Prologue

October 2011

The bayou was still. No clouds drifted between the moon and the earth. No breeze rustled the leaves on the trees draped with Spanish moss. A mirror of the sky, the black water’s surface was broken only by the eyes of an alligator guarding its territory. The full moon cast enough light to make its reptilian eyes glow red as it scanned the night.

Above it, along the limb of a live oak, a snake lay coiled among the leaves, keeping warm on this October evening. It watched a bullfrog waiting for an insect, but none stirred on this night. Perhaps it was the chill in the air or something instinctual. No matter the cause, it was deathly still during this witching hour.

A slight hum began, softly at first, then slowly grew louder. The gator dropped beneath the surface as the vibrations in the water signaled someone was near. The water moccasin remained coiled, even its tongue still as the small craft trolled by, black water rippling in the wake of the motor’s thrum.

The dark figure in the boat used only the moonlight to guide him. Many years had passed since his summers fishing and hunting in the bayou, but his memory served him well. As a boy, he had traversed the blackwater in darkness many times. Tonight, he chose this forgotten piece of the swamp because few knew of it and fewer still bothered to come here.

He slowed near the bend where the water had gouged out the sand so deeply. The boat bumped against the bank where exposed tree roots tangled themselves as they fought their way to the water. The man rose from his seat, ignoring the gentle rocking of the flatboat. The lifetime away from the bayou melted away as he immersed himself into the night, the odor of decay and black mud as welcome to him as others might enjoy the scent of fresh-cut grass. He was finally back where he belonged, back where his purpose would be fulfilled. With little effort, he picked up a large burlap sack, the cloth saturated and dripping blood. He tossed it into the water. Soon the gators would investigate and make a meal for themselves, most likely destroying any proof of its existence.

His job now complete, he took a moment to plunge his hands into the briny water to rinse away the blood. Under the moon’s light, the water bloomed red, a small copy of the large one that marked the sack’s resting place below. He took another deep breath, savoring the earthy scents of his youth. It was good to be back. So many years had passed, learning, growing, and preparing for his triumphant return. His day was nearly at hand.

Reluctantly, he pushed away from the bank. The sun would breach the horizon in a few short hours, and he needed some sleep before starting his day. He began the long return trek, not looking back even when the water came alive as the alligators competed for their unexpected meal. He smiled at the wild splashes and relaxed, taking in the beauty of the surroundings.

His destiny drew near.

Chapter one

May 2018

Seven Years Later

Deputy Sherriff Claire Duvall jogged along the familiar path that ran on the outskirts of the small parish in Louisiana. The crunch of her shoes on the asphalt was rhythmic, showing no hint of stress from the mile she had just run. She was in the runner’s zone, her long strides effortless as she crossed yet another bridge that straddled the slow-moving water of Kalfou Bayou.

She stopped when she reached the weathered sign that should read Welcome to Kalfou Parish. Instead, thanks to a vandal, it read Welcome to Voodoo Parish. Beneath it all was a drawing of a Voodoo doll, complete with pins sticking out of its body. She pulled errant strands of her black hair back into a neat ponytail before a glance at her watch sent her on her way once again. A frown marred her features as she thought about the vandal.

When will people realize that Voodoo is a religion meant to help people? Only a Voodoo witch would use black magic to harm others.

Living in rural Kalfou Parish, Claire had been exposed to Voodoo from an early age. Like many residents in Louisiana, she understood most of the Voodoo gods, called loa, were similar to the Catholic saints while other more prominent loa represented the Virgin Mother, and even Jesus. Claire was a believer in both Catholicism and Voodoo. She reckoned it might seem odd to an outsider, but it was routine for many throughout rural Louisiana.

In the Voodoo religion, Kalfou meant a crossroad between good and evil, a sacred place where believers lifted sacrifices to their gods. The Haitian slaves that worked the plantations named it. The owners defined the word literally and embraced it as simply a crossroads, appropriate for the prosperous trade associated with the bayou’s booming transport hub. Kalfou became synonymous with both the bayou and the parish, and it stuck.

She supposed the parish was now at a crossroads of sorts. The once-thriving population was now less than a thousand. It had dwindled as transportation changed from water to road, and later, modernized farming reduced it further. But it was Hurricane Lionel that may have dealt the final blow. The 2007 storm tore through everything in its path and raised nearby waters to levels never seen before. The devastation was enormous, and many chose to build a life elsewhere.

Claire was also at a crossroads. Since her mother’s death a couple of years ago, little held her here. She wanted a change. She needed a change, but something held her back. As much as she itched for something better, her prayers for guidance went unanswered. Both Voodoo’s Legba, and the Catholic Jesus remained silent on the matter.

Oaks and pines changed to a large field of sugar cane, the healthy green stalks growing nicely in the warm May weather. At the edge of the field sat the weathered and battered home of Mr. Henri Trahan. It was no surprise to see the elderly gentleman placing crawdad baskets into the bed of his ancient pickup. “Mornin’ Claire.” His gravelly voice, thick with its Cajun cadence and dropped endings was reminiscent of her mother’s. Perhaps more pronounced in the older generation, the lyrical sound was as flavorful as the cuisine that made the Cajuns famous.

“Hey, Mr. Henri.” She always used the respectful term with Henri Trahan. His weathered skin and white hair attested to his life of hard work while his integrity attested to his faith. Anyone that held no bias for his poverty, or the color of his skin knew Mr. Henri was worthy of respect. “Looks like you’re going to catch some crawdads today.”

“I thought I’d set out some traps while I gather some goat seed and manglier. I can get my crawdads for my supper while I’m getting herbs for my medicines.”

A couple of elderly women in the parish sold herbals to the sick but no one came close to Mr. Henri’s knowledge. His mother had been an influential Voodoo priestess and Mr. Henri had learned at her knee everything from how to cast a spell to which plant helped with an upset stomach. Claire had seen the results of his work many times and trusted his expertise and his desire to help. “Claire, you coming to the Healing Service this week?” he asked as he lowered the tailgate of his old Chevy pickup. “There is so much cancer popping up in the parish, Father Higgins felt we should pray over the sick.”

Claire refrained from rolling her eyes out of respect for Mr. Henri. “Mr. Henri, you know some people wouldn’t be happy to see me cross the threshold of their church.”

“Now Claire, it ain’t up to you and them people. It’s up to you and God. Anybody that wants to be thataway ain’t there for the right reason, now are they?” He stopped loading his truck and walked over to her. “I promised yer mama I’d keep after you but you sure are a stubborn young thang.” He smiled to take away any sting from his words. “I guess you take after her, huh?”

“Mama had me beat by a mile, Mr. Henri.”

He laughed out loud. “I’m guessing yer right about that. She always had a mind of her own.”

A sudden caw drew their attention. Up in Mr. Henri’s huge oak tree sat a huge crow. It perched on the highest branch looking down on them and cawed several times before flying away, its black feathers shining in the morning sun.

Mr. Henri’s expression darkened as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “A bad sign, Claire,” he said softly. “A big crow means big trouble is coming.” He looked at her, his dark eyes seeing far too much. “Yesterday, as I prayed, Legba came to me and told me to make these gris-gris, one for you and one for the sheriff.” He pulled two small muslin bags from his pocket, each attached to thin leather strips.

She immediately put hers around her neck, accepting it without question, but she gingerly accepted the Sheriff’s pouch. A gris-gris carried power, and she wasn’t sure how it might react to someone other than the sheriff or Mr. Henri.

“Is the crow forewarning trouble?”

Mr. Henri gazed in the direction of the big crow’s flight, cypress trees standing tall at the edge of the bayou. “Not for me to say,” he replied. “But something dark is about to touch you both, sooner rather than later.” He turned back to Claire and patted her arm.” I ain’t sayin’ anything you don’t already know, but it never hurts to remind you. Make sure you tell the sheriff to keep the gris-gris in his pocket or around his neck. The bag must remain in contact with him for it to do its work.”

She stared at the pouch, its plain fabric giving no hint of what was inside. With a little trepidation, she placed it in the pocket of her jogging shorts. She nodded. “I’ll tell him, Mr. Henri. But I’m not sure if he will—”

“It’s his choice, of course. But Papa Legba told me he’s in danger. He said nothing about what was coming, only that it was very serious.”

A sudden chill ran down Claire’s spine. Anyone that needed to contact any of the Voodoo gods went to Mr. Henri to invoke their help. It was rare indeed for his requests to go unanswered. It would be prudent to listen to him. She grew more aware of the touch of the muslin around her neck.

He looked beyond the sugar cane to the forest where he spoke to the loa, the gods of Voodoo, and performed his rituals. Turning toward it now, he said, “I saw a dark cloud hanging over our bayou. While I watched, the cloud grew darker and bigger.” He turned back to Claire. “Papa Legba’s brother, Kalfou, must be growing strong. Papa Legba is having trouble keeping things balanced. I’m thinking the crow is a sign about trouble brewing in the swamp since he flew thataway.”

Claire listened intently to the wise old man. Unbelievers might scorn his words, but she had seen him call the loa too many times to disbelieve anything he said. She began to ask what his vision meant but the sound of a car on the quiet country road caught their attention.

A patrol car came into sight and Mr. Henri’s frown deepened. “Here comes Lester. Looks like he got hold of a sour persimmon.”

She turned and saw her nemesis, Deputy Lester Henderson, in one of the Kalfou Parish Sheriff’s Department squad cars. As usual, he sported a frown, indicating an insult would probably be coming her way in the next few minutes. As he drew close, he ran his fingers through his greasy strawberry-blond hair making it stand on end, a sure sign he was aggravated. He pulled the car up so close she was forced to back away. Claire refrained from rolling her eyes at his peevish display. She didn’t want to start an argument.

When she leaned down, he lowered the window and glared at her.

“What’s up Lester?” No smile for him.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he stated as if it were a bad thing. “Come on and get in. The sheriff has been looking for you and sent me to find you.” He pushed his sleeves up out of habit as his slight frame didn’t fill out the uniform properly.

Claire wasted no time arguing and got in. “See you later, Mr. Henri,” she said as she was closing the door. He answered with a wave as Lester turned the car around, throwing gravel as he spun from the driveway.

“Hopper Beaumont was caught poaching about an hour ago. They found some things we need to check.” For once his chronically sulky expression lifted, curiosity piqued by the mysterious items that were important enough to warrant both deputies’ attention.

“Where was he? Where are the suspicious items?” she asked.

“Down at the boat ramp off of Breaux Road.”

“All the way down there?”

He shrugged. “I guess Hopper was trying to be off the grid since he was poaching.”

Claire sighed heavily. “Okay. Drop me by home. I need to change into my uniform. Besides, I want my truck in case we need to split up.”

“Dammit, Duvall! I ain’t never getting home if you slow me down. I’ve been on patrol all night. I’m ready to go home and sleep.” His ruddy complexion reddened further.

She didn’t bother to remind him it was still over an hour before her shift began. She had every right to take her morning jog and talk to Mr. Henri. “All the more reason for me to drive my truck. You won’t have to bring me back home later.” She remained calm which agitated him even further.

“Fine. But you’d better hurry your ass. I ain’t waiting all day until you get there!”

Claire swallowed the words that sprang to mind. The two of them had never gotten along. In Lester’s world, being female made her unfit to be a cop, but being a lesbian made her unfit for polite company.

Thankfully, it took just a few minutes to cover the distance home and soon he was pulling into the driveway of the updated farmhouse-style cottage where she had lived all her life.

“I’m telling you,” he warned. “Get your ass down there quick.”

She ignored him and jogged onto the porch to unlock the front door. Lester showed his irritation by backing into the road and gunning the motor with tires squealing in protest.

Asshole.

Claire showered quickly even though she would still arrive at the landing before shift change. A tiny sheriff’s department meant being flexible. They were divided into active deputies and those working with the courts. A total of three active deputies meant everyone jumped in to help, with the sheriff usually running the investigation.

As always when in uniform, she pulled her wavy dark hair into a tight knot at the back of her head. The academy instructors emphasized that rule to avoid it being used against the officer during an altercation. She often took guff from Lester for being a stickler for the rules, but it made sense to do things the right way. Maybe Lester might get more responsibility if he proved he was deserving of Sheriff Willis’s confidence.

At five feet five inches and a woman just a couple of years out of the academy, parish citizens often considered her to be the weak link among the deputies. Thankfully, her fellow officers knew better. Slowly but surely, the citizens were also becoming aware of her abilities.

She glanced in the mirror to ensure she hadn’t missed anything. She touched the silver cross hanging from her neck, the last birthday gift from her mother. Her dark hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin contrasted nicely, making the cross gleam more brightly.

As she looked in the mirror, she caught sight of her mom’s picture where it sat on her nightstand. She shared so many features with her mother. Except for her eyes. Her mother’s eyes had been a pale blue while Claire’s were deep brown. Claire had always assumed her father’s eyes were brown.

Frankly, she wished she had inherited nothing from the man she believed to be a coward. He had enjoyed her mom as a very young woman but hadn’t the courage or morals to help raise their child. Consequently, her mother had led a difficult life, working multiple jobs ensuring Claire was well provided for. Her mother had never said an unkind word against her father, but Claire imagined he was a jerk who used women and then tossed them aside when they became inconvenient. That’s what Claire was to the man, an inconvenience. She hated him and didn’t even know his name. Her mother had taken that knowledge to her grave.

The watch her mom had given her upon graduating beeped as a reminder of the time. She grabbed her keys and both gris-gris, eager to start her day.