The Restorer

Thirty-Three

Was it possible they were gone?

I thought about it all the way home. I’d never known anyone else who was haunted—though I had seen plenty of strangers trailed by ghosts—so I had no idea if anyone was ever released. Papa had always said that once an entity latched onto someone, that person’s life would never again be their own. But it seemed to me that a ghost could move on, perhaps to another host or even to another realm.

If Devlin’s guilt had kept Mariama’s and Shani’s ghosts tied to him, what would happen if that guilt started to fade? What would happen if he moved on?

I remembered what Essie had told me. Someday soon Devlin would have to make a choice between the living and the dead. What if he had already made that choice?

Then again, maybe all of this was just wishful thinking.

I tried to put it out of my mind, told myself I wouldn’t dwell on it. Camille Ashby had been murdered and her killer had sent me to that tomb. For whatever reason, he’d decided to communicate through me, and the idea that I was a madman’s conduit was very unsettling.

Devlin had made it clear that he no longer wanted me involved in the case, but the killer might have other ideas. I was brooding about all that when the doorbell rang a little while later. I glanced out the side window, shocked to see Devlin on my front porch. I’d assumed he would be busy at the cemetery for hours.

I led him back to my office because I didn’t know what else to do with him. Like me, he’d showered and changed since our parting at Oak Grove, no doubt trying to scrub away the putrid odor particular to human decay that lingered in the nostrils. As he followed me through the darkened house, I could smell nothing but the fresh mint of his soap and the spicier notes of his cologne. I drew it in on a sigh.

We took our usual places—I plopped down behind my desk and he sat on the chaise. I could tell something was on his mind, but he seemed in no hurry to speak. Since I’d developed an aversion to long silences in his company and could think of no other topic, I asked about Camille. “Could you tell much about her wounds?”

“She was stabbed, but the wounds were different from the others. It was a fast kill. No ligature marks, either. From the cuts on her hands, it looks like she put up a good fight.”

“Why didn’t he string her up like the others?”

“Maybe he was interrupted or ran out of time,” Devlin said. “Or maybe he’s toying with us. He establishes a pattern and then deliberately breaks it. Afton Delacourt was murdered fifteen years ago. We uncover remains in a grave that have been there five to ten years. And now two murders within days of each other.”

“And the skeleton in the chamber that was shackled at the wrists,” I said.

“Right.” Devlin ran a hand through his hair. “This guy is really starting to piss me off.”

I shared his frustration. “I wonder when he got to Camille. The last time I saw her was in the archives room at Emerson.”

“The best way to calculate time of death is to find the person who last saw her alive. It may have been you.” He looked exhausted in the lamplight. “Camille had been dead at least twenty-four hours when we found her. We’ll have a better estimate after the autopsy.”

“I remember something about that day we saw her at Oak Grove. She received a text message and left abruptly. Maybe it was from the killer. If you can find her phone, you could trace that message back to the sender.”

“We don’t even need the phone. We can check the records.”

“Of course you would have already thought of that,” I murmured.

“What I didn’t think of was the significance of those epitaphs. The symbols, yes. Once you explained the soul-in-flight imagery, it seemed pretty obvious. But he handpicked those inscriptions for each of his victims. That was all you.”

“I’m not sure where that gets us, though.”

“It’s helpful. Those epitaphs and symbols are both important elements to figuring out his motivation.”

“Does he have a motive? That device we found in the chamber and the way he tortured those women…” I trailed off on a shudder. “It seems to me he kills for pleasure.”

“I don’t think he’s strictly a thrill killer, but he undoubtedly derives a certain amount of pleasure from taking lives. Considering the symbolism and epitaphs, I think it more likely that he’s devised a persona for himself as a liberator or an angel of mercy in order to neutralize actions that he knows are wrong.”

“Aren’t mercy-killers usually women?”

“Usually, but not always. And it doesn’t explain the way Camille was killed.”

“Did you know that she was a lesbian?”

He shrugged. “I’ve heard that rumor for years, but never thought much about it one way or the other.”

“According to Temple, Camille never came out because her sexual orientation would have caused a lot of problems for her, both at Emerson and with her family.”

He gave me a pensive frown. “What’s your point? You think a female lover killed her?”

“That epitaph just seems so personal. ‘A quiet life, a quiet death. Rest now, beloved. Our secret is safe.’”

We had our moments. Wasn’t that what Temple had told me about her fling with Camille?

“But the inscription wasn’t written for Camille,” Devlin reminded me. “That tomb is over a hundred and fifty years old. Not to say the killer didn’t somehow find out about her personal life. He could have chosen the epitaph for its dual meaning. Maybe he considered Camille’s death liberation from the burden of her secret.”

“You seem convinced the killer is male,” I said.

“Like I said before, most predatory killers are. Just because he’s convinced himself the kills are justified doesn’t mean he’s not tracking his victims.”

Shadowy images crept through my head. “So how do we figure out who his next target is?”

“We try to connect the kills. The greater the time lapse between murders, the harder it is to find a connection, so the logical place to start is with the two most recent victims— Camille and Hannah Fischer.”

I toyed with a paper clip, not certain I wanted to give voice to a terrible suspicion. “Do you think Camille could have been somewhere in those tunnels when we were down there?” I lifted my gaze to his. “We never found out where those flies went.”

I could tell by the look on his face that he’d thought the same thing. “We had personnel all over that cemetery and in those tunnels in less than an hour. There’s no way he could have gotten her out of there and into that tomb without someone spotting him.”

“Unless there’s another way out that hasn’t been found yet. An opening in another mausoleum, maybe. He could have waited until everyone was gone and then brought her up. The guards at the gate wouldn’t have seen him if he was already inside the walls.”

“Even if he’d managed to get the body up to the surface alone, he would have needed help with the lid of that tomb.”

“Wouldn’t he have needed help regardless of when he put her in there?”

“Not necessarily. He seems to have some knowledge of pulleys. With a reasonable amount of time, he could have accomplished it with a rope and a tree branch.”

“But that chair we found in the chamber…”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “That chair.”

The implication of two killers—one a voyeur—was a little too much to take in. I stood abruptly. “I’ll make some tea.” As if a little chamomile or Darjeeling could soothe away the monstrous images our conversation had evoked.

I took my time putting the kettle on, getting cups down and steeping the tea bags. I was still in a quandary as to why Devlin had come here tonight after insisting I needed to distance myself from the investigation and possibly from him. Just when I’d managed to convince myself that he might be right…there he was at my door. How many of my father’s rules had I broken by simply letting him into my house?

Did I dare hope it had something to do with the absence of his ghosts?

When I finally carried the tea out to my office, I almost expected to find him asleep on the chaise. Instead, he stood at the windows, staring out into the night. He seemed so lost in thought, I didn’t want to break his concentration, so I set the tea on my desk and slipped up silently beside him.

The veil of wispy clouds covering the moon gradually peeled away to reveal the luster of a white garden. A moonlight garden, it was called. I’d been utterly enchanted when I discovered it by accident one night. By day, it lay hidden within the larger, more colorful plantings, but by the glow of the moon, the silvery foliage intensified. Once upon a time—before Devlin, before the murders—I would sit out there alone for hours, eyes closed, drinking in the mingled perfumes of flowers with names as romantic as the garden itself: bleeding hearts, forget-me-nots, moonflowers, thyme and white oleander.

It was the perfect setting for Devlin’s ghosts, but the garden was empty tonight. Not so much as a shadow stirred.

Devlin looked exhausted and drained, but when he turned to face me, I saw a spark of what I thought might be longing in his eyes.

“Why did you come here tonight?” I asked softly. “Earlier, you said I need to distance myself from the investigation.”

“And I meant it.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I can’t stay away.”

It hit me then, for the first time, that I wasn’t alone in this. Devlin felt my pull as surely as I felt his.

The knowledge that he found me alluring should have given my confidence a boost, but instead it made me feel more vulnerable. What would he expect from me? I was not an exotic temptress. I was just a cemetery restorer with callused hands and the ability to see ghosts.

He reached up and trailed his knuckles down the side of my face. “You really have no idea, do you?”

I closed my eyes briefly, savoring the warmth of his skin against mine. “I have a lot of ideas. Maybe even some that might surprise you.”

“I’m intrigued,” he said and I could see the shadow of a smile in the lamplight. His hand moved to my hair, curling a loose tendril around one finger. “Do you always wear your hair up?”

I grew a little breathless at the question. It was so unexpected—so intimate. “I like it out of my way when I’m working.”

“You aren’t working now.”

Mariama had had long, glorious hair. I pictured the way the dark curls swayed against her back in my dream and I shivered. Was that why Devlin wanted me to take down my hair? To compare us?

I had to stop thinking that way, reading too much into his every word. He’d come here tonight of his own free will. To see me. Not his dead wife’s ghost.

“I like it up,” I said. “and it is my hair.”

“Yes, it is. And in this light, it shimmers like pure gold,” he said. “It smells good, too.”

“How can you smell it from there?”

“Exactly.”

He took my hand and pulled me gently to him. I didn’t resist even for a moment, but closed my eyes and tilted my face toward his.

I felt him shudder. Then he bent his head to meet mine and our lips touched. A surge of energy plowed through me. I staggered against him and he drew me close. My arms draped around his neck as he deepened the kiss, and it went on and on, like nothing I’d ever experienced. I could feel an electric charge flowing between us. It rose and fell like the tides of an ocean, heightening my senses even as it weakened my resistance.

I didn’t ever want that kiss to end, but I knew it had to because my strength was waning by the moment. Devlin was literally breathing me in.

He pulled back suddenly, looking shaken. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“What do you mean?” My voice quivered. I was pretty shaken, too.

He laid his forehead against mine. “It’s strange, but when I’m with you, I can sometimes feel their presence as strongly as if they’re right here beside me. And yet…when I’m with you, I feel them slipping away from me. It makes no sense. It’s like that tug-of-war in your dreams.” He didn’t have to explain. I knew he was talking about the ghosts. But for him, they were memories.

He pulled me close and I lay my cheek against his chest so that I could see out into the garden.

They were still there after all, his ghosts. Or else Devlin had summoned them back. Hardly more than shimmering transparencies, they floated out of the shadows.

Shani went straight to the swing, gliding gently back and forth, and I fancied I could hear some ethereal song emanating from her ghostly lips.

Mariama watched me with the blazing eyes of a phantom. Even through the window, I could feel the power of that gaze—cold, devious and seductive.

The room had grown frigid, though I was still warm in Devlin’s arms. Tiny lines striated the frost that had crept over the windows. I watched in fascination as more and more appeared, realizing almost too late that the fissures were not in the frost but in the glass itself. As if someone—or something—had a hand on the other side of the window, pressing inward. Pressing it in on us.

Even when I heard the cracking sound, I was slow to react. I tried to pull away, but Devlin held me fast, as if he couldn’t bear to let me go. As if he couldn’t let me go.

I put my hands against his chest and shoved him away with such force, he stumbled back. Somehow, he clung to my hand, pulling me with him as the window shattered over us. I felt the sting of a thousand pinpricks in my back as I crashed to the floor on top of him.