âOnce he found out what I knew or decided I didnât know anything at all, he still would have tried to kill me. And heâll try again, because he didnât get the answer he was looking for.â
Max clenched his hands, not willing to think about another attempt on Coletteâs life. âHeâll have to come through me to do it. We didnât know how far heâd carry things before. We know now and weâll be more prepared.â
âBut how? Weâre sitting ducks. He can just sit in the swamp and wait for us to leave.â
âIâm working on that. Just try not to worry about it. When Iâve worked everything out in my head, Iâll let you know.â
She nodded, but didnât 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 couldnât see anything.
But he knew something was out there.
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 wasnât much longer for this world. The only thing keeping him alive was the news the Creole would bring.
âHave you found my son?â the Frenchman asked, then began coughing.
The young Creole winced as the dying man doubled over, his body wracked with pain. âWi.â
The dying man straightened up, struggling to catch his breath. âWhere is he?â
The Creole looked down at the dirt floor. Heâd hoped the man would be dead before he returned to the village. Hoped heâd never have to speak the words he was about to say. Finally, he looked back up at the man and said, âHeâs dead.â
âNonsense! Theyâve said Iâm dead now for over a decade. Bring me my son!â
âSomethinâ bad went through New Orleans last year that the doctors couldnât fix. A lot of people died.â
The anguish on the dying manâs face was almost more than the Creole could bear to see. âYou couldna done nuttinâ,â he said, trying to make the dying manâs last moments easier.
âI shouldnât have left him there, but there was nothing here for himâhiding in the swamp for the rest of his life.â
âYou did what you shoulda. You couldna known.â
The dying man struggled to sit upright. âI need for you to do something else. Something even more important.â
The Creole frowned. âWhat?â
âUnder this bed is a chest. Pull it out, but be careful. Itâs heavy.â
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.
âOpen it,â 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.
âItâs cursed,â the dying man said. âI stole it, and now itâs taken my son and my life from me.â The dying man leaned down, looking the Creole directly in the eyes. âPromise me youâll never let the gold leave that chest. It will bring sorrow to anyone who spends it. You must keep it hidden forever. Iâm entrusting you and your family with this task. Do you understand?â
The Creole felt a chill run through him at the word curse. He didnât want to be entrusted with guarding cursed objects, nor did he want that burden transferred down his family line.
âPromise me!â 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.
âI promise.â
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 wasnât exactly complete.
She reached for the door handle and paused. Maybe this was a bad idea. Sheâd 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 shouldnât feel self-conscious about asking for her help.