Kitabı oku: «The Reckoning», sayfa 3

Alex edged around the tree and slipped across the open stretch of swamp to join Holt. As soon as she slipped behind him, Holt began moving slowly down the side of the cabin. Fortunately, the cabin contained no windows on this side, so there was no risk of being seen by anyone inside. Unfortunately, Alex was painfully aware of the risk of being heard with every step she made on the dry marsh grass.

When they reached the edge of the cabin, Holt peered around, then slipped around the corner. Alex followed just in time to see him peeking into the front door that already stood wide open. He motioned to her to follow before he stepped inside.

The cabin was one tiny room, no bigger than a basic second bedroom in a house. A cot stood in one corner and a wood-burning stove in the other. A table, made of the bound branches of cypress trees, stood in the center of the room. Shelves covered every square inch of wall space, filled with candles and glass jars. God only knew what was inside of them. On the table sat several ceremonial masks made of leather. Alex had seen replicas in the tourist stores in downtown New Orleans, but she had a feeling these were the real thing.

Alex sucked in a breath and she scanned the room, trying to take it all in. The cabin was dirty, with a layer of dust covering every surface, but clearly someone was still staying here or had stayed here fairly recently. If it had been abandoned, it hadn’t been long enough for the place to get completely run-down.

Alex took a step over to the stove and lifted the lid off a cast-iron pot. She blanched at the putrid smell and quickly replaced the lid.

“Spoiled?” Holt asked.

“I don’t think so. I think that abomination was intentional. What in the world goes on here? Look at the candles, the jars of … something. That witch theory is looking a lot more believable.”

“It’s disconcerting,” Holt agreed, “but you know the old ways, even if we don’t come from families that practiced them. If the woman has been out here all her life, likely she’s deeply set in the old voodoo traditions. That doesn’t make her a witch.”

Alex crossed her arms across her chest as a chill washed over her. “Something’s not right here. More than it just being creepy.”

“Well, there doesn’t appear to be anything to see, so we may as well leave the creepy and whatever else behind.”

Holt took a step toward the open doorway but before he could exit the cabin, a jar from a shelf above the door fell off its perch, exploding on the wooden floor at his feet.

Alex’s hand involuntarily flew up and covered her mouth, stifling a cry. Holt’s eyes widened as he looked up at the shelf and back down at the floor.

“It must have been near the edge.”

Alex scanned the shelves. “None of the other jars are near the edge, we didn’t bump anything and there’s no wind.”

“So what are you saying—that it flew off the shelf by itself?”

“Or maybe something made it. I think we should get out of here, before something more dangerous than a glass jar takes flight.”

Holt stared down at the shattered glass, frowning, then he bent over and picked something pink out of the remains of the jar. He held it up to inspect and Alex saw his jaw clench.

“What is it?” Alex asked, already afraid of the answer.

“It’s a barrette. Just like the one Erika was wearing when she disappeared.”

Alex sucked in a breath. “You’re sure?”

Holt nodded and pulled a matching barrette out of his jean’s pocket. “It was a set of six matching barrettes. Sarah gave me one … just in case.”

Alex took the two barrettes from his hand. “Just in case,” she repeated as she stared at the two strips of pink. Holt was right. They were identical.

“What was it doing in that jar?” The pitch of her voice shot up a notch as all sorts of horrible images raced through her mind.

“I don’t know,” Holt said, his expression grim. “But we’re going to find out.”

Holt stepped out of the cabin and inspected the ground surrounding the front door. “I can barely make out a set of prints that leads away from the door toward the swamp in that direction.” He pointed in the opposite direction of the dock.

The open patch surrounding the cabin suddenly grew darker and they looked up at the sky, beginning to swirl with dark clouds.

“The storm’s moving in early,” Alex said. “Not good.”

“No. This is the last place I want to be trapped in a storm.”

“But we’re not going to leave, are we?”

Holt stared at the sky, frowning. “We can try to follow the footsteps, but when it starts raining, we have to leave and in a hurry. Any footprints that are visible will be lost in the downpour, anyway.”

Alex looked at the swamp, now almost completely dark from the fading sunlight. “Then we’ll hurry.”

Chapter Five

Two hours later, Holt cursed as rain began pouring from the sky. Two long, sweaty, dirty hours of thrashing through the swamp and they had nothing to show for it. The trail had gone cold thirty minutes before and they’d wandered aimlessly since then, looking for any sign of a person passing through.

“We have to get out of here,” Holt said.

“I know,” Alex said, the frustration and disappointment evident in her voice.

“With any luck, we’ll beat the worst of it. I’m going to move fast, so yell if you fall behind.”

He turned toward the dock and started the long walk back through the swamp, stopping only occasionally to ensure they were going the right direction. It took forty-five minutes to reach the cabin and by then, the rain had increased in size and volume and he could hear the sound of thunder in the distance.

He stopped at the cabin long enough to ensure no one had returned, and then gave Alex a once-over. She was a bit winded and had some scratches on her arms, but looked good overall. Too good.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

Alex took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. “I’m glad I haven’t scrimped on my treadmill workout.”

“Me, too,” Holt said, trying not to think about how good Alex’s toned body looked in old jeans and a T-shirt, a sheen of sweat glistening on her bare skin.

Lightning flashed overhead and thunder followed a second later. Alex looked up at the swirling, black clouds and bit her lower lip.

“We’re not going to make it,” she said.

“We’re going to try. Let’s go.”

By the time they reached the boat, the storm hit full force. The wind whipped across the bayou, scattering the lily pads across the water’s surface. Holt jumped in the boat and reached back to offer Alex his hand.

She clutched his hand and placed her first foot into the rocking boat, struggling to maintain her balance. Before she lifted her other leg, a gunshot echoed through the swamp.

The ping of a bullet hitting metal sounded right behind Holt. He yanked Alex into the boat and pushed her to the bottom.

“Stay down!” he yelled and jumped to the back of the boat and started the engine. Alex huddled down in the bottom of the boat and looked up at him, her eyes wide.

A second shot sounded and he felt a burn on his biceps. He threw the boat in reverse and throttled away from the bank so fast that he almost lost his balance. Crouching as low as possible, he threw the boat into Forward and twisted the throttle.

The boat leaped to the top of the water as a third gunshot sounded. A second later, he gave a silent prayer of thanks when he realized the bullet hadn’t hit him. Between the rain pouring down his face and the lack of sunlight, his visibility was almost nothing, but the shooter’s was also. The farther he moved from the dock, the better their chances that the shooter couldn’t land an accurate shot.

He glanced down at Alex, who was clutching the seat, to avoid the worst of the beating that the choppy waves were inflicting on the boat. But he knew that tomorrow, she’d feel this escape on every square inch of her body.

The raindrops stung his face as they raced across the water, and he held one hand in front of his face to block the worst of it. As soon as he rounded the corner out of the shooter’s line of sight, he slowed enough to eliminate the worst of the pounding.

Alex pulled herself up from the bottom of the boat and into the seat in front of him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She looked back at him and nodded, then her eyes widened. “But you’re not. You’re bleeding.”

He looked down at his biceps, completely forgotten in the rush to get away. Blood stained the sleeve of his T-shirt, the rain diluting it and washing it down his arm.

“I’m fine,” he said. “The shot just nicked me.” He pointed to a storage bin at the front of the boat. “There should be some slickers in the box.”

She pulled two slickers out of the bin and handed one to him. He pulled on the slicker and lowered the hood as far as possible without blocking his vision, then glanced up at the storm and increased his speed a little. The worst was yet to come, and he wanted to be safely tucked between four walls when it hit.

The dock was a good thirty minutes away but with a slight detour, they could be safely indoors in ten minutes. When the channel turned toward the dock, he veered to the right. Alex looked back in surprise but he held up a hand and waved her off. She frowned, and Holt knew she’d already figured out where they were going. She’d been there many times before.

It was the first place they’d ever made love.

Holt shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. It did no good to dwell on a past that had no future.

As he pulled up to the dock in front of his cabin, the storm hit full force. Lightning flashed from the sky and struck the earth with such force that the ground trembled. The wind whipped across the bayou so hard it set him off balance as he jumped onto the pier. He grabbed a pylon to steady himself before he fell off the pier and into the tumultuous bayou water, then reached down to help Alex out of the boat.

They ran to the cabin, hunched over in an attempt to hurry through the harsh winds. Holt unlocked the door to the cabin and the wind flung the door open, banging it against the inside wall. The wind swept into the cabin, scattering paper from the kitchen table.

Alex raced inside and he pushed the door shut and secured the dead bolt. “Stay here,” he told her and quickly checked the bedroom and bathroom of the tiny cabin for any unwelcome visitors. There was no chance the shooter could have beaten them here, but the shooter might not be working alone.

Alex stood in the middle of the room that served as kitchen, dining and living area, her arms crossed over her chest. She was soaking wet from head to toe, and still she managed to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, and handed her one of the clean towels he’d taken from the bathroom. “I can offer you sweats and a T-shirt. They’ll be too big, but you should get out of those wet clothes before you get sick.”

Alex looked out the window and bit her lower lip. He knew what she’d been hoping for—that he would drive her to Sarah’s house—but one look at the raging storm outside and even Alex had to admit that it wasn’t safe to drive right now.

“That’s fine,” she said finally.

“The worst will probably blow over in an hour or so. You’re welcome to take a hot shower. I’m going to fix some sandwiches.”

Alex stared at him a moment, then blurted out, “Someone was shooting at us. You got hit by a bullet. Are you even going to mention that?”

Holt frowned. “I wasn’t planning on it. At least not until I have an idea on the matter.”

Alex shook her head. “Well, at least let me dress that wound while you try to formulate a good idea about someone trying to kill us.”

Holt wiped the blood away from the wound on his biceps and realized it was a bit deeper than he’d thought. He nodded to Alex and motioned her into the bathroom.

He’d been back in the cabin only a few weeks, but basic supplies were the first thing he’d acquired. Probably his military training at work. He pulled peroxide and bandages from a linen cabinet and placed them on the counter while Alex grabbed cotton swabs from a jar.

She soaked one of the swabs in peroxide and gently cleaned the wound. “It looks like it just grazed you,” she said. “Do you have any antibacterial cream?”

He pointed to the top shelf in the cabinet.

She put a clean cotton swab over the wound. “Hold this,” she said as she reached for the cream. Then, she pulled his fingers away from the wound. “I think it’s stopped bleeding.” She squeezed a small amount of cream onto her finger and applied it to the wound, then covered the entire area with a large bandage. “Make sure you change this twice a day. The last thing you want is an infection.”

“I know,” Holt said, and smiled.

“Oh.” She blushed. “That advice must sound stupid to someone who’s been at war. I’m sure you’re well versed on all the medical risks associated with a bullet wound.”

“It’s good advice.” He stepped closer to her, knowing what he was about to do was a really bad idea, but unable to come up with one good reason not to.

He pulled her close to him in one sudden motion that made her gasp. Before he could change his mind, he lowered his lips to hers.

Her lips were soft, as he’d remembered, but her body was different, better. The curves that pressed against him screamed woman instead of girl, and his body responded in kind. It was as if ten years had melted away and they were again teenagers who’d skipped class to spend time alone at the cabin.

Immediately she pushed back and stared at him, her eyes wide. “I think I’ll wait in the truck,” she said as she whirled around and fled the bathroom.

“It’s not safe out there,” he said, following her into the living area.

“It’s safer than being in here.” She slipped out the front door and back into the raging storm.

ALEX SLAMMED THE TRUCK DOOR and crossed her arms, shivering. Stupid, she chided herself as she stared into the downpour. You’re running like a teenager.

But she couldn’t shake the unnerved feeling she had from the kiss. Her skin was still on fire everywhere Holt’s body had made contact with hers. Her pulse raced and she felt as if it would leap from her chest. If asked, she’d swear she’d been less stressed when someone was shooting at her.

Minutes later Holt slid into the truck, fully dressed and wearing a rain slicker. He handed Alex a blanket and started the truck without even a glance in her direction. Alex cast a sideways look at him, trying to gauge his mood. The anger she expected to see wasn’t there. Instead, he looked pensive and worried.

She sighed, annoyed with herself.

Her niece was missing and Holt had been shot, but here she was, worrying that he was busy dwelling on her rejection of him. What an ego she’d developed as an adult.

Holt made the short drive in complete silence, and Alex wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that he wasn’t going to talk about the obvious issues that still lingered between them. She finally settled on relieved, already having entirely too much to process for the day.

He pulled up to the curb of Sarah’s house and walked around to open her door.

“I’ll look into some things in the morning,” he said. “Make sure the house is locked up tight.”

She nodded and hurried up the walk to the house, afraid to say a word lest things she didn’t want to address came falling out. She slipped inside the house, locked the door and drew the dead bolt. Lifting a slat of the miniblinds, she peered out the front window into the storm and watched as the taillights of Holt’s truck faded into the distance.

She, of all people, had the skill set to handle conflict. From now on she’d concentrate only on finding Erika. When she was safely back in New Orleans, she’d have plenty of time to address her apparently unresolved feelings for Holt Chamberlain.

ALEX WALKED OUT OF Sarah’s guest bathroom, still toasty from the steaming hot shower she’d taken. Sarah was perched on the edge of the bed, anxiously awaiting a recount of the day’s events, and she jumped up when Alex exited the bathroom.

“I made gumbo,” Sarah said. “Too nervous to rest, I guess, and it’s a good thing, since you showed up looking like a drowned rat. Are you okay? Do you need warmer clothes?”

Alex placed one hand on Sarah’s arm. “I’m fine. Take a deep breath. We’re going to go downstairs and fix two bowls of your fabulous gumbo, and I’m going to tell you everything.”

Sarah blew out a breath. “I know you are. I’m sorry, Alex. I’m just so jumpy.”

Alex gave her cousin a hug. “I know, honey. You have every right to be, but we’re going to fix this. We’re going to find Erika.”

Sarah gave her a small smile and nodded. “I trust you. You know I trust you. All our lives, you’ve always been the one to fix things. It’s just that this is so much bigger than anything else.”

Alex placed one arm around her cousin’s shoulders and pulled her out of the room and into the kitchen. “So we’ll work harder.”

They fixed bowls of gumbo and sat at the small table in the breakfast nook. Alex recounted to Sarah how they found the dock and then the cabin. She described what they’d found in the cabin, leaving no detail out of her story. The truth was scary, but Sarah deserved to know everything.

“As we were leaving,” Alex said, “a jar on one of the shelves over the door fell right in front of us.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “How?”

“I don’t know and don’t even want to guess.” Alex took a deep breath. “There was a pink barrette inside the jar. Just like the ones Erika was wearing.”

Sarah sucked in a breath. “Oh, my God. My poor baby. She’s there with that witch woman. I knew it. I told you there was no other explanation.”

“It looks suspicious,” Alex said, trying to keep her cousin from getting worked up to the point of uselessness. “We followed a trail away from the cabin until the storm hit, and then we had to turn back. I’m sorry, but the barrette is all we found.”

Sarah stared down into her gumbo for a couple of seconds, then frowned. “That’s it? Then why did Holt bring you home in his truck? Why didn’t you return to the dock and get your car?”

“Holt docked at his cabin to get us out of the storm. We were too deep in the swamp to beat it.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes at Alex. “You’re not telling me something. I know you. You’re not lying, but you’re leaving something out.”

Alex sighed. “Someone shot at us as we were leaving the bank of the island. One of the bullets grazed Holt’s arm, but he’s fine.”

Sarah jumped up from the table, her eyes wide with fear. “Someone tried to kill you? You walked in my house, took a shower and sat here eating gumbo knowing that someone tried to kill you just hours before? Are you sure I’m the one with mental problems?”

“What do you want me to tell you—that I’m moving through a logical, rational routine hoping to make sense of it all? Hoping that it will prevent me from breaking down at a time when you need me to be a rock?”

Sarah slid back into her chair and Alex reached across the table to cover her cousin’s hand with her own.

“I’m scared, Sarah. Really scared. When we were trying to get away, I didn’t have much time to think about it, but afterward … well, let’s just say I’m not the rock you think I am.”

Alex’s mind flashed back to Holt’s cabin. His hard, muscular body pressed against her. The touch of his lips on hers. The heat between them that wasn’t coming just from their contact.

A killer and Holt Chamberlain.

She wasn’t sure which scared her more.

Chapter Six

Holt stepped into the sheriff’s office the next morning, still cursing himself for the day before. The whole thing had been one giant mistake, beginning with going to that island and ending with kissing Alex. But if he was going to be honest with himself, he’d do it all over again if he had to. Finding Erika was a priority. Kissing Alex wasn’t nearly as important as finding a missing child, but the urgency he’d felt when he kissed her in the cabin the day before had been no less than that he’d felt when fleeing the shooter.

Which was rather appropriate when he considered that loving Alex was just as deadly as being shot. He hadn’t even been in her company for a full day, and he’d already made a move on her. Ten years in the desert and it had all been a waste of time.

Since he was early, he started a pot of coffee and headed to his office. He needed to do some research on the island. With any luck, he’d be able to find out more about the old woman who lived there. Even if she’d been born in the bayou with no hospital records, the land had to be deeded to someone. He also needed to pull all the files from the cases thirty-six years ago.

He hadn’t even been born when the girls went missing, but the story had been passed down through generations of families in Vodoun. The police would have investigated the old woman back then. Maybe he’d be able to find something in the old files that he could use. Some clue to help him find Erika.

He turned on the computer and began a search of the land records. By the time he’d finished his first cup of coffee, he had his answer. The name on the deed was Mathilde Tregre. He let himself into the storage room, pulled the boxes from the old kidnappings and carted them back to his office. The interview with the woman was in the first box.

The woman wasn’t listed as Mathilde or Tregre. She’d claimed her name was t’Mat. That made sense, given the old custom of naming a daughter after her mother and using the t in front of the name or shortened name to mean “little.” In this case, “Little Mathilde.” Holt poured himself another cup of coffee and settled into his chair to read over the interview.

Mathilde had been clear from the start that she hadn’t seen the girls on the island or anywhere else, despite personal items belonging to the girls that were found on her property. She also claimed that this visit to the sheriff’s department was the first time in over a year that she’d been off the island. Based on the question marks drawn in pencil around the typewritten transcript, it was clear that the old sheriff hadn’t believed her, but he didn’t have any good reason to hold her.

So he’d let her go.

According to his mother, the people in Vodoun had made their displeasure more than apparent. She said the anxiety level in the town was unlike anything she’d ever seen. She’d been a teen herself at the time and remembered not being allowed to go outside unless her mother was with her. The shops in town were almost empty, the streets vacant. Some people even kept their kids out of school and church.

As the weeks passed, and no more children went missing, the town slowly returned to its normal routine. And the case went cold.

Had Mathilde Tregre taken those girls? And if she had, why wait thirty-six years before claiming another victim? Everything in him screamed that this was wrong—that they’d missed something then and he was missing something now. But he had no idea what.

He closed the folder and sat back, frustrated with all the information that only created more questions. The facts of the cases were simple: thirty-six years ago, three girls had disappeared from Vodoun, and now Erika. There was no reason, save the doll and the past presumption that Mathilde was somehow involved, to assume the two were related. But if one did assume they were related, then the logical explanation was that the same person had committed both crimes.

If he assumed that the same person had committed both crimes, and that person wasn’t Mathilde Tregre, then that meant the perpetrator had either moved away and just returned or had been in prison and was recently released. If they’d been living somewhere else for thirty-six years, Holt had no doubt that similar cases would crop up in the national database.

He accessed the national database for missing children and put in the case information for Erika and the girls from thirty-six years before. Then he ran a query on all inmates that had been released from prison that year that had been in for crimes involving children. The national database would take a while to process, but his prisoner query was back in minutes, listing two men recently paroled after serving on pedophilia charges. Both were listed at New Orleans addresses. A quick query returned the name of the parole officer that both men shared.

Holt checked his watch. Only seven a.m., but there was still a chance the PO would answer a call. On the fifth ring, he was about to give up, when a sleepy voice answered. Holt explained to the man who he was and why he was calling and the sleepiness left his voice almost immediately.

“Give me a minute to get to my computer,” the man said.

Holt heard the sound of doors opening and an office chair squeaking. A couple of minutes later, the parole officer was back on the line. “Both men clocked into their construction jobs every morning this week at eight a.m. and didn’t leave until six p.m.”

“How reliable is the foreman tracking their time?”

“Very. The guy was a fourth-generation cop who retired into his uncle’s business. If the cons have any construction skills, he puts them to work for me, hoping they’ll turn around and not go back in when they see they can make a good living with honest work. He’s been pretty successful.”

“Lunch hour?”

“Only thirty minutes and they bring food in for the workers. And the job they’re working is on the south side of New Orleans. They couldn’t even make it to Vodoun in thirty minutes, much less back to the site to clock in.”

Holt sighed. “I agree. Thanks for the information.”

“I’ll ask around. If I come up with anything, I’ll let you know. I’m really sorry you caught this. I hate the kid cases.”

“Me, too,” Holt said, and hung up the phone.

He stared out the window and frowned. Just because those two guys were accounted for didn’t mean it wasn’t an ex-con. It could have been one paroled outside of the area. Someone with a friend or relative to visit close by that had run across Erika by chance and took her.

But that didn’t explain where the doll came from.

And that was the big fly in the investigative ointment. That doll implied planning and plotting. That doll meant everything had been premeditated, and that meant someone had been watching for a while, just waiting for the right opportunity.

Which meant someone local.

Holt shoved the chair back and left the office, certain he needed another cup of coffee before he compiled a list of every Vodoun resident and started crossing them off one at a time. He’d barely made it back to his desk before the phone started ringing. One glance at the display told him he wasn’t going to like the call. It was his uncle, and Holt could think of only one reason why he’d be calling the sheriff’s department this early.

“Morning, Jasper,” Holt answered.

“What the hell were you thinking taking the department’s boat and running around the bayou over some nonsense cooked up by a crazy woman? I called the office trying to find you and the dispatcher told me everything, so don’t even try to deny it.”

“I’m not trying to deny it. Sarah is convinced her daughter was taken by the woman on the island. Either I checked it out or she was going to.”

“Then let her do it. It’s not your job.”

“No, it’s yours. Last time I checked, the department was supposed to investigate the disappearance of children. That’s what I’m doing. I’m assuming you wouldn’t want two missing people in Vodoun, and that’s exactly what we’d have if Sarah went into the swamp alone.”

“That woman is a waste of this town’s time and resources.”

“It wasn’t a waste.”

There was dead silence for a moment, then his uncle responded. “Don’t tell me you found something.”

“We found a barrette. Like the ones Erika was wearing when she disappeared.”

“So what? Dime-store barrettes are hardly evidence that the girl was there. It could have been dropped by anyone.”

“Yeah, but this particular barrette happened to be in a glass jar on a shelf in the old woman’s cabin. That seems awful strange to me.”

His uncle cursed again, and Holt knew he was more than pissed that the whole thing hadn’t been the exercise in futility he’d assumed it was. With this evidence, his uncle had no choice but to authorize a full search of the island. Of course, a full search in Vodoun meant Holt and whoever else he could muster up to help. But there was the not-so-small issue of someone shooting at them to be taken into consideration before he started letting people volunteer.

“There’s more,” Holt said.

“What now?”

Holt told him about the shooter, glossing over just how close their escape had been.

“It must have been the old woman, right?” his uncle asked.

“That’s the logical answer, but what if it wasn’t? We don’t really know all that much about the woman. All these years she’s been out in that swamp, and yet people in Vodoun have only seen her a handful of times and her mother a handful before that. Some have never seen her at all. How do we know she doesn’t have a husband or kids or other family living out there with her?”

“We don’t, which is all the more reason not to run out into the swamp half-cocked and with a civilian. Especially that particular civilian. What were you thinking, bringing Alex with you?”

“It was the only way we could get Sarah to stay put. With her emotions running high, Sarah would have been a big liability. Alex was the better choice if one of them had to go.”

“And what about Bobby? I still think he took the girl. Surely someone’s got a line on him by now.”