by Mae Clair
Tired, functioning on a short fuse, he shot a glance at the bones on the exam table. Vane’s skeleton had been intact, remarkably well preserved. A death investigator or curator would have done flips for remains in such pristine condition, but Yancy had no appreciation for historic value, regardless how out of the ordinary. His wheelhouse spun on profit.
The passage of several months had done nothing to lessen his opportunistic nature. Leland Hode had once labeled him a greedy bastard, but Hode hadn’t minded doling out a sizable salary to keep his hideously deformed son hidden from the world. After Ford Hode’s death, Yancy and Leland had parted ways, the facility at Wickham shut down. Ford’s body was never found, no one the wiser he’d been the blue-skinned “drifter” who’d committed suicide by leaping from the remains of the Old Orchard Truss Bridge.
With Leland’s life in a shamble, he’d been eager to divest of Wickham, selling it for pennies on the dollar when Yancy approached him. It had been easy to obtain life-coaching credentials, an occupation he viewed as being on the trendy side of profit. Having Jillian Cley design a website was step one in building his contact base. He’d already netted a few clients by word of mouth. Probably could have lined up more if he hadn’t gotten sidetracked by a cache of old notes written by his great-grandfather.
What Yancy really wanted—the prize he craved—was the single item not on the table with the collection of bones.
“It had to be there.” He’d read his great-grandfather’s notes over and again until he could almost recite them by rote. Heath Yancy had been the historian of the family, someone who did care about ancestry trees and moldy eras. When he’d died at the outstanding age of one hundred two, his binder of deeds, birth, death and marriage certificates, handwritten notes, and photos had passed to Yancy. If it hadn’t been for Heath’s written remarks about the binding stone, Yancy might have trashed the whole collection.
Gripping the short end of the table, he glared at Warren Porter. “You didn’t look hard enough.”
Porter shook his head. “I told you—there was nothing else in the grave. It’s like the guy wasn’t even buried in a coffin. No wood fragments, nails—nothing.”
“I don’t give a shit about nails and fragments. I told you to look for an uncut emerald.”
“You told us to bring you his bones, and we did.” Warren extended his hand, palm up. “I want paid.”
It’s what he got for working with lowlifes. Cursing silently, Yancy crossed to a black metal desk in the corner. Last night, he’d stashed an envelope in the center drawer before Warren and Clive arrived with Vane’s bones. They’d expected payment on delivery, but he’d told Warren to come back this evening, wanting to ascertain the idiot brothers hadn’t tried to stiff him with some derelict’s skeleton.
Most of all he wanted the damn emerald.
“Twenty-five hundred as agreed.” He offered the envelope but yanked it away before Porter could grasp it. “Five hundred more if you go back.”
“What?” Porter’s face darkened.
Yancy tossed him the envelope. “Vane’s bones don’t mean anything. It’s the emerald I want. The emerald you failed to deliver. It has to be in the grave.”
Warren pawed through the cash, making certain he hadn’t been shorted. “Cops are crawling all over the place. They’ve got it roped off.”
“Give it a day or two for the hoopla to die down. You have to go back before they fill in the hole.”
“You’re crazy. I’m not getting caught.”
Yancy sighed. Porter was broad-shouldered and square, built like a fireplug. In a fit of temper, he’d inflict massive damage, but he was also easily manipulated by money. The trick was to nail down the right amount. “One thousand.”
Porter rubbed his jaw, mulling it over. “What if we don’t find the stone?”
“Then you get jack shit.”
Porter’s ruddy complexion flamed red. “Hell, it could be anywhere. If it was buried with Vane, it might have dropped when we hauled out his bones.”
“Exactly. And the first place it would fall is back into the grave.” Imbecile! Did he have to spell out everything? Lack of sleep was making him brusque. He needed to crash soon. “Are you in or not?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Porter heaved a breath. “Clive, too.” He shoved the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans. “I don’t get why you’re so sure it was buried with him.”
“It wasn’t.” Yancy focused on the bones arranged on the table. Vane hadn’t been tall, no more than five-nine. He’d keep the remains a while longer, then find a way to dump them when things cooled down. His great-grandfather would have denounced his actions as sacrilege, spending most of his life tracing the Yancy family tree back to Fern Crowe Inghram, the oldest daughter of Atticus—an elder of the village that eventually became Hode’s Hill.
Soured by thoughts of the past, Yancy ground his teeth. Atticus Crowe’s name should have been on the town charter, not Vernon Hode’s. Maybe he couldn’t change history, but he could do what his ancestor couldn’t—claim the emerald as his own.
“I don’t get it.” Porter still hadn’t left, hovering by the door, one hand wrapped around the knob. “If the stone wasn’t buried with Vane, why are you so sure it’s in his grave?”
“Because, you oaf, he swallowed it.”
* * * *
Saturday morning, Jillian filled a bowl with oatmeal and berries, grabbed a cup of French roast coffee, then carried her breakfast to the kitchen table. The previous owner of the brownstone had enlarged the area by removing a built-in nook, adding a huge center island with cooktop and installing French doors where a set of double windows had been.
The doors opened onto a deck, equal in size with the terrace below. As the last home in a row of six, she had a partial view of the adjacent field and an unobstructed view of Hickory Chapel jutting from a hillside in the distance. It was one of the reasons she’d bought the property. Even when she didn’t visit the cemetery, his resting place was in sight. It was important he know he wasn’t forgotten.
Blizzard nosed her leg, a thank-you for his morning walk, then strayed into the kitchen to sniff around his food bowl. His toenails clicked on the hardwood floor.
Jillian sipped her coffee and opened the newspaper. Despite not craving social interaction, she liked to keep up with town events. Anything of note was more detailed online, but the paper was great for local color—something in abundance now that Halloween was so close.
She scanned announcements while she ate, pausing to read a few in detail. The annual Halloween Parade was scheduled for the thirtieth, beginning on the northern end of River Road. Closing subsequent streets meant traffic would be blocked from her end of town. If the weather was decent, she might take in the sights of the river from her front stoop, the parade no more than a penny whistle trill in the distance.
A flip of the page drew her attention to a splashy advertisement several columns wide. In honor of Halloween, Hode’s Hill was holding its first Masquerade Pub Crawl, a mashup of all things spooky and Carnivale. Several taverns and grilles were participating, clustered together in a strip locals commonly called Pub Place.
Part of her wanted to attend, get out more. But too many people would be bunched together, swirling in costumes, wearing—
Masks.
Not really themselves. Pretending. Make believe.
She spread her fingers over the ad.
Could she shut out others for a single night if she did the same? If she hid behind a mask and imagined herself a different person?
Startled by the thought, she pulled her hand away. Immediately, her gaze fell to the headline below the ad.
Halloween Hoax or Deliberate Desecration—One Editor’s Opinion
A photo of Hickory Chapel was tucked in the bottom corner. Shot from the cemetery, the picture showed the weathered, boarded-up church from the left sid
e, a strip of police tape cordoning off a plot to the rear.
Jillian’s heart beat faster. Pulse pounding, she flew through the article.
Anyone who has lived in Hode’s Hill for any length of time knows to avoid Hickory Chapel and the old cemetery it overshadows. For centuries, there have been rumors of tolling church bells and restless ghosts. The hauntings are said to increase in the weeks leading up to Halloween. Every year, local teenagers dare each other to stay overnight, several usually bold enough to take the challenge.
Shenanigans. Halloween fun.
Not so anymore.
A person or persons unknown has violated the grave belonging to Gabriel Vane and removed his remains. According to his tombstone, Vane died in 1799. Police estimate the depth of his tomb at eight feet or greater, requiring the grave robbers to expend remarkable effort to complete their task.
Why this grave? Why Gabriel Vane?
Circumstance was brought to light when children playing in the cemetery happened upon the open grave. A twelve-year-old boy fell into the pit but was not harmed. Police arrived to discover a scene straight out of a Victorian novel when bodysnatching and the sale of bones were common practice.
Hickory Chapel has no place on the Register of Historic Places. The graves entrusted to its care have long been forgotten. Neglected. Efforts to create awareness for funding by the Historical Society have been stymied at every turn, resulting in abandonment. This lack of interest, apart from oft-told ghost tales, could be why grave robbers targeted the site.
Halloween hoax or deliberate desecration?
Either way, a sad affair for a town which should have a stronger appreciation of its past.
Jillian’s breath fluttered between her lips. It took several seconds before she realized she’d bunched the corner of the paper into a ball, her hand fisted around the newsprint. Blizzard sat beside her, prodding her leg with his paw.
No, no, no!
It wasn’t possible. Not his grave. Not his.
She thrust from the chair and paced off a tight circle. What did she do now? There’d been nothing to prepare for this.
Blizzard back-danced two steps and barked.
Her gaze shifted to the husky. The dog whined when their eyes met. “He’s gone, Blizzard. Gone.” The word stuck to her tongue. What would her parents have done? Her grandparents or great-grandparents? Her mother’s voice rang in her ears:
A man dies two times but must never die three. It’s up to you and Madison to see Gabriel Vane never suffers the Third Death.
Breakfast forgotten, she bolted for the foyer. Blizzard loped on her heels, toenails clacking loudly. Jillian threw open the closet, grabbed her pea coat, then snatched Blizzard’s leash. Her emotions were in turmoil, spikes of near-tangible upheaval that made the husky restless. He fidgeted as she clamped the leash to his collar.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” She was barely conscious of repeating the mantra, whispered efforts to calm them both. “We’re going to the cemetery.” She needed to see Gabriel’s grave for herself. Once there, she’d have a better idea of what to do. There had to be a clue, however vague, of who was at fault for the theft.
Maybe Sherre would have more information.
Jillian had kept in touch with the law enforcement officer following Boyd’s murder. The trail had grown cold, but the motive had been clear from the start—he’d crossed the wrong people. If Madison’s mind hadn’t shattered, she could have ID’d the killers.
Jillian groaned.
“Madison.” Would her sister even understand the significance of what had happened?
In her mind, Gabriel Vane had already suffered the Third Death.
* * * *
There were far darker places that catered to ghosts than cemeteries.
Dante parked in front of the redbrick building and silenced the ignition of his 4Runner. He studied the plaque riveted to the right of the entrance door, a glossy black rectangle with white lettering.
ELI YANCY, CERTIFIED LIFE COACH
Finally, a name attached to a building designated only as “Wickham” after the road on which it squatted. Dante’s father had died within that square of red brick over a decade ago, the accident that caused his death as shrouded in mystery today as it had been then.
Fifteen was too young to lose a parent, especially when that parent remained an enigma. Salvador DeLuca had never talked about his work except to say it involved medical science. After his death, Wickham remained as it had before—a facility without markings of any kind, a place of questionable practices.
Growing up, Dante had kept his distance. It wasn’t only his father’s death that made him shy away, but an underlying disease that seemed to seep from the knots and fissures in the ground. Like Salvador, he was able to pick up on preternatural vibrations, a gift not without a downside. Fingering the medallion under his shirt, he realized his father must have faced his share of monsters too. Why else a medal of the Archangel Michael, commander of God’s armies? Michael was a protector, defender against darkness and demons.
Stepping from the vehicle, Dante pocketed his keys. He closed the door and glanced around the parking lot. This early on a Saturday morning, the place was deserted. Not that he’d noticed many cars since Eli Yancy hung his shingle. Wickham was situated far enough from town to raise eyebrows for a practice of any kind. Maybe the guy liked the isolation and thought his clients would, too.
Stuffing his hands in his jacket, Dante forked from the sidewalk in favor of the grass. He walked around the back of the building, conscious of the wind whistling through tree branches. Gnarled oaks and towering sycamores clustered several hundred yards to the rear, mammoth pines dotted like sentries around the sides. Sometime, long ago, the area had probably been densely wooded.
He couldn’t say why he was here, or why the damn spot drew him even as it repulsed him. Something told him his father wasn’t the only one who’d suffered.
Tilting his head, he stared up at the stark structure. There was nothing appealing about it, a series of small windows recessed under the eaves like shuttered eyes, barely enough to provide light. The interior would have to be bleak, swathed in the harsh glow of fluorescent tubes. Even with the morning sun casting leaf shadows on the ground, the place reeked of something defiled.
It’s how he’d painted it.
A vision from memory, storm clouds gathered behind it. He hadn’t brought the canvas with him, but one look was all it took to know he’d captured its essence.
If only he understood what that essence was.
No good will ever come from this place.
The thought was his, but the words belonged to someone else.
Dante turned and looked at the cluster of trees.
Long ago, someone had nearly died here.
Chapter 5
October 11, 1799
“Tracks?” Gabriel asked as Hiram Blum dismounted and squatted to examine something in the weeds. The sun hovered behind a plateau of clouds to their right, indication of their northeasterly path. The beast had struck overnight, raiding Cyrus Herman’s chicken coop, slaughtering half a dozen birds. Most of the remains were left uneaten, convincing Cyrus “the damn animal butchers for pleasure.”
The beast’s end couldn’t come soon enough for him or the other farmers. In the village, men had taken to barricading their doors, fearful the foul creature would develop a yen for human flesh.
“Coyote scat. Too smooth and shiny for our wolf.” Hiram dropped a chunk of offal, then dusted his hands. “We keep going.” Standing, he pointed in the distance. “This way.”
Gabriel nudged his sorrel ahead as Hiram mounted. Behind him, Jasper brought up the rear, leading a pack mule loaded with provisions. Though it had been Gabriel’s idea to hunt the wolf, he was content to let Blum lead. Hiram seemed to think like the creature, choosing the direction it would go, t
he wooded habitat it should favor, even the boundaries of territory it would roam.
“Our beast could cover over a hundred miles in a day,” he’d said when they’d met at the church an hour before dawn. Unwelcome news for so small a hunting party. He’d assuaged their fears by adding, “Could, but won’t. This creature knows where to fill its belly. Life is good here. It will not roam far.”
Gabriel breathed easier. Atticus and several other men gathered to see them off, Dinah the only woman among them. She’d squeezed Gabriel’s hand and wished him a safe journey, daring nothing more in mixed company. Before departing, Jasper offered a prayer, beseeching God to grant them victory on their quest. Several hours had passed with the gray haze of dawn yielding to the sallow light of late morning. Here and there they picked up tracks among knots of Indian hemp and ryegrass, thorny weeds or clumps of bittercress. A short while ago, they’d discovered prints paralleling a creek bed, a sight that left Hiram tight-lipped and grim. It wasn’t until Gabriel had gotten a good look at the muddy impressions that he understood the older man’s reaction. No common wolf had paws of such size or claws half the length of sickles. He’d seen similar tracks ringed around the carcasses of dead chickens and pigs, but the reality struck deeper this time. The beast they pursued was no mere predator, but a monster of abnormal proportions. The thought stayed with him long after they’d left the tracks behind, abandoning the stream for denser woods.
The weight of Gabriel’s long rifle rested against his back, secured by a shoulder strap. It comforted him to know the weapon’s range was accurate over two hundred yards. He wasn’t a marksman but was proficient enough to have won several shooting titles at holiday fairs. From an early age, he’d handled a gun, a necessity of living on a farm where livestock made easy prey for wild animals. When he’d purchased his own acreage, he’d replaced his father’s musket with the slender long-barreled rifle, a weapon designed to hit what he aimed at.