Page 90 of The Unforgiven
“He’ll complain about a lot more if I’m correct,” Quinn muttered.
“What is it you’re hoping to find, Quinn?” He was serious now, his eyes anxious as he searched her face for answers.
“Proof of murder.”
Saying the words out loud doused Quinn’s high spirits. This was no laughing matter, and some part of her wished she could leave this alone and forget what she’d seen. Apprehension tugged at her heart as she climbed into Brett’s car. She wanted to find Madeline, but coming face-to-face with her remains would not be pleasant. Quinn had seen many skeletons in her profession and had always kept a sense of detachment, but this was personal. Madeline was personal, and for the first time, Quinn was directly linked to the victim.
Brett parked the car close to the cemetery and they walked toward the gates in silence. Brett’s hold-all gave a metallic clang as he slung it over his shoulder.
“What did you bring?” Quinn asked. A shovel was noticeably absent.
“A screwdriver, a crowbar, and metal clippers. Not like the door is unlocked,” Brett pointed out. “Besides, no one is buried underground. They are all nicely laid out on shelves. No need for a shovel, unless what you’re looking for is buried inside the mausoleum. I have a shovel in the trunk but thought it might be too conspicuous to be prancing about with it in the middle of the afternoon.”
Quinn nodded. He was right, of course. Brett was a better accomplice than she’d anticipated. Some part of her was glad of this bonding experience with her brother, but her mind was on Madeline. She could recall Madeline’s face as the gun went off and the bullet ripped into her chest, the impact knocking her backward. She looked so young, so innocent. She’d been only sixteen, a girl whose life had barely begun. In this day and age, Madeline would have had someone advocating for her rights, protecting her. There were laws, and George would have been held accountable for what he’d done. But, in the nineteenth century, there had been no one to turn to. Clara had been the only person who truly cared for Madeline, but she’d been powerless to do anything except try to advise Madeline to move on and rebuild her life, which she’d desperately tried to do.
Quinn wiped away an angry tear. This was no time to get emotional. First things first.
Brett extracted a pass from his pocket and showed it to the attendant at the ticket booth. His forethought impressed Quinn. Visitors to the cemetery had to pay a hefty admission fee, but locals who had family buried in St. Louis Cemetery could obtain a pass to enter the cemetery for free. The attendant waved them through without bothering to examine the pass. He had his mobile out and was too preoccupied with whatever he saw on the screen to care.
It took a while to find the right tomb since it was located in the most neglected and dilapidated part of the cemetery. The massive stone monument leaned a bit to the side, and chunks of stonework were missing, gouged out by storms and time. The stone lintel was so weathered that the nameTalbotwas almostcompletely obliterated. A wrought iron fence surrounded the tomb, and although the gate was unlocked, it screeched with disuse when Brett pulled it open. Sybil had chosen wisely. No one had opened the Talbot vault since the nineteenth century. She’d committed the perfect crime.
“You should have seen this place after Hurricane Katrina,” Brett said as he lowered his hold-all to the ground. “It’s a wonder any of these old tombs are still standing.”
“They were built to last.”
“Yeah, that’s what I love about those times,” Brett replied. “When people did something, they did it like they meant it. They were strong and determined, not like the people of today who are paralyzed by ridiculous social constraints. They simply got on with it.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it, but social constraints were very much present in nineteenth-century society,” Quinn replied, barely paying attention to him. She stared at the crumbling stone edifice, her hands shaking. It wasn’t too late to walk away and leave this particular Pandora’s box closed. She knew what had happened to Madeline. Perhaps that was enough. She could simply tell Rhys that she’d changed her mind and this story was too personal to air. They could find another grave, another skeleton, another story.
“What other way is there? People today are so soft,” Brett went on. “I mean, if something needs to be done, just do it and deal with the consequences later.”
“Let’s do it then,” Quinn said. Brett was right. This needed to be done. The truth had to come out, and consequences be damned. Madeline deserved to be acknowledged, and it was time Quinn made peace with her gift. If people ridiculed her, so be it. She was done hiding.
“You sure?” Brett watched her closely, his eyes full of anxiety.
“Yes, I am.”
The double doors of the tomb, which at some point must have been painted dark green but were now faded and peeling, were kept locked with an old iron padlock. The chain that slithered through the handles was flaking with rust, but when Quinn gave the lock an experimental tug, it held fast. She brushed the orange rust off her hands and peered closely at the door.
“Maybe we can unscrew the door handles with your screwdriver,” she suggested.
“It’s easier to just clip the chain,” Brett replied. “There’s no one here. No one will notice.”
He extracted a pair of large pliers from his bag and applied them to the rusty chain. It took a few tries, but he was finally able to cut through one of the links. The chain rattled to the ground, and the lock fell at Quinn’s feet. Brett picked up the lock and chain and tossed them behind the tomb. He stowed the pliers in his bag and opened the doors. The hinges whined with years of disuse, but the doors opened, revealing the inside of the vault. The tomb exhaled a breath of damp earth and decay.
“After you, Madame Tomb Raider,” Brett said with a wicked grin.
Quinn peered inside. The tomb was filled with gloom, even on this sunny day. Four shelves held the remains of the last Talbots to have been interred in the vault, thankfully still in their coffins. The wood had warped and rotted over the years, especially after the flooding caused by the hurricane, but it was still intact, holding its grisly contents in check. A dozen bags lined up against the far wall had what appeared to be tags attached to them, but the tags were yellowed with age and the ink faded and illegible. The bottoms of the bags showed evidence of water staining, which meant that water had gotten into the vault and had eventually drained away.
“What are those?” Quinn asked as she peered at the bags.
“These family vaults can only hold so many coffins, so after someone has been dead for two years, they move their bones to a bag and burn the coffin, making room for new arrivals,” Brett explained.
“Not a very pleasant way to spend eternity.”
“What does it matter? They’re dead,” Brett replied with a shrug. “And these customers have been dead for centuries.”
Quinn turned on the flashlight on her mobile and shone a light into the tomb, illuminating its darkest corners. She wasn’t interested in the coffins or the labeled bags. No one would have bothered to label Madeline’s remains. She was looking for something that seemed out of place. It wasn’t hard to find. Beneath the lowest ledge was a burlap sack, or what remained of it. Most of the cloth had rotted away, revealing the white gleam of bone. Even without disturbing the remains, Quinn could clearly see the hand and the narrow, delicate wrist. They were small, like those of a child or a young woman. She exhaled loudly.
