“Someone?” He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh, no. I’m not going out there.”
“You scared?”
Holt bristled and sat upright in the chair. “Hardly. But that island is private property and I have no grounds for a warrant and even less for trespassing.”
“It’s not trespassing if you go to ask questions, is it? You don’t even know if the woman is still there. She wasn’t young when we were kids. Maybe she’s dead. Maybe the island is empty. Regardless, you have every right to walk up there and ask anyone you find if they’ve seen a missing little girl.”
Holt searched his mind for an argument, but he couldn’t latch onto one. Not a legal one, anyway.
“Of course,” Alex continued, “if you’re concerned that your uncle won’t approve, I could always hire a guide and go myself. I’m sure I can find someone at the docks who’s willing to take me out there.”
“No! You’re not traipsing around that swamp with some underemployed fisherman looking to make a quick buck.”
Alex leaned forward in her chair. “You lost the right to have any input in my life a long time ago. Either you do this with me, or I do it with someone else. Rest assured, I’m going into that swamp to look for Erika, if for no other reason than to put Sarah’s mind at ease.”
Holt held in a string of cuss words that would only hack Alex off and wouldn’t make him feel any better about the situation, anyway. He knew he was fighting a losing battle.
Something had happened to Alex and Sarah many years ago in that swamp—something they refused to tell Holt about, but something that scared them so badly it had changed them permanently. If Sarah thought there was any risk of Erika encountering the same thing they had—whatever that was—he knew nothing short of death or arrest would keep her out of the swamp.
“Fine,” he said, “but I’m not going into that swamp at night and neither are you. That’s not up for discussion, regardless of what rights I lost.”
She rose from her chair. “I have no problem with waiting until daylight.”
“Six, then. At the dock.”
“I’ll bring coffee.” She gave him a single nod and walked out of the sheriff’s office.
I’ll bring the questions. If ever Holt was going to get an answer to what had happened in that swamp years ago, it would be now, when it might affect his ability to find Erika. And you could bet he was going to ask.
Through the plate-glass window, Holt watched Alex drive away and for the second time that day felt as if he’d been hit by a truck. Managing an entire day alone with Alex, without wanting her, was going to be impossible. He’d known that as soon as he’d seen her walk into Sarah’s house. And he had no idea what excuse he was going to give his uncle for requisitioning the sheriff department’s airboat and cruising around the swamp all day.
But he was going to have to think of something.
He didn’t think for one minute that a witch on an island in the swamp had taken Erika, but he didn’t quite believe Bobby had, either. That left him in a quandary, and Holt didn’t like unanswered questions. This situation was full of them.
Reaching into the desk drawer, he pulled out his uncle’s whiskey bottle and poured himself a shot. He wasn’t about to admit to Alex that Sarah’s story had unnerved him just a bit. He’d have liked to blame his upbringing—a superstitious, overprotective mother and an absentee father—but it was more than that. During his time overseas with the military, he’d been special ops, and he’d spent some time in places the military wasn’t technically supposed to be.
He’d seen a lot of things he couldn’t explain. So many that he stopped dismissing ideas just because they didn’t compute in a traditional way, the way he had when he’d been a boy in Vodoun. Maybe Erika had found the doll somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be and that was why she lied, but it was far more likely that a stranger had given Erika the doll. Sarah, being a good parent, would have cautioned Erika not to talk to strangers, much less take something from them, which was why the girl would have lied.
None of that explained who had given a thirty-year-old doll to a little girl, where Erika or Bobby were, the mysterious staring crow or the birds falling from the sky. Except coincidence.
And Holt hated coincidence even more than he did unanswered questions.
Chapter Four
Alex pulled up to the dock at five minutes till six, already nervous about the day before it even started. The local weatherman had reported a disturbance in the Gulf of Mexico that was due to hit Vodoun that evening. The sky was already gray and overcast and made everything seem even grimmer.
Holt stood on the dock talking to one of the local fishermen, and Alex couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in ragged jeans, a black T-shirt and steel-toe boots. Time certainly hadn’t erased his sex appeal, and that frightened her.
But not as much as their destination.
Twenty years ago, Alex had promised herself she’d never set foot in the swamp again, and all these years she’d kept that promise. Erika and Sarah were the only reason she was going there now.
Let’s get this over with.
She climbed out of the car and reached back inside for the two coffees in the center console. The fisherman was still talking to Holt, who gave her a nod as she approached. When the fisherman saw her, he wrapped up his conversation and headed to his boat.
“I hope that’s strong and black,” Holt said.
Alex handed him one of the cups. “Is there another kind?”
“Not in my book.” Holt took a sip of the coffee. “You ready?”
She sat her coffee down on the pier. “Yeah. Let me grab my things.”
She hurried to her car and pulled her backpack from the passenger’s seat. Slinging it over her shoulder, she headed back to the dock.
Holt looked down the bayou, then back at her feet. “This is going to be rough. I’m glad you wore good boots.”
“Just because I live in the city doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what the bayou’s like,” Alex said.
She placed her backpack on the pier and removed a nine-millimeter from the side pocket. She checked the clip for the third time that morning, then slipped the gun back into the pocket, zipping it tight.
“I don’t remember nines when we were kids,” Holt commented. “Or is that something you picked up in the big city?”
“Actually, it belongs to Ms. Maude. I paid her a visit last night after I got Sarah to sleep.”
“Ms. Maude? The crazy old cat lady on Miller Lane?”
“No. Ms. Maude, who likes cats, whose father was a Precision Military Weapons Specialist and who happens to have a target gallery in her barn.”
“That explains a lot,” Holt said, “especially about her single status.”
“So what you’re saying is that Ms. Maude might have married if all the men in Vodoun weren’t a bunch of wimps?”
“I think it’s safer if I don’t say anything else at all.” He took another drink of his coffee and glanced down at her mug, which was still sitting on the dock.
She placed her backpack in the boat and scooped up her coffee. “Don’t even think about it,” she said. “I’d kill people