The Sinner

by Amanda Stevens

“What kind of marker?”

  “The body of water you see here is not so much a lake as a series of sloughs and channels. It goes on for miles and it’s easy to get lost in all that vegetation, especially at night when the landscape looks the same. You’d need a way to distinguish the place to put in if your destination is the circle or even the cemetery.”

  “Yes, but even as big as that symbol is, you’d still need a powerful spotlight to find it in the dark. And in that case, why go to so much trouble? If it’s not ritualistic, why not just tie a ribbon around a tree or paint an X on the trunk?”

  “I never said it wasn’t ritualistic or symbolic. Nor do I think it was put up there for the soul purpose of guiding the killer through the swamp. It looks to me like this thing has been up there for years.”

  “As a marker?”

  He was silent for a moment. “You seem to know an awful lot about Atticus Pope so I’m assuming you’ve heard the rumors of ceremonies and sacrifices that were supposedly conducted in the church ruins.”

  I flashed back to Annalee’s memory and nodded. I’d not only heard about the rituals, but also I’d witnessed one through the buried recollection of a ten-year-old girl. “Yes, but anytime I’ve brought up the possibility of a Pope connection, you’ve been quick to discount it.”

  “Because I haven’t wanted to muddy the investigation.”

  “And now?”

  He hesitated. “Let’s just say, I’m willing to admit there are aspects of this case I can’t reconcile.”

  “Like this symbol?”

  He shrugged.

  “I have another theory about it,” I said.

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  We were both standing on the bank now, shoulder to shoulder, and I found myself reacting to his nearness. But there was another reason for the prickles across my scalp and the bristle of my every nerve ending. I could still feel the watcher in the woods. The sensation had diminished upon Kendrick’s arrival, but the presence was still there. Still watching me. Still waiting.

  I shivered again as I forced my attention back to the symbol. “I don’t think it was erected to guide Pope’s followers to the ruins. I think someone put it up there as a warning to those who would continue to do his bidding after his disciples were buried beneath the cages.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we’ve yet to determine the identities of those interred beneath the cages,” Kendrick said.

  “Maybe we don’t have proof, but as we’ve previously discussed, it’s not a far-fetched assumption. Mary Willoughby disappeared twenty years ago and we found her remains at the bottom of a pit. Twelve of Pope’s closest disciples vanished at around the same time and there are a dozen mortsafes in that circle. I’ll say it again, that can’t be a coincidence.”

  “And you think whoever murdered them put this symbol up as a warning to Pope’s remaining followers.”

  “It’s one theory.”

  His expression remained inscrutable. “Do you also have a theory about the murderer?”

  That gave me pause as I remembered Dr. Shaw’s warning to speak of the Congé to no one. They were a powerful faction, he’d said, their reach wide and merciless. And once upon a time, I’d entertained the notion that Kendrick might be one of them. Now I knew that he was a ghost-seer like me, anathema to the zealots and all that they stood for. Surely someone with his gift and background would never have been allowed to infiltrate such an aristocratic covenant.

  But I was also remembering something Darius Goodwine had told me. Someone close to you has been assimilated into the ranks of the Congé. Someone you think you know well. Someone you think you can trust. But don’t be fooled.

  “I’m waiting,” Kendrick prodded. “Who do you think buried Pope’s disciples in that circle?”

  “A person or persons who wanted to make sure Pope’s soul couldn’t transmigrate.”

  “Transmigrate?”

  “The transference of the soul upon death into the body of another.”

  “I know what it means,” he said. “I’m just having a little difficulty following your logic.”

  “Then stop trying to look at it logically. Surely you of all people can’t be shocked by the notion of soul transference.”

  “Shocked, no. But I’ve never seen any evidence that such a thing can occur.”

  “You don’t believe in possession?”

  “I don’t not believe—I’ve just never witnessed it for myself. I take it you have?”

  I didn’t answer him. My arms were still folded and I clutched them to my body because the conversation made me feel too exposed. I had revealed nothing about myself to Kendrick and yet I had revealed everything to him. “Pope claimed he was the descendant of a powerful witch doctor, right? Maybe he wasn’t a descendant at all. Maybe the witch doctor’s soul migrated from body to body over the course of centuries making him virtually immortal.”

  Kendrick was looking at me strangely now and I could hardly blame him. An open mind was one thing, but even a true believer had his limits. “You think Pope’s soul was trapped in one of the buried disciples?”

  “Actually, no. I think that was the intention, but something went wrong. Pope’s soul had already migrated by the time the disciples were buried.”

  “And where is his soul now?”

  “That I don’t know, but if he has come back, I think he’s the one who buried that poor woman alive. Either she was on to him or he wanted revenge for his murdered disciples. Maybe she was somehow connected to the person or persons responsible for what happened to them twenty years ago.”

  He grew pensive. “Assuming all of what you say is true, why wait until now to exact his revenge?”

  I glanced up at the symbol. “I think he was constrained somehow. If his soul was transferred into the body of a child, for instance, he would have had to wait until his new vessel was old enough and strong enough to carry out his wishes.”

  “You’re talking about Annalee Nash.”

  My heart thudded as I recalled their closeness out on the road in the wee hours. Was that anger that flashed in his eyes now? Defensiveness I heard in his voice?

  I tried to keep my tone neutral. “I wasn’t talking about her specifically, but it might explain the catatonic state she was found in and her current blackouts. Do you know her very well?”

  “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone to a certain extent.”

  Which didn’t at all answer my question.

  He rubbed a hand along the scruff on his chin. “You’ve come up with an interesting premise, I’ll give you that. But we need to be careful about throwing around too many wild accusations.”

  “I don’t think they’re so wild and I’m not throwing them around to anyone but you. You can make of them what you will. But you just said there are certain aspects of this case that you find hard to reconcile. Haven’t you already thought of some of these things yourself? Isn’t that why you drove to Charleston to speak with Dr. Shaw? Because he’s an expert in alternative explanations?”

  A frown darted across Kendrick’s features. “It may have been a mistake to tell you about my visit to the institute.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I’ve shared too much with you.”

  Now it was I who gave him a puzzled look. “You can say that after everything I’ve just said to you?”

  “That was different. You shared a theory about a murder investigation, but you’ve told me nothing about yourself.”

  To the contrary, I’d just told him everything about myself.

  He turned to face me, his eyes softly glowing in the waning sunlight. “The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable around me.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable.”

  “Are you sure about that?” He paused. “I’ve
sensed wariness in you ever since I got here.”

  “Maybe you’re imagining things.”

  “I don’t think so. I felt your reluctance last night before we discovered the cylinder. I felt it that day in the alley when I told you about the presence in the woods. I don’t blame you for protecting yourself. I understand the need for secrecy. I know only too well the dangers of letting the wrong people in.”

  I tried to glance away but he had a way of trapping me—of enthralling me. Maybe it was the hypnotic quality of his eyes or the intensity of his stare. Or his own kind of magic. Whatever the cause, I found myself immobile as my breath grew shallow and my heart pounded an uneasy staccato inside my chest.

  “You’re right. I am discomfited by all this,” I admitted. “It’s not a conversation one has every day.”

  “If ever.”

  “If ever,” I agreed.

  He made no move to touch me, but I could feel his fingers in my hair, the whisper of his knuckles along my jawline. Without physical contact, the connection was somehow more powerful and I couldn’t help but tremble.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said. “Your personal life is your own.”

  “I know that.”

  “But I also meant what I said last night.” He moved infinitesimally closer but he still didn’t touch me. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

  I could see the reflection of the setting sun in his eyes as he continued to regard me. I could see those tiny motes beneath his irises that were so much like my own and the shimmer of something in those golden depths that I thought might be desire.

  How quickly our focus had shifted. How easily I’d forgotten about the implication of that symbol and the lurking danger that it represented. The Congé and Atticus Pope seemed far, far away as I found myself fantasizing again about Kendrick’s lips on mine.

  “Are you okay?” He seemed bemused by something he’d glimpsed in my eyes.

  I swallowed. “Yes, I’m fine. Just lost in thought.”

  “About...?”

  “A lot of things. That symbol. Atticus Pope.” I drew a breath. “You.”

  His gaze flickered and he seemed on the verge of saying something else before he turned back to the effigy. The moment shifted and I felt oddly bereft even though I knew it was for the best. Our shared gift was a powerful bond and a part of me did want to let him in. I felt something for Kendrick. Certainly not love, but my desire for him went well beyond the physical.

  For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted nothing more than to be normal, but maybe what I’d craved all along was acceptance. Kendrick offered me a sense of belonging and I couldn’t deny the potency of such a promise. I’d been a loner since childhood. An outsider who had never fit in. I’d had to guard my gift and everything I saw and felt, even with Devlin. Especially with Devlin. In some ways, his refusal to acknowledge even the possibility of the supernatural repudiated my very existence and I hadn’t realized until now how much of myself I’d had to withhold from him and how much I’d come to resent it.

  As I stared into Kendrick’s golden eyes, something dormant stirred to life. In that moment, I could almost believe the estrangement with Devlin was for the best and I really was ready to move on. But I also remembered the glance Kendrick had shared with Annalee Nash outside the shed and later, on the road, the way he’d spoken to her so softly in French.

  I wanted to let him in, but not yet. Not until I knew that I could trust him.

  “Would you like to take a boat ride?” he asked.

  I’d been so lost in my reverie that it took me a beat to process his unexpected question. “A boat ride?”

  He nodded toward the symbol. “Don’t you want to see that thing from out on the water?”

  I glanced up at the primitive death’s-head, shivering as sunlight gilded the wings. For a moment I could have sworn I saw the tips flutter. It was an illusion, of course. A trick of light and shadow.

  Or was I even now under the influence of a powerful witch doctor’s magic?

  Twenty-Nine

  I fed and watered Angus and then hurried to shower and dress before Kendrick arrived to pick me up. When he pulled up a little while later, I was waiting for him on the front porch. I ran down the steps, feeling anxious about the excursion and not really knowing why. He opened the passenger door from inside and I climbed in.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to bring Angus?” he asked. “The two of you seem inseparable.”

  “He’ll be fine until I get back. He’s been on a ferry before, but I’m not sure how he’d react to a boat ride.”

  Kendrick backed out of the drive and put the vehicle in gear. “What’s the news on your latest rescue?”

  “The kitten? I called the clinic a little while ago. He has a number of issues, not the least of which is malnutrition, but he doesn’t have any injuries. He’ll need to be quarantined for a few days while they run the usual tests.”

  “Will you take him in when he’s released?” Kendrick asked.

  “I travel too much, but I may have another solution. My mother lost a beloved tabby a few years ago. She’s had some health problems that prevented her from getting another pet, but I think she may be ready now. If not, then I’ll talk to my aunt. She’s fastidious about her house, but she also happens to be a cat lover.”

  Kendrick shot me a glance. “You have an affinity for strays, don’t you? You’re willing to go to all that trouble just to find that cat a home.”

  I shrugged. “It’s no trouble to me and I don’t like to see any animal mistreated or homeless. I can’t imagine why someone would put a defenseless kitten down in that awful hole. Or how, for that matter, since we saw no sign of an intruder in the shed.”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out myself,” he said. “I noticed a number of cracks in the wall, especially toward the bottom. None of them are very large, but it’s possible the kitten managed to squeeze through somehow.”

  We were passing by a cluster of homes now and I waved to a woman tending her yard before I turned back to Kendrick. “Do you think there could be other cylinders on the property?”

  “It’s possible.” He glanced at me again. “Is there a reason you’re asking that question?”

  “I’ve seen no evidence, if that’s what you mean. But I can’t help wondering about the original purpose of such a thing. If not a silo or well, then what was it built for?”

  “Maybe we already know the purpose,” Kendrick said.

  “To hide Mary Willoughby’s body?”

  “Not just her. If someone were to be taken against their will, they could be hidden in a place like that indefinitely.”

  According to Darius Goodwine, Pope had kidnapped innocent children to use in his rituals. He’d also taken runaways and homeless victims that no one had looked for or missed. I imagined a whole series of those cylinders with human claw marks gouged in the walls and bones heaped on the floors.

  “I’ve been thinking about your theory regarding Atticus Pope,” Kendrick said. “If he has come back, it would explain certain things.”

  “Such as?”

  “His family used to own the Willoughby house. They moved away for a time, and when Pope returned to the area, he tried to buy the place back, but George Willoughby refused to sell. Maybe the reason he took up with Mary Willoughby was so he’d have unlimited access to the property and to that cylinder. Maybe he knew it was there because he was the one who built it. And in that case, he would still know about it.”

  “But that doesn’t tell us who murdered Mary Willoughby.”

  “Her association with Pope gave her husband a strong motive. Why else would he commit suicide if he wasn’t guilty of killing his wife?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t suicide.”

  Ke
ndrick lifted a hand from the steering wheel to rub the back of his neck. “You have a theory about that, too, I’m guessing.”

  “Maybe whoever put Mary in that hole and shot her husband was the same person or persons who buried Pope’s disciples beneath the cages. And for the same reason.”

  “To trap Pope’s soul?”

  “That would explain George Willoughby’s insistence that something had taken possession of his wife’s body, wouldn’t it?”

  “But how does that jibe with your theory about Annalee?”

  “A soul can migrate more than once.”

  Kendrick turned to study my features. “What did you see down in that hole last night?”

  His question caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “I saw your face when I pulled you up. I heard something in your voice when you called out to me.”

  “You think finding those remains wasn’t enough to put that look on my face?”

  “Was it her ghost?” he pressed. “Mary Willoughby’s spirit?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m not comfortable talking about this.”

  “I understand.” He turned back to the road. “Maybe it would help if I tell you about some of my experiences.”

  “What kind of experiences?”

  “I’ve had supernatural encounters since early adolescence, but I never actually saw a manifestation until I went to live with my grandmother. Paris is a haunted city. But even there, my sightings were rare. I would sometimes glimpse shimmers and darting shadows from the corner of my eye, but mostly I could just sense them.”

  I said nothing to that, but I watched him carefully, taking in the set of his jaw and the pulse at his throat. He didn’t seem at all hesitant or wary to confide in me. I wondered if he had always been that open or if he trusted me so easily because he had been inside my head. He’d trespassed in my memories and now he knew that we were the same.

  “My earliest recollection of an encounter happened when I was thirteen or fourteen,” he said. “We had been living in New Orleans for a couple of years by then, but we’d come back to Beaufort County one summer so that my father could operate his cousin’s shrimp boat. One night I woke up with the sensation of something hovering over me. I sensed other entities gathered around my bed, watching and whispering, but this one seemed to want something from me. I could feel icy fingers scratching at my chest as if the thing intended to claw out my heart.”