Chapter 35 #2
She studied the forested area that separated Billy’s property from that of Duke Wheelan, and as dusk settled over the land, she thought she saw movement in the thickets. Someone or something watching.
A deer?
Stray cow?
Whatever it was, shadow or being, it remained in the depths of sycamore and pine.
Unmoving.
Watching.
Waiting.
A chill ran down her spine.
Did it move again?
Or was it the coming darkness, deepening the shadows?
“Come on,” she called to the shepherd.
Night was swiftly approaching. “Let’s go.”
Eagerly, Arlo galloped past an old refrigerator and stove without a front door, then stopped at Nikki’s rental car.
She let him in, and as soon as he leaped into the Nissan, she slid behind the wheel and locked the doors before negotiating a tight turn and driving out of the lane, all the while trying to turn on the damned headlights, as the rental’s dash configuration wasn’t exactly like her Subaru’s.
At the end of the drive, she slowed, allowing a van to pass, then turned onto the road, driving through the lowland of darkening fields and forests.
Almost by instinct, without serious conscious thought, she found the road leading to Jeanne LaRoux’s plot of land, which backed to the Childers, Huber, and Wheelan properties.
Nikki had been denied access to the property on the night that the fortune-teller’s body had been discovered, but now there was no one to stop her.
It wouldn’t take long, she figured; she just wanted to see for herself how Jeanne LaRoux lived, get a feel for the place and for the woman who’d been called everything from a charlatan to a modern-day witch.
She was already developing an idea for an article as she turned into the lane.
Of course, the gate was closed, with yellow crime-scene tape still attached to the top rail, flapping in the breeze.
Darkness had fallen, the only natural illumination emanating from a pale, rising moon.
Despite her trepidation only minutes before at the Huber place, Nikki was determined to take this opportunity to view the LaRoux property and even take some pictures.
“Come on,” she said to Arlo, as she grabbed her bag with her phone, camera, flashlight, and the canister of pepper spray that Pierce insisted she carry.
The dog eagerly jumped from the back seat and tagged along after her as she pried open the gate.
With his nose to the ground, Arlo sniffed the brush and weeds at the edge of the twin ruts comprising the drive.
She flipped on her flashlight, and the surrounding area was suddenly illuminated in an unearthly blue-white glow. She ran the beam through the buttonbush and winterberry, and up the trunks of live oaks, where gossamer folds of Spanish moss waved, ghostlike, from the thick branches.
Usually she wasn’t prone to unsubstantiated fears, but lately, her nerves had been strung tight and tonight she was a little skittish about poking around the eccentric woman’s place in the dark.
She had lived in this area all of her life and had spent hours, in both day and night, exploring the woods and swampland.
She felt at home outside, in nature. The soft hooting of an owl, hidden somewhere in the dark, and the flutter of bat wings didn’t unnerve her.
Tonight, though, she was tense. She breathed deeply of the earthy air, tried to calm herself, and didn’t jump when eyes reflected in the lamplight for a brief second before the raccoon scooted away through the underbrush.
Arlo caught the movement and gave chase, crashing through the underbrush.
“Careful,” she warned, but kept walking.
She wasn’t afraid, but her nerves were a little on edge.
It was good to be alert, and she didn’t have a lot of extra time.
Stepping into a clearing, she ran the flashlight’s beam over a small cottage and outbuildings that seemed to include a pump house, a chicken coop, and a leaning garage.
A few fallen trees, now rotting, were not far from the house, a forgotten axe wedged into an old stump.
She started with the house, walking onto the porch, and wasn’t surprised to find the front door locked.
Same with the single window, where the curtains were drawn and all she could see as she shined her flashlight inside was the reflection of its harsh beam and her own shadow behind.
For the briefest of seconds, she considered breaking in, but thought it better to wait.
She didn’t want to have to explain to Pierce what she was doing, should she get caught.
Instead, she noticed the board path that wound across the marshy ground to a hut built on a small island of sorts, surrounded by swamp and cypress trees that stretched to the starlit heavens.
The boards were decaying, adding to the moist, rotting scent, and her flashlight caught the eyes of alligators moving slowly just above the surface of the brackish water.
Keep moving.
She wasn’t going to be intimidated now. Not when she’d come this far.
But as she felt the slick, soft boards beneath her feet and the night closed in on her, her nerves were strung as tight as bowstrings.
Screwing up her courage, she shined her light on the hut, built crudely, the graying boards warping, the entrance a large, cave-like gap.
Stepping forward, she felt a shift in the atmosphere.
A ripple of water moving as an alligator or a snake slithered by.
A warning.
The hairs at her nape stiffened.
She felt a moment’s hesitation and had a fleeting thought of turning back, of quickly fleeing this night-drenched swamp, with its tales of spirits and hauntings and clairvoyance.
And murder.
Oh, get over it. Chastising herself for acting like a frightened ninny, she shined the light inside.
The beam illuminated a fire pit, dark, sooty rocks encircling charred logs.
On the far wall was what she assumed was an altar, or had been, some candles and crystals in evidence, though it seemed that items had been taken.
By the police? By looters? Or the murderer?
She slipped inside.
Paused.
Something felt off.
Smelled rotten.
An odor, an aura that had changed the second she slid through the doorway.
She studied the altar.
Plop!
A thick drip from above. Cool. Sticky. Landing in her hair.
“What the—?”
Creak.
Old wood straining.
Plop!
Another heavy drip. She brushed at her hair and shined her light upward, tilting her face toward the hole in the roof.
A coagulated drop hit her in the forehead just as she saw the body.
A woman dangling upside down from a crossbeam that groaned with her weight.
Drips of dried blood dyed the blond hair falling over her face in ghastly, dark red streaks.
Nikki screamed and backed up toward the door, then noticed the woman’s arms, stretched downward toward the pit, where she saw more blood had pooled and dried.
One of the woman’s hands was open, fingers splayed, as if in supplication.
The other hand was fisted, fingers clutched around a smooth stone.
“No,” Nikki whispered.
As the dead body swayed slightly, the overhead beam creaking, the blond hair shifted.
Nikki saw her face.
Upside down.
Gray.
Bloated.
The distinct profile of Naomi Kittle.