Gaines walked, one foot after the other, one step, a second, a third, and he felt the weight of all that he was confronting. At one point, he merely stopped and looked back toward the house, a house he had known for all the years since his return, a house that had come to represent his life with his mother.

It was hard to fathom, hard to absorb, harder to comprehend. The closest he had ever come to such a wide and strange spectrum of emotions was the loss of Linda Newman. But she was not dead, merely departed. He had seen men die in war—brutally, tragically, suddenly, and in ways that no human being should ever have to witness—but, in the main, they had been men he did not know. Their names yes, sometimes their occupations before the draft, but little else. They were there, and then they were gone. Linda was different, a thousand times different, and then the loss of his mother was a hundred thousand times beyond even that. There was no means by which he could measure the extent of his sadness. Perhaps when people grieve, they do not grieve for the loss of what has passed but the loss of what might have been. They grieve for a future that will never be.

Gaines sat on the ground. He did not know why. After a while, he remembered where he had been going, the fact that going there—to find out what had caught his attention in the field—was something he had started simply to have something to do. He got up, brushed down his pants, and carried on walking.

He did not know how long he had paused, at first to look back at the house, then to sit in the dirt, but the sun had lowered and the shadows had lengthened.

Not all things needed to be rationalized or explained. Gaines believed his mother was attuned to things beyond the immediately corporeal and tangible. She had said little of this, but she believed it. If others believed something so strongly that they could then act upon those beliefs, did that not make them as real as any other beliefs? Who said that one belief was more valid and believable than another?

Gaines realized he had stopped walking again. He had taken no more than three or four steps, and he had come to a stop once more. He smiled to himself, a fleeting consideration of his own indecisiveness, and then he moved once more.

Surely he must have reached the point from where the flickering light had come.

And then he had another thought, and the thought seemed to swallow up every other thought in one simple go. What if it had not been a physical light? What if it had been something else entirely? What if he had seen the light of life? Seriously, what if he had experienced some bizarre and surreal perception of something beyond the physical? What if such things could be perceived? Was there a life force that, in leaving the body, could remain for a while and could be seen, literally seen with the eyes?

Gaines shuddered. Was a ghost nothing more than the soul of a person, sometimes remaining for some time after the event of death, perhaps with some intent to communicate what had been left unsaid?

Had he seen his mother out here in the field? Was that what had happened? Had only he been able to see her?

It was this thought that underpinned every accepted reality, every certainty possessed about the nature of life and death for centuries—that the very essence of man was a spiritual thing—and he wrestled with that thought right until the moment that he came upon the thing that had winked and flickered at him through the darkness.

Clearly visible beneath the thick rivulets of melted wax was a dismembered hand.

Gaines had read of such things, had seen representations and images. He had heard of Petit Albert, but how he had heard of it, he could not recall. Perhaps it had been something of which his mother had spoken. Perhaps it was something there within the woof and warp of New Orleans history and heritage and folklore and rumor.

The image was undeniable and surreal, both horrific and somehow, strangely, expected.

Perhaps this was nothing more than a catalyst, the single thing that tipped him over the edge of his internal defenses, but he felt those defenses yielding. He felt the tension unraveling in his chest—a combination of despair and grief, of loss and horror, within this some kind of bone-deep certainty that he had brought this upon himself—even brought it upon the whole town of Whytesburg—by failing to hold Webster, by failing to keep him alive, but most of all for bringing Nancy Denton back from that stinking, black grave.

And it was then that Gaines cried again, but really cried, not like a man who’d lost his mother, but like a man who’d lost everything.

Gaines knelt down in the dirt, his knees in the furrows of the fields, and he sobbed until his chest was racked with pain, and through his tear-filled eyes he looked at Michael Webster’s dismembered hand—for he knew without doubt that this was all it could be—the skin caked with melted wax, the last vestige of the candle burned down to nothing. He remembered how that light had flickered while his mother lay dead, and he wondered what terrible nightmare had been unleashed in Whytesburg that had opened a twenty-year-old grave and put a Hand of Glory out here in the darkness for him to find.

And he knew that Webster’s head would be buried somewhere close, though what he would find beyond that he did not know.

Gaines did not believe that this was some arcane and occult conjuration. This was merely violence and some perverse desire to frighten Gaines more than he was already frightened.

Michael Webster had left the Sheriff’s Office with Matthias Wade. Matthias Wade knew something of this, and it was a great deal more than he had already said. Gaines was certain that Wade knew the truth of Nancy Denton, that he knew the truth of Webster, and that such truths were the only thing that would relieve the terrible pressure that Gaines felt all around him. It was as if such a revelation would open the only door that was needed, the door through which could pass the dreadful horrors that had befallen Whytesburg these past few days.

It was a long time before Gaines rose to his feet, and when he did, he walked back to the house and called Richard Hagen. He told him to bring sawhorses and crime-scene tape, torches, a shovel, and to call Victor Powell and tell him to get out there also.

Hagen didn’t ask questions. Perhaps he, too, did not want to know what John Gaines had found. Perhaps he, too, believed that the worst had already been witnessed.

On the back steps of the house, John Gaines waited patiently for the arrival of his deputy and the coroner.

In that moment, the world seemed very small indeed, claustrophobic with shadows and whispered voices, and Gaines believed that his mother’s voice was among those that he heard, and she was telling him to leave.

43

It was a task of careful excavation—to retain as much physical evidence as they could. Powell assisted too, and it was Powell who said what Gaines had hoped he would not hear.

“There is something buried here.”

Powell’s voice was calm and measured, and yet Gaines could hear that edge of agitated disturbance beneath it. Powell was uneasy, as was Hagen, as was Gaines himself. It was dark, and they worked by flashlight, and the constant movement of shadows around them added nothing but further disquiet to the already tense atmosphere.

Gaines and Hagen held their lights steady as Powell worked his fingers around the edges of what had had found.

“Some sort of canvas,” Powell said. “Something wrapped in canvas, I think.”

He dug further, Hagen assisting then, until it was nothing less than obvious what they had found. They carefully eased back the edges of the wrapping, and the features were unmistakable.

“Webster’s head,” Powell said, and he looked up at Gaines.