The Sinner. Amanda Stevens

nodded back as I folded my arms and then unfolded them because I thought the stance made me look defensive.

      “I take it you’re the one who called this in,” he said. “Amelia Gray?”

      “Yes, that’s right.”

      His gaze narrowed as he nodded to the scratch on my face. “What happened there?”

      I lifted a hand to the stinging flesh and shrugged. “A thorn caught me.”

      He glanced back at the hands in the cage and then at me, giving me a thorough scrutiny before taking out his notebook. I could see how the beading blood on a fresh wound might give him pause under the circumstances.

      “Let’s take care of the busywork first,” he said pleasantly enough as he jotted my name on a blank page. “What’s the best number to reach you?”

      I gave him my cell number and answered a few more rudimentary questions before recounting to him how I’d come upon the cages. I told him everything I could remember except for the part about being summoned by the presence in the woods. I explained that away by saying I’d taken a walk to work out the kinks after hours of bending over the headstones.

      “You’re from Charleston, you say?” His gaze flicked over me again and I tried not to flinch at his prolonged appraisal.

      “Yes, but I’ve been staying in Ascension since the end of May. I’m in the process of restoring Seven Gates Cemetery.”

      He looked surprised. “You’ve been working here all summer? I don’t recall seeing you around.”

      “I only get into town once or twice a week. The cemetery occupies most of my time. It was in really bad shape when I first started.”

      “You work alone?”

      “Yes. I’ve put out feelers for local help, but I haven’t had much luck. Just a couple of college kids early in the season, but they didn’t last long.” I bit my lip and turned away with a frown. It wasn’t like me to ramble or volunteer more information than was requested. Evidently, the discovery of the mortsafes and the sight of those hands had left me more shaken than I realized.

      “Can’t say I’m surprised about the lack of local help,” the officer said politely. “There’s a lot of superstition surrounding that old church and cemetery.”

      “Such as?”

      He shrugged. “The usual stuff. Both have been abandoned for as long as I can remember. Kids used to hang out in the ruins late at night after drinking beer and smoking weed, but I don’t think anyone goes there any more. Not after...”

      “Not after what?” I prompted.

      He glanced down at his notes. “Not after the place got so overgrown. Too many snakes and God knows what else lurking in the bushes. It’s too bad, really. The cemetery used to be beautiful.”

      “It will be again.”

      He turned back to the circle, his gaze moving around the cages. “I’ve lived here my whole life. Grew up in a house not five miles from where we’re standing. I thought I knew this area like the back of my hand, but I sure never knew these things were here. Have you ever come across anything like them before?”

      “Not around here. Mortsafes were mostly used in Europe.”

      “Mortsafes?” I saw him shiver.

      “They kept grave robbers from digging up fresh remains to sell to medical schools.”

      His expression turned grim as he trained his gaze upon me. “Looks like they were used here to keep something in.”

      I’d thought of that, as well, of course, but I didn’t comment.

      “Will you be around this afternoon?” he asked. “We may have more questions once we get her out of the ground.”

      “I’ll be working in the cemetery. I never leave before sundown.”

      He gave a vague nod as he went back to his partner. I hung around watching them. They didn’t seem to mind. Maybe they were glad for the company. The place seemed more desolate than ever and the trill of the loon made us all turn anxiously toward the marsh. I couldn’t help remembering the officer’s broken thought: Not after...

      Not after what?

      The palmettos rustled in a mild breeze. An insect droned in my ear. And from the woods, that presence still watched me.

      Who are you? I wondered. What are you?

      Still no answer.

      For the next several minutes, the cops huddled over the second mortsafe, talking in low tones and making a few notes until more personnel arrived on the scene, including a plainclothes detective, a forensic team and the Beaufort County coroner.

      A brief discussion ensued about possible ownership of the land and how best to open the cage so the body could be removed. That dilemma brought Officer Malloy back over to me.

      “Who hired you to restore the cemetery?”

      “It was a joint effort by some of the families and a local historical society,” I told him.

      “Do you have a contact person?”

      “Annalee Nash.”

      A brow shot up. “Annalee Nash?”

      “Yes, why? Do you know her?”

      “Everybody knows Annalee. I guess I’m just a little surprised to hear she’s involved with that cemetery.”

      “Why wouldn’t she be? She’s secretary of the local historical society.”

      “I don’t keep up with that sort of thing. How did the two of you meet?”

      “She first contacted me through my website and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s the one who made sure all the permits were in order so there wouldn’t be any delays once we signed the contract.”

      He slapped at a mosquito on the side of his neck. “I don’t suppose she ever mentioned anything about ownership of the property adjoining the cemetery?”

      “This property, you mean? No, she didn’t. As I understand it, Seven Gates is located on public land, but nothing I’ve found in the archives suggests these graves are connected to the cemetery.”

      “They look like they’ve been here a long time,” he said.

      “I’m guessing the mortsafes are only a few decades old, but the dirt underneath the first cage is sunken, which could indicate that the burials are older. If the original graves are over a hundred years old, the state archaeologist would have jurisdiction regardless of property ownership.”

      The detective came up just then, and after we were introduced, I repeated everything that I’d told Officer Malloy.

      Detective Lucien Kendrick looked to be in his early thirties, a man of indeterminate ethnicity with light brown skin and topaz-colored eyes that tilted exotically at the corners. The intensity of his scrutiny took me aback. Not since my first encounter with Devlin had I experienced such an unsettling focus. Even when he addressed Officer Malloy, Kendrick’s gaze remained hard upon me until I had to fight the urge to take a step back from him.

      He was just shy of six feet, lean and sinewy. By no means a large man, but his bearing gave him an air of toughness and invincibility. I didn’t consider him handsome in the traditional sense of the word, but he was one of the most striking men I’d ever met, from the strange color of his eyes to the razor sharpness of his cheekbones.

      His attire was casual, but his jacket and boots were of good quality. Not custom like Devlin’s wardrobe, but certainly several cuts above what one might expect from a small-town police detective. Sometime in the not too distant past, his left eyebrow had been pierced. I could still see the tiny holes and, once noticed, I started to search for other bits of unconventionality.