Beyond the Grave

by R. W. Wallace

  Tulle isn’t happy. But to her credit, she lets the subject go. So she knows to read people well enough to realize Emeline won’t be answering any questions. Good. That’s not always the case with the people who choose to spend their lives searching for information on computers instead of out amongst people.

  “Of course I’ll help,” she replies, her voice a little unsteady. “I’d never leave a project hanging. If you need anything, let me know.”

  Tulle’s cheeks are red and her breathing has sped up. She’s working up to asking Emeline about the murdered girls anyway.

  “Good,” Emeline says forcefully. “Then I guess we’re done here.” She holds up the USB drive before shoving it back into the pocket it came from. “Thank you very much for your valuable help. It will not be forgotten.”

  And then she walks out of the room so quickly that Doubira knocks his chair to the ground in his hurry to follow.

  Thirty-Seven

  Are we going to see Stéphane? That was his name, right?

  I can’t believe I don’t even remember the name of the guy I partnered with for at least three or four months.

  I’m assuming that’s who Tulle was talking about, because my partner before Stéphane was a woman and Tulle definitely said “he.”

  “So your partner was yet another person who didn’t like you, huh?” Clothilde says as we follow Evian and Doubira through the dark corridors of the police station basement.

  “Guess that shouldn’t be a surprise by now,” I reply glumly. It actually takes me a while to really take in the information Tulle gave us. I’ve gotten so used to everybody from my past dumping on my character, this just felt like one more to add to the pile.

  “He didn’t only say I was a loser and a follower.” I stop walking as the realization hits but Evian ruins the effect by walking up the staircase and letting the door slam shut behind her. I get sucked past the door after her.

  Clothilde is waiting for me on the other side of the door, arms crossed and a bored expression on her youthful face. “So?”

  “He thinks I was involved in something criminal.” I really want to stay immobile for this conversation, take a stand, physically show my shock and indignation—but Evian is opening the door on the next floor so I hurry after her to avoid getting pulled through again. It’s not a feeling I want to get used to.

  Once we’re in the open-plan office and Evian and Doubira go to their desks, presumably to do some paperwork, I can finally focus. “Stéphane told Tulle that I might have gotten killed because I was involved in something illegal,” I say to Clothilde.

  “Who’s Stéphane?”

  “My partner.”

  “Oh, okay. Continue.” She jumps up on the closest desk and shoves her hands under her thighs.

  I’m a little miffed that she doesn’t show more interest before remembering that this is Clothilde, the ultimate teenager. Of course she won’t show interest.

  “Well, we’ve spent the last couple of days listening to my family and official records saying I couldn’t think for myself, that I was a follower, and an all-round loser. It could sound like I walked into a situation I couldn’t get out of because I was too stupid to see and judge the danger. Painting me as a bad guy is new.”

  Clothilde shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be possible to be involved in something illegal without realizing it? If you follow the bad guy, does that make you a bad guy?”

  It makes you stupid. But I guess we’ve already established that, so I do my best to brush the thought away.

  “I guess that’s a possibility. In a certain sense, it’s true, since I blindly followed orders—suggestions—to open and close several cases in about five seconds flat. That makes me incompetent, and stupid, but I’m not sure I’d qualify it as illegal. The way Tulle said it, it sounded like I was actively working against the law.”

  Clothilde cocks her head as she stares at me, her big eyes never blinking. I have all her attention now, and the sullen teenager is nowhere to be seen.

  “Did you ever break the law?” she asks.

  I force down the disappointment and anger that tries to rise at my one and only friend making accusations.

  She’s not accusing me. She’s trying to understand. My emotions are simply a little slow on the uptake.

  I force myself to meet her gaze. “I probably cut a few corners. Everybody does. I probably learned the rules so I could know how far to toe the line without actually crossing over. But I can’t remember ever doing anything that I should have been arrested for. I was lazy, and incompetent, and insecure—but a criminal?”

  “Every criminal has a moment when they step too far over the line, right?” Clothilde says. “The point of no return? Is it possible this happened for you during your last days and you got killed for it?”

  Was I that incompetent, even as a criminal?

  “You really don’t remember the day you died?” Clothilde asks.

  I shake my head. “Honestly, I can’t really pinpoint what my last memory even is. I know I remember going to your crime scene. I know I don’t remember Gisèle Grand’s crime scene at all. Those two were less than a couple of weeks apart, right?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Stéphane and I were investigating some boring-ass stuff on the theft of really expensive and old jewelry from an abbey outside of town, but I mostly just followed along and let him do the work. I don’t see a link between that and the murders at all.”

  I run my hand through my hair in a nervous gesture that is apparently back to stay as I do my best to remember what I was doing during my last weeks of life thirty years ago.

  “Some of those days blend together in my mind,” I say with a sigh. “And not because something happened to my memory but because I found that case so horribly boring.” It wasn’t going to get me anywhere career-wise—as opposed to what Montbleu promised me if I followed his instructions.

  As I work through all the old memories, one realization is clear. “I don’t remember anything about intending to go against the law. If I did make that decision, it came suddenly and had immediate consequences. And it really does feel out of character.” I wouldn’t have had the guts to take such risks. The shame at getting caught would have been too great.

  “Then why did this partner of yours think you did something illegal?”

  I take a deep breath and square my shoulders in an attempt to show a confidence in my own character that I don’t really feel. “That’s what we need to find out.”

  I glance over at Evian, who is closing up her computer and telling Doubira good night with a squeeze of his shoulder as she walks past.

  I hope she is as good as she seems. I hope she won’t give up on finding out what happened to me thirty years ago. I know she also wants to go into the details of the murder of Clothilde and who knows how many other young girls, and so do I, but I’m kind of relieved that she’s being forced to look into my case first.

  I’m used to feeling inferior, insecure. Feeling judged by everyone I meet. Or rather, I was used to it. Thirty years in a cemetery with Clothilde and lots of cases to solve made me forget about the past. At least enough to feel like I made a difference in the world, like I mattered.

  Going back to being the loser is killing me—not literally, of course, but what the hell happens to a depressive ghost? That sounds like an awful way to spend eternity.

  As we follow Evian out of the police station and through the busy streets of Toulouse, I make a silent promise to myself.

  I’ll allow myself to be selfish enough to focus first on my own past and murder. If I don’t, I won’t be able to give my complete focus to anything. Once I know what happened—no matter which side of the law I land on—I’m dedicating everything I have to helping Evian and Doubira look into the girls’ murders.

  As long as Evian lets me come along for the ride.


  Thirty-Eight

  The evening is oddly calm and uneventful. Evian walks home, clearly lost in her own thoughts as she strolls down sidewalks at a very leisurely pace, not really looking at anything or anyone.

  Clothilde takes the opportunity to test our bond with her. She walks ahead or stays behind but never goes farther than fifty meters from Evian. She says it becomes very uncomfortable and that if she had to, she probably could go farther, but not much. The pull toward Evian—or rather toward our finger bones in that bracelet—is too strong.

  Back in her apartment, Evian shucks off her shoes by the door and hangs her jacket over a chair. She removes the bracelet and places it on the kitchen counter before going to her room to change into a pair of worn jeans and a black t-shirt.

  Then she sits on her worn couch, looking at the USB drive that Tulle gave her.

  Not looking at the data on her computer. Looking at the drive as she turns it over and over in her hand.

  I might not be a computer whiz but I’m pretty sure she won’t be reading the report like that.

  When the clock on the microwave approaches eight, Evian places the little drive on the kitchen counter next to the bracelet and starts cooking dinner. It’s a simple pasta dish, with white sauce and canned mushrooms, but it looks absolutely delicious.

  Clearly, not being able to eat is going to be our favorite kind of torture. Clothilde and I both settle in next to Evian and follow each mouthful with envious eyes. We’re both reminded—again—of how much we love food.

  Once the dishes are gone, Evian returns to the couch, this time with her laptop and the USB drive. Finally, we’re going to learn what Tulle discovered.

  Physical realm be damned, Clothilde and I both settle down three-quarters into the couch, so that we may have a good view of Evian’s screen. Only our heads and shoulders protrude from the couch.

  There are two folders: one named Ruled Suicides, the other R.Villemur.

  Evian hovers the mouse over the suicide folder but she doesn’t click on it. She opens the folder with my name on it, bypasses completely the file named “data” and clicks to open the one called “report.”

  It holds a lot of names, many of which we’ve already heard. De Villenouvelle, Montbleu, Stéphane, Durand, Gisèle Grand, Clothilde Humbert. No other girls’ names with the tag “ruled suicide,” so it seems like Tulle couldn’t find a link to any of the other victims.

  I think that’s a good thing.

  Clothilde sucks in a breath. Evian’s hand jerks slightly on the mouse she has perched on her thigh and looks around the empty room before shaking her head and huffing.

  “What is it?” I ask Clothilde.

  She points to the very last line of the report. “Laurent Lambert.”

  I lean in to read the single line of text. In last report before disappearance: planned to question Laurent Lambert in relation to Gisèle Grand’s death.

  I lean back in surprise and almost disappear into the couch. I catch myself and float up to pretend to sit on the lousy piece of furniture next to Evian. “It looks like I was actually going to investigate the murder of Mademoiselle Grand.” I lean forward to meet Clothilde’s eyes. “That’s what it looks like, right?”

  There’s anger in her eyes but it seems like her desire to mock me is stronger. She rolls her eyes at me, Clothilde style. “You’re the detective, Robert. You tell me.”

  The hope rising within me at the prospect of having done something right, even if it resulted in my death, is strong. If I’d had a beating heart, it would have been pounding in my chest. “That’s what it looks like,” I whisper.

  Evian also seems to have latched onto the name. Either because it rings a bell or because her subconscious heard us. She opens the Ruled Suicides folder and types Laurent Lambert’s name into a search bar at the top of the screen.

  She opens the first file in the list of results and three seconds later we’re looking at Clothilde’s name on the screen. Room rented by lawyer Laurent Lambert but nothing could be proved and he had an alibi for the time of death.

  “Gotcha,” Evian says, a satisfied tilt to her lips. “Monsieur Lambert is the link between the two deaths.”

  She doesn’t spend much more time on the data that Tulle gave her. I get the feeling she doesn’t want to look too closely at the information on the ruled suicides. Either because she doesn’t want to be tempted to spend too much time on it or because the big boss told her not to. I’m leaning toward the first option.

  Which means we’ll be getting back to the girls once we figure out what happened to me—an agenda I’m more than on board with.

  Evian spends some time searching for information on Laurent Lambert. The first point is that he’s still alive.

  Clothilde growls at that discovery, even though we already knew he’d met both Lise and Manon before they died.

  We also learn that he owns a legal practice with offices in the most expensive part of the city center, not too far from the City Hall. He doesn’t seem to take on any direct cases himself any longer. He probably leaves the actual work to employees while he’s out plotting the murder of innocent young women.

  Or something.

  Evian types the legal office’s number into her phone, as well as the address. Then she sends off a message requesting a meeting during lunch hour tomorrow.

  She spends some more time searching for information, both on Stéphane and on Lambert but she doesn’t come up with much. After rubbing her eyes for the fourth time in five minutes, she switches off the computer and places it on the coffee table.

  She’s about to put the little USB drive back in her pocket when she stops, and apparently changes her mind.

  She goes to the center of the room and does a slow turn, studying her living room from top to bottom. She finds what she’s looking for in the bookcase in the corner.

  Evian hasn’t brought any books, of course, but it looks like previous tenants left whatever they didn’t want to take with them, so it’s filled with various trinkets, weird decorations, travel books, thrillers, and baby books that seem to have been eaten and digested by whatever baby used to live here.

  On the second shelf from the top, one of those Japanese cats with a moving arm stands, face turned toward the back of the bookcase. It has lost its moving arm so it’s just a weird and colorful cat with a hole on the side.

  Evian takes the cat down, studies it for a moment, then slips the USB drive into the hole. It clanks twice as it goes in. With a satisfied nod, Evian puts the cat back in the bookshelf, turned so the hole in the side isn’t too obvious.

  Then she spends the rest of the evening on the couch, with a cup of herbal tea in one hand and a novel in the other.

  Clothilde crouches next to the couch, trying to read over Evian’s shoulder but I’m not sure she’s very successful. Every time Evian turns a page, Clothilde makes a whining noise.

  “Is she a faster reader than you, Clothilde?” I ask with a smile.

  “I’m out of practice,” she practically growls. “I’ve read nothing but tombstones for thirty years.” She stops talking as she leans forward trying to read the bottom of the current page before it disappears.

  “I miss reading stories,” she whispers. “And this is a good one.”

  Giving her a genuine smile this time, I say, “I won’t distract you. Practice your reading skills. Enjoy the story.”

  She doesn’t reply but her lips are set in a determined line and I have no doubt she’ll be able to keep up with Evian in no time.

  I might be mistaken but I think that the next time she finishes a page, Evian takes a little break to take a sip of her tea before turning the page.

  Thirty-Nine

  The next morning Evian takes the car again. She grumbles to herself behind the wheel all the way to the police station, where she picks up Doubira, and then she grumbles a bit lo
uder as she drives them out of the city toward the north.

  When we worked together, Stéphane lived in a two-bedroom apartment not too far from the police station. Life seems to have treated him well; he now lives in a relatively large house with a huge expanse of neatly cut lawn, a swing set, and several fruit trees on the outskirts of one of the many villages surrounding Toulouse.

  It’s calm. It’s beautiful. It’s remote.

  It’s not at all how I would have pictured Stéphane’s home.

  Neither Doubira nor Evian have called ahead to tell my old partner they are coming but he doesn’t seem particularly surprised when they’re at his door. He must have seen it coming after whatever Tulle told him on the phone yesterday.

  While Evian introduces herself and her partner, I take the opportunity to study Stéphane.

  Thirty years is a really long time. Especially when you yourself have been frozen in time and stuck in a tiny cemetery. I think I’d somehow assumed that nobody on the outside, the people who were still alive, changed any more than I did.

  My mother’s an old lady, my sister is well beyond middle-aged. And my partner, who was just past forty when I died in 1988, is now…I make a quick mental calculation…seventy-six. Jeez, he looks it, too.

  He still has hair on his head but it’s completely white and so thin I can see the numerous marks the sun has left on his scalp. His nose seems bigger and is covered in busted veins and he’s wearing glasses that he didn’t need when I worked with him. His skin is darkly tanned, with wrinkles so deep around the eyes, they can qualify as folds.

  But it’s still Stéphane, and his voice is the same—a tiny little bit higher than you’d expect from his physique.

  “I talked to your colleague yesterday,” he says. “There’s some news about Robert?”

  “Yes, there is,” Evian says. “Would you mind inviting us in so we can talk?”

  “Certainly.” Stéphane lets them in but doesn’t offer anything to drink, hot or cold. I’m honestly a little surprised because he never appeared to be awkward in social interactions when we worked together.