And that was worth honoring. Allie cast an assessing glance at the sky, before looking around behind her. From the historical account she’d read she knew that Frank Wallace, the young man who’d brought Eugene home from battle, saw to it that he was properly buried if not precisely among family, at least in familiar surroundings, was interred in this cemetery as well. Allie wasn’t entirely sure where, but there were some family plots on the other side of the ruin of the old church, and she figured that was the best place to look. She’d like to leave the daisy there as a token of… appreciation, she guessed. She thought of Sarah, and knew what it was to have just the sort of friend who could be counted on no matter the circumstances.
Gathering up the basket, Allie wound her way through the graveyard, glancing at the names on grave markers, sometimes marveling over the length or brevity of a life. That life itself could be condensed to dates on a piece of marble.
Finally, Allie found a family plot enclosed by a wrought iron fence, the large, central headstone of which said Wallace.
“Here we are.” She tried to open the gate, had to sit the basket down to work the corroded latch with both hands. It finally gave with a rusty squeal of hinges, and she wiped her dirty hands on her pants. She’d need to change before Mason came by to pick her up.
Thinking of Mason gave her a little flutter in the stomach as she picked her way among the markers. She still, when she really considered it, couldn’t quite believe that her life – that space between the dates – had come to include a man such as Mason. Oh, she knew he was only human– he annoyed her often enough to be sure of that. And she certainly didn’t like disparaging herself, as she’d already done entirely too much of that for one lifetime.
But facts were facts, and Mason was… well, Mason. And he appeared to be interested – genuinely interested – in her.
She wasn’t entirely sure whether she should feel terrified or delighted.
“Cautious,” she reminded herself. “What you should feel is cautious. And lustful. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel that, too. Oh.” While she was giving herself a lecture, she’d practically tripped over Frank Wallace’s headstone. Actually, she had tripped over it.
Righting herself, Allie studied the marker. Frank Marshall Wallace. Beloved son, brother, friend.
He’d never married, she realized. Even though he’d lived a good, long life after the war.
Well, marriage wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, if you asked her. Not according to her family track record, anyway. But she did hope that Frank had lived surrounded by family and friends who were just as loyal as he’d been.
She laid the single, yellow gerbera on his grave. “Thank you,” she said. “His family at the time may not have appreciated what you did, but this member of the current generation thinks you must have been a lovely person.”
Feeling just a little silly having spent so much time addressing inanimate hunks of rock over the past hour, Allie refrained from saying goodbye.
She closed the gate behind her, checked her watch and determined she’d have enough time to take a shower before Mason stopped by to pick her up. She would have been perfectly happy to meet him at the restaurant they’d agreed to, considering it was within easy walking distance from Tucker and Sarah’s and she was the one with a car at her disposal – thanks to her new battery. But he’d sniffed disdainfully in that very British way he had and Allie had given in. Mason, surprisingly enough, seemed to be approaching this date thing with what could only be described as propriety.
On the way to her car, Allie glanced over, and noticed that the door to the old mausoleum stood ajar. “Well crap,” she said, shoulders slumping. Apparently the local teens had cut the padlock. It was a favorite spot of theirs to hang out and drink and God knew what else. She didn’t think Will had noticed it when he was here, or he would have called someone to come over and put a new lock on. She guessed she’d have to let him know.
A sound, very much like a groan, stalled Allie in the act of reaching for her cell phone.
She froze. Maybe it had just been the wind, or…
No. That definitely sounded like someone, or something, was hurting. Crap, she thought. If some kid had gone in there and drank himself into a stupor and then fallen and hit his head…
Irritation warring with concern, Allie reached for her phone and marched over to the mausoleum. It sat in the shadow of a moss-draped oak, built of masonry that had turned the mottled gray of, well, decayed flesh with the passing of time. Heavy iron doors blocked out any light. She couldn’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would find it a fun place to get drunk. And she even liked all the spooky stories and legends and atmosphere to be found around Sweetwater. Hell, that’s what her walking tours were all about.
But this was carrying things too far.
“Hello?” Allie called out. She didn’t want to startle the presumed idiot, whoever it was. She knew all too well that drunks were unpredictable, especially if it was someone who was afraid of being caught trespassing by the sister of the Chief of Police. “Are you hurt? Can I call someone to come and help you?” It seemed to be prudent to add “I have my phone right here.”
Silence. Either she’d scared them, or they were otherwise incapacitated. Allie hesitated. She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t the type to go blundering into the darkened basement – or mausoleum – because she’d heard a strange noise. But she also wasn’t the type to walk away from someone who might require assistance.
She edged a bare step closer. “Look, if you can hear me, can you just answer? I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I just want to know if you need help.”
When no answer was forthcoming, Allie decided that she’d go ahead and call Will… except that Will had just left to check up on one of those lines he had cast. She sighed. This didn’t exactly strike her as an emergency, so she hesitated to dial 911. She guessed she could call Alan. He was second in command, and if he was busy also he could just send one of the other officers out here. At the very least, they’d need to replace the padlock on the mausoleum anyway.
She hunted up his number. Just as it started to ring, Allie heard a noise behind her.
She whirled, but she didn’t quite move quickly enough to avoid the blow.
It was the last thing she remembered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“THANKS for meeting with me,” Will said, shaking the hand of Joe Duncan, Sheriff for Burke County, Georgia.
“No problem,” the man said, adjusting his belt as they began walking toward the gate of the Old Church cemetery. “Truth is, this has been stuck in my craw. Not much in the way of leads to begin with, and those have pretty much dried up. Being as the victims here have been dead goin’ on two hundred years, it’s gotten pushed to the bottom of the pile under the theft and domestic violence and drug problems we got that involve real live people. Some people were real offended, of course, by what was done to these soldiers – I’ve got this one woman,” he shot Will a glance that suggested that should be all he needed to say on that matter – “Daughter of the American Revolution type that clings to her family tree with more tenacity than Kudzu. One of the graves desecrated was her great-great-great cousin twice removed or whatever, and she puts a bee in my bonnet round about once a week. She’s a regular pain in the ass, to be honest, but I can’t offer information I don’t have.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Will agreed. He was sympathetic to the sheriff’s position – Will had dealt with his fair share of pains in the ass, after all. But his lips twitched as he considered the fact that he’d left Allie next to their great-great-great uncle’s grave just before driving up here. Knowing his little sister, her reverence for history and her unshakeable loyalty to her family – living or dead – he felt confident that she might be putting a bee in his bonnet on a regular basis if Eugene’s grave had been further disturbed.
But luckily, if you could call it that, she and Mason had interrupted the culprit – or culprits – b
efore they could finish the job.
If, in point of fact, digging up the grave was what they’d intended.
“The gates are locked,” the Sheriff told him as he took a key ring from his pocket. “They stay locked, seein’ as how nobody much comes around here anymore except maybe on Memorial or Veterans Day. The American Legion takes care of the place, and it was the post commander who came out here to mow the grass what discovered the graves had been opened.”
The lock gave way with a snick and the old iron gate swung open on rusty hinges. The cemetery wasn’t all that different from the one in Sweetwater. Faded marble headstones leaned drunkenly amid the leaves and shadows of the oaks that stood as sentinels – and had likely been saplings when the dead were laid to rest here. Being as it was more out of the way, well removed from the closest town, this cemetery would certainly receive less traffic. Though the grass had been recently cut, they had to step carefully around crumbling headstones until they reached a spot where the soil had been trampled by dozens of pairs of feet.
“These four graves here,” Duncan pointed to the patches of churned up earth, the headstones newly replaced in a staunchly upright position. “And that one there. That’s the little girl’s grave.” He shook his graying head in disgust. “Bad enough to drag the soldiers from their final resting places, but a baby? Some people just ain’t got no respect.”
Will squatted down, studied the area as the smell of it – dirt and grass and the tang of decay just under it – filled his nostrils. He’d already seen the photos of the open coffins, seen the remains of their inhabitants – stripped of clothes and whatever effects with which they’d been buried. But he’d driven all this way because he’d wanted to get a sense of the scene, of the nature of the crime.
He lifted a handful of soil, let it sift through his fingers. Grave dirt. Some people believed there was power in it.
Will wasn’t one of them, but he did believe in the power of the almighty dollar.
“Was any dirt removed from the scene?”
“Not enough so that we noticed. Didn’t seem like any bones were removed or anything, either, least not from what the coroner could tell. Just the clothes and whatnot. Now, there were some were speculating on it being devil worshippers. Hell, some people even suggested they might be zombies, but that’s just a bunch of hogwash from people who watch too much TV. I considered it might be some other kind of occult ritual – and I know from speakin’ with you that you’re familiar with what I’m talking about. But this looked a little too clinical for that, if you know what I mean. No evidence of ritual that I could see.”
“You think it’s relic hunters,” Will said.
“Don’t see how it could be otherwise. I’ve heard of that sort of thing before, know that there are people – collectors – who’ll pay a pretty penny for historical memorabilia. Can’t imagine who’d want something as had been taken from a nearly two hundred year old corpse, but then I guess those pyramids in Egypt are a hell of a lot older than that, and people didn’t seem to suffer any compunction about picking them clean. Course, those artifacts were made of gold, I guess, and here we’re talking about rotted cloth and buttons. Maybe some sort of personal mementoes. Anyway, I’m hoping that eventually whoever did this will try to sell an item to the wrong person, but so far they haven’t been dumb enough to advertise on eBay. I’ve got my people watching, we’ve got alerts set up, but like I said – so far, no luck.”
Will glanced up, noted the rays of the sun were fading where they shone through the canopy. It would be dark soon. He needed to head back, help Harlan get their father settled for the night.
Or as settled as they could, anyway.
“I appreciate you taking the time to show me,” Will said as he stood up, brushed his hands on his pants.
Burke shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I’m old enough to believe that sometimes it helps to put eyes on something rather than just looking at photos or reading case notes or looking something up on the damn internet.”
Will’s answering smile was wry. “Youngsters these days just don’t know how much fun it is to get your hands dirty”
Burke’s laugh sounded like rusty nails rattling around in a can.
When they were back at the gates and Burke was locking up behind them, Will considered one last thing. “You didn’t happen to find any sort of ribbon near the gravesites, did you?”
“Ribbon?” Burke paused in the act of turning the key. “What sort of ribbon?”
“Black, about half an inch wide. Little loopy things along the edges.”
“Can’t say that we did.” He put the keys in his pocket. “You think this is connected to what you got going on down in Sweetwater?”
“I don’t have any evidence – nothing concrete, anyway – to connect them.” But the fact that Jimmy Owen had lived in Burke County for a spell had his instincts twitching.
Burke might be getting older, but his gaze was still razor sharp. “You and me, we both know that you wouldn’t have driven all this way if you didn’t have your suspicions.”
“Oh, I have them. And if I can find anything to back them up, I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop. That way you can calm that bee in your bonnet before you’re tempted to swat it.”
“That’s a plan,” the older man smiled, teeth flashing white in his ebony face.
Thunder rumbled and they both glanced at the darkening sky. “Looks like we got another storm coming,” Burke observed.
“Seems that way,” Will agreed, shaking the other man’s hand. “I better get on home.”
MASON’S hands slipped along the leather steering wheel, and he looked down at them in surprise. His palms were sweating.
He checked the dashboard controls, held his fingertips to the vent to ensure that cool air was indeed blowing. The brief storm that had blown through a short while ago had left behind a sort of sticky residue in the air, like a meteorological version of liquid cement, but the temperature in the car showed a perfectly reasonable seventy-two degrees.
Yet his palms were sweating.
Bloody hell. Was he actually… nervous?
Mason couldn’t recall the last time he’d been nervous. His first professional stage performance, perhaps?
No, he remembered feeling more excited at that point than anything. Maybe he had been nervous, but it had been subsumed by the thrill of doing what he did best, by the applause, the accolades from the audience. He always experienced one brief, terrifying moment of panic just before he stepped onto the stage, but once he was there, his own fears, his own desires and needs faded. He became the character. He was no longer Mason Armitage.
And that was the problem, he acknowledged, as he held the wheel steady around the bend in the road that led to Allie’s home. He wasn’t playing someone else tonight. There was no script. And he’d never particularly cared for improvisation.
“You’re an idiot,” he told himself aloud. It was a date, a simple date, with a woman that he knew. More, a woman he considered a friend.
Which was what made him nervous, he acknowledged. For all his social acquaintances, for all the camaraderie with the cast and crew of the various productions, the endless amounts of time he’d spent in close quarters on the set, the interaction with fans, Mason – somewhere deep inside his soul – was a loner. He did not easily let people in.
Allison… his hands tightened on the wheel. Allison was someone whom he wanted to let in. But the problem was that he wasn’t entirely sure what she would find there.
He wasn’t entirely sure that he knew how to simply be… himself.
Annoyed with himself – whoever that may be – Mason decided that it was time to disembark from the Introspection Train before it totally derailed. It was dinner, for bleeding Christ’s sake. One dined, engaged in small talk, and hoped for a bit of physical interaction afterward.
He could bloody well handle that.
He parked in the circular drive in front of the columned verandah, noting that without
electric lights shining in the windows the house looked much as it must have two centuries ago. The odd half-light between dusk and moonrise seemed to make the house glow with a spectral light of its own, so that for a brief instant it appeared to have no more substance than one of the wraiths Allison talked about on her tours. The air seemed to shimmer, causing Mason to blink as he turned off the ignition.
No lights, he thought again, noting the significance for the first time. He hoped their power hadn’t been knocked out by the storm. He checked his cell phone to be sure Allie hadn’t tried to reach him, but there were no missed calls or texts. Not from her, anyway.
Frowning, he retrieved the gift bag containing the necklace from the front seat and headed up the steps to the front door.
His first knock wasn’t answered. Nor was the second. Finally, when he was about to raise his fist for the third time, he found himself facing Branson across the threshold.
“I’ve woken you,” Mason said.
“What?” Bran ran a hand over his rather striking face, which currently bore the imprint of whatever patterned object it had been resting upon. “Oh. Yeah. No problem.” He stepped back, gestured Mason inside. “Here, let me turn on some lights.” He hit a switch, and the mellow glow from several wall sconces brightened the hall. “Sorry. Dad went down early, Harlan went out and I must have crashed while reading on the sofa. No offense to Tucker’s latest book,” he added with a rueful smile. “Just catching up from the sleep I missed over the past week, I guess.”
“The first week of a new production is always hectic,” Mason agreed.
“Well, it went a lot smoother than it otherwise would have if you hadn’t stepped in to help. I’m indebted to you.”
Mason waived that away, nodding toward the light fixtures. “I’m relieved to see that your power wasn’t affected by the storm.”
Admit One (Sweetwater Book 2) Page 15
