The Restorer. Amanda Stevens
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The stranger beside me was the same height and build as the detective, and he had the same guarded air. And yet he made me think—not of Devlin—but of his ghosts. This man, too, had the café au lait complexion that suggested a mixed heritage, but his bearing was straight, not regal, his features more handsome than exotic. At least what I could see of them beneath the sunglasses. He wore faded clothes, but he did not strike me as homeless. Nor, for some reason, did I think he was a tourist.
He didn’t so much as glance at me as he stared out over the water, seemingly absorbed in the vastness of the harbor.
I grew apprehensive. It was very quiet where we stood, too early for anyone to be about. Whoever had broken into my car and stolen my briefcase was still out there somewhere. The killer of that poor girl whose body had been found in Oak Grove Cemetery had yet to be caught.
Was it just a coincidence that this stranger had appeared on the Battery at the precise time I took my morning walk?
I wanted to move away, but was reluctant to call attention to myself and even more hesitant to turn my back on him.
As if sensing my unease, he waited a moment longer for the sunrise, then turned and slowly walked away, disappearing into the lush foliage of White Point Gardens.
I headed for home, stopping for a bagel and coffee on the way. With each step that brought me closer to my sanctuary, I felt a growing trepidation. A creeping dread that left me wondering…
How had Devlin’s ghost child managed to penetrate my defenses? And what would I do if she came back?
When I got home, I went straight to the garden. The moonflowers had withered in the heat as the rising sun slowly awakened the morning glories.
I walked along narrow beds of purple phlox to the spot where I’d seen the little girl’s ghost. I don’t know what I expected to find. Nothing as earthly or as human as footprints. But something had been left behind.
A tiny garnet ring lay embedded in the soft earth.
I might not have seen it at all had I not been searching so closely for evidence of a ghostly visit.
The ring looked as if it had been buried there for a very long time. Perhaps like the body in Oak Grove, it had been uncovered by the recent rainstorms. I wanted to believe it had been lost by some former occupant of the house, but I couldn’t help remembering the sparkle on the little ghost’s finger as she pointed to the window where I had stood watching her.
I knelt in the grass, hands on thighs and stared for a long time at that ring.
Had it been left there as a message? A warning?
Could a ghost do that?
I’d felt the spidery crawl of their fingers in my hair, the whisper of their cold breath down my collar, but I’d never found any physical evidence of their presence. And yet there lay a ring in the very spot where one of Devlin’s ghosts had vanished back into the mist.
It didn’t seem proper to leave it half buried in the dirt, but neither did I want the thing in my house or on my person. Already I had too much of a connection to this entity. The last thing I needed was to issue an unwitting invitation.
After a bit, I got up and went inside to retrieve an antique silver trinket box from my dresser, along with a basket of pebbles and seashells I’d collected from the old part of Rosehill Cemetery, my childhood playground. The artifacts had come from hallowed ground, as had the polished stone I wore on a silver chain around my neck. Whether they held any protective properties of their own, I had no idea. I liked to think that they did.
I went back out to the garden and, using the tip of a spade to carefully tease the ring from the moist ground, I placed it inside the silver box, dug a hole and buried it. Then I fashioned a heart on top of the site with the pebbles.
Working quickly and in deep concentration, I tuned out the sounds from the street along with the soft spit of my next-door neighbor’s lawn sprinkler. I only looked up when I heard footsteps on the paving stones, and by then it was too late. John Devlin was already upon me.
I had a feeling he’d been watching me for some time through the wrought-iron gate. Some part of me had sensed him there, I think, but I chose to ignore the warning.
Now as his shadow fell over me, I stared up at him, my pulse reacting erratically.
“What died?” he asked.
SIX
“Nothing died.” I spoke in a casual tone that I knew disguised the startled thud of my heart. As did my practiced expression. I never gave any of my feelings away. I couldn’t afford to when a nervous tic or the dart of my gaze might betray my awareness to a ghost.
And speaking of ghosts, Devlin was alone. Not surprising with the sun fully over the horizon. His unearthly companons would have drifted back through the veil, waiting for twilight, waiting for an in-between time at an in-between place to reemerge.
“I thought I’d use my unexpected time off to do a little gardening,” I told him. “Normally, I would have been at the cemetery by now trying to beat the heat.”
“Murder tends to throw a monkey wrench in the best-laid plans,” he said, without a trace of irony or a smile. He nodded toward the outline of stones on the ground. “What’s the heart for?”
“It’s just a decorative symbol. It can mean anything you want. Peace. Love. Harmony.” I squinted up at him. It was the first time I’d seen him in daylight, and he looked both younger and older than I’d originally thought him. His face was smooth except for the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, his hair dark and luxurious. He wore it short and styled in a manner that gave him some edge, as did the cut of his trousers and the trim fit of his shirt. He appeared to be a man that took pride in his appearance, and with good reason. He was very attractive, with the kind of brooding intensity that had made women’s hearts patter throughout the ages. Mine was no exception.
I placed him somewhere in his early to mid-thirties, but the shadows under his eyes and the hollow cheekbones aged him by at least a decade, depending on the angle and light. There was something troubling in his eyes. Something that made me think again that here was a man who knew things. Here was a man who had seen many dark things.
But such morbid speculation seemed out of place in a sun-dappled garden perfumed by my neighbor’s magnolia trees.
He put out a hand and reluctantly I took it, allowing him to help me to my feet. A thrill raced up my arm, an electric charge that made the world stop for a moment as I caught my breath.
I pulled my hand away, wondering if he had felt it, too. He was either totally unaffected or as much an expert as I in disguising his feelings.
Then he turned his head slightly and I noticed a curious throb at his temple, as if maybe, just maybe he wasn’t quite as impassive as he would have me believe.
I thought that over for a moment. Did his reaction make me feel better or worse? It certainly excited me. My heart was still pounding and I drew in some air to try and slow it.
Awkwardly, I dusted my hands on my shorts. “What brings you by so early? You didn’t find my briefcase, did you?”
“No, sorry. I want to talk to you about these.” He held out copies of the images I’d sent to him the night before. I recognized the top photo as the grave where the victim had been buried. “Did you have a look at these?”
“Yes. I went over that particular photo thoroughly with a magnifier last night. I didn’t see any evidence that the grave had been disturbed.”
“When did you take these?”
“Last Friday. I’d have to look at the digital fingerprint to give you an exact time, but considering the location of the grave, it was sometime in the afternoon. I finished with that area around three and was just about to move into the older section when the clouds rolled in and I lost the light. I packed up everything and left before four. Does that help with your