The Sinner (9 page)

Eleven

A
fter another long and mostly sleepless night, I took the next morning off and drove up to Charleston to confer with Rupert Shaw.

We'd come a long way since the early days of our friendship when I'd presented mostly hypothetical situations because I couldn't bring myself to fully confide in him. Keeping the secret of my gift had been too deeply ingrained for far too long and unburdening myself hadn't come easy, even with Dr. Shaw. If he suspected the truth about my inquiries, he'd never let on, but instead seemed content to savor the tidbits that I'd felt comfortable sharing.

As the director and founder of the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies, he was as close to an expert in matters involving the unknown as I'd ever come across and, more important to me, he had an open mind and boundless curiosity. Given everything that had happened in the past two days, it was only natural that I should seek him out.

His assistant welcomed me with a curious smile as I entered the restored antebellum. She showed me back to Dr. Shaw's office and he rose from his cluttered desk to offer a warm greeting. The scent of aged leather and old books enveloped me and I found his careworn features and threadbare clothing as comforting as a mother's embrace. His presence never failed to soothe me and I was happy to see him looking so robust after everything he'd been through in recent years.

He waved me to the seat opposite his desk and we both settled in for a long conversation. I spent a couple of minutes catching him up and then we got right down to business.

“Ever since I read your email last night, I've buried myself in research,” he said, with what I could only interpret as reluctant excitement. “You've presented some very interesting situations over the years, but none more so than the one you've come here about today. Those caged graves will keep me occupied for weeks.”

“Considering what I found inside one of those cages, I'd say the situation is not only interesting, but deeply disturbing.”

His smile vanished. “The young woman buried alive. Yes. Very disturbing. I certainly didn't mean to make light.”

“I know you didn't.”

“Has she been identified yet?”

“Not that I've been told.” I stirred in my chair, finding myself anxious and jittery. So many things had happened in such a short amount of time I hardly knew where to begin. At any other time, the sight of the dead woman lumbering through the graveyard would have been uppermost on my mind and I would have grilled Dr. Shaw on the possibility, no matter how remote, of a corpse being brought back to life. But I'd already written off the incident as one of Darius Goodwine's tricks and today I was more occupied with historical matters. Namely, the deep roots and entangled affiliations of the secret societies he'd mentioned. I felt certain one or more of those stealth groups were at the heart of the circle of graves, I just didn't yet know how.

“We can talk about the mortsafes later,” I said. “I would really love to hear your thoughts. But first I need to know what you've been able to find out about the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists and the
Congé
. I know you haven't had a lot of time to research, but I'm hoping you'll be able to help shed some light.”

“I hope so, too,” he said. “You mentioned an affiliation with the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. As you know, I'm well versed in the history and the workings of the Order. I won't go into the details of my relationship, but suffice to say I can speak with some authority on the topic.”

Spoken like a true Claw, I thought. Artifice and stratagem had always been their discipline. It went against the nature of the group to disclose anything pertaining to the privileged membership and inner workings.

“As a matter of fact, I've always been interested in secret societies in general,” he went on. “The South, particularly our own fair state, has always had an affinity for cloak-and-dagger clubs going back to the Revolutionary War days. But the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists and the
Congé
...” His snowy brows furrowed as a shadow flitted across his features. “May I ask where you heard about these groups?”

“From Darius Goodwine.”

His lips thinned in disapproval as he observed me over steepled fingers. “So he's made a return, has he?”

“We've been in touch,” I replied vaguely. No need to burden Dr. Shaw with Darius's extraordinary proposition or my continued susceptibility to his trickery. Given Dr. Shaw's history with the Goodwines, he might be so concerned for my safety that he'd feel compelled to call Devlin. The last thing I wanted was to drag him into my latest intrigue. If he were to finally make contact after all these months, I wanted it to be out of his desire for my company and not because he felt an obligation to protect me from an old enemy.

I flicked my ponytail over my shoulder as I sat forward. “According to Darius Goodwine, the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists was involved in something he called soul transference. Another group known as the
Congé
was their mortal enemy. Both groups may have been affiliated with the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, but I have no idea how. To use your own description, it's all very cloak and dagger.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Shaw agreed with a brief nod. He picked up a fountain pen, toying with the cap as though he needed to occupy his hands. “The Order has always taken great pains to keep their ceremonies and initiations hush-hush. The clandestine nature of the group is a large part of their mystique and mythology. But anyone who has ever spent any time at Emerson University knows of them. On campus—in fact, all around Charleston—the Order of the Coffin and the Claw is an open secret. But the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists and the
Congé
seem to be true shadow organizations. So ambiguous as to only be spoken of in whispers.”

“And the connection between the three groups?” I pressed.

He hesitated, as if weighing how much he should tell me. He capped and uncapped the fountain pen so many times that I found myself on the verge of snatching it away from him. “There have been rumors over the years. Vague suppositions at best. I'd forgotten all about those old stories until I read your email last night. Then I began to wonder.”

I leaned in, my attention riveted. “Wonder about what? What are the rumors?”

“As I said, this is all supposition at best.”

“I understand.”

“Nothing of what I say must leave this room.”

“Dr. Shaw...”

He put up a hand to silence me. “Indulge an old man his precautions.”

I drew a breath and tried to tamp down my impatience as I nodded. “Of course. You know you can trust me. I won't say a word.”

He shot a glance toward the doorway as if to make certain no one listened in. “According to these rumors, every so often a Claw is recruited by an organization that is buried so deeply underground no one seems to know its name.”

“Recruited for what purpose?”

Again he silenced me as he got up to slide the pocket doors closed. His precautions were starting to make me nervous and I found my own gaze darting to the French doors to see if anyone lurked among the roses.

“Membership is legacy and goes back for generations,” he said as he resettled himself behind his desk. “A new recruit is only brought in upon the death of an old one. The most powerful and influential are selected from the ranks of the most powerful and influential. The elite chosen from the elite, if you get my meaning.”

I got it, but I was hard-pressed to imagine a group even more powerful and secret than the Order of the Coffin and the Claw.

I gave him a doubtful glance. “You think this supersecret organization is either the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists or the
Congé
?”

“Not the Brotherhood. I've found no reason to believe they're affiliated in any way with the Order.” He paused thoughtfully. “But the
Congé
...yes, I think it's certainly possible.”

I stared out at the sunny garden, idly probing the shadows along the wall as I tried to recall everything Darius Goodwine had told me about the
Congé
. They were as devious and cunning as their enemy and every bit as dangerous. It all sounded like pure fantasy, but some would think the same about my ability to see ghosts. After all this time and after so many extraordinary sightings and experiences, I knew better than to dismiss anything as far-fetched. There was no such thing in my world.

But a secret organization called the
Congé
—that was something new and I felt a surge of excitement and trepidation over what might be another life-changing revelation.

“The word itself is of French origin,” Dr. Shaw said, and I looked up with a start. “It means quite literally a ceremonious sendoff. A bit of humor or irony, considering the purpose of the group.”

“Which is?”

“I suppose one might call them restorers.”

I lifted a brow without comment.

He set the pen aside as he coupled his hands on the desk. I thought I detected a slight tremor but that may have been my imagination.

“I can see how the
Congé
would be considered the mortal enemy of these so-called resurrectionists,” he said. “Everything about the Brotherhood would be anathema to them.”

“How so?”

“If the Eternal Brother of Resurrectionists sought to bring the dead back to life, the
Congé
believed it their mission to stamp out the unnatural in any shape or form. To restore and maintain order in the living world by eradicating anything or anyone that threatened the balance.” He paused. “A sort of special forces team for the supernatural, if you will.”

Twelve

“T
here cannot possibly be such a group!” Surely he was toying with me. Having a bit of fun at my expense until he told me what he'd really learned.

But Dr. Shaw merely shrugged. “Not as an official or sanctioned body. Of course not. But as a private organization existing on the fringes... Who knows? The rich and powerful have always been drawn to the occult and the work I do here is not really so different. It may well be nothing more than folklore, but it's not the most extraordinary thing I've ever heard.”

I wasn't so sure about that. Even by my measure, the concept of a supernatural special forces team was fairly extreme.

By this time, I was bolted to my chair, utterly enthralled by Dr. Shaw's revelation and not a little unsettled by the implication. I wanted to believe it a coincidence that we were discussing an underground organization with a French name the day after I'd met a mysterious police detective who had once lived in Paris, but I didn't see how any of this could be happenstance.

Which meant my instincts about Kendrick had been right all along. There was a good chance he'd known about those cages before I ever stumbled upon the body and an even greater chance that he'd been aware of the watcher in the woods. I couldn't help asking myself again how a man with his background and edge had ended up on a small-town police force. What had brought a world-weary traveler such as he back to the bracken waters of the Lowcountry?

“The
Congé
.” I said the word aloud, testing it on my tongue. Could such an organization really exist? Could the influences from the dead world be so strong as to require a specialized team to combat it?

For so many years, Papa had been the only other person I knew who saw ghosts. I'd grown up believing that our gift was unique to the Gray side of the family, to
us
, but I now knew that my ignorance was a testament to how sequestered and protected I'd been, how insular my worldview. Little by little, the truth about my birth and my legacy had been revealed. Doors to the dead world had been thrown open and I'd encountered all manner of supernatural entities.

So why couldn't I accept the possibility—even the probability—that others like me existed? That some had even banded together to rid the living world of the forces that refused to be constrained by the boundaries of death?

Such a group would be a good thing, wouldn't it? After all, I was in search of a lost key that could conceivably close my door to the dead world forever. So why did the notion of the
Congé
and their mission bother me so much?

I wiped suddenly clammy hands down the sides of my jeans. “If this group is so secret, how is it you even know about them?”

Dr. Shaw looked a little rattled by the question. “My dear, I don't
know
anything. As I said, everything I've heard is mostly conjecture and gossip. Please don't mistake my ramblings as any kind of factual information. My knowledge of either organization is extremely limited.”

“I understand.” But his adamant denial made me even more curious. I studied him furtively, wondering how much he still kept from me. Despite the excitement of a new discovery, he seemed agitated by our discussion and getting more so as we progressed.

“I have no way of knowing if any of these things are true,” he stressed. “But a person in my position hears things. Over the years, my investigations have led me to any number of unlikely places, and I dare say, many of the friendships I've cultivated would surprise you. From the rumors I remember and the sources I've contacted since reading your email, I've come to believe that the
Congé
was formed by some of the oldest and most powerful families in the state. Do you see now why I must insist on keeping this conversation between the two of us?” he asked worriedly. “And why I don't wish to speak as though I have any authority on the matter? At the very least, reputations are at stake and I would hate for anyone to make trouble for the institute.”

“Could they do that?” I asked in alarm.

“Why take the chance? I've always found it better to fly under the radar than into the fray.”

“I'm sure you're right.” But I still didn't think he was being altogether forthcoming and fear of repercussions had little to do with his reticence. He was a Claw, after all, and that pedigree came with its own influence and privilege. He wasn't worried about the institute or even his own personal safety. Something else held him back.

We both fell silent as he turned to stare out at the garden, his attention so rapt that I couldn't help following his gaze. I saw nothing but a butterfly flitting among the roses. Nothing more sinister than a tabby stalking the shadows. But like the Willoughby house, a pall had been cast over the garden and our visit.

“Dr. Shaw?”

He roused himself. “Yes, my dear. You were saying?”

“You've explained a possible relationship between the Order and the
Congé
, but what about the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists?”

“The Brotherhood?” He scowled down at his desk, refusing to meet my gaze. “I'm afraid that may be a dead end. My sources had nothing of consequence to impart and the internet has proven no help at all. Although my assistant tells me there is something called the Darknet, which might yield more fruitful results if one knew where to look.”

I recognized an evasive answer when I heard one. Dr. Shaw had uncovered something he didn't want to share and my mission now became one of how best to relieve him of that information.

“What aren't you telling me?” I asked gently.

He glanced up in surprise. “My dear, I've told you all I know.”

I leaned toward him. “Have you forgotten what I confided in you about my gift? I've become very sensitive to emotions. I can tell when someone is stressed. If I concentrate hard enough, I can sometimes even interpret their thoughts or enter their memories.”

His gaze turned reproachful. “My dear Amelia, have you forgotten how well I know you? You would never violate my privacy. Of that, I'm certain.”

I sighed and offered an apologetic shrug. “You're right. I wouldn't. Not intentionally. But if emotions are strong enough, I sometimes can't help it. It just happens. So maybe it would be best if you tell me what you found out about the Brotherhood.”

He picked up the pen, fingering the barrel like a worry bead. “I'd rather not speak of such unseemly things.”

I blinked at his sudden propriety. “Please don't be concerned on my account. I've dealt with a lot of unpleasantness these past few years and my eyes have been thoroughly opened.”

“You haven't dealt with this,” he said grimly. “In all my years of investigating the paranormal, I've never come across anything half so disturbing.”

“That sounds ominous.”

His eyes snapped with sudden emotion. “It is ominous and I would urge that you proceed with the utmost caution. From what I've been able to ascertain, the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists was a very sinister organization. One best left in the deepest, darkest shadows of the underworld.”

How sinister? I wondered. Raising-the-dead type of sinister? Soul-transference type of sinister?

I thought of the young woman in the caged grave. Buried-alive type of sinister?

“Were they ever involved in murder?”

I saw a shudder go through him. “My dear, murder was the very least of their transgressions.”

My breath caught. “What do you mean?”

“Young women held captive, tortured and abused. Orgies and human sacrifices.” His gaze darted back to the garden. “Sexual deviancy of the most twisted variety.”

Icy needles pricked. “But that was a long time ago. The Brotherhood no longer exists, surely. Even if they did, they couldn't get away with holding people captive in this day and age.” But, of course, young women were taken all the time by murderers and sexual predators. One only had to watch the news to know that such horrors still existed.

I glanced at Dr. Shaw. “I feel as though you're still keeping something from me. Please don't. I need to know everything you've found out about these organizations, no matter how horrific or indelicate you deem the information to be. I know you tend to worry about me, but the best defense I have is knowledge. I can't protect myself if I don't know who and what I'm up against.”

He sighed. “You're right, of course.”

“Then please continue.”

He didn't look at all robust now. I could trace every one of his years along the deep furrows of his brow. “As I said earlier, I've heard rumors about the
Congé
for years. Legends and folklore passed down through the generations. But in all my time of studying the unknowable and the unexplainable, I've only ever come across one written reference to the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists, and that in a book that was published in the early 1800s. A book about witchcraft and black magic.”

My eyes widened. “Do you still have the book?”

He removed a leather-bound volume from a locked drawer and flipped to a section that he'd marked with a scrap of paper. Turning the book to face me, he slid the fragile tome across the desk so that I could view the accompanying illustration of robed and hooded figures clasping hands in a circle around a dead man. A gossamer likeness floated over the body. The deceased's soul or spirit, no doubt, rising to take refuge in a living vessel.

In the background, men and women in various stages of undress danced and copulated while caged young women looked on in terror.

There were other indecencies in the drawing. Pornographic depictions of the basest nature.

My stomach churned unexpectedly. Despite my veneer of sophistication, I was still at heart the girl that had spent a large part of her life sequestered behind cemetery walls.

“The text is in Latin,” I said, turning the tissue-thin pages with the utmost care. “I can only pick out a word here and there, but am I correct in assuming from the illustration that this is a soul transference ceremony?”

Dr. Shaw nodded. “Conceivably, the same spirit could change vessels any number of times, thus attaining immortality.”

I looked up. “Immortality?”

“Just think of it,” he said. “The spirit of a man born centuries ago residing in the body of someone alive today. The concept boggles the mind, does it not?” He seemed to catch himself then and his excitement dwindled as his smile thinned. “Of course, those worthy of immortality—the Madame Curies, the Albert Einsteins, the Da Vincis—would likely not be the ones to seek it.”

“What purpose did the captives serve in the ceremony?” I asked. “Were they sacrificed?”

“Not in the way you mean. Are you familiar with the African term
muti
? It means
medicine
and it usually consists of a mixture of roots, herbs and body parts that aid in magic rituals.”

“Body parts?”
My hand crept to my throat.

“It gets worse,” he warned. “The most desirable
muti
is
made from the limbs and organs of the living. It's believed that the terror and agony of the victims make the spell
more potent. Consequently, medicine murders are extremely brutal, usually committed with machetes and hatchets. Sometimes even shards of glass.”

I stared at him in horror. “You said the murders
are
brutal. Present tense.”

“It's still a fairly common practice in certain parts of Africa. While the preference is always for parts from the living, I've read that there's been a recent uptick in grave robbing.”

“Could that explain the mortsafes?”

“I suppose it's possible. African roots run deep in the Lowcountry.” He pulled the book from my hands and closed the cover. When he glanced back at me, his blue eyes had deepened. “Are you sure you wish to continue? If either the Brotherhood or the
Congé
are still active, even the most superficial meddling could put you in danger.”

“I don't think I have a choice. I can't run away or hide from any of this. You know as well as I do that the unresolved matters of the dead tend to follow me wherever I go.”

“Yes,” he said. “In that way, you are a very gifted and extraordinary young woman.”

I didn't want to get into a lengthy discussion about my mission or the purpose of my abilities. Dr. Shaw and I had differing views. He saw my gift as a noble calling, but I wanted no part in helping the ghosts move on. I solved the mysteries of the dead so the dead would leave me alone.

“What else did the book say?” I asked.

“It tells the story of a witch doctor named Tuma, who was brought over on one of the slave ships in the late 1600s. Charismatic and mesmeric, he used his black magic to ingratiate himself with the most powerful men in Charleston. In exchange for his freedom, he cast dark and sinister spells to insure their continued good health and fortune. The rituals were held in secluded locations and no one dared speak of them in public. But behind closed doors, there were whispered accounts of bondage, torture and mutilations. Of young girls gone missing and their families too terrified to look for them. As the wealth and power of the witch doctor's benefactors grew stronger, their enemies and rivals became weaker. Tuma was held in such high esteem within this secret group that when he fell ill, he taught his devotees a powerful spell so that the alliance could continue even after his death.”

“His spirit was transferred into the body of one of the benefactors?”

“If the story is to be believed.”

“Do you believe it?”

“As I said, I've only ever run across one written reference to the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists, but I've heard a verbal account by someone who claimed to have intimate knowledge of a similar group. A kind of offshoot of the original Brotherhood.”