Beyond the Grave

by R. W. Wallace

  “I guess it’s possible.”

  I keep my eyes glued to the shimmer on Stéphane. It does have the color and consistency, if that’s the right word to use, of most ghosts. It looks sort of solid but at the same time it’s sort of translucent.

  “What’s going on?”

  I jump back with a yell when Stéphane screams the question. Clothilde’s reaction is much the same.

  It’s Stéphane’s voice but his mouth didn’t move. Not the real one and not the ghost one.

  Clothilde leans back down to speak in Stéphane’s ear. “Are you dead?”

  I swallow a laugh at the oddness of the situation. “Stéphane?” I say. “Can you hear us?”

  “Of course I can hear you! But I can’t see a bloody thing. And I can’t move. What the hell is going on? How can this be legal?”

  Okay, it’s definitely not the live body of Stéphane who’s talking, so we’re going to go with the hypothesis of him being a ghost.

  Apparently stuck in his own body at the moment, to the point of being blind.

  I take a few seconds to think about how to present this to Stéphane. How do you convince someone they’re dead? And with the paramedics picking up their stuff, I don’t think we have much time.

  Stéphane speaks first. “Who— What’s going— I know that voice. But that’s not— I saw you die with my own eyes! I put a bullet through your heart!”

  “Nice to see you again, too, Stéphane.” This reunion is a lot less satisfactory than I’d have thought. “I’m afraid you’re right, though. I did die. In fact, I’ve been a ghost for thirty years.”

  I share a look with Clothilde—we’ve had a lot of odd conversations with new ghosts over the years but I do believe this takes the cake.

  “And if you can hear us now,” I continue, my voice taking on a gleeful tone that I’m not even going to apologize for, “it means you’re a ghost too! Welcome to the other side.”

  Clothilde is bent over in silent laughter, her wavy hair dancing with mirth and eyes alight with mischief.

  “You’re a— But that can’t be—” There’s a break, where I assume Stéphane tries to take a calming breath—except breaths don’t change anything when you’re a ghost. “Are you holding me captive?”

  “What? No, of course not.” I snort a laugh. “Ghosts don’t have corporeal forms. We can pretend to touch each other but you’ll never actually feel the touch of anything or anyone ever again.”

  Okay, that took a dark turn.

  I shake out of it, and continue. “I’ve never actually seen someone become a ghost before but I think you’ll only be let out once you accept you’re a ghost. And that’s a lot easier when you’ve spent a couple of days banging on your casket, trying to get out. Fun times, you’ll see.”

  The gurney starts to move and I move with them. Evian is still on the floor, talking to Doubira, so I only have until Stéphane is moved out of the office. “Seriously, though, Stéphane, I need your help. We’re on a schedule here and we need all the information you have on Lambert. That man needs to pay for everything he’s done.

  “You owe me this much,” I add. “After pulling the trigger on your own partner, it’s honestly the least you could do.”

  “I’m really sorry about that,” Stéphane says, his voice small. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  Clothilde snorts but keeps quiet. We don’t want to waste any time on Stéphane wondering who she is.

  “There’s always a choice,” I say, feeling like a cliché.

  “You were as good as dead already, Robert. The poison they gave you was really strong and you were in a lot of pain. You could say it was a mercy shot.”

  “You could have called for help but decided instead to put a bullet through my heart, Stéphane.”

  “And I’ve regretted that choice every day of my life.” Stéphane makes a noise that might have been an attempt at a sigh—again, a learned skill when you no longer have lungs. “I was scared and young. They told me you would die anyway and that if I didn’t do as they said, they would come after me and my family. They promised me a lot of money. I took it.”

  We’re getting dangerously close to the outer door of Lambert’s office and I’m not sure if we’ll be able to follow once they pass through.

  “About Lambert—”

  “I’ve always wanted to apologize to you, Robert,” Stéphane says. “I’m sorry, all right? I did the wrong thing and messed up big time.” A short pause. “I’m ready to pay for my sins.”

  A ripple runs through the shimmer on Stéphane’s skin, then the whole thing blinks out.

  The paramedics push the gurney through the door, closing the door behind them, making it impossible for us to follow.

  “Did he just move on?” Clothilde asks. “Was his unfinished business with you and he got it over with before even being declared dead? That’s so unfair!”

  I agree with the sentiment but what’s more important is that Stéphane is now beyond our reach.

  Lambert is going to walk.

  Forty-Six

  Evian and Doubira spend almost two days finishing their report. It’s not on the murders of dozens of young girls spanning over three decades. It’s not on the murder of Clothilde Humbert, or even Gisèle Grand. It’s on the disappearance and murder of one Robert Villemur.

  Since I had been involved in the investigation of the murder of Gisèle Grand, she is also mentioned, and Evian recommends for someone to reopen the case to look for links with the ongoing trial of Gérard de Villenouvelle. I hope whoever gets that case will be able to bring some closure to Gisèle’s sister.

  The report mentions Maître Laurent Lambert exactly once, to list him as a witness to Stéphane’s confession.

  Evian was nice enough to proofread the whole report on paper, letting us ghosts read over her shoulder. I’m pretty sure she did it on purpose, though not quite consciously.

  This morning, Evian and Doubira march into Diome’s office, closing the door behind them, to officially hand over the report.

  The man still towers over everyone, Doubira included, but nothing in his manner is intimidating. He invites Evian and Doubira to have a seat and he even has a cup of coffee for Doubira and a cup of tea for Evian at the ready. The poor plant on his desk is looking even worse than the last time we were here, its leaves hanging limply over the rim of its pot.

  “Lieutenant Robert Villemur is officially a hero who died in service to our country,” Evian says as she pushes the folder across the desk toward Diome.

  I know that isn’t exactly true. I know it’s the way they present it so that the police will look good and so that the big boss will be happy. Attempting—and failing—to fix your own mistakes doesn’t make you a hero.

  And yet, somehow, it changes everything.

  Someone thinks I did the right thing. That I did something worthwhile. There’s an official document that will make it go down in history that I was a good guy.

  It might be pathetic but it makes me happy.

  I did something right.

  “This is what Madame Spangero wanted?” Evian adds after a second’s pause.

  Diome pats the report but doesn’t open it. He already received an electronic copy of one of the earlier drafts.

  His words are measured when he replies to Evian. “We do not solve cases to do as anyone wants, no matter which position they occupy.”

  Evian gives a perfunctory smile. “I didn’t say what the report says is wrong. I would never do that, even if it means losing my job. But the scope of this report is somewhat different from what you brought me down here from Paris to do.”

  Diome raises one meaty finger from the folder. “But there is a link between the two. This was merely the first step in a much larger case.”

  “Is that how you’re presenting it to Spangero? Does this mean I’m stayin
g in Toulouse?”

  “For the time being, yes, I would like for you to stay here a while longer. Even this report makes it clear that at least two officers—Villemur and Petit—were corrupt while working the cases of assumed suicides. As long as we cannot ascertain that they were the only two, anyone local is a suspect.”

  Evian glances at Doubira, who is, in fact, a local.

  “I have taken the liberty of assuming Doubira is clean,” Diome says gravely, “as he was still in school when the most recent murders were perpetrated. It is not possible for one person to work a case such as this alone.”

  “True,” Evian says with the beginnings of a smile. She’s running a finger along the rim of her cup of tea but has yet to take a sip. “I have much appreciated Doubira’s help on this case and hope I’ll be allowed to bring him along for whatever comes next?”

  “Certainly,” Diome says then turns to face Doubira. “If young Doubira agrees to the mission?”

  As Doubira takes a couple of seconds to reply, I really look at him for the first time since we entered the room. He’s sitting straight as usual, his clothes clean and neatly ironed. He’s drunk about half his coffee already and is holding the little cup in his large hands in his lap.

  Hands that are a little too tense for simply holding a cup of coffee.

  He licks his lips and forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course I’d like to continue working with Evian on this case. Someone has to make sure those young women find justice.”

  Diome nods. “How are you feeling these days, Doubira? Sleeping well?”

  Doubira gulps. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You were involved in an altercation where a man lost his life.” Diome’s low voice is calming and trust-inspiring. I like this man. He’s the kind of man I’d have done well to follow back in the day and would be proud to work beside today. “This was the first time you fired your weapon outside of training, yes?”

  Doubira gulps and nods.

  “There is no shame in having feelings, Monsieur Doubira. In fact, I would go so far as to say it would be a bad sign if you were indifferent. But there is no doubt that you made the right choice of action. The lives of three persons were at stake.”

  Doubira nods again but doesn’t lift his eyes from his cup.

  “I will make certain you are set up for as many meetings with our psychologist as you need,” Diome says. His words and tone are kind but it’s also clear that this is not something Doubira will be allowed to refuse.

  Diome turns back to Evian. “There is one element missing from your report.”

  Evian’s eyebrows jump up. “Is that so?”

  Leaning back in his chair, making the poor thing scream in protest, Diome folds his large hands in his lap. “We still do not know why Monsieur Villemur was buried next to Mademoiselle Humbert. We do not know who buried him. And we do not know—officially—who poisoned him. If, indeed, he was poisoned.”

  He’s asking her to look into Laurent Lambert. Not directly, since he hasn’t mentioned the man by name and the lawyer is in no way presented as a bad guy in the report. But in this room, we all know he was the poisoner.

  “Spangero will be on board with me looking into this?” Evian asks.

  “Spangero does not run this police station. I do. She may give guidelines but I will not allow for her to stop an important investigation without grounds.”

  Does that mean he thinks she has grounds for stopping us from investigating the murders of the young women?

  Evian finally takes a sip of her tea, although it doesn’t seem to be to her taste. She fiddles with the bracelet, turning it around her wrist several times, making my little finger tingle.

  “I will investigate the link between Robert Villemur and Clothilde Humbert,” she says. “Will you expect frequent or detailed reports?”

  Diome shakes his head. “I trust you, Evian. Simply let me know if you need my assistance in any way.”

  So he doesn’t want to be in the loop, probably to make sure Spangero won’t have an excuse to stop them again. Should get interesting.

  Clothilde, who has spent the entire meeting perched on a low cabinet at the back of the office, speaks up. “So now that you’re officially a hero, can we finally look into my case? You think I’ll be a hero too?”

  “I’m sure you will be,” I tell her with a huge grin. And we’re going to be there with Evian, every step of the way.

  Forty-Seven

  The day is warm enough for Evian to forego her jacket. She’s wearing her usual jeans, boots and a simple, white t-shirt that she’s already starting to sweat through. Doubira is clothed much the same but he doesn’t seem to be having any trouble with the heat. His step is light although the worry that has been etched between his eyebrows since he shot Stéphane is ever-present.

  We’re back at the cemetery. Our cemetery.

  It feels odd to see it from the outside. Everything is just a little different, seen from a new and different angle. The sun reflects off the bronze church roof in a glare that I never experienced from inside the walls. The wall around the cemetery looks gray and sad and stark from the outside, whereas the inside was covered in green growth almost from one end to the other.

  Some things are still the same, of course. The wisteria along the north wall is in full bloom and the large leaves of the plane trees along the main path are creating comfortable shadows for visitors, bidding us welcome. The usual graves have fresh flowers—I see both roses on the Valentin tomb and chrysanthemums on the Fabre grave—and it looks like there’s been a new burial since we left. A wooden cross stands at the head of a rectangle of fresh dirt.

  I don’t see any new ghosts, so I hope the poor soul got to move on directly instead of lingering here, all alone in the cemetery.

  “What if I can’t get back out?” Clothilde says nervously by my shoulder. “What if I get stuck here again?” We’re hovering by Evian’s little rental while Evian gets something from the trunk.

  Clothilde never shows nervousness. That’s not her style. And although I’d love to make fun of her for worrying now, I can’t bring myself to do it. She’s my best friend and genuinely worried and there’s no choice for me but to reassure her.

  “You managed to separate from your body in the hospital, you can do it again. As long as Evian has that one bone on her, you’ll be able to follow.” At least, that’s what I’m banking on. Because I don’t want to lose Clothilde, either.

  “What if she decides to throw away the finger bones?” Clothilde insists, her clear eyes widening and one hand running through her hair.

  I shush her. “Don’t say that out loud and put any ideas in her head.” Evian and Doubira walk toward the cemetery gate and as I trail after them, I sign for Clothilde to follow. “Come on, let’s keep talking to her and tell her to keep the bones.”

  The thing is, if Evian dumps the bones, we’ll both be stuck here. The rest of my body might still be in a morgue somewhere, but since I’m in no way close to it, I’m stuck with the finger bone.

  Clothilde, on the other hand, will need to decide to follow the one bone that can leave this cemetery after our visit, and not the rest of her body, which is now back in its grave. She did it once, so I trust she can do it again, but if she needs reassurance, I’ll give it.

  It feels odd to be back to the place we haunted for thirty years. We’ve been away mere weeks, but it feels much longer.

  This cemetery was my home for a long time, and I was happy here. But it’s in the past now. My future is out in the world, helping Evian with solving the case of mine and Clothilde’s murders.

  As we approach the area toward the back gate where Clothilde’s grave is, I notice something else that is new. “They’ve put your whole name on the gravestone, Clothilde.”

  Clothilde runs off ahead of us, bending at the waist as if she needs to
be a mere hand’s breadth away from the granite to read the freshly engraved golden letters. It not only has her first and last names, but also date of birth and date of death.

  Clothilde straightens and dons a bored expression as if unbothered by the new discovery but I know she’s touched. She never said anything, but being the only one with nothing but a first name and a date of death on her headstone never sat well with her.

  Evian opens the bag she brought with her from the car. She’d emerged from her bedroom with it in hand this morning, so I don’t know what’s in it. Apparently something for Clothilde.

  “I have no idea if this would actually fit,” Evian says to the headstone. “And I wish I could have given it to you before they buried you again, but I’m thinking late is better than never. I haven’t worn them in over twenty years and won’t be needing them anytime soon.” She empties the content of the bag on Clothilde’s grave, one item at a time. First, a white blouse. Then, a worn pair of jeans. And finally, a pair of red Converse.

  Clothilde stares at the clothes, her mouth hanging open and her hands going toward them by their own accord. “How did she get everything right?” she whispers. “She’s never seen us.”

  I’m as speechless as Clothilde. Evian has brought her her go-to ensemble, the one she’s the most comfortable with. The one that fits her so much better than the horrid yellow dress she was buried in.

  Clothilde’s eyes leave the clothes to land on Evian, filled to the rim with gratitude and hero-worship. “You even got the color of the shoes right. How did you do that? Even I haven’t seen their color in thirty years.”

  I glance at the shoes and a smile stretches across my face as I mentally insert their color into all my memories of Clothilde perching on tombstones and letting her Converse-clad feet swing through the stone.

  Evian glances around her—or maybe looks up at Clothilde, nothing would surprise me right now—then says, pretending it’s for Doubira, “I wasn’t actually sure about the shoe color, but from what we’ve learned, she seemed the kind to like the red ones.”