“Hello?” I called out.
“Hello!” came back the surprised rejoinder. “I had no idea anyone else was down here. Have you been sitting there long?”
“A couple of hours.” I peered into the gloom. “I didn’t see you come down the stairs.”
“I used the back stairwell. I guess that’s how we missed one another.” He came toward me then, but I didn’t recognize his face or his voice until he was almost upon me. “Ms. Gray, isn’t it? Daniel Meakin. We met at Rapture.”
“Yes, of course. Nice to see you again, Mr. Meakin.”
“Daniel, please.”
I inclined my head. “Amelia.”
He glanced down at the files and record books strewn across the desk. “More Oak Grove research?”
“Yes.” I explained about the graves without names and the names without graves.
“Quite a grave dilemma, isn’t it?”
I smiled. “Indeed.”
“They don’t match up then?”
“Unfortunately, no. But you may be able to help me out. I understand there used to be a church next to Oak Grove.”
“Yes, in fact, the old section of the graveyard was owned by that church. When the building was destroyed, city officials took advantage of what was then a remote location to open a new, more parklike cemetery right up against the old churchyard. In time, people forgot about the boundary and both sites became known as Oak Grove.”
“Do you know if any of the registries were lost or destroyed when the church came down?”
“It’s certainly possible. A lot of the old records were burned during and after the Civil War. Perhaps some of them have been misplaced or misfiled in here.” He glanced around with a frown. “Like Oak Grove, the archives have been shamefully neglected for years. The system is in dire need of a complete reorganization.”
“I won’t argue with that. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time down here poking around in all these old boxes.”
“My favorite pastime,” he said with a smile.
“Mine, as well.”
“You don’t mind the solitude?” he asked. “So many people find this place depressing.”
“I’ve never minded being by myself.” Loneliness was an old friend. “I just wish I could find what I need.”
“You know, I believe I have some books in my office that reference Oak Grove. I’ll have a look when I get back and see if I can find anything that might be useful to you.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
The whole time we spoke, he’d been holding his left wrist awkwardly at his side, reminding me of Temple’s speculation about his scar and a possible suicide attempt.
As if reading my thoughts, he began to edge back into the shadows. “I should let you get back to work.”
“Just one more thing before you go…”
He waited obligingly.
“The other night at dinner, Temple and Ethan mentioned that you’d attended Emerson with them as undergrads. You have a long history with the university, it seems.”
“Too long, I sometimes think.” That deprecating smile again.
“During my research, I ran across a reference to a secret society on campus. It was called the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. Do you know anything about it?”
He didn’t look too keen on answering. His eyes flickered with indecision. “I know a bit about it, but I don’t think that information will help solve your grave problem.”
“No, I know. But cemetery art includes a lot of symbols and imagery from secret societies. I thought I might have run across something from this organization in Oak Grove.”
“I can’t tell you anything about the symbols. They’re secret for a reason. What I can tell you is that the Order of the twentieth century became a very different organization from the one founded in the 1800s. The evolution, to my way of thinking, was not always successful.”
“I read somewhere that the bylaws were amended in the eighties to include women.”
“One of the more enlightened phases. Though ‘enlightenment’ is a bit of a misnomer when describing an organization that is, by its very nature, exclusionary.”
“I take it you don’t have much regard for these kinds of societies.”
He shrugged. “I have a problem with elitism in general. I’m more a storm-the-Bastille type.”
His self-assessment gave me an inward chuckle. I could barely imagine Daniel Meakin with a pocketknife, let alone brandishing sword and musket.
“The exclusivity of a secret society’s membership is for one reason and one reason only,” he said. “To empower and protect the status quo. At any cost.”
“What do you mean, at any cost?”
“Exactly that.”
“Do you think the Order had something to do with Afton Delacourt’s murder?”
The question seemed to make him very nervous. He glanced over his shoulder toward the stairs. “That’s still a very tender subject in certain quarters. I think it might be best to let that poor girl rest in peace.”
“But now that there’s been another murder, questions are bound to arise,” I said.
“Those questions are a matter for the police, surely.”
“Of course, but—”
“I’m sorry. You really must excuse me. I’m late for an appointment…”
He couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
His rapid retreat reminded me of the way Temple had shut down my questions about Afton Delacourt’s murder. Fifteen years after the fact and apparently the blackout was still in place.
I watched Meakin disappear down one of the corridors and it was only then I realized we were not alone. I had no idea how long Camille Ashby had been in the basement or why she hadn’t made her presence known. She stood in the shadows beneath the stairwell, well within earshot of our conversation. I caught only a glimpse of her before she stepped back, and a second later, I heard a door click.
After that, I didn’t care to spend any more time alone in the archives. The basement was too isolated from the rest of the building. I packed up everything and left for an early lunch.
As it turned out, I never made it back to Emerson that day. By midafternoon, when the rain finally stopped, I found myself on the Coastal Highway heading toward Beaufort County.
Ever since leaving the archives room, I’d battled a morbid compulsion—I desperately wanted to see the place where Mariama and Anyika had died.
The impulse wasn’t at all logical, but then, neither was the heart that had been traced in the frost on my window or the dark figure that had come out of the woods at Oak Grove. I was a young woman who saw ghosts. Nothing in my life had been logical since I was nine years old.
Perhaps I should have gone home first and dug up the garnet ring from my backyard the way Papa had told me to, but I didn’t. Keeping a connection to the ghost child certainly wasn’t logical, but now that I knew who she was, I couldn’t bring myself to throw the ring into the river where she’d drowned. That seemed too cold, an affront to both her and Devlin.
Once I left US 17, the route became trickier, and if not for the SUV’s navigation system, I could have easily become lost in the tangle of two-lane blacktops and back roads that crisscrossed the rural area. However, I’d programmed the course carefully before leaving Charleston and the efficient, computerized voice led me straight to my destination.
Pulling to the side of the road, I got out and walked up the slight embankment to the bridge.
The whole time I was there, I saw only one other car, and as the driver passed by, he rolled down his window to ask if I needed help. I thanked him and waved him on, then resumed my contemplation of the river.
The water level rose to only a few feet beneath the bridge. If the river had been full when Mariama’s car crashed through the guardrail, the impact might have been cushioned, though the outcome would have probably been the same.
What had made her lose control that day? I wondered. The lanes were
narrow, so maybe she’d swerved to miss an oncoming car or perhaps an animal had darted in front of her. If the bridge had been slippery, the car might have gone into a skid and hydroplaned right through the railing.
It was all useless speculation. No one would ever really know what happened.
The sky was gray, the air heavy with moisture and the scent of brine from the tidal creeks. Everything around me was silent and still.
I stood there for the longest time, but I never felt their presence.
Finally, I walked back to my car, reset the navigator and drove across the bridge without looking back.
My next stop was Chedathy Cemetery, located a few miles northeast of Hammond, down a single-lane gravel road that tunneled through thick rows of leaning live oaks.
I’d learned from the obituaries where Mariama and Anyika were buried, but I didn’t understand my obsessive need to visit their graves any more than I could make sense of my compulsion to see that bridge. I only knew that I wouldn’t rest until I did both.
A rusted metal arch marked the cemetery entrance, but the shoulder was too narrow to pull over. I drove around to the back and parked at the edge of a ditch filled with blackgreen water.
The graves here were old and decorated in Gullah tradition: clocks set to the time of death, battered lamps to light the way to the afterlife, broken pottery—pitchers, bowls, cups, tureens—to break the chain of death. Whole sections of the cemetery were covered in white sand to protect against the bakulu, restless spirits that lingered in our world to interfere with the living.
I was in the land of superstition, the land of the Lowcountry Boo Hag. A woman—according to Papa’s old tales—practiced in the ways of sorcery and witchcraft. When night fell the hag would leave her body and roam unbridled over the countryside, draining life force through the breath of her victims. She couldn’t be seen, but she could be felt. Her touch was warm, Papa said, and had the texture of raw meat.
“She’s not a ghost then,” I’d pointed out with what I considered perfect logic. “Their touch is cold and damp. It makes me think of being trapped in a tomb.”
“Shush,” Papa warned. “Don’t let your mother hear you talk about such things.”
I’d clammed up like the obedient daughter I was, but it bothered me that I couldn’t share this part of my life with Mama. After an encounter with a ghost, I’d longed more than anything to feel her warm arms around me, holding me close, keeping me safe from the dangers that floated by our windows at dusk.
If my first ghostly sighting had changed my relationship with Papa, his rules had created a chasm between my mother and me. We could never have the kind of bond I wanted because I kept things from her.
Papa kept things from her, too, and his secrets had become a heavy a burden for both of us.
Mariama and Anyika’s graves were in the newer section of the cemetery, near the entrance. They’d been laid to rest side by side beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient live oak.
Mariama’s grave was decorated similarly to the others, but Anyika’s tiny burial site had very little adornment. A simple headstone and a few scattered sand dollars and whelks.
But what struck me the most was the date of birth on the marker. Today would have been her birthday.
I knelt and with gentle hands cleared away the dead leaves from the grave, exposing a heart that someone had fashioned from cockleshells.
Slowly, I traced the outline with my fingertip, seeing in my mind’s eye the heart forming on my frosted window.
I heard the crunch of gravel out on the road as a car approached. I waited for it to pass by, but it pulled to a stop and a second later, a car door slammed.
Rising, I walked quickly away. I couldn’t explain it, but I didn’t want to be found at those graves. Since I didn’t have time to make it all the way back to the car, I stepped behind a tree and hoped no one would come my way.
Huddled behind the massive trunk, I watched as the visitor came through the arched entrance, walking with shoulders forward and head slightly bowed. I knew him instantly.
It was Devlin.
SIXTEEN
As soon as he was inside the gate, his head came up and he paused to scan the cemetery, as if sensing my presence.
More likely, his years as a cop had made him wary of isolated places. Whatever the case, I jerked back and pressed myself up against the bark. When I didn’t hear footsteps coming toward me, I chanced another glance.
He had moved over to stand between Mariama and Anyika’s graves. He was turned away from me so that I couldn’t see his expression, and I was thankful for that. I hated myself for spying on him in such a private moment, but I couldn’t look away. Or maybe I just didn’t want to. Maybe I’d convinced myself that because of my connection to the ghost child—to him—I had a right to be there.
He gazed down at Mariama’s headstone for the longest time, then knelt and placed something on Anyika’s grave.
The cemetery was very quiet. I fancied I could hear his voice.
After a moment, he rose and strode from the cemetery. Out on the road, I heard his car door slam.
I waited until the sound of the engine faded before I emerged from my hiding place. It was to my shame—and later, my bitter regret—that I didn’t leave the cemetery right then and there, but instead walked back to the graves to see what Devlin had left.
In the center of the cockleshell heart, he’d placed a miniature antique doll, hand-painted with a dusky complexion and adorned with lace parasol, silk bustle and buckle-up shoes. She was the most exquisite thing I’d ever seen.
The offering stirred something deep inside me. Tears stung behind my lids and I tried to blink them away.
Then, as soft as the whispering trees, I heard a voice. A name…
“Shani…”
For a moment, I thought I must have imagined it, but then I glanced up and saw that I was no longer alone. An old woman and a girl of about ten stood beneath the drooping tree branches, watching me.
Awkwardly, I stood. “Hello—”
The woman put up her hand and I fell silent.
She wore a faded red skirt that flapped about her ankles and a green shirt buttoned all the way up her throat. Her hair was gray and wiry and she wore it in a loose bun at her nape.
The girl was the epitome of youth, all arms and legs in cutoffs and a lemon-colored blouse that set off her beautiful skin tone. A mane of wild curls framed an angelic face made all the more stunning by a pair of light green eyes.
The study in contrasts couldn’t have been more striking, and yet there was no less beauty and elegance in the weathered face than in the child’s.
They were both barefoot, but the twigs and pinecones littered over the ground didn’t seem to faze them as they walked toward the graves.
The woman paused between the headstones, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. Then she took a packet from her pocket, poured something into her palm and blew. I saw a tiny blue flash before the breeze carried the shimmering particles away.
Her eyes came back to me, taking my measure in silence.
“I’m…Amelia,” I finally said, because I could no longer bear the quiet.
The girl skipped over and looped her arm through the woman’s. “I’m Rhapsody. And this is my grandmother.”
“Rhapsody. What a lovely name,” I said.
“It means excessively enthusiastic. A state of exalted bliss.” She preened like a peacock, then leaned down to scratch the back of her knee. “Did you come for Shani’s birthday?”
“Who’s Shani?”
She pointed to the tiny grave.
“Why do you call her Shani? It says Anyika on the headstone.”
“Shani’s her basket name.”
I remembered reading about the Gullah tradition of dual naming. Every child was given a formal name at birth, along with a more intimate moniker used within the family circle, a secret name assigned to them when they were still small enough to fit inside a rice b
asket.
Rhapsody twirled a dark curl around one finger. “My basket name is Sia on account of I’m a firstborn girl.”
“What does Shani mean?”
She made a symbol with her fingers. “My heart.”
My knees went weak as a numbing chill went through me and I thought again of that heart traced on my window. Shani had wanted me to know who she was. She’d used her basket name to connect us, bind us…
It was daylight, hours before the veil would thin. But at that moment, I could feel the child’s presence as strongly as though she stood at my side.
Unaware of the emotions storming through me, Rhapsody nattered on about other basket names in the family.
Her grandmother pinched her arm.
“Ouch! What the heck!”
She shook her finger in the girl’s face. “Hush, gal. I swat dat b’hin’ luk e’ wuz a muskituh.”
Rhapsody held her tongue, but her jutted lip spoke volumes.
“And don’ gimme dat longmout’, edduh!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
To me, the woman said with an imperious note, “Oonuh! Come’yuh.”
“I’m sorry?”
Rhapsody, already recovered from her sulking spell, came over and took my hand.
“Granny wants you to come with us.”
“Come with you…where?” I wasn’t at all sure I liked that notion.
“To her house.” She nodded toward the gravel road. “It’s just down yonder.”
Her grandmother said something else, very rapidly, but I didn’t understand a word of it.
Rhapsody obligingly translated. “She says if you want to know about Shani you better come with us. I’d listen to her if I were you,” she added with a sidelong glance. “Granny says without her help, Shani won’t ever leave you alone.”
The invitation had suddenly become irresistible.
We walked down the gravel road together. Or rather, Rhapsody danced along between us, her movements so light and airy, she almost appeared to float.
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