“At least they allowed him to be buried in the churchyard. There was a time when suicides were treated as outcasts,” I told him.
“As you can see, the church has been in ruins for decades and the cemetery has been closed to the public for at least twenty years. So I guess, in a way, George Willoughby was cast out. People tend to hold a lot of superstitions when it comes to old graveyards, but you would know that better than me.”
He seemed to know plenty, and at that, he was only letting me see what he wanted me to see. “Thank you for telling me about the house,” I said. “It’s a fascinating if gruesome story.”
“You aren’t afraid to stay there now that you know?”
“No, why would I be?”
“Some people would turn tail and run after what I just told you.”
“If ghost stories frightened me, would I have chosen my current profession?”
“A good point,” he allowed.
“Besides, it all happened a long time ago and the house seems perfectly at peace.” Which made me wonder if the key I wore around my neck had chased away the spirits, evil and otherwise. It seemed strange that for all my supposed powers and heightened senses, I hadn’t picked up a single discordant vibe from that house. “Anyway, I appreciate your taking the time to tell me about it. But now,” I said briskly, eager to leave behind the disturbing plight of George and Mary Willoughby, “we should probably get back to the business at hand. Wasn’t there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“A couple of things,” Kendrick said, seamlessly switching back to his detective persona as if he were as willing as I for a change of subject. “First, I thought you’d be interested to know that I was able to get in touch with your friend at the state archaeologist’s office. She’s agreed to come down and take a look at the graves. She seemed particularly interested in the cages.”
“I knew she would be. When is she coming?”
“Not until next week, unfortunately. In the meantime, I’ve called in a forensic anthropologist from Charleston that can help with the identification of any skeletal remains we uncover. And I’d like you to come into the morgue this afternoon and take a look at the victim. If you’ve no objection.”
“I’ve no objection. I’m more than willing to help in any way I can, but as I told you yesterday, I know very few people in the area. The odds that I’ll be able to make a positive identification are slim.”
“I understand that. But the victim was alive for a period of time after she was buried. Which means there’s a chance she got to that clearing under her own steam. Maybe she was coerced or lured there or maybe she came of her own free will. In any case, unless she was taken there by way of the swamp, she would have likely come through or at least near the cemetery, perhaps in the company of her killer.”
I felt a chill go through me. I hadn’t considered that possibility.
“Even with so little traffic, it’s still possible you saw something and don’t remember it,” he said. “A face in a car window or someone in the woods. All I ask is that you view the remains with an open mind.”
I nodded. “When do you want me to come in?”
“Let’s say one o’clock. I’ll meet you there and walk you through it.”
“Thanks.”
“No need to thank me. I would never expect you to do this alone. Although...” His gaze swept over me, deep and fathomless. “You strike me as someone who is more than capable of taking care of herself.”
For some reason, I didn’t think he meant it as a compliment.
* * *
I left the cemetery in time to stop by the house for a quick shower and change of clothes before I drove into town. The silence of the place bothered me now that I knew the grisly history, but I didn’t allow myself to dwell on the story Kendrick had told me. There would be time enough later to explore the rooms with a new eye and perhaps even take a stroll through the orchard to the shed.
For now, I busied myself with the mundane tasks of drying my hair and refilling Angus’s water bowl on the back porch and then propping open the screen door so that he could come and go as he pleased. But I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder now and then. I couldn’t help thinking that the vibe of the house had been subtly altered by my newfound knowledge.
I chalked it all up to imagination as I drove into town and followed Kendrick’s directions to the hospital morgue. I didn’t relish the task that lay before me. The last time I’d been near a morgue, the voices of the dead had filled my head, making me aware of another terrifying aspect of my gift. I’d later come to believe that the recently deceased had somehow opened a door, allowing the trapped and restless souls of Kroll Cemetery to make contact with me. Once the ghosts had been released, the voices had faded, though I didn’t expect the silence to last for much longer. Not after my discovery of those mortsafes.
Kendrick waited for me at the front desk. After we signed in, an attendant showed us back to a room where the body had been placed on a stainless steel table, awaiting autopsy. He went around to the far side of the table and I stepped up to the near side. He gave a nod and the attendant peeled back the sheet that covered the body.
I braced myself for the possibility of seeing a familiar face staring up at me, but I didn’t recognize the dead woman and I was thankful for that.
The first thing that struck me was the condition of the body. She hadn’t been prepped for the postmortem, which surprised me. She was still fully dressed in jeans and a band T-shirt, her face and arms streaked with grave dirt and her long, dark hair matted with leaves and twigs. A silver cross glinted in the hollow of her throat and a series of ruby studs ran from her lobes all the way up into her cartilage. One of the studs was missing, I noted.
She looked to be my age, late twenties or perhaps a year or two younger. She was slim, almost petite, but even in death, she appeared strangely dauntless. She wouldn’t have gone down without a fight, I thought, though I saw no evidence of a struggle on her body.
“Do you recognize her?” Kendrick asked.
I could feel his gaze on me across the table. I shook my head as my hand crept to the key around my neck. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“You’re sure? Take a closer look.”
“I am looking. I don’t remember ever having seen her before.” But even as the words slipped out, something tugged at the corner of my memory. Had I seen her before?
And just like that, an image came back to me. The flash of those ruby earrings as a dark head tossed. The glimpse of a tattoo as a hand lifted to open a glass door.
Whether the memory was real or imagined, I had no idea. It was there one moment and gone the next.
“Can I see her left arm?” I asked.
Kendrick gave me a quizzical look, but he said nothing as he nodded to the attendant and she lowered the sheet.
“Can you turn it so that I can see her wrist?”
The woman complied and I leaned in to get a better look at the tattooed words on the pale flesh as I muttered the phrase aloud, “Memento mori.”
I jerked back in shock as the import of the message sank in.
“What is it?” Kendrick asked.
“Her tattoo...”
“It’s Latin, right? What does it mean?”
I lifted my gaze to his. “Remember to die.”
Seven
I had only a few moments to speak with Detective Kendrick before he was called away on another case. I didn’t mention the memory of those flashing rubies. Until I knew if the image was real and what it might mean, I saw no need to draw more attention to myself. A stranger in town was an easy target for suspicion so I needed to be careful in my dealings with the police. My discovery of the body had already elicited a certain amount of curiosity, if not outright distrust, and I certainly didn’t want the
killer to cast an eye in my direction. For now, it was in my best interest to remain on the periphery of Kendrick’s investigation.
I had intended on returning to the cemetery to finish the section of headstones I’d started that morning, but as I drove through town, the enticing aromas drifting out from the restaurants along Main Street reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Normally, I would have stopped by the house for a quick bite or taken something back to the cemetery with me, but today I felt compelled to dine among the living. I parked the car, got out and walked over to the café where I’d eaten a few times since my arrival in Ascension.
As I paused to study the lunch menu taped to the plate-glass window, the reflection of the building across the street caught my eye. A large skeleton key had been painted on the window in gold leaf. I’d noticed it before and had always meant to stop in because the gilded key reminded me of the one I wore around my neck. I had no idea of the nature of the business. There was no other adornment on the window, no name or street number on the door.
As I returned my attention to the menu, a memory fluttered at the back of my mind. I saw again the flash of those ruby earrings as the sunlight caught them. I glimpsed the curlicue of that tattooed message as a slender hand lifted to open the glass door. And now something else came to me—behind that gilded key, a lurking silhouette inside the shop.
The memory...the image...whatever it was wavered for a moment and then vanished. I turned slowly toward the building, heart tripping at the implication. If those vague flickers could be trusted, then sometime before her death, the victim had visited that shop. She might even have gone there to meet the person who had waited inside. I tried to remember when I might have seen her. My last trip into town had been at least a week ago.
I stared long and hard at that gold key, hoping something else would stir, but the memory remained elusive. On impulse, I crossed the street and tried the door of the shop. It was locked and I could see very little of the interior when I peered through the window.
A narrow alley ran alongside the building and I followed it back to a wooden gate that stood wide open—an invitation. If the gate had been closed, I would never have entered. At least that’s what I told myself as I peered through the opening into a tiny courtyard.
A fountain splashed against colorful mosaics and a dozen or more pinwheels clicked in the hot breeze. There were any number of sculptures and yard decorations cluttering the small space, but what caught my attention, what brought a gasp to my lips, were the dozens of padlocks hanging from pegs hammered into the wooden fence. They instantly brought to mind my great-grandmother’s key collection, which had hung from the ceiling of her sanctuary for decades, waiting for me to come along and find them.
This couldn’t be a coincidence, I felt certain. Once again, I had been brought to a particular spot for a reason. I was meant to find this courtyard. I was meant to see all those locks. The sight so intrigued and puzzled me that I failed to register the sound of voices until it was almost too late. Someone was coming.
I backed into the alley and slipped behind the wooden gate. I had a perfect view of the courtyard between the fence pickets and it disturbed me more than a little that I no longer even tried to justify my eavesdropping. I could have easily scurried down the alleyway and out to the street, but I didn’t.
Instead, I waited breathlessly as a man and woman came out of the building and paused near the fountain to speak. I recognized the man at once. He was Martin Stark, the locksmith that Detective Kendrick had summoned to open the mortsafe. Now the locks on the fence and the painted key on the plate-glass window made sense. This was undoubtedly his place of business.
I could only see the woman’s profile, but I knew her, too. I’d met with Annalee Nash enough times now to be familiar with her features. She was tall and fit, but where an air of grit had lingered over the petite dead woman, Annalee’s wide eyes and heart-shaped face gave her a delicate, almost frail appearance. She wore jeans and a striped T-shirt that made her seem very young even though I knew her to be a few years older than me. As she stood there in dappled sunlight with the breeze tousling her short locks, I could easily imagine her as that ten-year-old catatonic girl covered in blood. As if she’d been rolling around in a puddle of gore.
I couldn’t make out anything of their conversation, but as Stark turned to go inside, Annalee caught his arm. When he whirled back around, I could have sworn I glimpsed fear in his eyes. He tugged his arm free and hurried away from her.
Something unpleasant prickled at the base of my spine as Annalee headed toward the gate. She seemed very different at that moment. The illusion of frailty and innocence vanished as a satisfied smile tugged at her lips.
As she neared the entrance, I tried to shrink more deeply into my hiding place. If she closed the gate, I would be exposed and I had no good reason for being there.
But she didn’t close the gate. She breezed through the opening and strode down the alley. I thought I was home free, but before she got to the street, she whirled back around. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to peer between the gate pickets or if she was looking for something inside the courtyard. For a split second, her gaze was so focused and intense I worried that she had spotted me.
I felt the crawl of something unpleasant at the back of my neck and the scutter of insect feet across my scalp. I imagined an infestation of Darius Goodwine’s corpse beetles in my hair and it was all I could do to remain still. I wanted nothing more than to run screaming into the sunlight, but I stood frozen, my gaze fixed on Annalee Nash.
She lifted a hand, fingering the curls at her nape, and the spidery sensation crept down my collar. I could feel those scurrying feet all up and down my spine now and inside the legs of my jeans. I told myself it wasn’t real. The bugs were merely a manifestation conjured by my own fear. But real or imagined, I couldn’t stay still for much longer. I had to get out of there. I had to...
Annalee’s fingers slid up into her hair and I could have sworn I saw her shudder before she turned and headed back to the street. I waited until she disappeared around the corner before leaving my hiding place. I shook out my hair and batted my clothing, but already the sensation had faded. There were no beetles, no scurrying feet, nothing but deepening dread that perhaps I had stumbled into something far beyond even my capabilities.
By the time I came out on the street, Annalee was gone. Which was just as well. I’d already taken too many risks. It was time to regain my perspective.
For all I knew, the meeting between Annalee and Stark had been perfectly innocent, but I couldn’t forget the fear in his eyes when she’d caught his arm. Or the way her lips had curled as she strode through the gate. I hoped I was reading too much into her demeanor. What I now knew about Annalee’s past had undoubtedly colored my perception, just as it had with the Willoughby house.
But the image of that sly smile lingered all afternoon as I cleaned headstones in Seven Gates Cemetery.
Eight
I didn’t return to the Willoughby place until well after sunset. I justified the late hour by telling myself I needed to play catch-up for all the time I’d lost since discovering those mortsafes, but in truth, I’d been avoiding the house for as long as I could. Which was silly. It was still the same house.
Pulling into the driveway, I rolled down my window, letting the cooling air chase away the lingering cloud of the day’s events. Tantalizing scents drifted in—four-o’clocks, ginger lily and the darker, dreamier perfume of the angel trumpets.
For the longest time, I sat staring at the house. My stay there had been as peaceful and harmonious as I could have ever hoped, but a sinister pall had been cast. I’d noticed it earlier when I stopped by to change, but I hadn’t wanted to dwell on it then. Now as evening approached and the dark hours stretched before me, I couldn’t help but recall Kendrick’s disturbing story.
He’d wanted me to know about the gruesome history of the house and the shed, but why? Did he think George’s and Mary’s deaths were somehow connected to those caged graves? Did he suspect that Annalee was somehow involved in the young woman’s murder?
A childhood trauma leading to a permanent psychosis might well be within the realm of possibility, but I wasn’t prepared to jump to that conclusion, even after witnessing her encounter with Martin Stark. Yet as I sat there gazing at the quaint facade, the image came back to me of a ten-year-old girl huddled on the porch covered in blood. When I peered into the darkened front windows, I pictured her cowering under the covers as her father dragged her mother’s body down the hallway.
What did that old tragedy have to do with the present-day murder of the woman I’d found in the mortsafe? And how was any of this the business of Darius Goodwine?
I remained motionless, pondering question after question as the engine ticked down and the shadows across the lawn grew longer. The day was coming to an end and the house seemed to be waiting.
Which was ridiculous. Nothing had changed about that place except for my perception.
Shivering in the late-afternoon heat, I climbed out of the vehicle and locked the door. But instead of going inside, I headed for the backyard where I could hear Angus pawing at the wooden gate in excitement. The fenced property gave him ample room to safely roam while I worked, which was a nice change from our tiny backyard in the city.
The moment I opened the gate, he bounded through, but then drew up short, as if he’d momentarily forgotten his wariness. His continued reticence tore at my heart and I wished, as I always did when he seemed so guarded around me, that I knew some easy way to earn back his affection.
There was a time when Angus had trusted me completely, but his canine senses were even more attuned to the supernatural than mine and the progression of my gift unnerved him. He was all too aware of the changes inside me and sometimes still I would catch him watching me with those dark, soulful eyes as if to say, I know who you are but I don’t know what you are and that worries me.
The Sinner Page 6