The Sinner Read online

  “What does Essie know about the Brotherhood?” I asked.

  Dr. Shaw kept his gaze fixed on the garden for a moment longer before turning back to me, his features perfectly composed. But his eyes were still shadowed and the furrows in his brow had deepened. “She told me about a group she referred to as Resurrection Men. They were disciples of a root doctor turned dark. A man by the name of Atticus Pope.”

  “Atticus Pope.”

  He gave me a strange look. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Yes, from the detective in charge of the investigation. It involves the house I’ve rented for the summer. It’s a long story and I’ll fill you in later, but right now I don’t want to get sidetracked from Essie.”

  I could tell he was curious and wanted to question me further, but he merely nodded. “Yes, well, according to Essie, Atticus Pope claimed that the spirit of a powerful witch doctor resided within him. A dangerous tagati who was over three hundred years old.”

  “Tuma?”

  “Possibly, if one assumes that Pope knew of the legend. Pope, himself, was charismatic and hypnotic and his devotees flocked to him in droves, including Essie’s younger brother. These sycophants were only too willing to follow his every move and carry out his every order.”

  I wondered if this might account for Darius’s interest in the case. His family’s connection to a man like Pope could explain a lot of things about Darius Goodwine.

  “Pope became the target of a police investigation,” Dr. Shaw went on. “The authorities were closing in on him, and in order to escape arrest and imprisonment, he convinced his followers to perform the transference ceremony. Out of his twelve most trusted disciples, the one chosen to host his spirit remained a secret even from the others. They all disappeared one night and were never heard from again.”

  “Before or after the ceremony?”

  “No one seems to know. Most thought they’d gone into hiding, but Essie believed they were murdered by a group even more powerful than Atticus Pope.”

  “The Congé,” I said.

  “A faction so ruthless and single-minded they were willing to kill a dozen men in order to destroy one evil spirit. Whether or not you believe in the mystical aspects of Essie’s story, the murders may well have been real. That could explain the circle of graves you found.”

  My mind reeled with all that Dr. Shaw had told me. Twelve disciples, twelve caged graves and a desecrated grave in the center. And one young woman who had been buried alive.

  “How is it that no one stumbled upon those graves before now?” I asked. “How could so many people vanish without the authorities and their people looking for them? Surely the marshes and swamps were combed at the time.”

  “Perhaps no one looked for them because no one wanted to find them,” he suggested.

  “Is that what Essie told you?”

  “Not in so many words, but I was given the impression.”

  “Even her own brother?”

  “So it would seem.”

  The apparent ease with which the families and the police had accepted the disappearances struck me as odd, but I knew nothing of the havoc that had been wreaked by the likes of Atticus Pope and his disciples. Torture. Bondage. Mutilations. Murder was the least of their transgressions.

  I said with a shudder, “You realize that if anyone were to overhear our conversation...”

  “They would think us quite mad, but that’s nothing new for me. I know what people say behind my back. However, I find that as I grow older, eccentricity has become a virtue rather than a burden.”

  “You wear it well,” I said.

  He smiled. “And now that I’ve imparted all the information I’ve been able to dig up, what do you plan to do with it?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Thanks to Dr. Shaw, I now had some knowledge of the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists and their horrifying rituals. I’d learned about the Congé and their deadly mission. I understood better the deep roots and entangled alliances that Darius Goodwine had warned me about, but I was no closer to solving that poor woman’s murder than I had been before my visit to the institute.

  Thirteen

  After I left Dr. Shaw, I drove over to Rutledge Avenue to check on my place. I had been gone for nearly three months and the musty odor of neglect assailed me as I let myself in the front door. Wrinkling my nose at the accumulation of dust, I went from room to room, checking windows and doors and assuring myself that everything was exactly as I’d left it.

  Despite the heat, I put on the teakettle while I tidied up, and then carried a cup of chamomile out to the backyard where I could sit in the shade and think. The scent of oleander drifted over the fence and a mild breeze stirred the late roses. I was happy to see that the garden had flourished during my absence and I hated to sully the splendor with the ugly specter of bondage, body parts and murder.

  My skin crawled at the images that my mind insisted upon conjuring. I wanted no part of any of this madness, and if I hadn’t left Angus in Ascension, I might have been tempted to abandon the restoration and disregard Darius Goodwine’s proposition.

  But as I’d reminded Dr. Shaw, running away was never an option. Not for me. The watcher in the woods would follow me wherever I went and Darius Goodwine could track me through my dreams. I couldn’t escape the mystery of those caged graves any more than I could free myself of the ghosts.

  As I sat there with the comforting warmth of the teacup between my hands and the breeze cool upon my face, my thoughts turned even blacker. I couldn’t stop visualizing what the victim’s last moments had been like as she’d frantically clawed her way up through the dirt only to realize the cage still imprisoned her. Why had she been placed there in the first place? Had the killer planned to return for her? For her organs and limbs?

  The notion was too horrible to contemplate and I tried to turn my thoughts elsewhere, but I kept coming back to Darius Goodwine’s claim that I was the only who could end this. End what? More killings? The spirit of an ancient witch doctor? The age-old battle between the Brotherhood and the Congé?

  And what of the Willoughbys? How were their deaths connected to the woman in the caged grave?

  According to Detective Kendrick’s account, George Willoughby had caught his wife with Atticus Pope and his disciples doing “the devil’s work” in their home. Séances and spells, Kendrick had said. But who really knew what they’d been up to?

  George Willoughby had been so convinced that something or someone had taken over his wife, he’d killed her in her sleep and hid the body so well that no trace of her had ever been found.

  As I rolled all of this around in my head, a thought came to me. An improbable theory that made my hand tremble and my heart start to race.

  What if George Willoughby hadn’t killed his wife?

  What if the twelve murdered disciples had been decoys? What if the transference ceremony had ended before the Congé arrived on the scene? What if the living host, the willing host, had been Mary Willoughby all along?

  With the cunning spirit of Atticus Pope inside her, she could have staged her own death, murdered her own husband and then vanished, leaving behind a ten-year-old girl who remembered nothing of that night.

  What had Annalee Nash seen before her father’s death? What atrocities had she witnessed because of her mother’s affiliation with Atticus Pope?

  With an effort, I reined in my imagination as I sipped the cooling tea. After a few moments, the chamomile helped calm me and I released a long breath as I let my head fall back against the chair.

  The warmth of the sun on my face soothed me and the movement of the clouds was so hypnotic I found myself drifting off. Which wasn’t at all like me. I rarely slept in the daytime. Even in my drowsy state, I wondered if I’d once again fallen prey to Darius Goodwine’s mind
games. For all I knew, he could be inside my head at that very moment, but I was too tired to force him out.

  The cup slipped from my hand and shattered against the patio. I barely stirred, barely registered the sound. Darius was there, all right, and he’d brought the dead woman with him. Even as I slid deeper under his spell, I could sense her presence in the darkest corner of the garden. I could smell the decay of her rotting flesh, could feel those milky eyes upon me. Slowly, I lifted my head and gazed around. She was there in the shadows, staring across the plumbago to where I sat transfixed.

  Her flesh had turned a putrid greenish gray and the smell was stronger today, her movements more labored as if the passage of time had further constrained her mobility. She tried to move toward me but could manage no more than a shaky half step.

  Strangely, I was no longer afraid of her. Still shackled by that strange inertia, I took my time studying her, once again drawn to the flash of those ruby earrings and to the curlicue of the tattoo that wrapped around her wrist to the back of her hand. I noted the band T-shirt she wore, the quality of her jeans and jewelry and that missing stud in her left earlobe...

  What was she trying to tell me?

  I saw the oily patina of the corpse beetles as they crawled up and down her arms, heard the buzz of nearby blowflies. The progression of her putrefaction momentarily distracted me and it took some effort to refocus. I was missing something vital, something she wanted me to see. Something I knew would torment me once I awakened.

  I searched and searched, but the clue eluded me. And when consciousness tugged at me, I resisted because I knew the sign was right there, like a memory that remained out of grasp.

  A songbird pulled me up from Darius Goodwine’s shadow land. The trill seemed to taunt me as I remained motionless, still trapped in the steely vise of lethargy before summoning the strength to break free. Then I sat up, my gaze probing into the farthest corners of the garden.

  No one was there, dead, living or in between. Nothing lurked or lumbered in the shady recesses.

  I had only been out a moment or two judging by the ooze of tea down into the cracks of the patio pavers. The sun was still shining and I could still smell flowers on the breeze that gently stirred the wind chimes.

  Everything remained so peaceful and static I might have wondered if I’d been under at all except for the shards of porcelain at my feet and the hint of ozone that lingered. Not the scent from an approaching storm, but the crisp, lightning-strike odor of Darius Goodwine’s magic.

  Fourteen

  Leaving Charleston, I headed south on the Coastal Highway, but I didn’t return to Ascension. Instead, I drove to the tiny community near Hammond where Essie Goodwine lived. I hoped she wouldn’t mind my dropping by unannounced, but I was more concerned about my reception from her great-granddaughter.

  The last time our paths had crossed, Rhapsody Goodwine seemed to be following Darius over to the dark side rather than in Essie’s benevolent footsteps. I told myself she was young yet and could easily be influenced either way. I hoped her great-grandmother would win out, but I didn’t discount her father’s powerful caché.

  When she opened the door at my knock, I searched her face for hints of his slyness, but her demeanor remained passive.

  Even so, my smile was tentative. “Hello, Rhapsody. Remember me?”

  Her gaze darkened as she observed me through the screen door. “Yes. If you’ve come to see Granny, she’s not here right now.”

  “Oh.” I bit my lip in disappointment. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “Soon, I reckon.” She toed open the door with a slender barefoot. “You can come inside and wait for her if you like.”

  “Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. Would it be all right if I wait for her on the porch?”

  “It’s hot out there,” she warned.

  “That’s okay. I’m used to the heat.”

  “Then suit yourself.” Opening the door wider, she stepped out on the porch to join me. She was tall for her age, which was not unexpected in Darius Goodwine’s offspring, nor was the graceful way she carried herself. There was an unaffected sensuality in her litheness, in the sway of dark curls down her back.

  The Rhapsody I knew had always been a bit full of herself, boasting upon our first meeting that as the only remaining Goodwine daughter, she would be taught all of Essie’s secrets, all of her spells and incantations. I hadn’t given that claim proper weight back then, but I’d since learned not to underestimate any of the Goodwines. I suspected Rhapsody was still a prideful girl, but now her confidence was quieter and more regal. In that way, she reminded me of Mariama.

  She cocked her head slightly. “He said you would come.”

  “Who?”

  “Darius.” Not Father, not Dad or Papa, but Darius.

  “He really is back, then?”

  She lifted a thin shoulder. “I don’t know where he is. He came to me in a dream. He said I should trust you because you’re the only one who can save me.”

  My heart jolted painfully. “Save you from who? From what?”

  “The man with two souls.”

  I opened my mouth to question her further, but she put a finger to her lips. “Granny’s here,” she whispered, a split second before she turned toward the yard.

  I followed her gaze to where Essie had paused at the edge of the road to watch us. She stood there for a moment, hand shading her eyes before crossing the yard in a gentle flurry of flapping skirts and sandals. Despite her age and girth, she was as graceful in her own way as Rhapsody. When she got to the porch, Rhapsody ran down the steps and took her arm, but Essie shook her off.

  “The day I need help to climb dem steps is the day you kin lay me six feet under,” she declared stoutly. She spoke in a mixture of English and Gullah, the lovely, rolling rhythm conjuring an image of wind rippling through Spanish moss. I wondered if she’d adjusted her speech for my benefit or if I’d simply grown more accustomed to the Sea Island cadence during my summer in Beaufort County. In any case, I had no trouble understanding her where once I might have struggled.

  “We’ve got company,” Rhapsody said at her side.

  “I kin see dat, chil’. I still got eyes, don’t I? Now run inside and pour her some sweet tea before she passes out in dis heat.”

  The first time I’d come to Essie’s house, I’d blacked out on the porch, only to awaken sometime later to find her hovering over me, muttering even then about the darkness headed my way.

  “I don’t want to trouble you,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry for dropping by like this.”

  “You’re always welcome.” Essie took a moment to settle herself in her rocker. She motioned for me to sit, too, and I sank down on the porch, leaning back against a newel post to face her.

  Rhapsody had already disappeared inside by this time. I could hear the slamming of cupboard doors and the rattle of glasses through the screen.

  “How have you been, Essie?”

  “I’m well, girl. And you?”

  “I don’t know. Some strange things have been happening lately. That’s actually why I’m here. I’ve just come from a visit with Dr. Shaw. Rupert Shaw,” I clarified.

  “I know who you mean.” She picked up a batch of quilt blocks from the sweetgrass basket at her side and smoothed the colorful fabric across her lap. She didn’t take out her needle, though, and I suspected she just needed to occupy her hands.

  I tucked a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “Dr. Shaw told me a story that you once told him about a group you called Resurrection Men. The leader was a man named Atticus Pope and his followers included your brother. Is that true?”

  “Ezekiel always did have a nose for trouble, God rest him.”

  The screen door opened and she fell silent as Rhapsody carried out a tray of sweating gla
sses and a plate of sesame seed cookies. I took a cookie and a glass of tea and thanked her. In return, she gave me a knowing smile before turning to serve Essie.

  “Granny,” she said, bending to place the tray on a small table near Essie’s chair. “I’m walking over to CeCe’s now.”

  “What you walking over dere for?” Essie grumbled.

  “We’re going swimming. Remember? I told you about it this morning. Don’t worry,” Rhapsody said as she grabbed a cookie from the tray. “I’ll be home early.”

  Essie shook a finger at the girl. “By daa’k, you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Go fetch my picture box before you go. The one I keep in the cedar chest in my bedroom. Hurry now.”

  Rhapsody scurried inside and came back out a few minutes later with an old cigar box, which she placed on Essie’s lap as she leaned down to kiss her cheek. “See you later, Granny.” She threw a glance in my direction and then she was gone, running down the steps and across the yard so lightly it seemed as though she were floating.

  Essie watched her with narrowed eyes.

  “She’s a beautiful girl,” I said.

  “She a han’ful, dat one.”

  I could well imagine.

  I finished my cookie and set the half-empty tea glass on the porch. “You were telling me about Ezekiel. He was your brother?”

  “My baby brother. He came along after I was already married with children of my own. Our da spoiled him rotten, him being the youngest, so he never left home ’til she passed on. Then he came here to stay one summer. Just ’til he find work, he say. My boys were already gone by den, but I was raising Mariama and Darius, and dem two...” She shook her head. “Dey more than a han’ful.”

  I had no doubt.

  “Ezekiel, he fall in with a bad bunch. Staying out ’til all hours. Dragging his sorry hide home at daybruk with bloodshot eyes and clothes reeking of something no living body should smell like. He started bringing dat man around here, too.”

  “Atticus Pope?”