by Mae Clair
Sagging against Jillian’s car, she lowered the phone.
“Was that Elliott?” Jillian asked.
“No. The police. They found him. He’s safe.” Whatever else she tried to say couldn’t be understood for the gut-wrenching force of her sobs.
Jillian wrapped her arms around her and hugged her close.
* * * *
Blizzard never had a proper walk, but she managed to hustle him outside so he could relieve himself.
Jillian dropped her groceries on the counter, dumped the perishable items in the refrigerator, then loaded Blizzard in her car and pointed the Accord toward the east end of town. The drive would make up for his missed walk, and having the husky close would help settle her nerves. The headache still pounded at the back of her skull, but her pupils had returned to normal, negating the need for the tinted glasses around her neck.
She’d left Tessa to wait for Elliott, grateful to undertake the short drive to Dante DeLuca’s home. Far better she wasn’t there when the police arrived. Even after three years, her memories were too strong—the sight of a squad car, the staticky crackle of a radio, the ghastly swath of emergency lights across the lawn.
The blood.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, Ms. Cley.” The female officer had a small mole to the right of her mouth reminiscent of a beauty mark from Hollywood’s gilded age. Her blue eyes were direct, weirdly translucent in the half-light of dawn, but sympathetic. “Your brother-in-law is dead.”
Jillian’s heart plummeted. She’d suspected as much. “What about my sister? What about Madison?”
“Mrs. Hewitt is alive but unresponsive. She’s being transported to Hode’s Hill General Hospital.”
Jillian looked past her to where medics loaded a gurney into a waiting ambulance. “I need to be with her.” She lurched forward, but the officer restrained her, gripping her arm.
“Let the medics do their work. If I take you to the hospital, will you have a way home?”
Jillian stared at the woman, unable to comprehend the question. A second passed, then another. She gulped. Nodded. “Thank you.” Fighting nausea, she clutched her stomach. “There was so much blood.”
“It wasn’t from your sister.” The officer steered her toward a patrol car. “It belonged to Boyd. I think you already know whoever did this wanted him to suffer.”
Jillian tightened her hands on the steering wheel, swallowing bile as fresh nausea washed through her. Sweat soaked into the heavy braid resting against the back of her neck. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past, but the memories were aggressive, without restraint. Confined to the rear seat, Blizzard whined and paced.
“It’s okay.” She tossed the dog a glance in the mirror. “I’m going to be okay, boy. We’re going to be okay.” She owed Officer Sherre Lorquet a debt of gratitude for suggesting a therapy dog. The woman must have seen something in Jillian’s face the morning of Boyd’s murder to know she’d never recover on her own. If only Madison’s healing were so simple.
Breathing easier, Jillian made a turn onto Grant Street. Friday traffic was heavy, but she managed the congestion without too much difficulty. As if sensing her heartbeat and pulse had returned to normal rhythm, Blizzard lay down, crossing one paw over the other. Jillian reached back to scratch behind his ears.
“We need to help Tessa and Elliott. You like Elliott, don’t you?”
Blizzard’s tail thumped against the seat.
She made another turn onto Highmore, then a right onto Crescent. “Shouldn’t be much farther.” Normally, she had little reason to venture into the east end of town, an area comprised of sprawling homes on four- and five-acre lots. Tessa said her cousin usually favored a small apartment near Pin Oaks Senior Center, but lately had been staying at a larger property he’d inherited from his father.
Last summer, Dante DeLuca had been the subject of several soundbites, an activist who’d made it his mission to stop Hode Development from tearing down Pin Oaks to make room for luxury condos. After a slew of bad press, it came to light the plan had been to construct a new and improved building in another area of town. A disgruntled subcontractor had leaked premature information in an attempt to give Hode Development a black eye. After the hoopla died down, Dante faded from the spotlight.
“Looks like this is the one.” Jillian stopped at the end of a cul-de-sac, staring up at an oversized two-story with a cement driveway and integral three-car garage. An oversized pole barn, crowned by a red cupola with brass weathervane, stood to the rear. Ornamental shrubs and bright orange mums lined the driveway, overshadowed here and there by chestnuts and oaks that had yet to shed their leaves.
With the hour sweeping toward six, darkness had begun to feather the edges of the sky. Several lights glimmered behind Palladian windows, warm yellow against the sleek silver of twilight.
Jillian stepped from the car and turned to Blizzard, already engaged in thrusting his nose outside. “Stay here. I’ll only be a minute.” Closing the door, she studied the imposing asymmetrical lines of the house. Varying roof pitches plus a brick-and-stone façade marked the home as contemporary New American, but a corner turret with towering windows made her think of forgotten eras. There was something both welcoming and brooding about the house; the latter heightened by the swift fall of twilight.
She hurried up the walkway, then up several brick steps to a recessed entrance. Double doors accented with leaded glass and scrolled ironwork were backlit by amber from within. Jillian jabbed the doorbell, then counted off seconds while she waited for someone to answer. She had to press the bell twice more before Dante finally appeared on the threshold.
Given the artist’s brush and paint-dotted rag in his hands, she’d probably interrupted his work.
“I don’t know you.” His reaction was odd. True, but odd. Although close in age, Jillian had spent her childhood and teen years—times when they might have crossed paths—in a private school.
“I’m Jillian Cley.”
“What do you want, Jillian Cley?” Surprisingly, the question was curious rather than rude. “Now that I think about it, you look familiar. Maybe I do know you.”
“I don’t think so.” She shifted from foot to foot, finding it impossible to read him. Even when someone didn’t subconsciously broadcast their feelings, Jillian was usually able to radar in on a sliver of emotion without trying. “I live next door to your cousin, Tessa.”
“Ah.” The flash of a smile. “The lady the monsters will get.”
“I—” Flummoxed, she searched for something to say.
“Sorry.” He held up a hand. “A joke. Elliott and I—”
“Elliott is why I’m here.” Weird joke aside, she wanted to deliver her message and return home where she could retreat into the safety of a world without hysterical neighbors and missing children. “Tessa has been trying to reach you, but your phone is going straight to voice mail.”
“I’m working.” His brows drew down, black over hazel eyes. “Is something wrong?”
Quickly, Jillian told him what happened.
“Shit!” Dante dug his cell from his pocket and began punching numbers. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Retreating into the foyer, door yawning behind him, he pressed the phone to his ear. “Contessa?”
Jillian was forgotten as he began firing questions at his cousin, wanting to know if the police had arrived, if Elliott was home. Apologizing for not being available when she needed him. His restless movements broadcast agitation, but it was as if an invisible shield separated him from Jillian.
She sprinted down the steps and raced for her car.
Dante DeLuca was a total blank.
* * * *
Detective David Gregg killed the flashing lights on his Mustang’s grille before driving up the rutted lane to Hickory Chapel. Two squad cars and a slick top were parked in front of the dilapidated church
. Finn sat hunched in the back of the nearest cruiser, nervous and morose even from a distance.
He’d deal with his nephew later.
“Thanks for calling me.” David greeted Officer Del Desmond when he stepped from the car. He flicked a glance to the patrol vehicle with Finn. “What did he say?”
“Not much.” Desmond was clean-shaven, twenty-six to David’s forty-four years, but the rookie officer could have easily passed for a college freshman in the right light. Probably why he’d been given the job of talking to Finn. “He and some other kids were screwing around in the cemetery, and Elliott Camden fell into the grave.”
Nice and pat. Reeking of garbage.
“Screwing around, huh?” David stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “Is the Camden kid okay?”
“Yeah. Mostly scratches and bruises. Scared more than anything. If I’d tumbled that far, I would have broken a leg, but kids are resilient. Anders was going to suggest the mother have him checked over by a doctor to be on the safe side—in case he hit his head or something.”
“Makes sense.” Anders must have been tasked with taking the boy home. “What about the Camden kid’s story? Did it match Finn’s?”
“Close enough. He stayed after school to join the science club, then met up with Finn and some other kids while walking home. They decided to check out the cemetery, and he fell into the grave because he wasn’t looking where he was going.”
“Anyone say who these other kids were?”
Desmond shook his head.
“Finn say why it took him so long to call for help?”
The young cop shrugged. “Afraid he’d be in trouble.”
“Yeah.” David tried to keep the sour edge from his voice. “That’s about the size of it.” He hadn’t spent twenty years as a cop without knowing when someone was lying through their back end. Finn could double-dance around the truth, but sooner or later he’d trip over his own bullshit.
David indicated the unmarked Taurus beside the patrol car. “Where’s Lorquet?”
“At the site. Head to the back. Thorton is around, too.” Desmond glanced from David to the patrol car. “You going to talk to your nephew?”
“Not now. Stay with him, huh?”
“Sure thing.”
Hands in pockets, David trudged through the rubble of a broken walkway. Time had done a number on the chapel, battering and weathering the building until all that remained was a husk. Jagged holes gaped in the roof where shingles were missing, and most of the windows had been boarded up. Once white, the clapboard siding was dingy gray where the color hadn’t flaked off entirely. The whole thing had a depressed aura, exaggerated by the dense slate of twilight.
As a rookie cop, he’d chased teens from the site more than once, especially on Halloween. Kids wanted to test the legends. Brag they’d survived the night in a graveyard haunted by church grims and corpse candles.
Over a decade ago, Spencer Wright had been killed when struck by a car. David still recalled his name, haunted by his death. He’d been one of the first officers on the scene, only two weeks on the job. Of Spencer’s two friends with him that night, Alex Price had babbled about tolling church bells, but Dante DeLuca hadn’t said a word. The kid simply shut down, refusing to confirm or deny what had happened.
There’d been other trouble after that, but thankfully, no deaths. Kids still trekked there like clockwork every Halloween. Was Finn buying into the folktales?
Lately his nephew had been hanging around with Rodney Townsend and Troy Weaver. Weaver wasn’t too bad, but the Townsend kid had “smart aleck” and “troublemaker” written all over him. He’d never heard Finn mention Elliott Camden, but Finn could be stubbornly close-mouthed when he wanted. A trait learned from his prick of a father.
Don’t go there.
David blew out a breath and made his way into the cemetery. Chemical weathering, acid rain, and erosion had all taken a toll on the grave markers. Many of the stones were leaning, a few broken, all surrounded by clumps of weeds and overgrown grass. He spied Thorton canvasing the perimeter and acknowledged the officer with a short wave.
Leaves crunched under his shoes as he made his way to the rear of the cemetery. Sherre Lorquet was in the farthest corner, squatting by an open grave. A decrepit-looking hickory tree hunched over her shoulder, bowed over the tomb like a sentry in mourning. Sherre stood when she saw him, dusting her hands on her pants. The area had yet to be roped off; mounds of fresh dirt scattered in humps behind the church. Fallen hickory nuts littered the ground.
“What do you think?” She indicated the narrow ditch. “Halloween trick?”
“Could be, but we’re weeks from Hell Night.” He looked for a grave marker. “Do we know the identity of the remains?”
Sherre consulted a small notebook. “Gabriel Vane. The headstone is over here.” She walked around the edge of the pit. Unlike the tall limestone and granite markers denoting other graves, Vane’s headstone was recessed into the ground. David could barely read the lettering, but someone had tended the plot, ensuring the slab was free of mold and weeds. Drawing a small flashlight from his pocket, he flicked on the beam, then dumped light on the stone.
Gabriel Vane
B. 1781
D. October 21, 1799
“That’s a hell of an old grave.”
“Could be the first in the cemetery.” Sherre hooked sleek black hair behind her ear. “The original chapel on this site was built when Hode’s Hill was a village. Why would anyone want the remains of a body that’s over two centuries old?” She tilted her head to stare up at him.
David had watched her come up through the ranks, subject to crap most male cops never had to deal with. Making detective last winter had showed the naysayers what she was made of. Just over medium height with straight black hair and blue eyes, her ancestry was a mixed bag of French Creole, Scots Irish, and African American. They’d passed time on a stakeout once talking family trees and DNA.
He cast a glance around at the neglected graves. “Could be a prank, or a meth-head hoping to score off the sale of old bones. Could even be ritualist.”
“Satanic?” Sherre clicked a pen against her teeth. “Not this grave.”
David raised a brow. “Why?”
“Did you look at the depth?” She inclined her head to indicate the hole. “Eight feet or better. Not sure why a body would be buried so deep, but there are more recent graves, some as late as the early twentieth century. No need for the perp to dig so far.”
“Would our grave robbers know that?”
“You used plural.”
“Had to be more than one. Too much work for a single person. And if someone is selling bones to a museum or hoping to fetch black market price, the older the better.” He squatted, noting where the dirt and grass had been raked over by slender tines. “Looks like they covered their tracks. What about tire prints?”
“Thorton’s on it.”
David nodded, standing and dusting his hands. “Shitty day. Did you hear about Coleman?”
Most everyone who worked at the precinct was on friendly terms with their janitor. Coleman often stopped to shoot the breeze in the squad room, sometimes showing up with donuts or muffins from the local bakery. The guy had been working for the city long before David started, and had to be seventy if he was a day.
Sherre’s brow knitted. “What happened?”
“He was changing a fluorescent tube when the whole light came loose, mount and all. The thing dropped like a guillotine and sliced off his ear.”
“My God.”
“Ambulance took him to the hospital, but I guess his heart couldn’t stand the shock. I heard he died in transit.”
Sherre blanched. “That’s horrible! Poor Coleman.” She’d been close to him like everyone else. “His wife is going to be devastated.”
“Yeah.�
� David dropped his voice. It sucked when bad things happened to good people. “There’s a collection going around at the precinct. The place was a mess this morning when it happened.” He forced the thought aside. Cops didn’t dwell on death, especially when they had no control over it. “You notice anything unusual about Vane’s grave?”
Sherre refocused just as quickly. She frowned, the movement drawing attention to the beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. The tiny mole looked damn good on her coppery skin. Too bad the department had a rule about fraternizing.
“You mean other than the fact it’s got a recessed headstone and is currently nothing more than an eight-foot ditch?”
“Yeah. What you said—and it’s isolated.”
Her brows furrowed. “Huh?”
“Take a look.” David indicated where they stood in conjunction with the other tombstones. Gabriel Vane’s grave was segregated behind the church tower, the singular burial plot removed from the others.
“Shit.” Sherre’s eyes grew wide. “It’s like he was ostracized.”
Chapter 4
October 10, 1799
Gabriel poured a dram of Madeira into his cup, then topped off Jasper’s. The sun had set hours ago, the robust hearth fire and lantern light inside his cabin holding the heavy night at bay. Every now and then an arrow of wind pierced the chinks in the log walls, a reminder of the autumn chill outdoors.
“You’re quiet.” Gabriel studied his friend across the table. He didn’t doubt Jasper was fit for the task at hand, but worried over the conviction of his heart. “Perhaps you are better served in the village than on the hunt.”
“I will not hear of it.” Jasper drained his wine. “You are a true friend, Gabriel. I would not have you hunt this beast alone.”
“Hiram Blum intends to accompany me.”
“As will I. The provisions have already been set. We leave from my father’s house in the morning.” Jasper pushed the cup away, waving aside the offer of more when Gabriel raised the bottle of Madeira. “I need a clear head for the morrow. As do you, if we are to outwit this creature.”
