The Restorer

I suppressed a shudder.

Oak Grove was one of those rare graveyards that evoked uneasiness, that literally made my skin crawl. The only other time I’d experienced a similar sensation was while visiting a small cemetery in Kansas that had been dubbed one of the seven gateways to hell.

I adjusted my collar against the glacial prickles at my nape. “What’s this about?”

He ignored my question and asked one of his own. “When was the last time you were there?”

“A few days ago.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Last Friday.”

“Five days,” he murmured. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, of course. A big storm blew in that night and it’s been raining off and on ever since. I’ve been waiting for the ground to dry out.”

“Camille…Dr. Ashby said you’ve been photographing the graves.” He waited for my nod. “I’d like to take a look at those shots.”

Something about his tone, about this whole conversation put me on the defensive. Or maybe it was his ghosts. “Can you tell me why? And I’d also like to know how you found me tonight.”

“You mentioned your dinner plans to Dr. Ashby.”

“I may have named the restaurant, but I didn’t tell her I’d be taking an after-dinner stroll, because I didn’t know it myself at the time.”

“Call that part a hunch,” he said.

A hunch…or had he followed me from the Pavilion?

“Dr. Ashby has my number. Why didn’t you just call me?”

“I tried that. No answer.”

Well, yes, there was that. I’d turned off my phone for the evening. Still, I didn’t like any of this. John Devlin was a haunted man and that made him a dangerous man in my world.

He was also persistent and perhaps intuitive, so the quicker I rid myself of him the better.

“Why don’t you give me a call first thing in the morning?” I said in a brisk, dismissive tone. “I’m sure whatever it is can wait until then.”

“No, I’m afraid it can’t. This has to be done tonight.”

I shivered at his foreboding tone. “How ominous-sounding. Well, you’ve certainly gone to a great deal of trouble to track me down, so I suppose you may as well tell me why.”

His gaze swept the darkness behind me and I had to resist the urge to glance over my shoulder. “The rain uncovered a body in one of the old graves at Oak Grove.”

It wasn’t unheard of for old bones to wash up over time, due to rotting coffins and eroding soil.

“Do you mean skeletal remains?” I asked with some delicacy.

“No, I mean fresh remains. A homicide victim,” he replied bluntly. His gaze lit on my face, studying me intently as if gauging my reaction.

A homicide. In the cemetery where I’d been working alone.

“That’s why you want my photographs. You’re hoping they’ll help pinpoint how long the body has been there,” I said.

“If we’re lucky.”

This I understood and was only too happy to cooperate. “I use a digital camera, but I print out most of my shots. I happen to have some enlargements in my briefcase, if you’d care to follow me back to my car.” I nodded in the direction from which we’d both come. “I can email you the rest of the images as soon as I get home.”

“Thanks. That would be helpful.”

I started walking and he fell into step beside me.

“One other thing,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I’m sure I don’t have to school you on cemetery protocol, but there are certain precautions that have to be taken when dealing with an old graveyard like Oak Grove. We wouldn’t want to inadvertently desecrate a burial site. Dr. Ashby mentioned something about unmarked graves.”

“As you said, it’s an old cemetery. One of the sections is pre–Civil War. Over that much time, it’s not unusual for headstones to get moved or go missing altogether.”

“How do you locate the graves when that happens?”

“Any number of ways, depending on whether cost is a factor—radar, resistivity, conductivity, magnetometry. Remote sensing methods are preferred because they’re noninvasive. As is grave dousing.”

“Grave dousing. Is that anything like water witching?” His tone gave away his skepticism.

“Yes, same principle. A Y-shaped rod or sometimes a pendulum is used to divine the location of a grave. It’s been roundly debunked in scientific circles, but believe it or not, I’ve seen it work.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He paused. “Dr. Ashby said you’d completed the preliminary mapping, so I assume you’ve already located the graves by one means or another.”

“Dr. Ashby is being optimistic. I have a lot more research to do before I’ll know where all the bodies are buried, so to speak.”

He didn’t crack a smile at my feeble pun. “But you must have a general idea.”

Something in his voice bothered me and I stopped walking to glance up at him. Earlier, I’d thought his dark good looks had an almost fallen angel quality, but now he appeared merely tough and persistent. “Why do I get the impression you’re not just asking for a copy of my map?”

“It would save us a lot of time and potentially some bad PR if we have an expert consultant on hand during the exhumation. We’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

“Since you’re dealing with an old grave, I suggest you contact the state archaeologist. Her name is Temple Lee. I used to work for her. You’ll be in good hands.”

“We’d be hard-pressed to get someone down here from Columbia tonight, and as I said, this can’t wait until morning. The minute that body was discovered, the clock started ticking. The sooner we get an ID, the greater our chances for a satisfactory resolution. Dr. Ashby seems to think your credentials will pacify the committee.”

“The committee?”

“Local preservationists, members of the Historical Society, fat cat alumni. They’ve got enough clout to raise a real ruckus if we don’t handle this thing according to procedure. You know the cemetery and you know the rules. All you have to do is make sure we don’t step on any toes. So to speak.” This time, I did see a faint smile.

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.” He glanced out over the water. “Once the fog lifts, we could get more rain. We need to get this thing done.”

This thing done.

What a portentous turn of phrase.

“As I said, we’ll pay you.”

“It’s not that.” I didn’t like the idea of going out to Oak Grove after dark, but I also didn’t see how I could refuse. Civic duty notwithstanding, Camille Ashby currently controlled my purse strings. It was in my best interests to keep her happy. “I’m hardly dressed for the occasion, but I suppose if you think I can be of some help…”

“I do. Let’s grab those photos and head on out there.” He took my elbow, as if to propel me forward before I could change my mind.

His touch was strangely magnetic. It both attracted and repelled me, and as I pulled away, I found myself dredging up my father’s third rule and silently repeating it like a mantra:

Keep your distance from those who are haunted.

Keep your distance from those who are haunted.

“I’d rather drive myself, if you don’t mind.”

He gave me a sidelong glance as we continued along the walkway. “Whatever you want. It’s your call.”

We fell silent as we walked back through the mist, the lights from the East Bay mansions softly illuminating the ghost child floating between us. I was careful not to touch her. Careful not to look down as I felt the chilly brush of her hand against my leg.

The woman trailed behind us. It was odd to me that the little girl seemed the more dominant of the two, and I wondered again about their relationship to Devlin.

How long had they haunted him? Did he have a clue they were there? Had he experienced cold spots, electrical surges, inexplicable noises in the middle of the night?

Did he realize that his energy was slowly being drained away?

The subtle radiation of his body heat would be irresistible to the ghosts. Even I wasn’t entirely immune.

As we stepped into the haze of a streetlamp, I stole another glance. The illumination seemed to repel the ghosts and as they drifted away, I caught a fleeting glimpse—a remnant, nothing more—of the vital man John Devlin had once been.

He cocked his head, as unmindful of my scrutiny as he was of the entities. I thought at first he was listening to the distant wail of the foghorn, but then I realized the sound that had captured his attention was closer. A car alarm.

“Where are you parked?” he asked.

“Over…there.” I pointed in the direction of the alarm.

We hurried across the damp parking lot and as we rounded a row of cars, I glanced anxiously down the line, spotting my silver SUV beneath a security light where I had left it. The back door was ajar and shattered glass sparkled on the wet pavement.

“That’s mine!” I started toward it.

He caught my arm. “Hold on…”

Several rows over, a car engine revved.

“Wait here!” he said. “And don’t touch anything.”

I tracked him as he wove through the glistening cars and only turned away when I’d lost sight of him and the sound of his footsteps faded. Then I walked over to the open back door of my vehicle and peered inside. Thankfully, I’d left my laptop and camera at home, and I had my phone and wallet on me. The only thing that seemed to be missing was my briefcase.

The sound of the engine grew louder and I glanced around just as a black car skidded around the corner. Headlights caught me in the face and for a split second, I froze. Then adrenaline shot through me and I dove between my vehicle and the next as the car sped by me.

Devlin appeared out of the mist just as I picked myself up off the pavement.

“You okay? Did he hit you?” He sounded anxious, but his dark eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt.

“No, I’m fine. Just a little shaken up—”

He sprinted away, cutting through the rows of parked cars in a futile effort to head off the culprit before he could get away. I heard the whine of the motor and the squeal of tires as the driver stomped the accelerator and swerved into the street.

My imagination and nerves being somewhat overly stimulated, I half expected to hear gunshots, but all was silent after the engine noise faded.

Devlin trotted toward me, phone pressed to his ear. He spoke rapidly, listened for a moment, then hung up. “Did you get a look at the driver?” he asked.

“No, sorry. It happened too fast. What about you?”

“Never got close enough. Couldn’t make out the tags, either.”

“Then you won’t be able to track him down, will you? And I’ll be stuck with all the damage.” I glanced forlornly at my broken window.

He gave me a strange look before turning toward my car. “Can you tell if anything is missing?”

“My briefcase is gone.”

“It was in the back?”

“Yes.”

“In plain view?”

“Not exactly. It was behind the rear seat. You’d have to peer into the window to notice it.”

“Anyone see you put it in there?”

I thought about it for a minute, then shrugged. “It’s possible. I spent the afternoon at the university library, so I suppose someone could have seen me toss it in when I left.”

“You came straight here?”

“No. I went home to shower and change first.”

“Did you take your briefcase inside?”

“I left it in the car. I don’t always take it out at home. There’s nothing valuable in it. Just work-related stuff.”

“Like photos of Oak Grove Cemetery?”

I honestly hadn’t made that leap yet.

I suppose my real world instincts had been severely stunted by the solitude of my profession and avocation.

“You don’t think this could be connected to the body found in the cemetery, do you?”

He didn’t answer. “You say you have other copies of the photographs?”

“Of course. I always store my digital images online. I’ve had too many hard drive crashes to leave anything to chance.” Shock was starting to set in and my disquiet now had very little to do with John Devlin’s ghosts. I could no longer see them. It was as if the negative energy surrounding my car had chased them deeper into the shadows. Or maybe they were being pulled back behind the veil. Whatever the reason, I knew they would eventually return. His warmth would lure them back because they couldn’t exist for long without him.

I wrapped my arms around my middle and shivered. “What should I do?”

“We’ll get you a police report written up and you can file a claim with your insurance company.”

“No, I mean…if this is somehow connected to a homicide, then the killer knows who I am. And if he did this to get his hands on those pictures, he’ll figure out soon enough that I have copies.”

“Then we’d better find him first,” said John Devlin.

THREE

Twenty minutes later, Devlin and I walked through the gates at Oak Grove. Even under the best of conditions, the place had an unnerving effect. It was an old graveyard, dark, lush and gothic. The layout was typical of the nineteenth-century Rural Cemetery movement and at one time, it must have been lovely and pastoral. But now under a shrouded moon, the crumbling statuary took on a ghostly patina, and I imagined a lurking presence, something cold, dank and ancient.

I turned and peered through the darkness, searching for a diaphanous form in the fog, but there were no ghosts in Oak Grove Cemetery. Even the dead didn’t want to be here.

“Looking for someone?”

I kept my gaze averted from Devlin. The magnetism he radiated was palpable. It was odd, but I’d felt the pull even more strongly once we passed through the gates. “Excuse me?”

“You keep glancing over your shoulder. Are you looking for someone?”

“Ghosts,” I said, then waited for his reaction.

His demeanor gave nothing away as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small blue tube. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“Eucalyptus vapor. I can’t promise it’ll ward off evil spirits, but it should help with the smell.”

I started to tell him that I had no intention of getting so close to the body that I would need to worry about masking the smell, but already I’d caught the trail of something fetid, a malodorous undertone to the earthy fragrances of the ferns and wild hyacinths that blanketed the nearby graves.

“Go on,” Devlin said. “Take it.”

I rubbed the waxy stick onto my finger, then smeared the balm across my upper lip. The medicated vapor burned my nostrils and tightened my throat. I put a hand to my chest and coughed. “Strong.”

“You’ll be glad of that in about two minutes.” He pocketed the tube without using it. “Ready?”

“Not really, but I suppose there’s no turning back, is there?”

“Don’t sound so fatalistic. Your part will be over soon enough.”

I was counting on that.

He turned without another word and I followed him into the maze of headstones and monuments. The stepping stones that marked the path were slippery with moss and lichen. I trudged along behind him, mindful of my footing. I wasn’t properly attired for the cemetery. Already my shoes were caked with mud and I felt the sting of tiny nettles nipping at my bare legs.

The rumble of voices grew louder and I could see flashlight beams moving along the pathways. The scene was eerie and surreal, reminding me of a time when bodies were buried by moonlight and the glow of the grave digger’s lantern.

Up ahead, a small crowd of men in uniforms and civvies had gathered around what I assumed was the unearthed victim. My view was mostly obscured, but I noted the silhouette of the headstone and scanned the surrounding monuments so that I would later be able to pinpoint the location of the grave on my map.

One of the cops shifted and suddenly I caught a glimpse of pale skin and milky eyes. A wave of nausea drenched me with sweat. I retreated down the path on shaky legs. It was one thing hearing about a murder; coming face-to-face with the gruesome aftermath was quite another.

I’d spent most of my life in cemeteries—my graveyard kingdoms. Each a calm, sheltered, self-contained world where the chaos of the city seemed anathema. Tonight, reality had stormed the gates, wreaking havoc.

Drawing in long breaths, I stood there wishing I’d never mentioned my dinner plans to Dr. Ashby because then Devlin wouldn’t have been able to find me. I wouldn’t have known about the murder. I wouldn’t have glanced into those frosted eyes.

But with or without Devlin, I’d been drawn into the violence the moment my briefcase was stolen. On the way here, I’d managed to convince myself the theft had been random. Someone had seen my briefcase through the back window and decided on impulse to take it. Now that I’d glimpsed the body, I feared the worst. If the killer felt threatened by something captured on one of those images, he could be acting purely out of instinct and self-preservation. What if he tried to break into my house to get at my camera and computer? To get at me?

Pulling my raincoat tightly around me, I watched as Devlin joined the circle around the body. Even in my current state of distress, I couldn’t help taking an interest in his interactions with his colleagues. He was shown respect, reverence even, but I also sensed an overall air of uneasiness. The other cops kept their distance, which intrigued me. But clearly Devlin was in charge and in his element, and I found it a fascinating dichotomy that he should seem so alive and vital in the presence of a violent death.

Or maybe it was because his ghosts hadn’t followed us through the gates.

I turned away, letting my gaze wander through the shadowy necropolis, lingering here and there over broken statuary and vandalized crypts. If most cemeteries offered solace and evoked hours of deep meditation and self-reflection, Oak Grove stirred dark thoughts.

My father had once told me that a place need not be haunted to be evil. I believed him because Papa knew things. Over the course of my childhood, he’d imparted much of that wisdom to me, but he’d also kept things from me. For my own good, I was certain, but those secrets drove a wedge between us where once there had been none. My first ghost sighting had changed us both. If Papa had withdrawn deeper into his own private world, he’d also become even more protective of me. He was my touchstone, my anchor, the one person who understood my isolation.

After that first sighting, I never again saw the old white-haired man, but there had been others. Over the years, legions of beautiful, floating phantoms. Young, old, black, white, they drifted through the veil at dusk, a delicate parade of Southern history that both thrilled and terrified me.

After a while, those unearthly transients simply became a part of my world and I learned to steel myself against the frosty breaths at the back of my neck, the icy fingers that trailed through my hair and down my arms. Papa had been right to train and discipline me, but acceptance of the situation hadn’t alleviated my questions. I still didn’t understand why he and I could see the ghosts and Mama couldn’t.

“It’s our cross to bear,” he explained one day, keeping his gaze averted as he weeded a grave.

That didn’t satisfy me. “Can my real mother see them?”

Papa still didn’t look up. “The woman who raised you is your real mother.”

“You know what I mean.” We never talked about my adoption even though I’d known about it for a long time. I had a lot of questions about that, too, but I’d learned to keep them to myself.

Papa had already started to shut down so I went back to the ghosts. “Why do they want to touch us?”

“I’ve already told you. They crave our warmth.”

“But why?” Absently, I plucked a lone dandelion and blew the seeds into the wind. “Why, Papa?”

“Think of them as vampires,” he said with a weary sigh. “Instead of blood, they suck out our warmth, our vitality, sometimes our will to live. And they leave nothing behind but a living, breathing husk.”

I seized on the one word that made any sense to me, even though on some level I knew he was speaking metaphorically. “But, Papa, vampires aren’t real.”

“Maybe not.” He rocked back on his heels, his eyes taking on a haunted, faraway glaze that chilled me to the bone. “But I’ve seen things in my time…unspeakable desecrations…”

My terrified gasp brought him momentarily out of his gloomy reverie and he placed his hand on mine, squeezing my fingers in reassurance. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, child. You have nothing to fear, so long as you follow the rules.”

But his words had filled me with a formless dread. “Promise?”

He nodded, but turned away quickly, his careworn face shadowed with secrets…

Over the years, I’d followed Papa’s rules faithfully. My emotions were well-schooled, always under control, and I suppose that was why I found my response to John Devlin so troubling.

He’d come up behind me in the cemetery and must have said my name, but I was so lost in thought, I didn’t hear him. When he placed his hand on my shoulder to get my attention, the hair rose up on my scalp like the aftermath of an electrical jolt. I jerked away from him without thinking.

He looked taken aback by my reaction. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just…”

“This place? Yeah, it’s pretty creepy. I would think you’re used to that, though.”

“Not all cemeteries are creepy,” I said. “Most of them are beautiful.”

“If you say so.” Something in his tone—a cold, brittle undercurrent—made me think of his ghosts. I wondered again who they were and what they’d been to him in life.

He was still peering down at me curiously. For some reason, his height hadn’t been so obvious to me earlier, but now he seemed to tower over me.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“I guess I’m still a little jumpy from earlier. And now this.” I nodded toward the body on the ground, but I kept my gaze trained on Devlin. I didn’t want to stare at the corpse. I didn’t want to put a face with a restless, covetous ghost that I might one day see wandering through the veil.

“I lead a dull life,” I said without irony. “I don’t think I’m cut out for crime scenes.”

“There are a lot of things in this world to be afraid of, but a dead body isn’t one of them.”

Spoken like a man who knew things, I thought with a shiver. His voice was the kind that made one think of dark places. The kind that made the skin ripple along the backbone.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I murmured, searching the mist behind him, wondering if his ghosts might have slipped through the gates after all. That would explain the unnatural static that seemed to surround him and the sense of foreboding I felt at his nearness.

But no. There was nothing behind him in the dark.

It’s this place.

I could feel the negative energy clutching at me like the ivy roots that burrowed into the cracks and crevices of the mausoleums, the kudzu that wound tightly around the tree trunks, slowly strangling the magnificent old live oaks for which the cemetery had been named. I wondered if Devlin felt it, too.

He tilted his head and moonlight washed across his face, softening his gaunt features and giving me yet another teasing glimpse of the man he’d once been. I could see the gleam of mist in his hair and on the tips of his eyelashes. His cheekbones were high and prominent, his thick eyebrows perfectly symmetrical and a fine complement to the strong curve of his nose. His eyes were dark, but I’d not seen them in enough light to tell their true color.

He was handsome, charismatic and intensely focused, and he intrigued me almost as much as he disturbed me. I couldn’t stare at him for long without hearing the echo of my father’s third rule inside my head:

Keep your distance from those who are haunted.

I drew a breath of moist air and tried to shake off his strange spell. “Have you found out anything about the victim?”

Even to my own ears, my voice sounded tentative and I wondered if he would pick up on my unease. He was probably used to a certain amount of discomfort in his presence. He was a cop, after all. A cop with a very complicated past, I was beginning to suspect.