The Prophet

Chapter Eighteen

I turned to find Layla standing behind me, and I wondered how long she’d been there and whether she, too, had overheard the argument between Dr. Shaw and Gerrity.

“May I help you?” she asked coolly.

“I just came back for a book Dr. Shaw loaned me.” I held it up, but she barely glanced at the cover. “Would you mind telling him that I was here?”

“Perhaps you should tell him yourself,” she said and nodded toward the garden.

Dr. Shaw stood silhouetted in the doorway, staring into the office as if he’d seen a ghost. His face was pale, his eyes glazed and riveted on something just beyond my shoulder. It was all I could do not to look back.

“Sylvia…” he muttered and put out his hand.

I did glance back then, but there was no ghost. Not even the chill of an invisible presence. Whatever he’d seen must have been inside his own mind.

“Dr. Shaw, are you okay?”

“You didn’t see her?”

“See who?” I asked anxiously.

His gaze moved to his assistant, and I could have sworn I saw a flash of fear. Then his knees buckled, and both of us dashed across the room to catch him. “It was her…I swear it was her… .”

“No one else is here,” Layla said. “You’re imagining things again. You’ve been working much too hard. You really must listen to me when I tell you it’s time for a break.”

Her stern voice seemed to raise his ire. “Don’t treat me like a child. It was her, I tell you.”

We helped him to his chair. “Just relax,” Layla soothed. “I’ll go make you some tea.”

“I think we should call a doctor,” I said.

“No, no doctor.” He laid a weak hand on my arm. “It’s good of you to be concerned, but I’m just feeling a little under the weather. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“At least let me call Ethan,” I said.

“No, please…” His grip tightened on my arm. “I don’t want to worry him.”

“But he’d want to know if you’re not feeling well.”

“It’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure,” Layla said firmly.

“Yes, quite right,” Dr. Shaw murmured. “I’ll have that tea now, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Her gaze met mine. “May I show you out, Miss Gray?”

I glanced down at Dr. Shaw. He was still clinging to my arm. “Are you sure I can’t be of some help?”

I could feel the tremble of his hand, but his eyes were clear now as he turned and lowered his voice. “Just remember what I said earlier. Don’t repeat what we spoke of in this office. Tell no one what you heard here today.”

The blue Buick was in front of me as I turned on Rutledge.

I certainly had no intention of following Tom Gerrity. Earlier, I’d come to the conclusion that I’d had enough of all this snooping and sleuthing and jumping to conclusions, but then I’d overheard yet another conversation, and here I was back in the thick of things.

It didn’t take a genius to deduce that Gerrity was blackmailing Dr. Shaw, but why? And had he really implied that Dr. Shaw could be involved in murder? Or had I misinterpreted what might have been nothing more than a snide comment?

Evidently their association went back a long way. I racked my exhausted brain trying to recall everything that Devlin and Temple Lee had told me about Rupert Shaw before I knew him. He used to be a professor at Emerson University, but he’d been dismissed when concerns for his stability and unfounded rumors began to circulate. Rumors about recruiting his students to participate in midnight séances and his overall preoccupation with death. Some of the students had talked, and the powers-that-be had let him go. That’s when he’d opened the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies.

I’d always found Dr. Shaw to be of sound mind if a bit distracted at times. But today he’d seemed genuinely confused by something—or someone—he thought he’d seen in his office. I was pretty sure he’d only imagined it, though. I would have known if there’d been a ghost, but hallucinations were an entirely different matter.

The Buick made a turn onto Canon, and, rather than continuing toward home, I followed Gerrity to the city’s east side. Dipping down King Street to Mary, we cut back up America, which had once been considered the most dangerous street in Charleston. Gentrification had curtailed some of the crime, at least by day, but come nightfall, a seamier element came calling.

It was not yet dusk, so the streets were still teeming. Old men in lawn chairs gossiped in front of the corner grocery, while mothers kept watchful eyes on their children from shady front porches. The air was filled with the usual traffic noises—gunning motors, blaring music and the occasional screech of brakes. Despite the din, there was a homey camaraderie about the neighborhood that belied a recent rash of midnight shootings.

I made sure my doors were locked as I pulled into a parking place a few spaces back from Gerrity. He climbed out of his car and crossed the street to a sagging, three-story Victorian. The house had once been glorious, but the blue paint was faded and peeling, and much of the spindle work and gingerbread trim had long since rotted away. Two young men in baggy jeans and Panthers jerseys reclining on the porch steps tried to hassle him. He brushed off their taunts with barely a glance, and I heard their guffaws even through my closed windows as he disappeared inside the house.

He’d been gone for maybe ten minutes when I decided this wasn’t such a great idea. I couldn’t wait around here forever. I’d start to attract attention. The least I could do was circle the block a time or two.

I started the engine and was just about to pull onto the street when I glanced up at the Victorian’s third-story balcony. A man stared down at me. Even though he leaned against the railing, I could tell that he was very tall, with skin the color of rich mahogany. He had on slacks and a loose white shirt that billowed in the breeze, and I saw a necklace dangling from his throat. He was looking right at me. I had no doubt about that. Even from this distance I could feel the power of his gaze and—I could have sworn—the strength of his will. A shiver chased up my spine as our gazes held for the longest moment. He was smiling. I had no doubt about that, either.

I felt certain I was staring into the eyes of Darius Goodwine.

How I could be so positive about the man’s identity, I didn’t know. Maybe it was his height, the power of that gaze. Maybe it was because Ethan had said he’d seen Darius in this part of town at a house where human bones had been uncovered.

Maybe it was because I could feel him inside my head, creeping around in my memories.

I was almost relieved when something smashed into my passenger window, breaking the spell of that probing gaze. I whirled to find one of the young men from the porch leering at me. The other one popped up on the driver’s side, and I heard him say something obscene through the glass. I put the car in gear and shot forward, making them both jump back from the tires. I didn’t glance in the mirror as I drove away, but I knew they were laughing at me.

So was Darius Goodwine.