The Sinner Read online

  “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

  “There 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.”

  “Who did you hear this from?”

  “You’ll recall my friendship with Essie Goodwine.”

  My brows shot up in surprise. Essie Goodwine was a root doctor of no small repute who also happened to be the grandmother of Darius Goodwine and Devlin’s late wife, Mariama. She was a sage and wizened woman, powerful in her own right, and despite her relationship to Darius, I was stunned to hear her name brought into such a lurid tale.

  “I know that you studied root work with her some years back and that you were the one who brought Mariama to the institute.”

  “A decision I will regret to my dying day,” Dr. Shaw said, and glanced away for a moment as if having to battle a sudden wave of emotion. I knew what he was thinking but would not say. If he’d never brought Mariama Goodwine to live at the institute, his son, Ethan, might still be alive today. But that was all in the past and it did no one any good to dwell.