The Restorer tgqs-1

by Amanda Stevens

  I carried the tea out to the office only to find Devlin stretched out on the chaise, fast asleep.

  Sitting down behind my desk, I returned to the images, but the longer I sifted through the now-familiar symbols and epitaphs, the less enthusiasm I had for the task. I was beginning to feel a little off—weakness in my knees, an uncomfortable hollowness in my stomach. The same symptoms I’d experienced the last time Devlin had fallen asleep in my office.

  I told myself I wouldn’t go to him this time. I would just let him sleep, and when he woke up, we would resume talking about the case or he would leave. And that would be that.

  I wouldn’t go to him.

  But, of course, I did go to him because I couldn’t stay away. I stood over him, bracing myself for the jolt, for that breathless pressure in my chest, and when it came, it still took me by storm. My legs buckled and I sat down heavily on the chaise beside him.

  Devlin’s eyes flew open. He stared at me intently, but I had the strange notion that he wasn’t really seeing me. That he might not even be fully awake yet.

  Something fleeted across his face, an unbearable sadness that came and went so fast I wasn’t even sure that I’d seen it. But I was reminded of what he’d told me that afternoon about his nightmares.

  And then I wake up and remember that it’s real.

  He sat up and glanced around. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. We were going through the Oak Grove images and you fell asleep.”

  He sat back against the chaise and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “What is it about this place?” he muttered

  “It’s not this place. It’s you,” I told him. “You’ve had a long day. We both have. I feel a little drained myself.”

  He frowned at that. “How long was I out?”

  “A half hour. Forty-five minutes, maybe.” It occurred to me then that he might be wondering why I was sitting beside him. Quickly, I grabbed the afghan from the back of the chaise. “I thought you might be cold.”

  As I pulled the cover over him, his hand closed on mine. I knew that I should pull away from him. The ebb and flow of energy between us made me light-headed, but I didn’t move.

  “I feel like I’ve been asleep for hours.” His head rested against the back of the chaise, but his eyes were still on me. We spent a few moments of uneasy silence and I did contemplate getting up and returning to my desk. But his hand was still on mine. I couldn’t extract myself without some awkwardness.

  “Who are you named after?” he asked unexpectedly.

  I looked at him in surprise. “No one that I know of.”

  “There’s no story behind your name?”

  “Should there be?”

  “I thought it might be a family name. It suits you, though. It’s a little old-fashioned.”

  I bristled at that. “There’s nothing old-fashioned about the name or me.”

  His eyes glinted. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I’m old-fashioned, too. It’s how we’re brought up down here. Saddled with tradition, yoked with expectations. And all those damn rules.”

  “I know about rules,” I said. “You have no idea.”

  His hand slid away from my wrist and he entwined his fingers with mine. I couldn’t have been more shocked and I wondered if he could feel the way I trembled.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he said on a sigh. He held up our linked hands and studied them, as if trying to divine some elusive message in the way our fingers were entangled.

  “Why not?” I knew why he shouldn’t be here, but I was dying to hear his take. “I’m not so old-fashioned that I can’t be alone with a man in my own home.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean…I shouldn’t be here. With you.” He put a subtle emphasis on the pronoun. “You scare me.”

  “I do?”

  He grew very still. “Sometimes you make me forget.”

  My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it might burst from my chest. “Is that bad?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve held on for so long…I’m not sure I’m ready to let go.”

  “Then you shouldn’t.”

  He said my name then. Just that. Amelia. But in the slow, proper drawl of the Charleston aristocrat, stringing out the syllables with an elegant, imperious cadence that was tinged with decadence, indulgence and the kind of secrets that can only fester in the deepest shadows of the South.

  He cupped my face and drew me toward him, staring for the longest time into my eyes. I thought that he meant to kiss me and my eyes closed in anticipation. Instead, he moved his thumb slowly back and forth across my bottom lip, exactly the way I had imagined in the restaurant. It wasn’t a kiss, hardly even a caress, but no one had ever done anything so sensuous to me in my life. It was as if he’d read my mind that night, discerned my innermost thoughts and desires.

  He pulled me down against him, wrapped his arms around me and we lay there in silence until he drifted back off. I could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath my hand. It grew stronger as he slept and I grew weaker.

  Still, I didn’t move.

  I stayed in Devlin’s arms until the scent of jasmine became unbearable in my office.

  Then I got up and went over to the window to look for her. Shani was in the swing, moving slowly back and forth, her long hair swaying in the breeze.

  She hadn’t come alone this time. Mariama stood at the very edge of the shadows, her taunting gaze not on her daughter, but on me.

  I heard Devlin leave just before dawn. I’d gone to bed fully dressed and now I slipped from beneath the covers and hurried to the front window to see him off. As he opened the front gate and stepped onto the sidewalk, Mariama and Shani appeared in the gray light. They floated on either side of him as he crossed the street to his car.

  Halfway across, Mariama’s ghost turned to glance over her shoulder. I pulled back from the window, but she knew I was there. And like Shani’s ghost, she wanted me to know she knew.

  I didn’t look out the window again, but I knew when Devlin drove away. The more distance he put between us, the stronger I felt, and it seemed clear to me now that this house, this hallowed sanctuary, could protect me from ghosts, but it could not protect me from Devlin.

  Thirty

  I left the house later that morning freshly showered, dressed and with a renewed sense of purpose. My first stop of the day was the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies, and as I headed around to the side entrance, I wondered if I might be just as well served across the street at Madam Know-It-All’s. My last visit with Dr. Shaw had left me with more questions than answers.

  The same blonde with the same silver adornments greeted me at the front door and ushered me down the hall to Dr. Shaw’s office, then discreetly slid the pocket doors closed behind me.

  The sunlight pouring in through the garden windows dazzled me so that I had to blink and readjust my focus. Dr. Shaw wasn’t at his desk, but stood at the far end of the room, in deep shadows, paging through a thick, leather-bound tome. No sooner had I noticed him than he carelessly tossed the book aside, plucked another from the shelf and riffled almost frantically through the leaves.

  His appearance stunned me. I’d always found a certain absentminded charm in his threadbare attire, but now he looked unkempt, his shirt and trousers so rumpled I thought he must have slept in them. And that gorgeous dome of white hair—the one area of his toilette that seemed to command careful attention—looked dull and lifeless.

  I stood quietly for a moment, not certain he even knew I was about. I cleared my throat, shifted my feet, but nothing budged his attention from his task—shuffling through the pages of yet another book. He was obviously looking for something and it was just as obvious that the nugget he sought remained frustratingly elusive.

  “You can stop fidgeting,” he said without looking up. “I know you’re there.”

  “Have I come at a bad time? I did call first.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m having a rather exasperating morning, I�
�m afraid.”

  “Anything I can do to help? I’m a pretty good researcher.”

  He looked up, smiled faintly, then discarded yet another volume. “It would be hard to enlist your help when I don’t even know what it is I’m looking for.”

  “I’m familiar with that feeling.”

  He walked toward me then and when the light from the window hit him, I realized that my initial impression of him had been superficial. The wrinkled clothing and uncombed hair were the least of it. He didn’t look well. His skin had an unpleasant yellowish tinge, his eyes watery and bloodshot. I wondered if he’d been to sleep at all since the last time I’d seen him.

  His usual elegance was absent, too, as he sat down heavily behind his desk. When he waved me to a chair, I saw a slight tremor in his hand that I hadn’t noticed before.

  “What brings you by so early? Dare I hope you’ve gotten a better look at your shadow man?” His smile was almost pained, as if he found it a struggle to summon even a hint of his usual geniality.

  “No, actually, I’m here for another reason. Another…event.”

  The light now fell upon him harshly, revealing skin pulled so tightly over bone that I might have been conversing with a corpse. Then he shifted in his chair and the illusion thankfully vanished.

  I cleared my throat, wondering if I’d made a mistake in coming here. He was obviously upset and preoccupied, but I couldn’t just get up and leave without an explanation.

  Those glassy eyes were still on me, waiting for me to proceed.

  Again I cleared my throat. “I’m wondering if it’s possible for one human being to unconsciously siphon the energy of another. I’m not talking about emotional energy. I mean physical energy.”

  “I’m not sure the two can be separated,” he said. “After all, emotional well-being can severely impact physical health, can it not? And vice versa.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But I think I know what you’re asking, and the answer is…maybe. You’re familiar with the concept of a psychic vampire?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “There are two schools of thought regarding the psyvamp. One—there is a paranormal entity within such a per son that feeds off the psychic energy of others. And two—social parasitism. People with various personality disorders or those individuals who find themselves in an emotionally or spiritually weakened state can influence others to the point of leaving them feeling physically exhausted and emotionally drained or even severely depressed.”

  I thought of what Ethan had said about Devlin’s emotional state after the accident and the rumors that he had been checked into some sort of sanitarium. If he was emotionally and physically depleted from grief and from his ghosts, might his subconscious search for a way to replenish?

  “How do you stop it?” I asked.

  “The simplest, most effective way is to simply avoid this individual altogether. Cut them out of your life.” He slashed the air with his hand.

  “If that’s not possible…?”

  “You can try confronting them, though I’m not sure how much good that would do. As it happens…” He stared across the desk at me, his eyes so bloodshot they almost appeared to glow red when sunlight hit them. “I find myself in a similar situation.”

  “You have a psychic vampire?” I asked in surprise.

  “Worse. It isn’t my energy that’s being siphoned—it’s my life’s work.”

  “Someone is stealing from you?”

  He made a helpless gesture. “Years of notes, research…leeched so slowly that I didn’t notice until it was too late. Now they have everything they need.”

  I drew a quick breath, alarmed by the note of fear in his voice. “What do you mean?”

  He took a long time answering. “I’m very much afraid the killer of that young woman is someone who is in our midst. Someone who is subtle, cunning and unassuming. Someone we would never suspect…”

  My hand fluttered to my throat, where my pulse had begun to throb almost painfully. “Are you saying you know who the killer is?”

  He seemed to catch himself then and gave a negligible wave with his ring hand. The spark of that silver emblem drew my eyes again. I’d seen it before. I knew I had…but where?

  “It’s a hypothesis only,” he said. “I know nothing more than what I’ve read in the paper.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him. “You haven’t talked to Ethan about your hypothesis? Or about the theft of your papers?”

  “Ethan? No, I haven’t spoken to my son about any of this,” he said with an odd hitch in his voice. Then he swiveled his chair to stare broodingly out the garden window.

  I let myself out in silence.

  Devlin had left me a voicemail. I was to meet him at Oak Grove so that we could walk the cemetery together. On my way, I stopped by the Emerson library for a quick check of the archives.

  As I hurried across the landscaped campus, I kept glancing over my shoulder, keenly aware of Dr. Shaw’s cryptic warning that the killer could be someone in our midst, someone we would least suspect. Even the echo of my footsteps on the stone staircase that led down to the archives seemed ominous and foreboding.

  I’d spent enough time in the basement to know exactly where the Oak Grove files and records were stored. Dr. Shaw’s assertion that his own papers were being stolen made me wonder again about that church book I’d been searching for.

  As I knelt and ran my finger along some of the labels on the boxes, a shadow fell over me. I was so startled, I rocked back on my heels and nearly lost my balance.

  “Are you all right?” Daniel Meakin asked in concern. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you would have heard my footsteps.”

  I’d heard nothing.

  He knelt beside me, and as he put his left hand on one of the boxes to brace himself, his sleeve rode up over his wrist bone and I saw the scar. But it wasn’t just a scar. It was a series of ridges that crisscrossed over one another. There had not been one suicide attempt. There had been many.

  Quickly, I averted my gaze. The light was so hazy in the basement I hoped he hadn’t noticed the slight parting of my lips, the wide-eyed horror of my gaze.

  After a moment, he shifted his position, dropped his hand and the scars were once again hidden by his sleeve.

  “Are you still searching for names to go with those unmarked graves?” he asked.

  “Yes. I keep hoping I’ll run across more records or that missing church book will turn up.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I must have looked through these boxes dozens of times, but I still come down here with the hope of uncovering an elusive piece of information or some unexpected revelation. It’s like a treasure hunt.”

  “It’s addictive,” I said.

  He beamed. “Yes, exactly.” He turned back to the boxes, his gaze moving over them. “It’s a coincidence to find you down here this morning. I was just coming to look through some of the Oak Grove records myself.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I was contacted by a police detective this morning. He has some historical questions about the cemetery, it seems. He wouldn’t say much, only that he’d like to stop by later this afternoon, but he dropped one hint that has me intrigued. He asked if there had been any other buildings on the property, other than the old church, before the cemetery was put in.”

  “Were there?”

  “No…none that I’m aware of.”

  I sensed his hesitance. “You would know, wouldn’t you? You said you’d been through everything down here a number of times.”

  “Yes, but the records are incomplete. As I mentioned the other day, a lot of the old papers were destroyed during and after the war.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the property that might not be common knowledge?”

  “Nothing concrete. But I’ve always assumed that Emerson was built on the site of the old Bedford plantation house. The original home burned down in the late eighteenth century and I wa
s certain the house had been rebuilt over the old site. But now that Detective Devlin has posed the question about Oak Grove, I’m wondering if that might have been the site of the original plantation house.”

  “Wouldn’t there be some mention of it in the county deed books?”

  “Not if they were deliberately removed.”

  I glanced up. “Why would someone do that?”

  He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “To protect whatever it is that Detective Devlin has uncovered in the cemetery.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “You’re talking about someone scrubbing county records, church registers, the university archives…”

  “If one has enough money or influence, one can make anything disappear,” he said softly.

  “That’s a very interesting observation,” I said.

  He shot another furtive look over his shoulder and leaned in a bit. “After our talk the other day, I’ve done some research on the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. There was talk about a connection to Oak Grove long before Afton Delacourt’s murder.”

  “You think someone in that organization destroyed the records?”

  “A collective someone, perhaps. I don’t know. This is all purely speculation on my part, but…I did find something I thought you might be interested in.”

  “Yes?”

  “You wanted to know if you might have run across some of their symbols on old headstones. This is the only one I’ve ever been able to link to the Order.” He produced a paper from his pocket and smoothed out the wrinkles as he placed it on the floor in front of me.

  The emblem was a snake coiled around a talon.

  I stared down at the drawing for the longest time, afraid to glance up because I knew my expression would give me away.

  The symbol was a replica of the one on Dr. Shaw’s ring. Only now I knew where I’d seen it before.