Beyond the Grave

by R. W. Wallace

  “He died thirty years ago, you say?” she says to Evian and forces herself to release the door and let it swing shut. “When he disappeared?”

  “Yes. As of today, we have very few details, I’m afraid, but we wanted to let you know as soon as possible once we identified him. Please rest assured that we’re working on figuring out what happened to him.”

  While Evian talks, Doubira studies the living room around him without leaving his spot next to Evian, and Clothilde as usual has no qualms about snooping around. I’m observant enough to have noticed that the inside of the house hasn’t changed much more than the outside has, although it seems to have aged better, but almost all my focus is on my mom. Who is receiving the news of my death, right before my eyes, and I can’t even go over and console her.

  “You look so young!” Clothilde exclaims. She’s studying my official photo from the police force, the one they bring out to show the world when you die in the line of duty. My mom has placed this one in a small niche in the wall that we never understood the point of. Guess she found a use for it in the end.

  “I was twenty-four when that was taken,” I tell her over my shoulder.

  “Still,” she mutters. “You look so…innocent.”

  I wasn’t, of course. There’s a reason I have so much to atone for before moving on to the afterlife.

  My focus is pulled back to my mother as she shuffles over to a rickety chair standing next to the shoe locker. “Where did you find him?” she asks Evian.

  “In a cemetery in one of the small villages outside of the city,” Evian says, making me wonder why she doesn’t give the name of the village.

  “He was buried in a cemetery?”

  Evian tips her head with a grimace. “Not officially. There is no record of anyone being buried there, but we happened upon his casket when we exhumed the body next to his.”

  My mother’s gray eyebrows shoot up and I see a glimmer of the attitude I remember so well. “You happened on his casket when you were exhuming someone else? Who was this someone?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information right now,” Evian replies smoothly. “Not until we figure out what the link was between the two murders—if indeed there is a link.”

  “Murders.” My mother still looks old, still looks defeated, but there’s steel in her eyes and I can feel her ready to fight for her son. For me. “Robert was murdered, then.”

  Evian shrugs, making me think that wasn’t a slip of the tongue. She wants my mother to know. “He was buried illegally in an unmarked grave. Chances are he was murdered.” She pauses for a moment, debating something with herself. “Of course, the bullet lodged in his spine is also a good indication.”

  My mother pulls herself up a little straighter. “You have the bullet that killed my boy?”

  Evian nods.

  “You will investigate his murder? You will find him justice?”

  My heart swells to see my mother caring about me like this. It should be obvious that a mother loves her children, but sometimes, when you get caught up in your life and its problems and ups and downs, it’s easy to lose sight of it. Easy to wonder if your family does, in fact, love you.

  Seeing it now, even thirty years too late, lifts a weight off my chest that I hadn’t even realized was there.

  “I will investigate,” Evian replies calmly. “I cannot make any promises. The murder took place a very long time ago and we have very few leads. But I will do my best. That I can promise.”

  My mother studies her for a moment, her gaze piercing. Then she nods. “Thank you,” she says. She looks around as if searching for something but her gaze never settles anywhere. Until she catches sight of my picture in that niche.

  “Does this mean I can finally bury my son?” she asks.

  Evian nods. “We’ll need a few more days to make sure we’ve gotten all the information we need from the remains, but yes, it means you can organize his funeral.”

  I’ve been dead for over thirty years and have attended a vast number of funerals during my time in the cemetery, so I wouldn’t think having my own funeral arranged—so late—would mean anything to me. And in a way it doesn’t. But seeing the peace this will bring to my mother, seeing the unshed tears she’s fighting to hold back while there are strangers in her house, makes me realize it will mean something to her. And that means it will mean something to me.

  I walk over and put a hand on my mother’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

  Clothilde, of course, chooses this moment to speak up. “Do you think she’ll use this god-awful picture at the funeral?”

  Twenty

  Emeline gives Madame Villemur the time she needs to get over the worst of her shock. No matter how long the man’s been missing, there was always a vague hope that he was still alive somewhere. He could have been kidnapped, or decided to up and leave everything and everyone behind to start a new life somewhere else. Still, it was more likely that the man was dead, especially considering his line of work. So on some level, Madame Villemur probably suspected her son was dead, but now she has firm confirmation.

  All things considered, she comes around quickly. And when she does, she offers her visitors some coffee.

  “Could you tell us a little about your son?” Emeline asks as she sits down at the kitchen table while Madame Villemur shuffles over to the coffee machine and takes out three mugs from an overhead cupboard. “Knowing him and his history could help us in our search for his killer.”

  The woman sighs and runs her hands over her hips. She’s wearing a pair of brown slacks and a black button-down shirt. Her glasses are surprisingly in fashion—round on the bottom and with a slim black rim—and her hair is immaculately made up in that short voluminous hairdo so many elderly ladies seem to favor. This is someone for whom keeping up appearances is important but not in a gaudy over-the-top kind of way.

  “Robert was always the difficult child,” she says. “We did our best, but it’s possible we paid him less attention than his brothers and sister. He wasn’t the oldest, he wasn’t the youngest, he wasn’t the only girl. He was also very independent and didn’t want to share much of his life with us, from a very early age.”

  She pours three cups of coffee and sinks into a chair across from Emeline. She keeps her eyes on her own cup, holding it as if seeking warmth. “I was very surprised when he told us he wanted to become a police officer. He was always the one to search for loopholes in the rules or to downright break them if he thought he could get away with it. Respecting authority wasn’t really his thing.”

  Emeline feels some surprise to discover this even though there’s no obvious reason for it. The only link they have between Robert Villemur and Clothilde Humbert is that he was the one to declare her death a suicide—which could indicate that he was a dirty cop.

  Except that isn’t the impression Emeline has of him—for whatever reason.

  “Still,” Madame Villemur continues, “he was happy while attending the officers’ school and seemed to make friends. I’m not quite certain how a police officer’s career progresses usually, but it seemed to me he was moving up in the ranks at a respectable rate.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about the cases he worked on?” Emeline asks.

  Madame Villemur shakes her head. “Nothing specific. Hardly anything at all, really, except to say it was going well and that they were keeping him busy.” She huffs a mirthless laugh. “Just like when he was ten and I asked him how his day had been at school. ‘It was fine.’ Never any details, not even to tell me what subject they were working on.”

  The old woman finally takes a sip of her coffee and Emeline follows suit. Although she doesn’t like coffee, she never refuses a cup when interviewing on the job. She has learned to force the stuff down when needed. Malik, on the other hand, seems to be savoring the black brew, taking regular small sips and holding the mug close to
his nose to inhale the scent even when he’s not drinking. His eyes are bright and he’s following the conversation closely, though.

  Emeline brings a hand below the table to touch the two bones in her pocket. She still doesn’t understand the strong urge she has to keep them with her at all times but she won’t fight it. She feels a connection to these two people who have been dead for over thirty years and wants to help them get justice. A talisman or two won’t hurt anybody.

  Even though she doesn’t really know more than the age and name of Clothilde, it’s Robert Villemur who is the big mystery. Why was he killed? Why was he buried next to Clothilde and not dumped in a forest somewhere? What role, if any, did he play in Clothilde’s murder?

  “I’m not quite sure how to phrase this,” she says, making sure she makes eye contact with Madame Villemur. “But do you think there is any chance your son was involved in anything illegal?”

  Madame Villemur stares back, her face serious. “What kind of illegal activities are we talking about?”

  “I’m not even sure. And I have absolutely no proof at this time. I’m simply trying to get a feel for his character, I guess. If you tell me you’re certain he was into drug trafficking or blackmail, then I would start out working on certain assumptions. I’m not saying I would take anything you say for granted, either positive or negative, but it would help me find a starting point.”

  In any case, Emeline would have to look into both scenarios. Right now, it seemed equally probable that he was killed because he was partly to blame for Clothilde Humbert’s murder and was buried next to her as some sort of vengeance, or because he was investigating the murder and came too close to the truth and therefore had to disappear. Still, the man’s mother’s opinion would be interesting to have, especially presented in a way that should make her want to push Emeline toward thinking her son was innocent.

  Madame Villemur takes a few minutes to contemplate her answer. “I don’t see how he could have taken part in any drug trafficking scheme. It’s too dangerous and stressful. Robert was too lazy for that.”

  She takes another sip of her coffee. “Blackmail? I guess that’s possible—but once again that implies a certain level of risk-taking and that just doesn’t sound like my son.” She sighs deeply. “He always took the road of least resistance. If there was a way to avoid doing the work but still get the prize, he would be on it in a heartbeat. It’s why I was so surprised when he wanted to train to be a police officer. I never had the impression it’s a particularly easy profession?”

  Emeline snorts a laugh at that. “Not really, no, although I guess it’s possible to slack off anywhere, even at ENSOP. Once you start working, it’s certainly possible, if you’re not set on having a brilliant career.”

  “Hmm.” Madame Villemur’s gaze shifts from Emeline to Malik and back again. “But he did seem to be on some sort of career path. I believe he was going places. Maybe he finally grew up and developed a professional conscience.”

  Maybe. Or he had some sort of help to rise in the ranks.

  “My Robert got in real trouble only once during his time in school,” Madame Villemur says, fixing Emeline with her eyes. “It was in ninth grade and some of the ‘cool’ boys pulled him along on a nocturnal excursion into the school to vandalize the headmaster’s office. Needless to say, they got caught and were all suspended for a week and had to clean up the office themselves.

  “Now, Robert would never have had such an idea by himself. I’m not saying he was an innocent boy who would never do anything stupid, simply that he’d never get the idea or take the initiative. Now, what he would do, was to follow the lead of others. The leader of that group promised friendship and status, and Robert followed him blindly.”

  Madame Villemur sets her cup down and plants both palms on each side of it. “Robert wouldn’t have gotten in trouble by himself, on his own initiative. But I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if someone else tempted him with a promotion or some cash and that he followed blindly after a leader, just like in ninth grade.”

  This could be a mother who desperately tries to protect her deceased son’s reputation. But Emeline doesn’t think that’s the case. She thinks Madame Villemur knew her son pretty well and that her theory is sound.

  She’ll look into other possibilities too, of course. But her gut tells her this is an accurate description of Robert Villemur and her gut is rarely wrong.

  Twenty-One

  I’m not gonna lie—hearing my mother’s opinion of my character hurt. Your mother is supposed to love you no matter what, believe in you when nobody else does, and always defend you if someone attacks you. What my mother just did can most definitely qualify as throwing me under the proverbial bus.

  Except she’s right.

  That business in ninth grade? I would never have been the instigator of such action, or someone to push it as a good idea. But I did follow the “cool” kids into it with my eyes wide open because they promised me I’d be one of them if I did.

  And clearly I’m particularly stupid because I’m not even able to learn from my past mistakes. The cool guys in my class didn’t bring me into their fold. I didn’t even want them to after we got caught. I realized they were bad news and would only get me into more trouble.

  And yet, when a similar opportunity presented itself a few years later, I jumped at it.

  A couple of guys I was hanging out with wanted to become police officers, with the logic that if they were part of the police, they wouldn’t get caught by the police when they did whatever shady stuff they were up to at the time. I didn’t even question it, didn’t ask them what this illegal business they were clearly mixed up with was, or wonder how the police managed it when the bad guy was one of their own.

  I just followed blindly and signed up for the officers’ school.

  I somehow lost contact with those guys while we were in training. But I picked up new “idols.”

  And that was the first step that would finally lead me to Clothilde’s murder scene.

  “Were you really like that?” Clothilde asks me, bringing me back to the present. She’s studying me more intently than I can remember her ever doing, as if trying to see the miserable being my mother describes.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I tell her. I’m keeping my eyes on Evian, trying to gauge her reaction to my mother’s stories. When I confirm to Clothilde, I see a twitch in Evian’s eyes that makes me believe she heard me. She’ll be working under the assumption that I was a loser who blindly followed other people into trouble.

  Which I was, so I’ll try not to complain.

  “You’re not anymore.” Clothilde doesn’t phrase this as a question but as a statement.

  I start to roll my eyes as I look up to meet her gaze. She’s not usually someone who likes to state the obvious. But before I can get the words out, I realize she’s telling me I’m not like that anymore.

  “I know that,” I say with annoyance. Except…it does feel good to have my one and only close friend state so forcefully that I’m no longer the loser I used to be. So I take a deep breath I don’t need and add, “Thank you.”

  Clothilde’s eyes twinkle and she winks at me. “My pleasure, Robert.”

  The discussion between Evian and my mother goes on for a while longer but none of it tells me anything I didn’t already know. I keep glancing around the living room of the house I grew up in and it’s making me antsy. I think part of me wants to revert to the idiot I was when I lived here, that the setting is bringing back old reflexes.

  When Evian finally thanks my mother for the coffee—even though she hardly touched it—I’m more relieved than I want to admit. After Evian and Doubira both shake hands with my mother, I take the liberty of giving my mother a hug before the door shuts and I’ll be pulled out after Evian.

  I might not get another opportunity, and I hope that if my mother is the slightest little bit
sensitive to otherworldly activities, she’ll know on a certain level that I love her and miss her.

  I catch sight of a single tear making its way across her wrinkled cheek as the door clicks shut and I’m forcefully pulled out.

  This time I don’t even wince.

  Twenty-Two

  “Where to now, boss?” Doubira asks when they get into Evian’s car and Clothilde and I settle in the back.

  “I’m not your boss, Doubira,” Evian says with a smile. “We’re partners.”

  “Right.” Doubira sends her a sideways glace and his lips lift in a slight smile. “If you say so, partner. So where to?”

  I can tell Evian is fighting a smile of her own. In a way, Doubira is right. Between the two of them, she’s definitely the one in charge, the one sent down here from Paris to look into a series of murders, and Doubira is just along for the ride. However, Doubira should not take that to assume he can’t take the initiative and make decisions on his own. He’ll be of no use to his partner if he simply tags along like a lost puppy without ever questioning what they’re doing.

  “We need to figure out if there was some link between Robert Villemur and Gérard de Villenouvelle. That man is the main connection we have between Clothilde’s murder and the ones happening recently in a very similar manner. He was a bad cop. He was working in Toulouse when Clothilde died. And Villemur had the potential to be a bad cop—or at least to be led astray by one.”

  I feel the need to tell her I’m not a bad cop but manage to keep silent. I don’t want to influence her opinion on this. And she’s most likely onto something.

  I don’t remember working with or for this Gérard de Villenouvelle but that doesn’t mean there was no link. I know I followed the instructions of several people I never knew well enough to learn their names. Someone who’d promised me something told me to do what they said, so I did.