"I'm here to talk to Abby Cartier," I said.
"She's not home," the woman said. She started to pull the door back, but I grabbed it.
"No? Perhaps this is her office then."
She tilted her head just slightly to the side, a look usually reserved for those you almost swear you know, but can't quite place. "Who are you?"
"Raymond Gilmore," I said, offering my hand. "Figured I'd catch you before you flew out of town."
"Ahh," she said, showing hints of a smile on the corners of her thin pink lips. "I told you I had urgent matters to attend to. Now is not a great time."
"If you need a ride to the airport, I'd be more than happy to oblige," I said, trying to bait her into admitting she had lied.
"I'm not in the habit of getting in cars with strangers."
"Yet in the habit of lying to someone who genuinely wants to help. I know you don't have a flight out."
She held her lips in a line. I noticed her chest rising and following rapidly, like I'd said something I shouldn't have. "Just like you know where I live. I should call the cops on you. Let them sort this out."
"Call them," I said. "I'll have them call Nicholas and have the whole thing sorted out in minutes." I held my hands out to the side. "I'm only here for information. After looking a little deeper into the events at Pine Ridge, I believe someone was looking for something in Oliver's tomb. I asked Nicholas for a list of items that were buried in the tomb, but he said there was never any record."
"Why would he have a record? The items in the tomb belonged to my family, not his. Anything that was buried inside the tomb was our business, not his."
"I never said they were his. I only want to know what exactly was buried inside."
She sighed then closed the door and took a seat on the brick step just below. "As I'm sure you're aware, Oliver was quite the archaeologist. Throughout the years he amassed quite the collection. Most of the items he unearthed himself were donated to various museums and universities across the world. A few of them reside here, at the university. There were a few items, ones he personally prized above all the others, that he wanted buried with him."
"And those were?"
"A spear and shield from his last dig, three pottery urns from his first, and a few cat statues. He adored cats, Mr. Gilmore. Did you know the Egyptians believed cats were capable of frightening evil spirits?"
I nodded, vaguely aware. "My assistant told me a little about the spear. She also mentioned there was a leather bound tome."
She smiled. "Your assistant is correct. He wished for the tome to be buried with him as well, but when my mother tried to retrieve it, she learned it had come up missing just days before."
"I take it the tome has yet to be found."
"Correct," she said. "Last I heard, it was somewhere western Asia, though that was nearly four years ago."
I nodded, knowing the spear had to be the key. If the tome had been missing for half a century or better, it only made sense that the spear was also involved. "Any idea who would want to do take the tome? Besides anyone looking to make a quick profit that is."
"As I'm sure you're aware, my great grandfather wasn't the most pleasant man to work with. He was also very shrewd. On his final dig, the site was a point of contention between him and Hugo Renou, another archaeologist. Where Oliver was in the field to help preserve history, to spread it around for the world to enjoy, Hugo was in it purely for a profit. This was not the first site the two had argued about, but it was the last, as Oliver got out of archeology and moved here to Louisiana, where he lived the remainder of his life."
"Has the Renou family given you trouble recently?" I asked.
"No. After Oliver came to the states, Hugo stayed in the middle east. Last I heard, all but one member of his family still lived in Egypt."
"All but one?"
"Yes. Hugo's great granddaughter, Rachel Pernet. For some reason, she holds a grudge over the past. If I had to guess, she was the one responsible for destroying my great grandfather's tomb."
Rachel, involved? Why would she save me back at the police station if she was. Personally, if I had my hand in any of this, I would've done everything possible to avoid the police and anyone remotely involved in the investigation. Not helping free one person investigating smack dab in the middle of the police station.
"I must apologize, Mr. Gilmore, but I truly do have an appointment this evening I must prepare for. Perhaps we can discuss this further another day."
I nodded and offered my hand, which she took. "I believe you've said enough. I'll check into Rachel and see if she's involved. If she is, I'll call you first thing."
"It would be much appreciated," she said and walked inside.
Something wasn't quite adding up, but I couldn't figure out what. The only thing I could do was try to track down Rachel and get her to talk.
- 23 -
After returning to the car, I sat in the driver's seat for nearly a half hour trying to piece together everything I knew, knowing all I really had was a smattering of conflicting information. It was easy to tell the damage at the two cemeteries were related. Even the greenest investigator would be foolish to think otherwise. From the scope of the damage, down to the footsteps around each scene, everything was nearly the same.
I knew the first tomb was owned by the LeClair family, an archaeologist from France who made a living digging up the graves of others. After years of dealing with contended dig sites, Oliver hopped on a ship and found his way to New Orleans, where he chose to be buried in the end. He was buried with a smattering of items, all of which were still missing, but without having seen them it was impossible to know exactly why someone else would want them. Other than to sell off that is.
Oliver's great granddaughter Abby Cartier was currently in charge of the estate, and even she was rather secretive about the contents inside until I convinced her that the person who destroyed the tombs was likely after them, not the bodies or just to do the damage. From what little I saw of her, I knew she was willing to lie to get out answering a few questions and got the impression she might be willing to do more. Just knowing about the lie had me questioning the only name she had bothered to throw out in the open.
Rachel Pernet.
I had to admit, I didn't know Rachel a whole lot better than Abby, but from our short time together I felt Rachel was at least a good person. The timing of our first encounter did raise a few eyebrows, but if she wanted me dead, why would she bother to free me from my cell? Sure, she wanted to ditch me the second she had, but even as I tried to be as helpful as I could while severed from my abilities, she never once just let me die. She had plenty of opportunities to do so if she wanted to.
My thoughts drifted to the New Orleans police department, and the attack on the precinct. I never bothered to check into how many had died inside that night, but with the late hour of the attack, I was hopeful it was far less than a dozen. I knew of at least two already. The part I was still trying to wrap my head around was why she would want to attack the precinct anyways. The officer that arrested me seemed intent on making me rot for at least a day, possibly more, as he put together enough of a case to at least implicate me in a crime. While I knew my long term prospectus was good, the short term was another matter entirely. First of all, even with the sizable advance I had received from Nicholas the day after I arrived, I wouldn't have nearly enough to bail myself out of jail. Not to mention, I pretty much slammed the door on the one person in my life who was always in my corner. I knew deep down that, even after everything I said to him, he would be here in a heartbeat to ensure my freedom. I also knew deep down that my foolish stubbornness and overwhelming sense of pride would've kept me from placing the call in the first place.
I pulled my thoughts off of Max and our argument and back into the case. If I didn't already have a jumbled mess of moving parts already complicating things well beyond comprehension, there was the matter of the Feds being after me as well. Like the local police, t
hey seemed intent on blaming me for the damage at both cemeteries, even knowing I had a foolproof alibi proving otherwise. Yet the day they arrested me, they did so by accusing me of causing the attack at the police station, even knowing I was locked up inside.
The question about them had nothing to do with their interest. Even I can admit I've done enough in my life to warrant the authorities keeping a close eye on me. My problem with the whole thing was about the timing. I ran into them the first time while on my way back to the hotel after talking to Nicholas at Pine Ridge. On that talk, they seemed less interested in why I was here and more interested in the disappearance of Alfred Jacobs. While I did play the entire role in his disappearance, there wasn't a chance in hell they had anything on me to prove it. Besides, without a murder weapon or a body, I knew they didn't have much of a case.
The second time I ran into them was another matter entirely. It was not long after the attack on the police station where I narrowly escaped with my life. Not only did I escape from my cell, at least two officers died around the same time I left. Pure circumstantial evidence would have me locked away in some maximum security prison for the rest of my life while they put enough evidence together to throw away the key.
But much like before, I found myself, and the officers by virtue of being close to me, under attack. While I got out of there unscathed, there's no doubt they believed I was involved, or at least should be put on closer watch as I managed to destroy a city bridge with little more than a thought and some concentration.
The longer I thought about everything, the more my head started to pound. After an hour of working though scenarios, my head felt like it was about to burst. The only relief in sight was the bar not far from the car, where I had decided to park it just a few hours ago. Knowing a beer sounded like a good idea, but really wasn't, I drove down the street to a Walgreens where I picked up a small bottle of Excedrin and a bottle of water to wash it down with.
I gave the medicine a few minutes to kick in before pulling out my phone and pulling up Rachel's number. Even though I didn't believe she was involved in the attacks, I had to follow through with Abby's accusations. There was a chance the whole thing was just a large ball of coincidence, yet the strands were far too tangled for that to be the case.
When I finally grew the nerve, I pressed the call button and waited. The phone rang three times before going off to voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, I hung up and gave it another shot. This time the phone rang once before going to voicemail, so I decided to leave one.
"Rachel, this is Raymond Gilmore. I've done a bit of research and ran into Abby Cartier. She currently is managing Oliver Leclair's estate. If you would, please give me a call back. There are a few things I would like to discuss."
I mulled over the message for a moment before confirming it and allowing it to be sent.
Placing the phone on the passenger seat, I noticed the sky was starting to get dark. I checked the time on the dashboard, making sure I wasn't going nuts. The time was closing in on nine o'clock, meaning it would be dark outside in a matter of minutes. I started heading back across town to the hotel when I had a thought. I knew everything there was to know about the damaged tomb in Pine Ridge, but Cedar Valley was a different story. While the attacks were still fairly recent, there was at least a chance that the cleanup hadn't begun yet. Surely the police part of the investigation would require the area to be cordoned off for a while, so they had plenty of time to investigate.
I turned around and headed back to the east, avoiding the highway to make a stop at a Cajun restaurant where I devoured two servings of seafood gumbo. Stacy had told me it was something I had to do while I was down here. She claimed the difference between same day, or even day old seafood versus the fish that had to make the trip inland, was a world apart. As I swallowed bite after bite of the gumbo, I was inclined to agree, though I do admit the seasonings may have played a large part in that.
It was well after ten when I finally stepped out of the gumbo shop and back into the car. It wasn't quite late enough to sneak into Cedar Valley easily, but it was close enough to get on my way. The trip back to the eastern edge of the city took nearly twenty minutes as I had to avoid large amounts of bar traffic as people walked down the streets from bar to bar. As massive as the some of the crowds were, none of them compared to the size of the mosquitoes that seemed hell bent on killing themselves on the windshield. By the time I crossed the canal and made the turn, I swore I was going to run out of washer fluid. For good measure, I stopped off at a gas station and picked up another bottle, though I took the time to squeegee as much of the carnage off the glass as I could.
Before leaving the station, I pulled out my phone to find a good place to park since I knew trying to go through the front was as poor of an idea as I could have. There wasn't much to work with, so I opted on parking the car in a school parking lot just down the road.
I cut the lights as I pulled into the gravel parking lot. As much as I wanted to avoid attention, the growing cloud of dust would give me away if anyone were to drive by soon.
The lot was empty, so I parked the car on the other side of the nearby building, hoping it would be enough to shield it from unwanted eyes. Before I stepped out of the car, I gave my GPS one last look, seeing if I could find someplace better. My search came up empty, so I stepped out into the humid night air.
I pressed the key fob to lock the car after scanning the road for traffic. Once the blinkers were done flashing, I hopped the chest high fence and went straight into the woods.
The forest canopy was dense, making it difficult to find a decent foothold or path through the vegetation. Normally I would be thankful for this as it falls right into my magical wheelhouse, but I found myself overly unenthusiastic after the third time I fell on my face after tripping over a well hidden root or branch.
Shortly into my trip I found myself wishing I had brought some bug spray, or at least had decided to wear a long sleeve shirt, as my arms faced a constant onslaught of bugs and twigs looking for a taste of blood. I settled for placing my arms inside my sleeves though it still left my face and neck open to attack.
I finally reached the outer fence of the cemetery after what felt like a three mile slog though it was likely closer to a mile. The large metal fence was made out of powder coated steel, colored black. The smooth surface of the fence would make it hard to climb though it would be amazingly resilient to normal weather based wear and tear. After my trek through the forest, I was not in the mood to walk around the fence to find a better way in. It became doubly true knowing the gates were probably being watched by a camera if not a security or police officer as well.
I took in a deep breath and was thankful at the flow of essence into my body. As odd as it has been to have to handle things without it, the death aura almost made me appreciate it even more. Especially now as I allowed the magic to seep into my muscles, allowing me to pry the bars open just enough to squeeze my body through. I left them open to allow me to get out a lot easier though I fully planned on pulling them shut before I left.
Now inside, I cut off the supply of essence to my muscles and walked into the cemetery, towards the large mound of dirt that was being highlighted by the moon.
- 24 -
Yellow caution tape, spaced at three distinct layers, surrounded the area around the unearthed mausoleum, making it difficult, though not impossible, to cross. Not wanting to damage the scene any more than necessary, I walked around the barricades, to the construction entrance at the edge of the street.
Alongside the concrete curb there was a pile of dirt and gravel piled up to allow the construction vehicles, currently parked at the bottom of the hill, an easier time of moving around.
Not far from the vehicles, there was a mound of dirt easily seven or eight foot high and nearly twice as big around. The dirt was dark and moist, like the owner had decided to use fresh top soil instead of trying to reuse the dirt that had already been in the ground. I carefully
walked around the pile of earth, making sure I didn't leave a footprint in the untouched soil, as I made my way to the tomb.
The mausoleum was still laying on its side, exposing a layer of unpolished marble on the bottom of the structure. The whole thing rested in a rather large hole, probably ten foot deep and twenty foot across. The sides of the hole were at a steady slant, almost like whoever did this wanted to be able to walk down in the hole after. Or at least send someone down. While I didn't pay attention to the walking dead as I made my escape either time, they didn't really come across as being smart enough to use even the simplest of tools. Even in the cheezy zombie movies I was fond of, it was rare to see one that showed any sign of intelligence or ability to use tools.
I walked up the crest of the hill and circled the hole wanting to get to the front to see if there was a nameplate or anything that could tell me who was buried here. Rather, who had been buried here when it was dug up just a few days ago.
As I reached the front door, I noticed it was made of polished marble. On the right-hand side the remains of a door handle sat half apart, exposing the guts of the lock underneath. I pulled out my phone for some light and examined the lock, noticing the locking mechanism had been completely destroyed by a screwdriver or something else equally damaging.
With my light still out, I scanned the doorway, looking for a nameplate or engraving on the door, but my search came up empty. I guessed there was a list or handout you could get from the funeral parlor, detailing the layout of the place, probably even telling you who was buried where, but unless I was willing to add burglary to my rap sheet, the owner would have to remain a mystery.
Carefully, I pushed the marble door inward. The metal hinges groaned in protest as the heavy door swung open, slamming against the marble walls as it came to a stop. Fearing the noise may have alerted security to my presence, I quickly jumped down in the hole and ducked into a hole under the structure and waited.
Dead of Night: The Nephalem Files (Book 3) Page 14