Someone with a purpose.

My gaze shot back to the dead woman. To my horror, she'd moved out of the shadow of the monument so that I could see her more clearly now. As I stood frozen in place, she took a halting step toward me. And then another and another.

Her movements were heavy and uncertain. I didn't worry that I'd be unable to outrun her. I worried that she existed at all.

She put up a hand, not in supplication, but as if she needed to push something out of her way. I saw the tattoo on her wrist and the glint of those ruby studs in her ears. The knees of her jeans were caked with dried dirt as if she had fallen or been shoved to the ground before her death.

Slowly but surely she plodded toward the gate. Toward me. A thousand images from a thousand horror movies rose to mind and it was all I could do to stifle a scream.

You're not real. You can't be real. I see ghosts, yes, and sometimes in-betweens, but I've never seen anything like you.

The putrid smell grew stronger as did the sound of buzzing flies. Maybe it was my imagination because she was still some distance away, but I thought I saw the bluish-green iridescence of a corpse beetle clinging to a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.

I reacted then, twisting the key in the gate lock until I heard the tumblers click. With no semblance of calm or bravado, I turned and sprinted to my vehicle, stumbling over a rock in my haste as I pushed the unlock button on the remote and the lights flashed. I didn't dare look back, but I could have sworn I heard her footsteps. Still heavy, still lumbering, but steady and determined. And getting closer.

A twig snapped behind me and I spun to face the horror that had come after me.

There was nothing, of course. Nothing but shadows and fading sunlight. Nothing but the distant hoot of an owl, the haunting wail of a loon. No one was there. I was alone.

I forced myself to take a deep breath as my fingers clutched the remote. Scrambling into the vehicle, I slammed the door, pressed the auto lock button and started the engine, but I didn't pull away. I sat staring through the gate into the cemetery as I gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

Even if the dead woman somehow managed to get through the locked entrance, all I had to do was put the car in gear and drive away. I wasn't quite sure why I didn't do so at that very moment. Maybe I still wanted to prove I was unafraid. Maybe I wanted to tempt the watcher in the woods out into the open so that I could get a sense of what or whom I was really up against. Or maybe I was just plain crazy.

No matter the reason, I sat there trying to control my fear as a little voice goaded me to leave.
Only an idiot would sit here with that thing in the cemetery.

But I still didn't drive away because as my heart began to settle and my pulse slowed, I realized that the dead woman didn't really exist, after all. At least, not in any ambulatory form. She wasn't an ungainly apparition or a waking dream or even a figment of my imagination, but instead one of Darius Goodwine's illusions.

Relief washed over me even as I felt the chill of a fresh apprehension.

“Darius Goodwine.” I whispered the name under my breath with the same exaggerated derision I'd heard him use.

I didn't know why he'd come back into my life, but I had no doubt he was up to something illegal, immoral and quite possibly unnatural.

He wanted something from me and I suspected his motivation had very little to do with finding a killer. He'd yet to reveal his true agenda, and until such time, he meant to keep me off guard and vulnerable with these visions. By making me see what he wanted me to see.

Like the corpse beetles he'd conjured on my skin. Like the beast persona conjured by a root doctor named Atticus Pope.

Nothing is as it seems.

Not even the zombie in Seven Gates Cemetery.