The Restorer

Twenty-Nine

By the time I left the cemetery, the place was swarming with cops. Crime scene techs had descended upon the chamber and a small army of policemen was combing through the tunnels. I assumed Devlin would be occupied for hours so I was completely shocked when he showed up at my door later that night.

I’d been home long enough to shower and fix myself a light dinner, though I couldn’t bring myself to do much more than pick at the salad. What had been seen in that chamber could not be unseen, and I had a bad feeling it would be days, if not weeks, before I managed a full night’s sleep.

Devlin had brought a laptop with him so that we could go through the Oak Grove images together. I assumed he’d come to the same conclusion I had earlier—Hannah Fischer had been in that chamber either dead or alive while I’d been aboveground photographing headstones. The theft of my briefcase solidified my suspicion that the killer believed I’d captured something incriminating in one or more of those shots.

But how had he known those pictures were in my briefcase…unless he’d seen them?

On the day the body had been discovered, I’d spent the afternoon at Emerson, both upstairs in the main library and in the basement archives area. The briefcase had been left unattended for long periods of time while I combed through boxes of records and scrolled through the database. If the case had been open, anyone passing by could have glimpsed the pictures. Which would mean that at some point during the day, I had been in proximity to the killer. We might have brushed shoulders or exchanged pleasantries. The thought of that now in the aftermath of our discovery—with the purpose of those chains and pulleys so gruesomely apparent—made me ill.

Before Devlin arrived, I’d put together a chart of everything we knew about the burial site of each victim, starting with Hannah Fischer.

Along with a floral design, the headstone had been engraved with a floating feather and this poetic epitaph:

The midnight stars weep upon her silent grave,

Dead but dreaming, this child we could not save.

The headstone on the grave where the unidentified remains had been excavated contained a single full-blown rose, a winged soul effigy and the inscription:

How soon fades this gentle rose,

Freed from earthly woes,

She lies in eternal repose.

Since Afton Delacourt’s body had been left on the floor of the mausoleum rather than buried, I had no headstone art or epitaph with which to compare, but I thought the art and inscription on the vault that had led us to the hidden chamber might be significant clues. The broken chain deviated from the soul-in-flight motif on the two headstones, but the verse intrigued me:

The day breaks…

The shadows flee…

The shackles open…

And now blessed sleep.

As I looked down through my chart, underlining “feather,” “soul effigy,” “broken chain” and “shackles,” I felt a stirring of excitement. Maybe Tom Gerrity was right. The answer was there, staring me right in the face, if only I could interpret the killer’s message.

How much time did we have, I wondered, before he claimed his next victim?

“What is it?” Devlin asked.

His voice startled me in the quiet. I’d almost forgotten he was there, which also surprised me. “I was just sitting here going over all the epitaphs and symbols and thinking that Tom Gerrity was right. There is a message in all of this, but I don’t know how to read it.” I paused. “Have you found anything?”

“No, unfortunately.” He sounded as frustrated as I felt.

“You know what’s still bothering me? How the killer knew about those tunnels.”

“Like I said earlier, old records, deeds. By accident.” He glanced up. “I’ll tell you what’s bothering me. The way the skeleton was shackled.”

“Because it breaks the pattern?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“When will you hear from Ethan?”

“Soon. He’ll make it a priority. At least now he can compare any anomalies or details he finds in this skeleton with the remains we exhumed from the grave.”

We both fell silent for a moment as we concentrated on the Oak Grove images.

Then I thought of something else I wanted to tell him. “Remember I mentioned earlier about seeing Daniel Meakin in the archives room at Emerson? I asked him that day about the possibility of a missing register from an old church that was once connected to Oak Grove. He said a lot of records were destroyed during and after the Civil War, but he also mentioned that some of them might have merely been misplaced because everything is such a mess down there. And he’s right about that. Someone could have easily removed any record or book that cited those tunnels and no one would have missed them.”

“Did he mention anything other than a church in connection to that property?”

“No. And we talked about it, too. He did tell me that he has some old books in his office that reference Oak Grove. He was going to look up some information for me, but I haven’t seen him since that day.”

Devlin nodded. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“I think that’s a good idea. If anyone would know whether something had been there before the church, it would be him.” I hesitated as something else occurred to me. “This probably has nothing to do with anything, but Temple told me that Meakin once tried to commit suicide.”

Devlin glanced up.

“I know it’s just gossip, but apparently she saw a nasty-looking scar on his wrist. And he does tend to favor his left hand. You’ll see what I mean when you talk to him. He holds it at an odd angle as if he’s constantly bothered by that scar or overly aware of what he tried to do to himself.”

“He’s always been a little strange,” Devlin said.

I cocked my head in surprise. “You know him? When you said you knew of him, I assumed you were familiar with his work.”

“He was a few years ahead of me in school.”

“What school? Emerson? You went to Emerson?”

He frowned at the accusatory note in my tone. “Is that a problem?”

“No…it’s not a problem, but why didn’t you mention it before?”

He shrugged. “I don’t talk about my personal life unless it’s relevant.”

I stared down at my chart, wondering if he would consider my next question relevant or just plain nosy. “Did you meet your wife at Emerson?” I almost said “Mariama,” but caught myself because Devlin had never once called her by name. Another odd thing.

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Did you know Dr. Shaw?”

“Everyone on campus knew Shaw. He was an enigmatic presence, to say the least.”

“Did you ever go to one of his séances?”

“I can’t think of a bigger waste of time.”

So much scorn from someone so haunted.

“Did you know any of the Claws?”

He closed his laptop. “You sure have a lot of questions tonight.”

“Sorry.”

“I’d say you’ve taken to detective work like a duck to water.”

I wasn’t sure he meant that as a compliment, but I decided to take it as such. “In some ways, it’s not so different from my job. And I like mysteries. Which is why I’m so intrigued with the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. Have you noticed that no one wants to talk about them?”

He made a noncommittal sound I couldn’t interpret.

I gave him a surreptitious appraisal out of the corner of my eye. “You said earlier that people in high places were starting to pull some strings. Do you think that has something to do with the Order? They have generations of influence behind them and apparently no one wants to take them on. Are they closing rank to protect one of their own?”

Devlin scrubbed a hand down his face, looking bone-deep weary when only moments ago he’d seemed relaxed. “I don’t know. I’ve seen signs of manipulation, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.”

“They can’t cover it up, can they?”

“No. Not after what we found today. But they can control it by bringing in their own investigators.”

“But it’s your case.”

“You’re right. And I don’t intend to give it up without a fight.”

The look in his eyes scared me a little. “What can they do to you if you don’t cooperate?”

“Nothing,” he said. “They can’t touch me.”

With Devlin’s confident assertion still ringing in my ears, I rose and went into the kitchen to make tea. I took my time boiling the water and setting out cups because I wanted a chance to think back over our discussion. I felt that I’d learned some important things about Devlin. The revelation that he’d attended Emerson was of particular interest, and I still found it curious that he hadn’t mentioned it on the many occasions we’d discussed Afton Delacourt’s murder. But maybe he really was just that discreet about his personal life.

I carried the tea out to the office only to find Devlin stretched out on the chaise, fast asleep.

Sitting down behind my desk, I returned to the images, but the longer I sifted through the now-familiar symbols and epitaphs, the less enthusiasm I had for the task. I was beginning to feel a little off—weakness in my knees, an uncomfortable hollowness in my stomach. The same symptoms I’d experienced the last time Devlin had fallen asleep in my office.

I told myself I wouldn’t go to him this time. I would just let him sleep, and when he woke up, we would resume talking about the case or he would leave. And that would be that.

I wouldn’t go to him.

But, of course, I did go to him because I couldn’t stay away. I stood over him, bracing myself for the jolt, for that breathless pressure in my chest, and when it came, it still took me by storm. My legs buckled and I sat down heavily on the chaise beside him.

Devlin’s eyes flew open. He stared at me intently, but I had the strange notion that he wasn’t really seeing me. That he might not even be fully awake yet.

Something fleeted across his face, an unbearable sadness that came and went so fast I wasn’t even sure that I’d seen it. But I was reminded of what he’d told me that afternoon about his nightmares.

And then I wake up and remember that it’s real.

He sat up and glanced around. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened. We were going through the Oak Grove images and you fell asleep.”

He sat back against the chaise and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “What is it about this place?” he muttered

“It’s not this place. It’s you,” I told him. “You’ve had a long day. We both have. I feel a little drained myself.”

He frowned at that. “How long was I out?”

“A half hour. Forty-five minutes, maybe.” It occurred to me then that he might be wondering why I was sitting beside him. Quickly, I grabbed the afghan from the back of the chaise. “I thought you might be cold.”

As I pulled the cover over him, his hand closed on mine. I knew that I should pull away from him. The ebb and flow of energy between us made me light-headed, but I didn’t move.

“I feel like I’ve been asleep for hours.” His head rested against the back of the chaise, but his eyes were still on me. We spent a few moments of uneasy silence and I did contemplate getting up and returning to my desk. But his hand was still on mine. I couldn’t extract myself without some awkwardness.

“Who are you named after?” he asked unexpectedly.

I looked at him in surprise. “No one that I know of.”

“There’s no story behind your name?”

“Should there be?”

“I thought it might be a family name. It suits you, though. It’s a little old-fashioned.”

I bristled at that. “There’s nothing old-fashioned about the name or me.”

His eyes glinted. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I’m old-fashioned, too. It’s how we’re brought up down here. Saddled with tradition, yoked with expectations. And all those damn rules.”

“I know about rules,” I said. “You have no idea.”

His hand slid away from my wrist and he entwined his fingers with mine. I couldn’t have been more shocked and I wondered if he could feel the way I trembled.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said on a sigh. He held up our linked hands and studied them, as if trying to divine some elusive message in the way our fingers were entangled.

“Why not?” I knew why he shouldn’t be here, but I was dying to hear his take. “I’m not so old-fashioned that I can’t be alone with a man in my own home.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean…I shouldn’t be here. With you.” He put a subtle emphasis on the pronoun. “You scare me.”

“I do?”

He grew very still. “Sometimes you make me forget.”

My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it might burst from my chest. “Is that bad?”

“I don’t know. I’ve held on for so long…I’m not sure I’m ready to let go.”

“Then you shouldn’t.”

He said my name then. Just that. Amelia. But in the slow, proper drawl of the Charleston aristocrat, stringing out the syllables with an elegant, imperious cadence that was tinged with decadence, indulgence and the kind of secrets that can only fester in the deepest shadows of the South.

He cupped my face and drew me toward him, staring for the longest time into my eyes. I thought that he meant to kiss me and my eyes closed in anticipation. Instead, he moved his thumb slowly back and forth across my bottom lip, exactly the way I had imagined in the restaurant. It wasn’t a kiss, hardly even a caress, but no one had ever done anything so sensuous to me in my life. It was as if he’d read my mind that night, discerned my innermost thoughts and desires.

He pulled me down against him, wrapped his arms around me and we lay there in silence until he drifted back off. I could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath my hand. It grew stronger as he slept and I grew weaker.

Still, I didn’t move.

I stayed in Devlin’s arms until the scent of jasmine became unbearable in my office.

Then I got up and went over to the window to look for her. Shani was in the swing, moving slowly back and forth, her long hair swaying in the breeze.

She hadn’t come alone this time. Mariama stood at the very edge of the shadows, her taunting gaze not on her daughter, but on me.

I heard Devlin leave just before dawn. I’d gone to bed fully dressed and now I slipped from beneath the covers and hurried to the front window to see him off. As he opened the front gate and stepped onto the sidewalk, Mariama and Shani appeared in the gray light. They floated on either side of him as he crossed the street to his car.

Halfway across, Mariama’s ghost turned to glance over her shoulder. I pulled back from the window, but she knew I was there. And like Shani’s ghost, she wanted me to know she knew.

I didn’t look out the window again, but I knew when Devlin drove away. The more distance he put between us, the stronger I felt, and it seemed clear to me now that this house, this hallowed sanctuary, could protect me from ghosts, but it could not protect me from Devlin.