The Sinner (3 page)

I tried to empty my mind again, but before I could absorb any of the detective's thoughts or emotions, he spun back to face me as if sensing my tentative probe. For a split second only, I heard the chanting in the woods. That same indistinguishable word repeated over and over. I cocked my head, trying to decipher the mantra, but the sound was either too far away or buried too deep in Kendrick's memory.

I resisted the urge to try and push past his defenses. For some reason, I felt it important that I not give that particular ability away to him.

“This is a small town so word tends to travel fast,” he said. “You can expect a lot of gawkers over the next few days. Since the quickest and easiest way to get a look at those cages is through the cemetery, you'll need to keep the gates locked.”

“I will.”

Shadows crisscrossed over us as more vultures circled. I didn't glance skyward, but instead put a hand to my eyes as I scanned the treetops where the sun would soon start to slide.

Kendrick handed me a card. “You think of anything else, here's my number. Call any time, day or night. Whatever happened here...” His gaze lifted, tracking the buzzards. “I don't like the feel of it.”

“It's disturbing,” I agreed. Beyond disturbing. It was the stuff of nightmares. Arms rising up out of a fresh grave. Hands clinging to the locked grid of a mortsafe that was designed to keep grave robbers out, not the dead in.

“We'll begin the excavation once we get the cage opened. It won't be pleasant,” he warned as he nodded to the trail behind me. “You may want to head back up to the cemetery before we get started.”

“Don't worry about me. I used to work for the state archaeologist's office in Columbia. We were sometimes called in to move whole cemeteries. If there are older remains beneath the victim, it's very important to preserve the integrity of the original grave site.”

“Are you offering your services?”

“I wouldn't be so presumptuous,” I said, once again startled by the intensity of his focus. I suddenly realized that I could no longer sense the presence in the woods and I had to wonder if Detective Kendrick had somehow scared away the watcher. The notion that he possessed that kind of power was hardly reassuring. “I recommend you call in the state archaeologist,” I rushed to add. “Her name is Temple Lee. If she doesn't have time to come herself, she can suggest someone locally to assist you.”

“I've heard the name,” Kendrick said. “She was on the news during those Charleston excavations sometime back. As I recall, a torture chamber was uncovered beneath a mausoleum in an old cemetery connected to Emerson University.”

His expression never wavered but I knew that he was gauging my response. Either he'd recognized my name or he'd done his research on the way to the scene.

“You're referring to Oak Grove Cemetery,” I said easily. “I was involved with that case, as well. I'd just been commissioned to restore the cemetery when the first body was found.”

His gaze moved over my features, searching my eyes, my pulse points, the corners of my mouth for a flicker or twitch or some other guilty tell. I didn't so much as flinch. If I could hold myself steady in the presence of ghosts, I could surely keep my cool with Detective Kendrick.

“Seems an odd coincidence. Another body found buried in an old grave near a cemetery you've been hired to restore.” His accent had vanished in the cool delivery of what I considered an accusation.

“I can see how you'd think so, but it was pure chance that I decided to take a walk down here to stretch my cramped muscles. And if I'd never left the cemetery, the body and those cages may have remained undiscovered for decades.”

“You don't have any immediate plans to leave town.” It wasn't a question.

“No, of course not. I have several more weeks of work left in Seven Gates.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I've rented a small house near the cemetery. Annalee Nash is my landlady.”

“Annalee Nash.” A frown flitted across his brow. “I understand she's the one who hired you for the restoration.”

“She is. The house I'm renting from her is just down the road a quarter of a mile or so. It's the white one on the right.”

“I know the place well. Screened porches, lots of fruit trees. A tire swing in the yard.” He hesitated. “Used to be an old storage shed behind the orchard.”

“It's still there,” I told him.

“If you've been here all summer, I'm guessing you've heard the rumors about that place.”

“What rumors?”

Before he could answer, one of the officers called over to him. “Hey, Detective! The locksmith just pulled up. Malloy's headed up there now to show him the way back.”

Kendrick nodded and started to return to the grave, but before I could stop myself, I reached out and grasped his arm. “What rumors?” I asked, my voice far more breathless than I would have liked.

Another hesitation. “It's probably just talk. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Then why had he brought it up?

I pulled my hand away, embarrassed by the contact.

His eyes glinted darkly. “I'll take your advice and give the state archaeologist a call. But regardless of her schedule, we can't wait to recover the body. I don't know how long the weather will hold and the sooner we get her out of the ground, the sooner we can get an ID. Maybe you'll be able to help us with that.”

“I wouldn't count on it. I don't know many people in town. Just Annalee and a couple of college kids I hired early on. As I told Officer Malloy, they didn't last long.”

“You fired them?”

“No, they left of their own accord. Cemetery restoration is backbreaking work.”

“Nevertheless, I'll need their names and a way to reach them if you have it.”

“I'll make sure to get you their information, but I can't imagine they had anything to do with this.”

“It's just routine. I'll be in touch,” he promised as he strode off to join the others.

I stared after him for a moment, more shaken by our encounter than I could logically explain. Perhaps it was the penetrating quality of those peculiar eyes or the notion that he might know more about me than he'd let on. That he might even know about those cages and the watcher in the woods. Whatever the reason for my disquiet, I had no intention of ignoring my instincts about Detective Lucien Kendrick.

* * *

A little while later, the chatter around the graves rose as the locksmith finally arrived. He was a wiry, ponytailed man named Martin Stark. Unlike the young police officers first on the scene, Stark displayed not the slightest hesitation as he strode through the grass toward the graves. I admired his economy of words and motions even as something about his impervious approach tripped an alarm bell. If the hands surprised or repulsed him, he didn't let on. Maybe he'd seen worse during the course of his career, but there was something about him that bothered me. A kind of latent excitement that made me search his face in much the same way that Kendrick had scrutinized mine.

Despite my wariness, I edged closer so that I could hear what Stark had to say about the cages.

“...an owl's head,” I heard him explain.

“What's the significance of that?” Kendrick asked.

“Most of the locks with these emblems were manufactured before the turn of the last century, but this one is newer. Back in the late nineties, the company resurrected the design to commemorate their centennial. Someone must have bought up a supply and hung on to them. They're good locks,” he added. “Hardened steel body and a tubular key cylinder. Difficult to pick, but I've yet to come across a padlock of any kind that couldn't be opened with bolt cutters or a drill.”

“You brought the necessary tools?” Kendrick asked him.

“Of course. Just let me know when you're ready.” He was still talking to Kendrick, but suddenly his gaze vectored in on me, as though he'd been aware of my presence the whole time. His unblinking stare seemed oddly hostile and I glanced away, keeping my gaze focused on the caged grave.

By this time, a small army of personnel had gathered. More discussion ensued and a number of phone calls were made. After another half hour of inactivity, I finally gave up and went back to the cemetery to finish my workday.

As I went about the usual chores, I tried not to think about those delicate hands clinging to the grate or that unseen presence watching from the woods. I did my best to tune out the voices drifting up from the clearing.

And hours later as I lay awake in the hammock, my dog, Angus, curled up nearby, I even managed to convince myself the remains inside that caged grave had nothing to do with me. Nor did Detective Kendrick. I would finish my job in Seven Gates Cemetery, return to Charleston to prepare for my next restoration and that would be that.

But any hope I'd had of escaping unscathed vanished the next day when I caught sight of an old nemesis lurking in the shadows of the church ruins.

Four

I
t was midmorning and I'd already been cleaning headstones for hours. The police had arrived sometime earlier to search the area surrounding the mortsafes. Other than an occasional shout as they scoured the woods, the day had been quiet. I was surprised that the curious hadn't come yet, but maybe word was just now getting out about the murder. In any case, I welcomed the solitude because I had a lot on my mind. I did not welcome Darius Goodwine.

He stood so deeply in the shade of the church ruins that I thought at first I had imagined him. After a restless night, perhaps exhaustion and my subconscious had decided to play a cruel trick on me. The longer I stared, though, the more substantial he became, like a fully manifested ghost.

But Darius Goodwine was no ghost, even though there was a fantastical element to his sudden appearance. He seemed so dreamlike against the backdrop of crumbling brick arches that I found myself biting down hard on my bottom lip to make certain I was fully awake.

Nearly two years had passed since our last living-world encounter, and in the ensuing months I'd prayed that I would never see him again. I'd hoped he wouldn't come back to collect on the bargain that I'd foolishly and desperately struck with him. At the time, my only concern had been to save Devlin's life, but Darius Goodwine was not the type of man who granted altruistic favors. I'd always known there would be a price to pay for bringing Devlin back from the other side. Now, as I felt Darius's gaze upon me, I shuddered to think what dark compensation he'd come to extract.

A breeze blew across the graves, billowing his loose clothing. Where his shirt parted, I could see an amulet resting in the hollow of his chest and another hanging from a leather cord wound around his wrist. He was a very tall man, nearly six and a half feet. His height alone commanded attention, but it was the magnetic quality of his presence that kept my gaze riveted.

Devlin had once insisted that Darius Goodwine's ability to manipulate and control his followers stemmed from the power of suggestion rather than the magic he claimed to have divined from his time studying with a powerful shaman in Africa. But Devlin was wrong. I'd learned the hard way that Darius Goodwine not only had the ability to cross over to the other side and converse with the dead, but he could also enter the dreams of the living and influence their thoughts.

Once a respected professor of ethnobotony, he'd let his greed and obsession transform him from healer to
tagati
, a dangerous witch doctor who used his knowledge and power to bring harm to others. I knew better than to underestimate him. Unlike Detective Kendrick, whose character I had yet to discern, I was all too aware of Darius Goodwine's treachery and so I steeled myself against his insidious magnetism.

Turning back to the headstone, I continued to scrape away at the layers of moss and lichen while tracking him from my periphery as he wove his way through the headstones. Despite his height, he moved with an uncanny grace. If I hadn't known he was a flesh-and-blood man, I might still have thought him a specter, so ephemeral and floating was his presence.

As he neared, a faint trace of ozone wafted on the breeze, leaving me to wonder if a sudden storm had sprung up or if the scent came from the man himself. A moment earlier, the day had been clear and sunny, but now a shadow fell across the landscape. I shivered in the premature twilight, keeping my gaze averted because I didn't dare look up into those hypnotic eyes.

“Amelia Gray.” Despite his cultured manner of speaking, there was something in the low timber of his voice that reminded me of a tribal drumbeat.
Amelia Gray. Amelia Gray. Amelia Gray.
“It's been a while since last we met.”

I inclined my head slightly, slanting a glance up through my lashes into those mesmeric eyes for only a split second before shifting my gaze to the talisman that hung around his throat. It was made of some thin metal, intricately engraved with hieroglyphics. I stared at it for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I lost track of the moments ticking by. I suddenly felt very disoriented, as if I had become lost once more in a dream of Darius Goodwine's making.

I didn't try to empty my thoughts to allow his emotions to enter. I was too afraid to trifle with such a cunning mind. So instead I focused on strengthening my defenses and on keeping
him
out of
my
head. I visualized a door slamming shut as I chanced another glance at his arresting visage. His lips curled in amusement, but I saw something that might have been surprise—or annoyance—flicker in his eyes, leaving me with a momentary triumph.

Boldly, I lifted my chin and met his gaze. “The last I heard, you were in Africa. What brings you to Seven Gates Cemetery?”

“I've come to see you, naturally.”

There was nothing natural about his presence or his timing, I felt certain. “Why?”

“All in good time. We have some catching up to do first.”

I scowled up at him. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Your powers have grown stronger since our last encounter. They leave a trail.”

Was that admiration I heard in his voice? A touch of wonder, even?

I drew myself up short as I recognized another of his tactics. I wouldn't allow myself to be seduced into a false sense of security by the likes of Darius Goodwine.

“What kind of trail?” I asked.

“They create a disturbance that might best be compared to the wake of a ship or the contrail of a jet. Easy to follow if one knows how and where to look.”

I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder. The notion that the changes inside me had left an astral pathway that could lead a dangerous witch doctor straight to my door was more than a little troubling. “Do the police know you're back in the country?”

The dark eyes glinted. “If by police you mean John Devlin, does it matter? Now that you're no longer together, he's of no consequence to either of us.”

“How did...” I cut myself off before admitting my estrangement from Devlin. The last thing I wanted was to divulge my innermost pain to a predator in search of a weakness. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“I've known about it ever since it happened. Word travels fast, even in deepest, darkest Africa.” Another of those mocking pauses. “Was the separation your idea or his? I'm assuming it was his.”

My chin came up once more. “That's none of your concern.”

“Isn't it?”

The intensity of his stare drew a deep shiver, and despite my considerable resistance, my own gaze slid back and locked on to his. A breeze drifted across the graves, bringing another draft of ozone and something spicy and exotic, like the perfume of a rare flower. I had a sudden vision of a moonlit garden filled with orchids and songbirds. A seductive oasis where untold dangers lurked in the shadowy recesses. That was what I saw when I looked into Darius Goodwine's eyes.

I quickly glanced away. “I'm not going to discuss Devlin with you, of all people.”

He laughed softly. “I admire your loyalty, displaced though it may be.”

“Meaning?”

“You don't know the man you've put on a pedestal as well as you think. Few people know the real John Devlin.”

“And you're one of them, I suppose.”

“I know him better than most. We're far more alike than he would ever dare acknowledge.”

“That's not true,” I said coolly. “The two of you are nothing alike.”

Another flash of those white, white teeth. “To the contrary, I would suggest that the only real difference between us is this—I embrace who I am and what I'm meant to be while John Devlin is still trying to run away from his true nature.”

He was goading me and I knew it, yet I found myself asking, “And just what is his true nature, according to you?”

“Have you never wondered why a man who professes nothing but disdain for the unknown was so inexorably drawn to someone as mystical and mysterious as my cousin, Mariama? Her great beauty aside, of course. I'm sure he gave you any number of reasons for the attraction. He enjoyed flaunting her exoticness in the face of his grandfather's rigid conformity. Or perhaps he told you that my influence changed and corrupted her. The woman capable of such dark deeds at the end of her life was not the same woman he fell in love with.”

Devlin had, in fact, confided both motivations, but I wasn't about to betray him to a man we both considered an enemy.

Darius continued to study me. He cocked his head slightly, as if something puzzled him. “You must also have wondered about the medallion he wears around his neck. Why would a man who claims to have turned his back on the trappings and privileges of his upbringing cling to an emblem that epitomizes wealth and greed? But then, I suppose it's hardly surprising. Men of his ilk have always had an affinity for secret societies, particularly those that protect and promote the status quo. John Devlin is no exception.”

I didn't try to defend Devlin this time because there was an uncomfortable truth in Darius's words. I had wondered about those very things. I'd fretted over Devlin's relationship with Mariama ever since we'd first met and I'd contemplated his affiliation with the nefarious Order of the Coffin and the Claw on many a sleepless night. But I found it hard to admit, even to myself, that the darkness in Devlin and those mysterious gaps in his past still worried me.

Darius Goodwine had wasted no time in homing in on those niggling misgivings.

He knelt and picked up a stick, using the pointed end to trace the shadow of a gravestone in the dirt. I watched, mesmerized by his languid movements. His fingers were long and tapered like those of an artist and his nails were meticulous, bringing to mind the dirt-and-blood-encrusted nails of the victim.

Was that why he had come? I wondered. Did he know something about the dead woman? About her murder? Should I shout for the authorities? They were still combing the woods and the clearing. Too far away to hear anything other than a scream.

“The Order of the Coffin and the Claw.” Darius pronounced each word with derisive exaggeration as he drew a snake wrapped around a claw in the dirt.

I hardened my tone. “Why are we talking about the Order of the Coffin and the Claw or even Devlin for that matter? Why don't you just tell me why you're really here? What do you want?”

“You made an important discovery yesterday. You've no idea how important. In order to deal with the consequences, you must understand the deep roots and entangled affiliations of those involved.”

“By discovery, you mean the caged graves?” I slid a hand to my chest, tracing the outline of the key resting beneath my shirt. “How do you know about those?”

He smiled. “Have you forgotten that I have eyes and ears everywhere?”

“Even in the Ascension Police Department?”

“Everywhere.”

“Even on the other side?”

“
Every
where.”

“What do you know about those cages? About the victim?” I demanded.

“I know she won't be the last to die unless you unmask her killer.”

I stared at him in shock. “Unmask her killer? How am I supposed to do that?”

“Think back.” His voice dropped to a silky murmur, soothing and hypnotic. “In all your years of research and cemetery work, surely you've come across references to other secret societies. Some, perhaps, with close alliances to the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. Have you never heard of a group called the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists?”

I frowned at the unfamiliar name. “No. But I know that body snatchers for hire in the early nineteenth century were called resurrectionists.”

“That was in Europe,” he said. “Here in the Lowcountry there was a more literal meaning—those who raise the dead.”

A shudder rocked through me.
Those who raise the dead.
What did he mean by that?

He continued to scribble in the dirt with the end of the stick. “For generations, the Order of the Coffin and the Claw provided men of a certain class and breeding—men like Devlin and his forefathers—protection from their indiscretions and unsavory appetites, but the Brotherhood promised them immortality.”

“How?” The flesh on the back of my arm crawled and I looked down to find a corpse beetle inching toward my wrist. Repulsed, I tried to flick the insect into the grass, but the pincers dug into my skin and clung. I glanced across the grave where Darius had drawn a likeness of the beetle in the dirt. He wiped away the image with the palm of his hand and the one on my arm disappeared.

For the first time since his arrival, I felt the shock of real fear. Darius Goodwine was up to his old tricks and everything inside me warned of imminent danger. I wanted to rise and put more distance than a grave between us, but my limbs suddenly felt weighted.

He was in control now, I realized. I could protect myself to a certain extent, but he was clever and cunning and knew too many ways around my defenses. I'd insisted that I wouldn't discuss Devlin, and yet that was exactly what we'd done for almost the entirety of his visit. I'd convinced myself that I could keep him out of my head, but he'd slithered underneath the slammed door and manipulated my perception.

No more than a moment had passed since I'd glanced at the ground, but Darius had already etched another symbol. Where he'd wiped clean the rendering of the beetle, he'd drawn three linked spirals. I'd seen a variation of the emblem before, but there was something sinister about his depiction.

“Do you recognize it?” he asked, still in that same numbing voice.

“It's a Celtic triskele. The spiral of life.”

“A triskele, yes, but the origin isn't Celtic. The symbol dates all the way back to the Egyptians. Since the beginning of time, the concept of triplism has taken many forms in many different cultures. Maiden, mother, crone. Land, sea, sky. The Trinity. For the Resurrectionists, the interlocking spirals represented birth, death and resurrection. You're familiar with the concept of a dual soul?”