The Prophet

by Amanda Stevens

  “You’d do that? It would be a huge help.”

  “On one condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “You have to tell me something.” She turned, her eyes glinting with what I could only interpret as suspicion. “Anyone ever mention what a terrible liar you are?”

  “I…don’t know what you mean.”

  She cocked her head. “Come on. That story has about as much credibility as the two-headed gator that ate my fifth-grade science project.”

  I sighed.

  “What’s really going on?” she asked.

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “This personal matter wouldn’t involve a lawsuit or infringement on an ongoing investigation, would it?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to help out a friend. It’s been two years since someone close to him died and he still can’t move on. I thought a look at the autopsy records might put some questions to rest. Give him closure.”

  “Is there some dispute about cause of death?”

  “Not really. But seeing it in black-and-white…” I trailed off. “I realize I’m grasping at straws, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  “If this friend is a relative of the deceased, why don’t you file a request online like I suggested?”

  “How long do you think it would take to get an answer?”

  “Anywhere from weeks to months.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Your friend can’t go to the coroner himself?”

  “No. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  Her stare was very direct. “And would this friend happen to be anyone I know?”

  Since Fremont had been a cop and Regina was the county coroner, I felt it safe to assume they had at least been acquainted. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  “If I stick my neck out, I need your assurance that none of this will come back to bite either of us on the butt.”

  “I don’t see how it could.”

  She gave me a stern look. “I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “It goes against my better judgment.”

  “I understand.”

  “Here.” She took out a card and scribbled a note on the back. “If Garland gives you a hard time, and he probably will, show this to him. He’ll know what it means.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  She gestured toward the cemetery. “If it hadn’t been for you, that psycho might still be out there. Consider this payback from Charleston County. And everything considered, I’d say we’re getting off pretty damn easy. There is one thing I’d like to know, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How long did it take you to come up with that ridiculous story about stolen headstones and altered death certificates?”

  I smiled. “It’s not so ridiculous. It really happened on one of my restorations.”

  She looked highly dubious. “Not in Charleston. Not while I’ve been coroner.”

  “No. Actually, it was in Samara.”

  “Oh, well, that figures.” She shrugged. “That place is more corrupt than a tin-pot dictatorship. I should know, seeing as how my ex is the county sheriff down there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Almost as if my thoughts had summoned him, Fremont’s ghost appeared by my car when Regina and I emerged from the overgrown path a few minutes later. He looked the same as ever. Dark glasses obscuring his dead gaze. Arms folded, feet crossed as though he had all the time in the world. Which, in a sense, he did, although there seemed to be some urgency to our investigation.

  I kept my gaze carefully averted from his dead form.

  When I was younger, I’d learned not to give too much thought to the how or where or why of manifestations, other than to keep a watchful eye come twilight. Papa had not been one to talk about the ghosts, and I’d followed his rules so stringently that to question or wonder—even to myself—had seemed like too much of an acknowledgement of the dead. I’d always tried to keep my mind otherwise occupied so as not to court their presence. But clearly Robert Fremont’s ghost had a connection to me. Some sort of telepathy, perhaps.

  I would never get used to his humanlike appearance—not to mention his pre-dusk materialization—and it was only with every ounce of self-control I could muster that I didn’t give myself away to Regina when I first spotted him.

  We said our goodbyes, and I lingered over storing my tools and camera, then took out my phone and pretended to check messages in order to give her ample opportunity to pull onto the road. I waved as she drove off and continued to busy myself until she was well out of sight. Only then did I go around to the front of my car where Fremont leaned against the fender.

  “How do you do it?” I asked him.

  “Do what?”

  I gave a helpless shrug. “How do you always know where I am? How can you just appear without warning? Without even so much as a glimmer of light or a whisper of cold air? You’re just…there.”

  “I told you, it takes a great deal of concentration.”

  “You were on my mind just now,” I said accusingly. “Did I somehow summon you with my thoughts?”

  He gave me a bone-chilling stare from behind those dark glasses. “Why does it matter?”

  “Because I’ve never been able to ask before. You have no idea what this is like for me. Since I was a child, I’ve been surrounded by ghosts, but my father taught me to never acknowledge their presence. Like you, he called them leeches. Netherworld parasites to be dreaded and feared. Then you came along. You’re not driven by hunger for warmth or the desire to exist in the living world. You’re driven by the need to move on. You’re still capable of emotion. You still have a conscience and you can converse with me. Is it any wonder I’m so curious about you?”

  He took a moment to answer. “Your thoughts didn’t summon me,” he said. “Not precisely. It’s more like a shift of energy that pulls me to you.”

  “Has anyone else ever seen you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How did you know about me?”

  “We made eye contact on the Battery one day. I said hello and you heard me.”

  “And then what? You started following me?”

  “Something like that.”

  I was silent for a moment. “I’ve been wondering what gave me away. I’m usually so careful around ghosts.”

  “But as you pointed out, I’m not like other ghosts.”

  “No, you aren’t. And now I have to wonder if there are others like you. How many times have I been fooled? How many more are out there masquerading as human?”

  “Masquerading?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I could feel his stare behind those glasses. “If there were others like me around, you would know it.”

  “How?”

  “Because they wouldn’t leave you alone until you gave them what they needed.”

  “Are you saying they would haunt me?”

  “Our resources are limited,” he said. “We use what we have.”

  I thought of that message scrawled over and over in the frost on my windows. I thought of Shani’s plea and her determination that I should come find her. She, Robert Fremont and that unknown specter all needed my help because I was the only one who could see them. I was the only one who could hear them.

  The weight of my burden pressed down heavily at that moment. Was this the true significance of Papa’s warnings? I wondered. Was this what he had meant when he said that to concede their presence was to invite them into my world forever?

  But it wasn’t just a matter of being haunted. It wasn’t just a matter of having my warmth and energy leeched. According to Fremont, I would be relentlessly pursued by those restless spirits needing my help, hounded by desperate entities until I did whatever was needed. If I helped Fremont and Shani…what else would be expected of me? How many other ghosts were out there searching for so
meone like me?

  I turned away from Fremont and lifted my face to the sky as my heart thundered inside my chest. I’d been flirting with the notion of a noble calling, perhaps subconsciously ever since my first sighting. I wanted to believe in a higher purpose for my gift in order to justify my loneliness. In order to accept my true nature. A part of me had actually begun to think of it as liberation. No more pretending. No more hiding in my sanctuary. Acknowledge the dead and help them move on.

  But there would be no moving on for me. I saw that clearly now. The shackles that bound me to the ghosts would only grow stronger as more and more of them sought me out.

  My gaze dropped to the horizon, and I drew a long breath. All that was left of the sunset was a pinkish glow peeking over the treetops. It was that tremulous moment before twilight, before the in-between, when shadows lengthened and shifted, giving refuge to those dark silhouettes that crept out of the forest. Did they want something from me, too?

  “I’ve said something to upset you,” Fremont said.

  “No, it’s not that. I’ve learned some things and I’m just wondering where to start. Did you recognize the woman who just left here?”

  “She looked familiar.”

  “Her name is Regina Sparks. She’s the Charleston County coroner. I assumed you knew her from your time as a cop. Anyway, she may be able to help me get a copy of your autopsy report. I don’t know why, but I have this really strong urge to see it. I could barely find anything online about your shooting. The investigation was kept very hush-hush, so I’m hoping there may be something in the records that will help us. I know it’s a long shot, but at least it’s a start.”

  “No, that’s a good idea,” he said, seemingly impressed. “I’d like to know what’s in those records, too.”

  “Can’t you just manifest inside the Beaufort County coroner’s office and take a look at your file?”

  “It would seem that I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I need your help. Apparently, I have limitations.”

  “Along with amnesia?”

  He let that one pass. “What else have you learned?”

  “I went to see Rupert Shaw yesterday. I wanted to ask him about gray dust.”

  “Did I not warn you to be careful?”

  “You did, but I trust Dr. Shaw. He told me that gray dust comes from Africa. It’s important to certain religious rituals and so powerful that even the shamans use it sparingly. But the interesting thing about that visit wasn’t so much what he told me about gray dust or even rootwork. I overheard a conversation between him and Tom Gerrity that was very disturbing. And I know that’s a name you’ll recognize because you pretended to be Gerrity when you first approached me last spring.”

  “Yes, I know Tom Gerrity.”

  “I saw a picture of the three of you—you and Devlin and Gerrity—in his office once. That’s when I realized that you had only been pretending to be a private detective and that you were, in fact, dead. But that’s not at all to the point.”

  “What is the point?” he said with an edge of impatience.

  “Gerrity is obviously blackmailing Dr. Shaw. Do you have any idea what he might have on him?”

  “It could have something to do with Shaw’s wife,” he said.

  “But she’s been dead for years.”

  “There was talk within our community about a visit Shaw made to a root doctor once, a man known to sell powders and elixirs for nefarious purposes. Shaw was interested in acquiring an extract made from white baneberry. Every part of that plant is poisonous, but the berries are particularly lethal. They contain a carcinogenic toxin that sedates the cardiac muscles. It’s highly desirable as a poison because there’s no nausea or vomiting that might arouse suspicion, and the berries are sweet-tasting. Death would come quickly, especially in someone whose heart was already weakened. Shortly after the rumors surfaced, Shaw’s wife died.”

  I stared at the ghost in shock. “You can’t possibly think he poisoned her. She was ill for a very long time. Her death was hardly sudden or unexpected.”

  “We may never know. It’s unlikely an autopsy would have been performed on a terminal patient that suffered heart failure,” he said. “And if she was cremated, there’s no chance of an exhumation.”

  “I still can’t believe it. From everything I’ve heard, Dr. Shaw was completely devoted to his wife right up until the very end.”

  “Maybe he thought death would be a kindness to her. To both of them.”

  “You’re talking about euthanasia. Mercy killing,” I said.

  “Yes. But in the eyes of the law, it would have been murder.”

  His blunt words sent a chill through me and I stood there shivering as dusk crept upon us. In my mind, I kept seeing Dr. Shaw’s face when he returned to his office after his confrontation with Gerrity. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost and he’d called out a woman’s name. Sylvia.

  Was his guilt conjuring strange visions of his dead wife?

  At least no one can accuse me of murder, Gerrity had said to him.

  My pulse quickened as the damning puzzle pieces fell into place. I didn’t want to believe it, of course. I was very fond of Rupert Shaw. I admired and respected his work. But I couldn’t ignore what seemed to be staring me in the face.

  Was it really going to be that easy to uncover Fremont’s killer? Somehow, I doubted it.

  “If Gerrity knew that Shaw had obtained the extract, he certainly had ammunition for blackmail,” Fremont said.

  “Yes, but how do you figure into all this? That’s the question. Even if Dr. Shaw poisoned his wife, what motive would he have for killing you? You’ve obviously done some research into this plant. Did you confront him with your suspicions?”

  “I don’t remember any such confrontation.”

  “Think hard. You have all these memories of Dr. Shaw and Gerrity and even Regina Sparks. The rest is still there. You just have to somehow tap into it. Is it possible Dr. Shaw followed you to the cemetery that night?”

  “Anything is possible. I’m standing here talking to you, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, that’s a good point.” I glanced down at my phone, idly checking the time. “I can’t even imagine Dr. Shaw poisoning his sick wife out of mercy, let alone shooting a cop in the back.”

  “Maybe you just don’t want to imagine it. He is a friend of yours, after all.”

  “That could be part of it,” I conceded.

  “You’d be surprised what a man is capable of when he’s cornered.”

  “So, how do we find out the truth? From what I saw yesterday, Dr. Shaw is in precarious health, both mentally and physically. I don’t want to be the one to push him over the edge. Especially when I’m not convinced he’s guilty of anything more than eccentricity.”

  “Talk to Gerrity. If you catch him by surprise, he may give something away.”

  “The last time I caught Tom Gerrity by surprise, he pulled a gun on me,” I said with a shiver. “I’m willing to help you move on, but I’d rather not go with you.”

  “You need to talk to Gerrity,” he insisted. “I feel very strongly about it.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “If I’m needed.”

  That wasn’t much comfort.

  “There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” I said. “This is even more of a long shot than the autopsy report, but it’s been bothering me. I can’t seem to let it go. You told me one of the last things you remember was meeting a woman. Her perfume was still on you when you died. Even now you can smell it on your clothing.”

  Maybe it was my imagination, but I sensed a sudden tension in him. “What about it?”

  “Can you describe the scent? Is it flowery? Musky? Woodsy?”

  “It smells like darkness,” he said.

  That wasn’t much help. “Does the name Isabel Perilloux ring a bell?”

  I had expected him to dismiss the name immediately. After all, t
here was nothing but my jealousy connecting Devlin’s brunette to Fremont’s murder. But to my surprise, he grew very pensive, and I could have sworn I felt a cold breath down my neck.

  “Do you know her?” I pressed.

  “I can’t recall her face, but I see her hands.”

  His words unnerved me and I caught my breath. “You see as in a premonition? Are you having a vision? Or maybe it’s a memory. She’s a palmist. Maybe you went to her for a reading.”

  He was silent for another long moment. “She has blood on her hands.”

  My heart was pounding very hard as I gazed at his silent form. “Literally or figuratively?”

  “Keep your distance from this woman,” warned the ghost Prophet.

  He lifted his head, pinning me with his shuttered eyes. “She has killed or will kill in the very near future.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Keep your distance from this woman. She has killed or will kill in the very near future.

  All the way home, those two sentences kept running through my brain, but could I trust Fremont’s premonition? After all, if he could see blood on Isabel Perilloux’s hands, why couldn’t he see his own killer?

  Then again, maybe he had.

  Maybe Isabel was the killer. Maybe it was her cloying perfume that still clung to his clothing.

  I’d been gone all day, so Angus was eager to go out. But rather than wait for him in the backyard as I normally did, I left him to wander about on his own while I went to my office and opened my laptop. Ten minutes later, I’d learned little more about white baneberry than Fremont had already told me. The plant was common throughout the eastern part of the country, the berries resembled old porcelain doll’s eyes (hence the nickname doll’s eye plant) and the roots were sometimes ground up to make a tea. It was also used in mojo bags and banishing spells.

  More food for thought. Maybe Dr. Shaw’s interest in the extract was strictly from a necromantic perspective. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to poison his wife but to drive off evil spirits.

  Strange how I grasped at the flimsiest straw to clear Dr. Shaw even as the evidence against him mounted, but I was more than willing to indict Isabel on a ghost’s premonition. And even worse, on the scent of her perfume.