“How can I not worry?” I asked sharply. “You’re telling me just enough to make me worry.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intent. I just wanted you to understand why we have to keep our distance.”
“I’m getting that message loud and clear.”
My wounded tone seemed to take him aback. “When I can tell you, I will.”
“That really isn’t much comfort.”
He still looked bemused and not a little intrigued by my reaction. “It’s the best I can do for now. But there’s something else I need from you. It’s very important.”
“What is it?”
He put his hands on my shoulders and gazed directly into my eyes. “If I disappear, don’t come looking for me.”
“What?” Panic skittered over me as my anger fled. “What do you mean, if you disappear?”
His grip tightened ever so slightly. “If you don’t see or hear from me, just let it go. Don’t call my phone, don’t go by my house, don’t ask any questions. And for God’s sakes, don’t notify the police.”
I had to fight to keep a terrified tremor from my voice. “If you disappear…how can I just let it go? That’s asking too much.”
“You have to.” His dark stare impaled me, besieged me. “Promise me.”
“Now you’re really scaring me.”
He touched his hand to my face. “Don’t be frightened.” His soft drawl invoked forbidden images, and I shivered as his hands slipped into my hair. He brought his mouth down on mine, lightly at first, and then with growing heat until I clutched his arms for support. My eyes closed, my lips parted and I didn’t hold back, nor did he. I had been starving for that kiss, and in spite of Isabel Perilloux, in spite of his ghosts, it seemed as though he had, too.
He lifted his head and whispered my name on a ragged sigh as he pulled me to his chest. I melted into him, and he held me for the longest time in silence. I pressed my cheek to the thud of his heart and savored the scent of him, the feel of him, while I still could.
Then all too soon, his arms fell away, and it was time for him to go. The whole scene had a sense of finality that I refused to accept. Whatever happened, I had to believe that Devlin and I were a long way from over.
I stood on the veranda and watched him go. He didn’t look back. Not even once. He strode down the walkway, and by the time he reached the garden gate, his ghosts were with him. Mariama floated at his side, her hand skimming his arm, touching his shoulder, dashing that glimmer of nascent hope that had sprouted from his kiss.
Shani trailed behind them, her blue dress blowing delicately in a nonexistent breeze. She glanced over her shoulder and pressed a finger to her lips before she quietly vanished.
A moment later, I felt a numbing cold, a paralyzing fear, and glanced down to find her at my side. She clung to my hand as we stood there watching Devlin walk away into the twilight.
* * *
I waited until the little ghost faded before going back inside. Shani was coming to me more and more frequently, her manifestations increasingly bold. There was little doubt now that she haunted me and she would not be leaving until I found a way to help her move on. I was equally certain that Mariama would do everything in her power to make certain that didn’t happen. Shani was her tie to Devlin.
The house was very quiet and my nerves were already unsettled. I went to the door to call for Angus. He came at once, as eager for my company as I was for his. I saw nothing out of the ordinary in the dusk, but I had a strange sense that spirits were close. Whether Shani had led them to me or my own transformation had attracted them, I didn’t know. But they were out there, searching for me even as I scoured the shadows for them.
I stood there on the threshold as nightfall deepened and the vanilla scent of the phlox awakened. A three-quarter moon peeked over the treetops and the lamb’s ear and sage took on a silvery glow. The garden became a fairyland, delicate and ethereal, and the song of the nightingale that drifted down through the leaves might have seemed perfectly suited to such a dream world. But there were no nightingales in Charleston. It was a mockingbird you heard.
I saw him then, just beyond the swing, in the deepest shadows of the yard. Not a ghost, but a flesh and blood man, uncommonly tall and mesmeric even in the dark. He lifted a hand and the wind rose, I could have sworn it. Born on that unnatural breeze, the scent of sulfur drifted across the garden, mingling with the night-blooming datura. The perfume enveloped me like a cocoon. Trapped in his spell, I couldn’t move or breathe. The sensation should have been terrifying, but I felt no fear. Just a strange fascination.
Then it was over. The scent evaporated and the man disappeared. I told myself he must have been a ghost or a conjure of my imagination. No human could simply dissolve into the shadows. Not even a tagati.
But I couldn’t shake the notion that I had just been paid a visit by the infamous Darius Goodwine.
Chapter Twenty
My night was filled with the strangest dreams and I awoke with a splitting headache. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn I suffered from a hangover, but I’d gone to bed early without so much as a sip of wine. I could barely even remember Devlin’s visit, let alone the incident in the garden. Both visits had joined the surreal parade of visions that had marched through my sleep.
As per Dr. Shaw’s wishes, Temple and I had arranged to meet at Oak Grove Cemetery that morning at nine, but I arrived early and was sorely tempted to remain in my locked vehicle until she got there. I didn’t relish entering that abandoned graveyard alone. My memories of Oak Grove were still too fresh.
This was my first trip back since the police had sealed the cemetery late last spring. After months of tedious and methodical excavating, all the bodies had been recovered, and the investigation had finally come to an end. But my nightmares would linger for years. I wasn’t yet sure how I would cope, but it was too late to back out now. I’d given Dr. Shaw my word.
I took my time lacing my boots, pulling on my jacket and checking my camera. Even after all that, Temple still hadn’t arrived. I got out of the car and glanced around, uneasy in spite of the sunshine. It was so very quiet out here. Quiet…and isolated. I’d forgotten the completeness of that silence, the profound stillness that settled heavily over the overgrown landscape.
Oak Grove had always been an unnerving place. Surrounded by woods and accessible only by foot, the cemetery was owned by the prestigious Emerson University, but for years it had been allowed to languish behind crumbling walls, with no visitors to speak of except for students looking to party and a killer anxious to bury young women’s bodies.
Being all too familiar with that recent history, I kept a watchful eye as I made my way through the tall grass toward the gates. Briars clutched at my jeans, and despite the cooler weather, I swatted a couple of annoying mosquitoes buzzing around my face.
At least I didn’t have to worry about ghosts, I told myself. Oak Grove was one of those cemeteries where even the dead feared to tarry. But I’d seen something far more disturbing than a restless spirit at the edge of the woods late one afternoon. From my description, Dr. Shaw had called the entity a shadow being, and he’d almost had me convinced that those periphery glimpses were nothing more than my imagination or tricks of light and shade. I knew better now. Shadow beings were real, but unlike ghosts that awaited twilight, they seemed to prefer the shifting light of pre-dusk.
I threw off that memory and lifted my face to the sun. The morning was bright and cool, perfect weather to begin a restoration. The prospect of getting back to work, of immersing myself in my own little world, excited me even if it did mean a return to Oak Grove.
But that budding anticipation withered the moment I walked through the gates. The cemetery’s dark past hung like a pall over the blackened headstones and moss-shrouded statues, and I stood there shivering as I glanced around.
Oak Grove had once been the site of a large plantation with underground slave quarters still echoing with misery. Aboveground
, it was lush and Gothic, the once parklike setting typical of the Rural Cemetery Movement that had migrated here from England during the Victorian era. The gravestone symbolism was some of the finest I’d ever encountered—willow trees and urns signifying sorrow and the soul’s mortality, hourglasses depicting the fleeting passage of time, roses in various states of bloom that denoted age at time of death.
A dove marked a tiny grave near the gates, the bird of peace a symbol often found on the headstones of children. As I bent to pull back a tangle of weeds from the site, I thought of Shani’s little grave in Chedathy Cemetery, decorated with nothing more than a simple headstone and seashells shaped in a heart. Her visit, too, seemed a part of some half forgotten dream.
Her ghost had remained at my side last evening only until Devlin had been out of sight. Then she, too, had vanished, leaving nothing of her presence behind. No hearts on frosted glass. No jasmine. Nothing but the memory of that little ghostly hand in mine. Instinctively, I knew it was important that she’d drifted from Devlin to me. So significant, in fact, that I almost couldn’t bear to think about her motive. No matter how hard I tried to resist, her persistence chipped away at my resolve. With each manifestation, her determination became more obvious. She wasn’t going away until I found a way to help her move on.
Keeping to the cracked pavers, I worked my way to the back. Most of the graves in the front section of the cemetery ranged from mid-nineteenth to early twentieth century, hence the prevalence of weeping angels and grieving saints, but graves in the older area dated back to the early 1700s. Headstones from that era were adorned with more gruesome images of death: the grim reaper, winged skulls, skeletons in open coffins.
The deeper I walked into the cemetery, the thicker the canopy. Only a spangle of light shone through here and there, and the temperature dropped. I could see the spires of the Bedford Mausoleum peeking through a tangle of kudzu and, everywhere I looked, ivy. The ubiquitous vines curled around statues and monuments and snaked along the limbs of the old live oaks, snuffing the life from the centuries-old trees.
As I approached the first excavated grave, I became aware of a slight sound and cocked my head to listen. I heard what I thought was the crunch of dead leaves underfoot and assumed that Temple had arrived just after me. I started to call out to her, but something held me back. Cemetery etiquette precluded loud voices, and the need for caution had long become a habit. I didn’t exactly feel the urge to hide, but neither did I bother stepping out into the open. I had on dark clothing. Unless someone knew I was there, I blended seamlessly into the shadows of the monuments.
After a moment, a man emerged through the drapery of Spanish moss and grape vines and stood gazing around. He was average height, with an athletic build that had gone soft. I could see the outline of a paunch over his belt and, despite the distance between us, the telltale sag of his jaw line. Or maybe that was only my imagination because I could determine nothing of his other features. The brim of his hat was pulled too low over his eyes.
The man on King Street instantly came to mind. I told myself there was no way this could be the same person, and yet, I had a sinking feeling that he was. And since he’d been tailing me before I’d ever spoken a word about Darius Goodwine or gray dust to Dr. Shaw, I could only assume he was here because of Devlin. A connection had already been made, and now someone wanted to use me to get to him.
My first instinct was to ease the phone and a can of mace from my pocket. But I didn’t dare move for fear he would spot me. I stood there with suspended breath and pounding heart praying he’d move on so that I could call for help.
He lingered for what seemed an eternity. Then I heard my name shouted from the front of the cemetery. Temple had arrived, and thankfully she had no compunction about raising her voice. The man whirled and strode back along the path the way he had come. My relief was followed instantly by a dart of panic that had me bolting from my hiding place. If he kept on the path, he would run straight into Temple.
I cut through the graves hoping to head him off. Stumbling over roots and broken stones, I burst from the old section only to stop dead in my tracks. Temple and the stranger stood talking on the path. When they heard me approach, he turned nonchalantly, giving me the sleaziest grin I could ever imagine.
“There she is,” he drawled with a wink. “The infamous Graveyard Queen.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Amelia, this is—” Temple turned with a narrowed gaze. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name is again?”
“Ivers. Jimmy Ivers.” He fished in his pocket and handed me a business card.
“Mr. Ivers is a reporter for the Lowcountry Chronicle. It seems he’s doing a story about Oak Grove Cemetery.”
He glanced around appreciatively. “This place is creepy as hell. You ladies don’t get spooked working out here all by your lonesome?”
The way he looked us over made my skin crawl. I tried to commit his features to memory just in case I ever needed to pick him out of a lineup. Other than pale eyes and that flaccid jaw line, his appearance was completely nondescript. “I’m sorry…how do you know who I am? And how did you know we’d be here today?”
“You’ve heard of having sources, right? With enough incentive, anyone will talk. You’d be surprised,” he said, and I thought to myself that if he winked at me again, I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions. “As to the first question, I know who you are because I’ve done my homework.”
“Then you must know that without written permission from the university, you’re trespassing on private property,” I said. “If you don’t leave of your own accord, I’ll alert the campus police and have you escorted out of here.”
He looked affronted. “No call for that. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“As are we. Now if you don’t mind…” I nodded toward the gate.
“You can’t just answer a few simple questions for me? It won’t take a minute.” He turned to Temple. “How about you?”
“How about no.” She handed him her card. “Call my office next week, and I’ll see that you get a statement.”
“I guess that’s better than nothing,” he grumbled. “You ladies have a great day.”
He sauntered off, snapping a few shots with his phone, and I glanced at Temple. “That was weird.”
“No kidding. That guy’s about as much of a reporter as I am.” She glanced at his card. “Probably had these printed up on his way over here.”
“What do you think he really wanted?” I asked nervously.
She shrugged. “I’ve seen people like him before. I call them gore junkies. He was probably hoping for a look at an open grave. Maybe even to glimpse some remains.”
“He knew who I was, though.”
“Well, you were in the news last spring during the heat of the investigation. I must say, everything considered, you handled that extremely well.” An errant curl fell across Temple’s face, and she tucked it back. She was dressed much the same as I—cargoes, dark jacket and boots—but she’d left her hair down to blow artfully in the breeze while I’d scraped mine back into a ponytail. “I’ve never seen you so assertive.”
“Maybe he just caught me on a bad morning.” I watched Ivers—or whoever he was—disappear through the entrance. “I should probably go lock the gates,” I said on a shiver.
“Good thinking. I’ll come with you just in case Mr. Creepypants gets any wild notions.”
* * *
“There is no excuse for such wanton neglect,” Temple said a little while later as we gazed down a row of overturned headstones. “I’m ashamed something like this happened on my watch.”
“It’s not like you could be here every second of every day,” I said. “The excavations went on for months.”
“I realize that, but the blatant disrespect is like a slap in the face.”
“I wouldn’t call it disrespect. The police tried to observe proper protocol, but after the scope of the investigation became evident, prior
ities shifted.”
The killer had been very clever about hiding the bodies of his victims in old graves marked with meaningful inscriptions and images. Once the perpetrator had been identified, it then became a matter of recovering the remains. Dozens of sites had been exhumed, disturbing original interment. After the dirt had been sifted for evidence, the graves had been hastily filled in to prevent further exposure to the elements. As the state archeologist, Temple had authority over any human remains older than a hundred years. Her job at Oak Grove was to ensure the reburials had been conducted properly and that any artifacts such as personal mementoes, scraps of clothing and bone had been returned to the appropriate graves.
I went over to kneel beside one of the fallen headstones. Using a soft-bristle brush, I cleaned away dirt and dried moss to reveal the artwork—a winged face symbolizing the flight of the soul. “I don’t see any fresh cracks or chips. Maybe they were afraid of breaking them, so they left them where they fell. Which was a good call, actually. You know how fragile these old stones are.”
Temple’s eyes snapped. “You’re far more charitable than I am. I think it more likely that in their zeal to dig up the next headline, they just got careless. But I’ll admit my contempt for the Charleston Police Department may have something to do with the speeding ticket I got on my way over here. That’s why I was late.”
I squinted up at her. “And you couldn’t talk your way out of it? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I know. I must be slipping. Old age is hell,” she said with a grimace.
“Oh, yes, you’re so decrepit.”
“Speaking of…” She cocked her head, giving me a sharp scrutiny as I straightened from the marker. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier in front of that creep, but you don’t look so good this morning.”
“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” I asked with a frown.
“Could be those dark circles under your eyes. Or those hollow cheeks. And you look like you’ve lost weight since the last time I saw you. What on earth is going on with you?”
The Prophet (Graveyard Queen) Page 14