it needed painting, the lawn and shrubbery were well kept. But it wasn’t the landscaping that caught Morgan’s attention. The window to the right of the green-painted front door sported a sign that made her eyes widen.
It said: Voodoo Priestess.
Morgan, whose sensibilities were firmly planted in the culture of the north, had always thought of Voodoo as an ancient cult—and one that was never quite respectable. Apparently in St. Germaine, it was okay to advertise yourself as a priestess right out in the open.
Why hadn’t Gascon mentioned it in all the information he’d given her about the area? An oversight? A deliberate omission?
She’d slowed down to look at the house and the sign. As she stared at the window, a hand pulled the curtain aside, revealing a woman with a creamy complexion and long, shiny hair as dark as midnight. Her dark gaze zeroed in on Morgan, and she felt something like a physical blow to the center of her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Then her foot bounced on the accelerator, and she jerked forward, before deliberately smoothing out her speed.
What was that?
Her own out-of-kilter reaction? Or something emanating from the woman?
Had the priestess somehow known she was coming to town? Because Gascon had told her? Or had she seen Morgan in her crystal ball?
No, that was the wrong image. Probably a voodoo priestess would be looking at chicken entrails.
Morgan snorted. You’re just letting this place spook you. The way nothing has spooked you in recent memory.
Stepping on the gas, she speeded up, glad to leave the cheery little community behind. St. Germaine had certainly darkened her mood. As if to reinforce the oppressive feeling, she could see storm clouds gathering. Now they were purple edged—like a giant bruise covering the sky.
A battered green pickup truck was behind her. When she turned onto the narrow road that would take her to Belle Vista, the other driver did the same. Looking in the rearview mirror, she tried to see who was back there.
Two men, as far as she could tell—both wearing baseball caps pulled down over their eyes.
The truck stayed on her tail, a constant presence, making her feel like she was being stalked. She slowed down, hoping whoever it was would pass, if that’s what they wanted to do. But the car kept matching its speed with hers.
She was in isolated country now, the road an intrusion in the green and brown landscape. Stretches of dark water, gnarled pines, and low palmettos crowded the shoulders. Cypresses loomed in the distance.
Andre Gascon had described this countryside to her in his e-mails. He’d made it sound beautiful and poetic. A vast area lush with vegetation that was a perfect natural habitat for birds and animals. But now that she was out here alone with a pickup too close behind her, she wished for some signs of civilization.
She hadn’t seen a house in miles. And vultures circling overhead weren’t exactly reassuring.
The wind flared, whipping at the Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the taller trees. And a few fat drops of rain landed on the windshield.
When she spotted a sign that said, “Warning, Flash Flood Area,” she muttered, “Oh great!”
The truck speeded up, crowding too close, and she thought the driver would finally pass. Instead, he started riding her bumper, making her wonder if he was drunk.
Increasing her speed, she tried to get away, then took a curve too fast and realized she’d better slow down. But when she pressed on the brake, the response was sluggish—the mechanism no longer working correctly.
The road was narrow, and as she turned the next corner, she wove into the wrong lane. Thankful that there was no traffic coming the other way, she yanked herself back onto the right side of the blacktop as she frantically pumped the brake pedal. Despite her best efforts, the car hurtled forward.
The blacktop had quite a few bends now. And her hands melded in a death grip on the wheel as she struggled to keep from shooting off the paved surface.
Then she hit a sharp turn and found herself sailing off the wrong side of the road, onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched under her wheels, slowing her somewhat. But it was already too late to retain control of the car. One tire plunged downward, and she plowed into a water-filled ditch.
Mud sucked at her tires, and to her relief, the car rocked to a halt. The sudden stop carried her forward. But the seat belt