The Restorer

by Amanda Stevens

  After a few moments, the air stilled in a prelude redolent with summer.

  And then it happened.

  The sun sank with a gasping flare, a dying day’s last breath that gilded the treetops and shot a volley of golden arrows down through the leaves. Light danced off stone so that for one split second, the angels shimmered with life, a fleeting animation that always took my breath away.

  As the angels slept under the soft blanket of dusk, I sat waiting for Papa. Finally, I got up and walked back toward the gate. I saw someone standing just outside and I started to call out to him.

  Then with a shudder, I realized it wasn’t Papa. But I knew him. It was the ghost of the old man I’d seen when I was nine years old. I stood on hallowed ground, so he posed no immediate threat to me, but he terrified me just the same. His presence after all these years seemed menacing, a manifestation of the unrest that had afflicted my ordered little kingdom.

  He looked exactly as I remembered him. Tall, gaunt, with long white hair brushing the collar of his suit coat. Glacial eyes and a faintly sinister demeanor.

  I felt another presence and glanced over my shoulder.

  Papa had come up behind me. His hair was white, too, but he kept it cropped close to his head and his eyes were faded, his demeanor remote but not at all threatening.

  He seemed focused on some distant point, but I knew the ghost had caught his attention.

  “You see him, too, don’t you?” I whispered as my gaze strayed back to the gate.

  “Don’t look at him!”

  His harsh tone startled me, though I didn’t outwardly re act. “I’m not.”

  “Here.” He took my arm and turned me toward the angels. “Let’s sit a spell.”

  We sank to the ground, our backs to the ghost, just as we had when I was nine. For the longest time, neither of us spoke, but I could sense Papa’s tension and what I thought might be fear. I shivered in the gathering darkness and drew up my legs, resting my chin on my knees.

  “Papa, who is he? What is he?” I finally asked.

  He wouldn’t look at me, but fixed his gaze instead on the statues. “A harbinger…a messenger. I don’t know.”

  The chill inside me deepened. A harbinger of what? A messenger for whom? “Have you seen him before? I mean…since that day?”

  “No.”

  “Why has he come back? Why now after all these years?”

  “Maybe it’s a warning,” Papa said.

  “What kind of warning?”

  Slowly, he turned to face me. “You tell me, child. Has something happened?”

  And then I knew. Something had happened. Something had shifted in this world and the next. Everything had been changing from the moment John Devlin had stepped out of the mist.

  My arms tightened around my legs. I couldn’t stop shaking.

  Papa placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “What have you done, Amelia?”

  Now it was I who couldn’t look at him. “I met someone. A police detective named John Devlin. He’s haunted by two ghosts, a woman and a little girl. Last night the ghost child came to my garden. Papa, she knew I could see her. She tried to communicate with me. And then this morning, I found a tiny ring in the garden where I saw her disappear.”

  “What did you do with this ring?”

  “I buried it where I found it.”

  “You have to rid yourself of it,” he said, and then his voice took on an edge of something I’d never heard from him before. I couldn’t quite put a name to it. “You have to return it from where it came.”

  I looked at him, startled. “Return it…to the ghost?”

  “Take it to the place where the child died. Or to her grave. Just get rid of it. And promise me you will never see this man again.”

  “I’m not sure it’s that simple.”

  “It is that simple,” he insisted. “There are consequences to breaking the rules. You know that.”

  His stern voice put me on the defensive. “But I didn’t break the rules—”

  “Keep your distance from those who are haunted,” he recited. “If they seek you out, turn away from them, for they constitute a terrible threat and cannot be trusted.”

  I thought of Devlin asleep in my office, draining me of energy. I didn’t dare tell Papa about that.

  “You must not allow this man into your life,” he warned. “You must not tempt fate.”

  “Papa—”

  “Listen to me, Amelia. There are entities you’ve never seen before. Forces I dare not even speak of. They are colder, stronger, hungrier than any presence you can imagine.”

  I caught my breath. “What are you talking about? You mean…ghosts?”

  “I call them the Others,” he said and I had never heard so much dread and despair in a human voice.

  The Others. My heart knocked painfully against my chest. “Why can’t I see them?”

  “Be thankful that you can’t, child. And take care you don’t let them in. Once that door has opened…it cannot be closed.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Have you seen them, Papa?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen them.”

  EIGHT

  The way Papa described the Others—colder, stronger, hungrier than any presence I’d ever known—was terrifying. And yet even on the drive home, a part of me wondered about the timing of such a revelation. Why was he only now telling me about another realm of ghosts that I couldn’t see?

  Was it because he feared the power of the forbidden, the allure of the taboo? Did he want to spook me so thoroughly I’d keep my distance from Devlin?

  It might have worked, too, if Camille Ashby hadn’t called the next day.

  At least that’s what I told myself.

  Not only was Camille my current employer, but she was also one of the most well-connected people in Charleston. In addition to her current position at Emerson University, she sat on the board of almost every historical preservation association in the city. A nod from her was a veritable PR gold mine in my field. So when she called and asked to meet at the cemetery, I knew better than to blow her off.

  I was nervous about seeing Devlin again—especially after Papa’s warning—but I had managed to disabuse myself of the notion that he’d somehow drained my energy while he lay sleeping in my office. Only a ghost could feed on human vitality and Devlin was no apparition. He was a flesh and blood man, handsome and darkly charismatic. The weakness I’d experienced in his presence was nothing more than a physical manifestation of my attraction to him.

  And I was attracted to him. I could admit that now, though I would never admit it to Papa. Devlin’s secretive eyes and brooding demeanor were powerful libations to a closet romantic like me. In spite of his modern trappings, he had an old-world air about him. An intoxicating fusion of Byron, Brontë and Poe with a modern twist.

  And like the fictional creations of the aforementioned, he had a deadly weakness. He was a haunted man.

  For obvious reasons, his ghost child had made a strong impression on me, but my thoughts turned now to the woman. I still wasn’t certain of her relationship to the little girl. I’d sensed a distance between them, an odd disconnect that seemed to belie a motherly bond. She seemed more guardian than maternal protector.

  It was all very mystifying and I had so many questions. Why had the little girl come alone to my garden? If she’d left the ring for me to find, what did it mean? And was Papa right? Should I find a way to return it?

  Now that some time had passed since her visit, the thought of a ghostly communication wasn’t as frightening as it had been. And that in itself was pretty scary—that I could ponder almost casually her motivation in trying to contact me. Even more disturbing, a part of me wanted to find out what she wanted instead of fortifying my defenses against her.

  I supposed like any nightmare, daylight had diluted its power, and as my natural curiosity about her rose to the surface, I had to remind myself yet again of Rules One and Four:

>   Never acknowledge a ghost’s presence and never, ever tempt fate.

  If only I had followed those rules. If only I’d heeded my father’s warning…

  But on that balmy summer afternoon, it was a little too easy to shove aside those early misgivings as I pulled in behind a row of police cruisers and unmarked vehicles parked at the edge of the road.

  Oak Grove was well off the beaten track. At one time, a crude trail led up to the gates, but the ruts had long since been obscured by a thick tangle of scrub brush, vines and the thorny yucca that originally had been planted near certain graves to inhibit a spirit’s movement around the cemetery. Over time the prickly vegetation had spread outside the walls and now served to thwart would-be trespassers rather than ghosts, though apparently not murderers.

  Kicking off my sandals, I reached over the seat for my boots. I never tired of tramping around in old cemeteries, but they were not without hidden dangers. The sunken graves and fallen headstones made perfect sanctuaries for the eastern diamondback. Papa had once told me about finding a den of rattlesnakes in a small graveyard near Trinity. He’d killed twenty-three in one day.

  During the cleanup stage of restorations, I routinely came across all manner of snakes, lizards and newts. The run-of-the-mill creepy-crawlies didn’t concern me; I paid them little mind. But the poisonous snakes got my attention, as did the spiders. I was on high alert as I waded through the tall weeds toward the gates.

  A uniformed officer stood guard at the entrance and I gave him my name. Since I was early for my meeting with Camille and didn’t see her around, I asked for Devlin.

  “He’s expecting me,” I told the officer.

  “You’re the graveyard expert, right? Gate’s open. Keep to the paths and stay out of the cordoned-off area.”

  I nodded. “Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

  “No, but it’s pretty quiet in there. Give a holler. He’s bound to hear you.”

  Thanking him, I passed through the heavy iron gates and paused just inside to glance around. I didn’t see Devlin, or anyone else for that matter, but I had no intention of breaching the solemnity of the cemetery by calling out to him. Papa had taught me early on to treat each graveyard as though I were a guest. Respect the dead, respect the property. Take nothing, leave nothing behind.

  I thought about the basket of shells and pebbles I’d collected as a child from the hallowed ground at Rosehill. I’d never told my father about that stash just as I’d kept silent about the episode with Devlin in my office. Papa wasn’t the only one who had secrets.

  Clouds scuttled over the sun and a welcome breeze wafted across the graves, carrying the distant rumble of conversation somewhere along the wall, where I presumed the police were concentrating their search efforts. As I knelt on one of the mossy stones to tie my boot lace, a female voice drifted down the pathway, followed by the lower cadence of a familiar baritone.

  Why the mere sound of his voice should make me so uneasy, I didn’t know. My first inclination was to hurry away before he could see me. Instead, I ignored my instincts and held my ground, and I would later look back on that decision as a turning point in my relationship with Devlin. I would soon realize that was the moment when the door Papa had warned me about opened a little wider.

  NINE

  I was so caught off guard by Devlin’s nearness that it took me a second to recognize Camille Ashby’s voice and another moment to realize that I might be listening in on a private conversation. Even then, I didn’t make my presence immediately known, but took my time retying my lace.

  “…must be family or friends, someone who is missing her. Surely one of them will come forward now that the story is front-page news,” Camille was saying.

  “One would hope.”

  A pause. “Whoever she is, she can’t be associated with Emerson. I think you understand what I’m saying. The last thing we need is some nosy reporter trying to connect this murder to the other one.”

  “Both bodies were found in the same cemetery,” Devlin said. “A certain amount of speculation is to be expected.”

  A tiny thrill prickled at the base of my spine. Another body had been found in Oak Grove?

  The voices were closing in on me. I rose and made some noise on the stepping stones to give them fair warning. Even so, when they rounded the monument that had hidden me from their view, they both stopped cold.

  I didn’t know why they seemed so shocked to see me or why the sight of them together made me so uncomfortable. I suspected the latter had something to do with the way Camille touched Devlin’s arm when she saw me on the path. The familiarity of that gesture struck me most of all because Devlin had always seemed so remote, so untouchable, but apparently not to Camille Ashby.

  I pretended not to notice that touch or the glance they exchanged as I mustered up a pleasant greeting. “Oh, hello. I was just looking for you.”

  “Aren’t you early?” Camille’s voice sounded tense.

  Devlin glanced at his watch. “We said one so you’re right on time.”

  I nodded, unexpectedly pleased by his defense. “I see the search is already underway.”

  He cast a skyward glance. “It’s clouding up. We’re trying to beat the rain.”

  “Then I suppose we should get down to business, as well,” Camille said, her tone brusque. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a moment with Amelia.”

  “No problem.” Devlin stepped away and took out his phone.

  I tried to focus on Camille, but I could feel his gaze lingering on me. It was a little disconcerting to be the target of all that intensity, and I found myself wishing that I’d taken a little more care with my appearance. My ponytail hung limp in the humidity and the only cosmetics I’d bothered with were SPF 30 and a liberal spritz of insect repellent. A more pulled together look, even for the cemetery, might have done wonders for my poise.

  Camille, on the other hand, looked cool and collected even in the heat.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.

  “No, it’s fine. I suppose I should thank you for being so prompt. Tardiness is all too pervasive these days and it’s a habit that I thoroughly detest.” Her brow smoothed and her voice gradually grew warmer. Her accent was beguilingly reminiscent of my mother and aunt’s, but the vowels were not as drawn out and the “ah” sound of her “I” was a little more subtle.

  She looked different from the times I’d met with her in her office. I’d thought her attractive before, but the Camille Ashby who’d hired me to restore Oak Grove Cemetery had been a woman of indeterminate age and so prim and proper in manner and dress as to be the epitome of good breeding and old money.

  In this incarnation she looked younger, fresher and a good deal more approachable in a crisp, white shirt tucked neatly into the waistband of her pressed jeans. Her blond hair, usually brushed into a sleek bob, had curled charmingly in the humidity, and without the filter of glasses, her eyes took on a deep, violet hue.

  Devlin was her darker male counterpart—tall, cut and devastatingly masculine. Yesterday, I’d appreciated the superb fit of his shirt and trousers, and now I took note of the expert tailoring of his clothing, the expensive fabric and I realized yet again that he was no ordinary detective. He had a past, a background that I grew more and more curious about each time we met.

  I was the odd man out here, neither fashionable nor fine-tuned in my baggy cargos and tank.

  “I asked to meet with you here in the cemetery for a couple of reasons,” Camille said. “First, I need you present for this search. I don’t want there to be a question that the graves have been treated with anything but the utmost dignity and respect during this whole dreadful ordeal. And secondly…” Her gaze swept the cemetery and the crease reappeared between her brows. “To be perfectly frank, I find the amount of work still to be done quite alarming. I expected to see more progress.”

  “I lost nearly a week to rain before this happened,” I reminded her.

  “Re
gardless of rain or other setbacks, we agreed upon a time frame.”

  “I’m well aware of my deadline, but I can’t start the cleanup until the site map is completed, and I can’t finish the map until I’m allowed back in here to photograph the old section. Nothing can be removed or cleaned until we have an accurate recording of prerestoration features.”

  She considered the dilemma for a moment. “What if I could get you some help? Would that make the work go more quickly?”

  I tried to remain diplomatic. “Volunteers are always welcome, but they’d have to be properly trained first and that can be time-consuming. I’ve seen too many instances where well-meaning locals descend upon an old graveyard with chain saws and axes and start hacking away at centuries-old vegetation without regard to design aesthetics or symbolic meaning.”

  “Yes, I suppose that could be a problem,” she mused.

  “Besides, I don’t think there’s cause for worry. We’re not that far off schedule, and as soon as I’m allowed back in, I’ll hire plenty of help. It’s a small cemetery. The cleanup will go quickly once everything is in place.”

  “You’re the expert. I’ll leave the details to you, but please keep in mind that the work must be completed by the start of the fall semester and not one day later. This year marks Emerson’s bicentennial and the committee has decided to nominate Oak Grove for the National Register.”

  That explained why time was suddenly of the essence after decades of shameful neglect.

  Several responses leapt to mind, all of which I prudently kept to myself. Nor did I point out the difficulty of getting a graveyard, even one as old as Oak Grove, listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Camille Ashby would know as well as I the rigid criteria governing cemetery eligibility and how best to get around them.

  So I smiled and nodded and assured her once again that barring any further complications, I would bring the project in on time and on budget.