pushed the brush to the side and headed south. Alex followed him about twenty yards when he stopped again and pointed to a barely discernable trail that ran back in the direction of the dock and, opposite of that, deeper into the swamp.
“It’s not well traveled,” Holt said.
“Given the growth rate of swamp foliage, how long do you think it’s been since someone used it?”
“I don’t know. A month, maybe two.”
“But there could also be another trail that is being used on a regular basis.”
“Could be. Or it could be that this trail was made by thrill seekers and the old woman is long dead. But we’re not going to figure that out standing here.” He pointed down the trail that led deep into the swamp. “I think you should take out your gun. Just to be safe.”
Alex swallowed and pulled the pistol from the pocket of her backpack. Holt gave her a single nod and strode forward into the darkness.
The sounds of their progress through the swamp seemed to echo in a vacuum of silence. Alex pushed a branch out of her way and collected a spider on the back of her hand for the effort. She shook her hand to fling the spider back out into the swamp, then rubbed her hand on her jeans, certain she could still feel the creature crawling on her hand.
Holt constantly scanned the swamp as they walked, up and down and in every direction. Threats this deep in the bayou were numerous and could come from the ground or from above and all of them deadly. It felt as if they’d been working for hours, but Alex knew it had been only minutes since they’d left the boat.
She knew coming here had been a long shot—a nonshot, really—but she found her spirits waning the deeper they pushed into the swamp. Even if Erika had been here, how could they possibly find a clue in all this?
Just as she was about to call the whole thing off, Holt stopped and turned to her, one finger over his lips. She froze and looked in the direction he pointed to the left of the trail. Just past a thick grouping of cypress trees, she could barely make out the outline of a roof.
Alex nodded, understanding that Holt wanted to make their approach as quiet as possible. He exited the path, cutting straight through the swamp toward the cabin. Slowly and stealthily, they crept closer and closer until they reached the tree line that marked the tiny clearing that the cabin rested in.
Holt lifted his pistol and pointed to hers. Alex removed the safety and clutched the gun with both hands. If she had to shoot, she wanted to make sure it was a steady shot. Holt slipped from behind the wall of cypress trees and hurried over to the wall of the cabin. He pressed his body against the wall, listening for any noise inside, then motioned for her to join him.
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
