Jana DeLeon - The Vanishing

Max clenched his hands, not willing to think about another attempt on Colette’s life. “He’ll have to come through me to do it. We didn’t know how far he’d carry things before. We know now and we’ll be more prepared.”

“But how? We’re sitting ducks. He can just sit in the swamp and wait for us to leave.”

“I’m working on that. Just try not to worry about it. When I’ve worked everything out in my head, I’ll let you know.”

She nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

Lightning flashed, and he peered into the darkness, trying to ferret out any sign of movement. Any sign that the shooter had returned. He couldn’t see anything.

But he knew something was out there.

JANA DELEONgrew up among the bayous and small towns of southwest Louisiana. She’s never actually found a dead body or seen a ghost, but she’s still hoping. Jana started writing in 2001 and focuses on murderous plots set deep in the Louisiana bayous. By day, she writes very boring technical manuals for a software company in Dallas. Visit Jana on her website, www.janadeleon.com.

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To my recently married friend, Leigh Zaykoski.

May you and Phil have your own happily ever after …

November 1833

The young Creole man pushed open the door on the shack and sat on a chair next to the bed. The fifty-seven-year-old Frenchman lying there wasn’t much longer for this world. The only thing keeping him alive was the news the Creole would bring.

“Have you found my son?” the Frenchman asked, then began coughing.

The young Creole winced as the dying man doubled over, his body wracked with pain. “Wi.”

The dying man straightened up, struggling to catch his breath. “Where is he?”

The Creole looked down at the dirt floor. He’d hoped the man would be dead before he returned to the village. Hoped he’d never have to speak the words he was about to say. Finally, he looked back up at the man and said, “He’s dead.”

“Nonsense! They’ve said I’m dead now for over a decade. Bring me my son!”

“Somethin’ bad went through New Orleans last year that the doctors couldn’t fix. A lot of people died.”

The anguish on the dying man’s face was almost more than the Creole could bear to see. “You couldna done nuttin’,” he said, trying to make the dying man’s last moments easier.

“I shouldn’t have left him there, but there was nothing here for him—hiding in the swamp for the rest of his life.”

“You did what you shoulda. You couldna known.”

The dying man struggled to sit upright. “I need for you to do something else. Something even more important.”

The Creole frowned. “What?”

“Under this bed is a chest. Pull it out, but be careful. It’s heavy.”

The Creole knelt down next to the bed and peered underneath. He spotted the chest in a corner and pulled the handle on the side, but it barely budged. Doubling his efforts, he pulled as hard as he could and, inch by inch, worked the chest out from under the bed.

“Open it,” the dying man said.

The Creole lifted the lid on the chest, and the last rays from the evening sun caught on the glittering pile of gold inside. He gasped and stared at the gold, marveling at its beauty. All this time, the Frenchman had been sleeping over a fortune. The Creole stared up at the man, confused.

“It’s cursed,” the dying man said. “I stole it, and now it’s taken my son and my life from me.” The dying man leaned down, looking the Creole directly in the eyes. “Promise me you’ll never let the gold leave that chest. It will bring sorrow to anyone who spends it. You must keep it hidden forever. I’m entrusting you and your family with this task. Do you understand?”

The Creole felt a chill run through him at the word curse . He didn’t want to be entrusted with guarding cursed objects, nor did he want that burden transferred down his family line.

“Promise me!” the dying man demanded.

But the Creole knew he was the only one in the village who could be trusted to keep the gold hidden. The only one who could be trusted to train those who came after him to respect the old ways. To respect vows made.

“I promise.”

The fall sun was already beginning to set above the cypress trees on Tuesday evening, when Colette Guidry parked her car in front of the quaint home in Vodoun, Louisiana. An attractive wooden sign that read Second Chance Detective Agency was already placed in front of a beautifully landscaped flower bed, but the sounds of hammering and stacks of lumber on the front lawn let her know that the office conversion wasn’t exactly complete.

She reached for the door handle and paused. Maybe this was a bad idea. She’d worked with Alexandria Bastin-Chamberlain, one of the partners at the detective agency, at the hospital in New Orleans before Alex resigned to open the agency with her husband. She shouldn’t feel self-conscious about asking for her help.

But what if Alex thinks you’re crazy, too?

And that was at the crux of it. The rest of the hospital staff and the New Orleans Police Department had already informed her that her concern over her missing employee was misplaced. Anna Huval had a history of skipping town with undesirable men and usually surfaced when the disastrous relationship had run its short course. Colette had intimate understanding of choosing the wrong man, although her choices hadn’t been near as wild or frequent as Anna’s. But her two disappointing whirls with noncommittal men had given her enough sorrow to be sympathetic to Anna’s heartbreak, even if it was self-induced.

But all that was in the past. With Colette’s guidance, Anna had turned her life around, and for the past six months, she had been on a path that guaranteed her a healthy, successful future. The only problem was no one believed it would last, and Anna’s disappearance was a signal to many that she’d relapsed into the behavior that was so familiar to her.

Colette understood exactly why people felt that way. Logically, it was the best explanation, and if Colette hadn’t gotten to know Anna so well, she would have bought completely into it, also. But despite the lack of evidence of something dire, and a seemingly logical explanation for what had happened given Anna’s past, Colette knew something terrible had happened to the young nurse’s aide.

She pushed the car door open and stepped out. The detective agency specialized in situations the police wouldn’t handle—giving concerned friends and family a second chance for answers. Anna’s disappearance fit that description. If Alex and her husband, Holt, didn’t think her case had merit, then they’d tell her, and that would be that.