“Do you mind?” Devlin cut in. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to hear your initial assessment.”
“Of Amelia?” Regina gave me a wink. “Lovely girl, handled herself well on camera.”
“I’m talking about the remains,” he said drily.
“Oh, him. Dead as a doornail.”
Regina’s wisecracks were probably a little hard for someone like Devlin to take. He was all business and I’d yet to see anything more than a hint of a smile. But those who were haunted often had a grim demeanor. One could hardly blame them.
She pushed back her bangs, giving herself an odd plumed appearance that I doubted was the look she’d been aiming for. “I don’t exactly have a lot to work with here. I can’t even say for certain we’re looking at an intrusive burial. The hand looks pretty damn clean. No muscle or ligament, just bone. Whoever that poor bastard was, he’s been here for years.”
“She,” I said, garnering simultaneous eyebrow lifts. “If the bones are from the original burial, the remains are most likely female.”
“You don’t say.” Regina swatted a mosquito, leaving a bloody smear on her arm. Absently, she wiped her hand on her jeans. “I’m mighty curious as to how you came to that conclusion. The inscription on the tombstone is illegible.”
“If you look at the top of the stone, you can just make out a floral motif…a rose, which is almost always used to symbolize the feminine. Whether the rose is a bud, flower or somewhere in between indicates the age of the deceased. A bud, a child under twelve. A partial bloom, a teenager and so on. A full bloom and a bud are sometimes used together to represent a dual burial of mother and child. I only saw one rose in full bloom on this stone.”
Regina turned to Devlin. “I guess they don’t call her the Graveyard Queen for nothing.”
“Evidently not.” His eyes in the shade looked almost black. “Anything else you can tell us?”
“Yes, and it’s a bit of a coincidence, considering our previous conversation. If you look closely, you can also make out the outline of a winged effigy. Not a death’s head, but a cherub, which is more common to the mid-nineteenth century.”
“Now you’ve lost me,” Regina said, scratching the bug bite.
I gave her the top-line version. “A skull—a death’s head—was used to represent the grimmer aspects of death like mortality and penance, but the evolution of cherubs and the like symbolized a more hopeful outlook—the soul in flight and the ascension to heaven.”
“The soul in flight,” Devlin said thoughtfully. “Like the feather on the other headstone?”
There it was. A connection between the body found last night and the skeletal remains discovered less than an hour ago. Neither of us said anything, but I knew our minds had gone to the same dark place.
Regina’s gaze hopped back and forth. “Well?”
Devlin gave her a rundown of our previous conversation.
She heard him out with a pensive scowl. “I’ve never given much thought to what they put on tombstones, but wouldn’t anything to do with wings and feathers—all that soul in flight stuff—be pretty common in a Christian cemetery?”
“It’s not uncommon,” I agreed. “Especially in a graveyard as old as Oak Grove. Different eras evoke different imagery, but certain symbols never go away. They just evolve.”
Regina turned back to Devlin. “You really think there’s something to this?”
“I’m taking a wait-and-see approach. It’s too early to consider the symbols anything more than an interesting observation.”
“Interesting is right.” She glanced at me. “You got anything else for us?”
“Just this. If the bones are from the original burial, you’ll need to notify the Office of the State Archaeologist. Remains over a hundred years old fall under her jurisdiction. Her name is Temple Lee. I can make the call for you if you like.”
Regina shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt. We’ll need Shaw for the exhumation and I’ll have to line up an entomologist to help us determine PMI.”
“What’s PMI?”
“Postmortem interval. The amount of time passed since death.”
“I thought Shaw was still in Haiti,” Devlin said.
Regina snagged a phone from her back pocket. “One way to find out.” She walked away to make the call, leaving me alone once again with Devlin.
“Would she be referring to Ethan Shaw?”
He looked surprised. “Yes. He’s the forensic anthropologist we normally use in these kinds of cases. I take it you know him?”
“I met him once, very briefly, through his father.”
“The ghost hunter?”
“Rupert Shaw is more than a ghost hunter. He runs one of the most respected institutes for parapsychology studies in the state.”
“Hardly an overwhelming endorsement,” Devlin said. “Don’t tell me you believe in all that mumbo jumbo.”
“I try to keep an open mind. Do you know Dr. Shaw?”
“Our paths have crossed.”
Something in his voice caught my attention. “Crossed professionally?”
“Look, I’m probably not the best person to ask about Rupert Shaw. I think he’s at best a kook and at worst a fraud. Though I can’t say I’m surprised he’s been able to make a name for himself in this city. Charlestonians have always had a high regard for the eccentric.”
“But not you.”
A shadow flicked across his face. “I don’t place much stock in anything I can’t see with my own two eyes.”
Something told me I should let the matter drop, but apparently I wasn’t too keen on listening to warnings these days, internal or otherwise. “What about emotions? Fear, loneliness, grief. Or even love. Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
He froze, and I saw something waver in his eyes, a darkness that made me tremble before he shook off whatever cloud had passed over him.
“Just a friendly word of advice about Rupert Shaw. I don’t know what kind of dealings you’ve had with the man, but I’d be careful of any future associations.”
“I appreciate your concern, but unless you can offer something more concrete than your disdain for his profession, I see no need to alter my opinion or my relationship with Dr. Shaw. He’s been nothing but kind to me.”
“Have it your way,” he muttered.
I thought that was the end of the subject, but then he took my arm and ushered me deeper into the shadows, where we wouldn’t be overheard. We were standing so close I could smell the graveyard on his clothing. Not the putrid odor of death, but the sensual earthiness of a lush, secret garden.
It wasn’t fair, I thought. The cemetery was supposed to be my domain, so how come I was the one short of breath here? How come I was the one with tingling flesh where his fingers circled my arm?
As if sensing my discomfort, he dropped his hand. “You asked earlier about an arrest in the Afton Delacourt murder. No one was ever formally charged, but Rupert Shaw was brought in for questioning.”
“On what grounds?”
“He used to be a professor at Emerson University. He taught classes in ancient burial practices, primitive funeral rites, that sort of thing. After Afton’s murder, some of his students came forward to say that they’d attended séances with him at his home and in a mausoleum here at this cemetery. They said he had a theory about death that he was obsessed with proving.”
“Which was?”
“According to him, when someone dies, a door or gate opens, which allows an observer a glimpse into the other side. The slower the death, the longer the door stays open, so that one might even be able to pass through and come back out.”
Papa’s voice darted through my head. Once that door has opened…it cannot be closed.
Alarmed, I stared up at him. “What does that theory have to do with Afton Delacourt?”
His expression didn’t waver. “She was tortured in such a way that her death was a long time coming.”
“
That’s horrible, but it hardly proves—”
“Her body was found in the mausoleum where Shaw allegedly held his séances.”
I had no response to that. My mouth had suddenly gone dry.
“I’m not saying he’s guilty of anything,” Devlin added. “Just be careful. Don’t get too involved with him or that shady institute of his.”
It had been less than forty-eight hours since I’d first set eyes on John Devlin, and yet neither of us seemed to think twice about his meddlesome interest in my personal affairs.
“How do you know so much about this?” I asked uneasily. “You said the investigation was kept quiet back then and you’re too young to have been on the police force.”
“My wife was one of Rupert Shaw’s students,” he said quietly. And with that, he turned and walked away.
Eleven
A million questions swirled in my head—about Devlin’s wife, about his ghosts—but I kept them to myself as I watched him walk back over to Regina Sparks. Perhaps I wasn’t yet ready for those answers. Maybe I still harbored some notion that if he remained a stranger, I could keep my distance from him.
Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course, because despite everything, our destinies were already intertwined. We just didn’t know it.
With some effort, I turned my thoughts to other things as I walked back to my car. I didn’t know what to make of the information I’d learned about Afton Delacourt, but I was beginning to fear the worst. I didn’t see how the discovery of three bodies in the same cemetery could be unrelated, no matter the gap in time. However, if the skeletal remains turned out to be original to the grave, then I could more readily buy two bodies—Afton’s and the recent murder victim—being coincidental. As Devlin had pointed out, fifteen years between discoveries was a lot of time and an abandoned cemetery wasn’t an uncommon dumping ground.
The only certainty I’d gleaned from any of Devlin’s revelations was his disregard for Rupert Shaw. As far as I was concerned, his assessment couldn’t have been further off the mark.
I’d met Dr. Shaw shortly after my arrival in Charleston. Someone had sent him the Samara video and he’d contacted me through my blog. We’d kept in touch via email and the occasional dinner ever since. It was through one of his research associates that I’d found the house on Rutledge Avenue. For that reason alone, I was inclined to have a favorable opinion of him, regardless of what Devlin thought.
Emerging from the tall weeds onto the road, I hustled over to my SUV to retrieve my phone. It was lodged between the seat and console, where it must have slipped from my pocket earlier as I pulled on my boots.
Temple wasn’t in her office, so I left a brief voicemail explaining the situation and asked her to call me back as soon as she got the message.
As I closed the car door, I noticed a man leaning against the vehicle parked in front of mine. In spite of the over-cast sky, he wore sunglasses and held his head in such a way that I couldn’t see his face straight on. But I recognized him at once. He was the man I’d seen on the Battery the day before.
And now here he was at Oak Grove.
I glanced up the road, where a uniformed officer stood talking on the radio outside his cruiser. The occasional burst of static from the transmission assured me that he was close enough to hear me scream, should I feel the need.
The newcomer lifted his head slightly as I walked to the front of the SUV. “Amelia Gray?”
A warning bell sounded. “How do you know my name?”
“I read about you in the paper,” he said. “I’m Tom Gerrity.” Instead of shaking my hand, he folded his arms and crossed his feet at the ankles as he leaned back against the vehicle. He appeared to be very much at ease. I couldn’t say the same for myself.
“Have we met?”
“No, but I’ve seen you around.”
“Like on the Battery yesterday morning?”
A smile flashed. “I’m flattered you remember.”
I shot another look at the cop. He was still on the phone. Still within screaming distance.
I could feel Gerrity’s gaze on me. It was disconcerting not being able to look into his eyes. The part of his face that I could see was very attractive. He was even more handsome than Devlin, but he didn’t possess Devlin’s dangerous allure, so therefore, he posed no threat to the rules.
Fate had a very strange sense of humor, I decided. The first man in forever that had ignited my carnal spark and he had to be haunted.
But I couldn’t worry about that now. Tom Gerrity had been following me and I needed to find out why.
“What do you want, Mr. Gerrity?”
“Direct and to the point,” he said. “I like that. What I want, Miss Gray, is a conduit into the police department.”
I stared at him with open suspicion. “A conduit? Are you a reporter? Do you expect me to leak information to you about the investigation? Because that’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not a reporter. And I’m not after information. I want you to give John Devlin a message for me.”
I nodded in the direction of the gates. “He’s still inside the cemetery. You can tell him yourself.”
“There’s a guard at the gates. I’d never be allowed through.”
“But if you have information—”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m persona non grata with the Charleston PD these days.”
I shooed away a fly buzzing around my face. “Why is that?”
“Let’s just say, cops and P.I.s don’t mix. Devlin won’t see me and he’d never take my call. I need you to be my go-between.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I know who the victim is.”
The revelation caught me off guard and I gaped at him.
“Her name was Hannah Fischer,” he said. “Her mother asked me to find her.”
“Find her? Was she missing?”
During this whole time, he had remained in the same pose. Arms folded, ankles crossed, head tilted. I wondered how he could remain so static.
“Last Thursday, the day before that big storm, Mrs. Fischer found Hannah in her room packing. The girl looked as if she hadn’t slept or bathed in days. It was obvious she’d been hiding out from someone, but she wouldn’t say who. She didn’t want to put her mother in any danger. She asked for enough money to disappear, insisting that was the only way either of them would be safe. Mrs. Fischer gave her all the money she had on hand and the keys to her car. Hannah fled and I’ve been looking for her ever since. Until a couple of days ago, the trail had gone stone cold.”
“How can you be so sure it’s her? The newspaper account didn’t give a description.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Call it a hunch, an instinct. My grand mother would tell you it’s a gift. All I can say is that I’m never wrong about these things. Never. That’s why they call me the Prophet.”
Gooseflesh popped at my nape. “Do you know who killed Hannah Fischer?”
“That’s something you’ll have to figure out.”
“You don’t mean me literally, I hope.”
“Hannah Fischer’s body was left in that grave for a reason. Find the reason, find the killer.”
“I’m not a detective.”
“But you know cemeteries. And that just might be the key.”
Not a very comforting thought.
The jarring sound of my ringtone startled me so badly I jumped. Reluctantly, I took my eyes off Gerrity to check the display. It was Temple returning my call.
“I have to take this,” I said. “Is there anything else you want me to tell Devlin?”
“The last time anyone saw Hannah alive, she had on a white sundress with red and yellow flowers. You can tell him that.”
I put the phone to my ear and walked around to the back of my car so that Gerrity wouldn’t overhear what I had to tell Temple.
“Thanks for calling me back so soon,” I told her.
“Sounds like you have a real mess on your h
ands.”
“All I can tell you for certain is that a pre–Civil War grave is about to be disturbed for an exhumation. I thought you’d want to be here for that.”
“I do, but…hold on a second.” She said something unintelligible and I heard excited voices in the background.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Your neck of the woods, on one of the islands. We’re excavating a possible burial mound out here. Just turned up some pretty interesting artifacts so I won’t be able to get to the cemetery today.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll do my best. Who do I contact to coordinate?”
“John Devlin at Charleston PD, but they’re also calling in a forensic anthropologist named Ethan Shaw.”
“I know Ethan. I’ll give him a ring as soon as we hang up. In the meantime, why don’t you buy me dinner tonight and tell me what you’ve been up to? Besides getting yourself involved in a murder investigation.”
We agreed on a time and place and hung up. When I walked back around to the front of my car, Tom Gerrity had vanished.
I checked the road in both directions, didn’t see him, and started back to the cemetery. I was halfway to the gates when I had the strangest sensation of being watched.
Glancing over my shoulder, I almost expected to find Gerrity on the path behind me, but no one was there. I saw no movement at all except for the swirl of foxtail grass seeds near the woods. I admired the snow-globe effect for a moment, then continued on.
A dozen steps later, I experienced the sensation again.
My senses on high alert, I monitored my surroundings with sidelong glances. Off to the right, a flash of movement in my periphery quickened my pulse.
Deliberately casual, I turned and saw something just beyond the tree line. A dark form slinking out of the woods.
The silhouette had been moving away from me, but the moment my gaze reached it, the shadowy head came up and slowly rotated in my direction.
The air went very still and I sensed hesitation, like an animal sizing up its prey. Then the weeds parted violently, as though an invisible scythe cut a path straight toward me.
Whatever it was, it came at me like a freight train, preceded by an unnatural chill the like of which I’d never felt before. I stood there breathless and immobile, bound by a nightmarish paralysis.
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