The Awakening

by Amanda Stevens

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he had no proof, but he’d never believed our child’s death was an accident. The Duvalls had a grown son, Rance. A black sheep because of certain things he’d done. Terrible things that the family tried to keep hidden. Something happened on Duvall Island the night Mercy disappeared. Jonathan was convinced that she saw something she shouldn’t have. Maybe she was trying to get away when her boat capsized. God only knows what could have happened. I think about her out there alone and frightened...” My aunt trailed away with a shiver. “I’ve dreamed about her every night since I received that clipping. I even went to the church today to confront Rance Duvall with Jonathan’s suspicions.”

  I said, aghast, “You can’t do that. Promise me you won’t have anything to do with that man. He’s dangerous.”

  She looked up in surprise. “You know him?”

  “I’ve met him. Just stay away from him. Let Devlin handle him.”

  “Devlin? Your Devlin? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “He’s investigating Rance Duvall and his stepsister, Claire Bellefontaine. You have to trust him to uncover the truth.”

  She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t understand. Investigating them because of what happened to Mercy?”

  “Among other things. It’s complicated and right now I want to hear the rest of your story. You said Jonathan Devlin had suspicions. Did he go to the police?”

  “And risk exposing his relationship to Mercy? He kept silent to protect his name and reputation. All those years, and he never said a word.” Her eyes were as hard and brittle as ice.

  “You said you went to see Jonathan Devlin the night he was killed. Was he alive when you left him?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t say another word. But the ensuing silence chilled me more deeply than any confession.

  Thirty-Two

  My aunt got up and walked out of the room, leaving me to ponder her silence. Had Jonathan Devlin been alive when last she’d seen him? Or, in the heat of an argument, had she picked up the letter opener from his desk and plunged it into his chest?

  I hated to even imagine such a scenario, but questions needed to be asked and answered. Better I try to get the whole story before she had to deal with the police.

  When I came out of her bedroom, the door at the end of the hallway stood open. I heard the soft tinkle of the mobile from inside and followed the haunting melody, calling softly to my aunt as I approached the threshold. I hovered just inside, taking in the beautifully appointed nursery. The room was just as I remembered it. Soft pastels and a white crib. Shelves of toys and books. The butterfly mobile dancing softly in a draft.

  My aunt stood at the window staring out.

  “Aunt Lyn?”

  She didn’t turn. “You must think it stupid of me to have kept a nursery all these years. I knew that she would never spend a night in this room, but it made me feel better knowing there was a place for her, a safe haven, if she ever needed it.”

  “I don’t think it stupid.”

  “Not a day goes by that I don’t ache for her. That I don’t dream about her being home with me where she belongs. Had she lived, she would have had a home of her own by now, perhaps even children. It was unfair of me to say earlier that our time together was stolen from me. The truth is, I gave it away. Just like I gave her away.”

  “You were a child yourself,” I said. “You did what you thought was right. It was a selfless act. You wanted a loving home for your baby. You couldn’t have known what would happen to her.”

  “Cold comfort,” my aunt said with a sigh. “Let this be a lesson to you, Amelia.”

  “To me?”

  She turned to face me. “You and John Devlin belong together. Don’t waste any more time apart over petty grievances.”

  Our estrangement had hardly been for petty grievances, but I understood her point. “Aunt Lyn, I need to ask you something.”

  She gave a weary shrug. “Go on.”

  “What happened when you went to see Jonathan Devlin?”

  “You’re asking if I killed him,” she said bluntly. “I didn’t.”

  “But you were there that night. You took something from the body. A locket.”

  She frowned. “How could you know that?”

  I drew a breath and took a step into the room. “Because I was there, too. I saw the locket in his hand. Then I heard someone in the house and hid in the garden. When I came back in, the locket was gone. You took it, didn’t you?”

  She said with uncharacteristic heat, “It was mine! He gave it to me years ago, along with the portrait of our baby. He told me the photo had been taken on her second birthday, right before she died. Another lie. It was so easy for him. Just like breathing. He would have said and done anything to protect his precious name and reputation.”

  “How did he end up with the locket?” I asked carefully, remembering the broken chain.

  “The clasp must have snapped. I didn’t even realize I’d lost it until I was almost home. I went back for it. I found him on the floor with the letter opener in his chest. He was already dead. There was nothing I could do to help him so I took what was mine and fled.”

  “You left immediately? You didn’t go upstairs?”

  “Why would I?”

  “I thought I heard someone moving about. It may have been the killer.”

  “Imagine that.”

  She was very calm, I noted. Perhaps the implication of her actions at a crime scene hadn’t sunk in yet.

  “The police don’t know I was there,” I admitted.

  “Then we both have secrets.”

  “Aunt Lyn—”

  “I’m tired,” she said, turning back to the window. “And I think we’ve said all we need say on the matter.”

  For now, perhaps.

  “Leave me be, chile. Leave me alone with my memories.”

  * * *

  My thoughts were chaotic as I left my aunt’s house. I desperately wanted to head home and settle in for the rest of the day with my computer. Now that I knew the ghost child’s name, I was eager to start my research. But something niggled and prodded. A voice in my head insisted that time was of the essence.

  I went back over the details of that newspaper clipping. Mercy Duvall had been presumed drowned when her older brother, Rance Duvall, had found her capsized boat floating off Duvall Island. Given the family’s standing, no one had questioned the child’s disappearance. Even if doubts had surfaced, the Duvall name and influence would have made those suspicions go away.

  But Mercy had shown me the truth. She’d been murdered. And where better to hide the body than on the family’s private island.

  I checked the clock on my dash. The service would be over by now, but Devlin would likely be tied up for the rest of the day. Rance Duvall had said he was leaving town right after the memorial, but I didn’t know whether to believe him. Maybe he was baiting a trap. Maybe he knew his absence would make Duvall Island irresistible to me.

  I cautioned myself to wait for Devlin, but the little voice in my head prodded me once more. Time was of the essence. If Rance suspected I was on to him, he might do more than bait a trap. He might decide to move the remains from Duvall Island and then Mercy Duvall would never find peace. She would never have justice.

  An image came to me of the ghost child lurking in the willow trees near the stone crib, wandering restlessly through the tiny graves in the enchanted garden because she had nowhere else to go.

  We were connected, Mercy and I. Not just through my gift, not just through my aunt, but because of our shared loneliness. I had once been her, a living ghost, wandering alone through the headstones of Rosehill Cemetery, a forlorn child with nowhere else to go.

  I had to find her. It was no longer a
mission, but a compulsion. I had to find her.

  To that end, I called Temple and asked her to arrange transportation to Duvall Island. We agreed on a time and place to meet, but only after I promised to explain everything once I arrived. Then I called Devlin and left a voice mail.

  As I pulled from the curb, I glanced across the street at my aunt’s house. She remained at the window staring out. I lifted a hand to wave goodbye but she didn’t return the gesture.

  Thirty-Three

  A little while later, I was in a boat headed for Duvall Island. Temple’s driver steered us through a sea of sweetgrass, deftly avoiding the crabbers trawling with their dip nets. The marsh soon gave way to open water, where the dance of sunlight on the waves nearly blinded me. I sat back, enjoying the wind in my hair and the salty mist upon my face as I contemplated my risky endeavor.

  Maybe it wasn’t so risky after all. For all I knew, Rance Duvall really could be on his way out of town, and I’d taken precautions. I’d alerted Devlin of my plans via his voice mail, and Temple would be waiting for me on the island. She had a whole slew of archeologists and graduate students at her beck and call, so we’d hardly be alone.

  Still, as the driver guided the boat eastward, a chill descended and a cloud moved over the sun, darkening the landscape.

  Temple was standing on the dock as we pulled in. She put a hand down to help me from the boat, and we left the driver pushing off as she motioned toward a waiting golf cart. “Climb in,” she said as she adjusted her hat. “The trail’s a bit rugged, so you’d better hang on.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She grinned. “Shall I give you a quick tour of the island or do you want to go straight to the dig site?”

  “Neither, actually. I’d like to go to Duvall Place.”

  “You won’t be able to see much,” she warned. “I suppose you can wander around the grounds, but I don’t have a key to the house.”

  “That’s okay. Wandering around is what I do best.”

  As we bumped away from the dock, she turned down a trail lined with dwarf palmettos and wild hibiscus. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “It’s a long story,” I warned.

  “I’m all ears.”

  I glanced around, still uneasy by our surroundings. The forest crowded in on us as we headed inland and claustrophobia gripped me. It seemed as though we were driving toward nothing but gloom. “How well do you know Rance Duvall?” I finally asked.

  She shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. His family has owned this island for generations. Duvall Place was once an indigo plantation, but the house and island were abandoned years ago. Rance is hoping to eventually open the place up to tours, or so he says, but I’m not sure if much can be done to make the buildings safe. As you can imagine, time and neglect have done a real number.”

  “That’s the professional answer,” I said. “I had the impression at dinner the other night that your relationship with him is also personal.”

  She hesitated. “We had a moment. But it didn’t take long for me to figure out that he’s not the sort of person with whom I want to spend my time.”

  I clung to the seat as we hit a hole. “What happened?”

  “Nothing really. We just didn’t click.” She frowned. “Actually, it was a bit more than that. It’s hard to explain, but I had a bad feeling about him. He’s very suave on the outside. Very handsome and charming, but...” She slowed as the trail became even more rugged.

  “But what?”

  She shot me a glance. “Why all these questions about Rance Duvall?”

  “I have a bad feeling about him, too. From the moment I first laid eyes on him at Rapture, I knew something was off about him.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “What was there to say? It was just a hunch. And anyway, would you have listened to me?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. “Sometimes it’s best to discover these things for one’s self.”

  I gave her a sidelong glance. “You’ve never heard any rumors about him?”

  She thought for a moment. “I do remember a bit of gossip. When I was in college, there was talk about wild parties, orgies and whatnot on the island. Rance was long gone from Emerson when I was a student there, but his family still had a presence on campus. I believe he even sat on the board for a time, so some of the students knew him, at least by name and reputation.”

  “From what I hear, it was more than wild parties,” I said. “He allegedly stalked and abused underage girls. One of them disappeared when she tried to come forward.”

  Temple stopped the cart and turned to me. “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “It’s possible Rance Duvall bought her off, but who really knows? Did he ever mention a younger sister to you?”

  “You mean Claire Bellefontaine?”

  “No, he had another sister who died at the age of ten. She was adopted. Her name was Mercy. She disappeared off the island one night during a storm. Her capsized boat washed ashore and she was presumed drowned.”

  “What was a ten-year-old child doing out in a boat during a storm? At night, no less?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she was trying to run away from something. Or someone. But at any rate, she didn’t drown. She was killed in the house and then buried somewhere on the island.”

  Temple cocked her head as she observed me. “And you know this how?”

  “Call it another hunch. I wish I could give you a better explanation, but I don’t know how much time we have. Rance told me earlier he was headed out of town after Jonathan Devlin’s memorial service, but I don’t know if I believe him. For all I know he could be on his way out here right now. I promise I’ll tell you everything once this is all over. Right now we need to keep moving.”

  She looked as if she wanted to challenge me, but instead she nodded and pressed the accelerator. “You still want to go to the house?”

  “No, take me to the cemetery instead.”

  “Another hunch?”

  Not so much a hunch as a compulsion. The ghost child was here on the island. Already, I could feel her pull. I couldn’t yet see her, but I sensed her presence beside me, guiding me to where I needed to be.

  * * *

  Temple and I were silent for the rest of the trip. We passed a set of ornate gates through which I could glimpse the white columns and sagging balconies of Duvall Place. A shiver went through me as I peered through the tunnel of live oaks. Twilight was hours away, but the cloudy sky deepened the gloom and I could sense the stir of more than one ghost. Duvall Island was a very haunted place. An inhospitable place for someone like me.

  A rusted iron fence enclosed the small cemetery. The trees and bushes had encroached and many of the headstones had crumbled. A more eerie spot I could hardly imagine.

  “What are we looking for?” Temple asked as we left the golf cart and tramped through the weeds to the gate.

  “Disturbances, signs, clues. Anything out of the ordinary.” Although after half a century of wind and weather, any evidence would have long since been destroyed. Still, Mercy was here. I could feel her cold now. I could sense her anger.

  “Can you be more specific?” Temple asked.

  I didn’t answer. I merely pointed to the far side of the cemetery where the ghost child had manifested, still in her white dress and bows. Temple couldn’t see her, of course. But as I stood watching the ghost, she dropped to her knees beside a grave and started digging.

  I remained enthralled for the longest moment until Temple said beside me, “What are you looking at? You seem transfixed.”

  “We’re going to need tools,” I said. “Shovels and spades. A screen. Can you get them from the dig site?”

  She gave a little gasp. “Please tell me you’re not planning on
digging up graves.”

  “Just one.”

  “Need I remind you this is private property? And even if it weren’t, there are procedures and protocol. Not to mention court orders.”

  I tore my gaze from the ghost child and her frantic digging. “The graves here are well over a hundred years old, so that puts them in your jurisdiction.”

  “Even the state archeologist can’t exhume graves without the proper authorization.”

  I returned my focus to the ghost child. “You should probably call the county coroner. She knows you. She’ll come out as a favor if you ask her.”

  “Regina Sparks is a busy woman,” Temple said in exasperation. “She won’t make a trip out here unless I give her a valid reason.”

  “She’ll come. Better call the police, too, and bring back some of your people from the dig. We’ll need witnesses.”

  “And just what am I supposed to tell the police?”

  “Tell them you stumbled across a grave with exposed human remains.”

  “Look around,” she said. “Do you see any exposed human remains?”

  “There will be by the time the authorities arrive.”

  She gave me a long scrutiny. “This is crazy. You know that, right? If Rance Duvall gets wind of what you’re doing—”

  “Which is why we have to act quickly,” I cut in. “We can’t do this the proper way. He has too much power. Even if we could by some miracle get the police to listen to us, he’d have the remains removed before a judge could issue an order. I’m telling you, this is the only way.”

  She drew a breath and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. But for the record, I’m against this.”

  “I know. Just...trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I hope you do,” she said as she climbed back into the golf cart and drove off, leaving me alone with the ghost of Mercy Duvall.

  I stood just inside the fence, shivering in the frost of her presence. She didn’t seem to notice me. She just kept right on digging. But when I moved to her graveside, she rose and drifted over the headstone, floating so close that the brush of her ghostly fingers raised goose bumps.