The Restorer. Amanda Stevens
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handle this thing according to procedure. You know the cemetery and you know the rules. All you have to do is make sure we don’t step on any toes. So to speak.” This time, I did see a faint smile.
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.” He glanced out over the water. “Once the fog lifts, we could get more rain. We need to get this thing done.”
This thing done.
What a portentous turn of phrase.
“As I said, we’ll pay you.”
“It’s not that.” I didn’t like the idea of going out to Oak Grove after dark, but I also didn’t see how I could refuse. Civic duty notwithstanding, Camille Ashby currently controlled my purse strings. It was in my best interests to keep her happy. “I’m hardly dressed for the occasion, but I suppose if you think I can be of some help…”
“I do. Let’s grab those photos and head on out there.” He took my elbow, as if to propel me forward before I could change my mind.
His touch was strangely magnetic. It both attracted and repelled me, and as I pulled away, I found myself dredging up my father’s third rule and silently repeating it like a mantra:
Keep your distance from those who are haunted.
Keep your distance from those who are haunted.
“I’d rather drive myself, if you don’t mind.”
He gave me a sidelong glance as we continued along the walkway. “Whatever you want. It’s your call.”
We fell silent as we walked back through the mist, the lights from the East Bay mansions softly illuminating the ghost child floating between us. I was careful not to touch her. Careful not to look down as I felt the chilly brush of her hand against my leg.
The woman trailed behind us. It was odd to me that the little girl seemed the more dominant of the two, and I wondered again about their relationship to Devlin.
How long had they haunted him? Did he have a clue they were there? Had he experienced cold spots, electrical surges, inexplicable noises in the middle of the night?
Did he realize that his energy was slowly being drained away?
The subtle radiation of his body heat would be irresistible to the ghosts. Even I wasn’t entirely immune.
As we stepped into the haze of a streetlamp, I stole another glance. The illumination seemed to repel the ghosts and as they drifted away, I caught a fleeting glimpse—a remnant, nothing more—of the vital man John Devlin had once been.
He cocked his head, as unmindful of my scrutiny as he was of the entities. I thought at first he was listening to the distant wail of the foghorn, but then I realized the sound that had captured his attention was closer. A car alarm.
“Where are you parked?” he asked.
“Over…there.” I pointed in the direction of the alarm.
We hurried across the damp parking lot and as we rounded a row of cars, I glanced anxiously down the line, spotting my silver SUV beneath a security light where I had left it. The back door was ajar and shattered glass sparkled on the wet pavement.
“That’s mine!” I started toward it.
He caught my arm. “Hold on…”
Several rows over, a car engine revved.
“Wait here!” he said. “And don’t touch anything.”
I tracked him as he wove through the glistening cars and only turned away when I’d lost sight of him and the sound of his footsteps faded. Then I walked over to the open back door of my vehicle and peered inside. Thankfully, I’d left my laptop and camera at home, and I had my phone and wallet on me. The only thing that seemed to be missing was my briefcase.
The sound of the engine grew louder and I glanced around just as a black car skidded around the corner. Headlights caught me in the face and for a split second, I froze. Then adrenaline shot through me and I dove between my vehicle and the next as the car sped by me.
Devlin appeared out of the mist just as I picked myself up off the pavement.
“You okay? Did he hit you?” He sounded anxious, but his dark eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt.
“No, I’m fine. Just a little shaken up—”
He sprinted away, cutting through the rows of parked cars in a futile effort to head off the culprit before he could get away. I heard the whine of the motor and the squeal of tires as the driver stomped the accelerator and swerved into the street.
My imagination and nerves being somewhat overly stimulated, I half expected to hear gunshots, but all was silent after the engine noise faded.
Devlin trotted toward me, phone pressed to his ear. He spoke rapidly, listened for a moment, then hung up. “Did you get a look at the driver?” he asked.
“No, sorry. It happened too fast. What about you?”
“Never got close enough. Couldn’t make out the tags, either.”
“Then you won’t be able to track him down, will you? And I’ll be stuck with all the damage.” I glanced forlornly at my broken window.
He gave me a strange look before turning toward my car. “Can you tell if anything is missing?”
“My briefcase is gone.”
“It was in the back?”
“Yes.”
“In plain view?”
“Not exactly. It was behind the rear seat. You’d have to peer into the window to notice it.”
“Anyone see you put it in there?”
I thought about it for a minute, then shrugged. “It’s possible. I spent the afternoon at the university library, so I suppose someone could have seen me toss it in when I left.”
“You came straight here?”
“No. I went home to shower and change first.”
“Did you take your briefcase inside?”
“I left it in the car. I don’t always take it out at home. There’s nothing valuable in it. Just work-related stuff.”
“Like photos of Oak Grove Cemetery?”
I honestly hadn’t made that leap yet.
I suppose my real world instincts had been severely stunted by the solitude of my profession and avocation.
“You don’t think this could be connected to the body found in the cemetery, do you?”
He didn’t answer. “You say you have other copies of the photographs?”
“Of course. I always store my digital images online. I’ve had too many hard drive crashes to leave anything to chance.” Shock was starting to set in and my disquiet now had very little to do with John Devlin’s ghosts. I could no longer see them. It was as if the negative energy surrounding my car had chased them deeper into the shadows. Or maybe they were being pulled back behind the veil. Whatever the reason, I knew they would eventually return. His warmth would lure them back because they couldn’t exist for long without him.
I wrapped my arms around my middle and shivered. “What should I do?”
“We’ll get you a police report written up and you can file a claim with your insurance company.”
“No, I mean…if this is somehow connected to a homicide, then the killer knows who I am. And if he did this to get his hands on those pictures, he’ll figure out soon enough that I have copies.”
“Then we’d better find him first,” said John Devlin.
THREE