Chapter Eleven

The powder was really an herbal remedy I’d been using since Sarah’s death. If it put me to sleep with all my issues, Murphy shouldn’t be any trouble at all.

Once he crashed, I’d slip away. When he awoke, he wouldn’t bother to follow me, since I’d leave his money where he’d be sure to find it.

Having a plan made me downright j olly, and I had to tone down my exuberance lest Murphy think I’d lost more marbles than he already did.

I needn’t have bothered, since he was preoccupied, staring into the trees, not speaking to me at all. It wasn’t even a challenge to slip the sleeping powder into his applesauce. He ate it out of the disposable container without appearing to know or care what he was consuming.

Night descended. A slightly larger sliver of moon appeared as the sounds of the jungle surrounded us.

Murphy lifted his rifle onto his lap. “I’ll keep watch.”

I doubted he’d be watching much but the inside of his eyelids. I also doubted a gun would be of any use if the Haitian, or some of his friends, decided to come back.

As expected, within fifteen minutes, Murphy’s head bobbed, then he mumbled and j erked upright, eyes wide as he searched the darkness. Soon he couldn’t fight any longer, and his chin dipped to his chest. I waited fifteen minutes more, just to be sure, then grabbed my things.

I poured a circle of salt around Murphy to protect him until he woke up. No zombie could pass over salt.

Interestingly enough, my zombie-revealing powder contained not a hint of it—which might be why it had never worked.

Before I left, I tossed the money order onto the ground in front of Murphy. There’d be no reason for him to come after me now. We were square.

As I headed into the trees, I refused to feel sad about that. I had plenty of other things to be sad about.

Like where the hell I was going. Since we’d been heading steadily up the mountain in a northwesterly direction I continued that way. I experienced a moment’s unease that this was too easy—kind of a reverse yellow brick road, leading me away from the wizard rather than to him. But what choice did I have?

Only one: Give up or go on. Which really wasn’t a choice at all.

I traveled all night, never once needing to stop and hack at a vine or squeeze through an area of densely grown trees. I was definitely on a trail leading somewhere. Hopefully not off the edge of a cliff.

I heard nothing but insects—no growling, no voices, no paws, no footsteps—until the darkest part of the night, right before sunrise, when the moon and the stars disappeared and the sky went as black as the pits of hell. I hated that time. It was then that my dreams of Sarah came.

“No dreams tonight,” I murmured. “Not going to sleep.”

I paused because I could no longer see the trail and pulled out my canteen. Leaning against a tree, I drank slowly and watched the sky, waiting for the telltale lightening of the ebony night, which signaled the arrival of the sun, but nothing happened.

“Maybe it takes a little longer here,” I whispered, the sound of my own voice not as soothing as I’d hoped.

The rustle from the underbrush was so slight I wouldn’t have heard it if I’d been walking. Something light, small, probably furry.

My right hand crept toward my knife, sliding away when a figure stepped through the trees. “Sarah.”

I wanted to touch her, but I didn’t dare. This couldn’t be real, even though I wanted it to be very badly. If I touched her would she disappear in a puff of smoke?

She wore the outfit she’d died in—her private school uniform, all navy blue and white. She’d loathed that skirt. Her dark hair, so very much like mine, was combed, her cheeks flushed with health—with life—her brown eyes, too much like Karl’s, shone. The only oddity was her lack of socks and shoes.

I had to be dreaming, yet here I stood, back against the tree, the damp air of Haiti pressing against my skin.

I shifted and the earth scratched beneath my boots. I slammed my hand against the tree trunk. Pain exploded up my arm.

Mommy ? murmured the wind.

Ah, hell, I thought as tears threatened. Was I crazy or wasn’t I?

Every thing ’s all right.

Not really. Nothing had been all right since she had gone.

Mommy , she said again, and ran toward me.

I went down on one knee, held out my arms, and she blew through me, like the first chilly wind of autumn.

I closed my eyes, and I could smell her. That particular scent that was Sarah’s alone—both sweet and sharp, soft white light and hot pink neon, sunshine, shadow, and the earth. I hadn’t smelled it for a very long time.

“You OK?”

My eyes snapped open. I was sitting on the ground, my back against the tree. The sun was up, creating a halo around Murphy’s head as he squatted in front of me.

I blinked at the sky. “What time is it?”

“That’s all you can say?” He shifted, plopping himself down at my side. “You drugged me.”

“Did not.”

“You did something.”

I’d fallen asleep and dreamed of Sarah. I wasn’t sure why that thought caused a shaft of disappointment so deep I ached with it. If she hadn’t been a dream, she’d been a ghost. Which was the entire reason I was in Haiti—or at least one of them.

I’d also lost several hours of travel time and allowed Murphy to catch up to me.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I’m taking you to the bokor, remember?”

“No, you were taking me to the funny farm.”

I startled a laugh out of him. “I haven’t heard that expression since me poor sainted mother died.”

His brogue was back. Instead of being irritated, I was intrigued. I knew so little about him. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

His expression became shuttered. “That was long ago and far away, my wee colleen, no reason to have your sad eyes grow sadder on my account.”

My irritation returned. “If you pat me on the head, I’ll slug you.”

He smiled. “That’s better. Now, tell me what you drugged me with and why?”

“Sleeping powder. Herbal. Obviously it didn’t work very well.”

“I was asleep until dawn, which I believe is what you had in mind.”

I glanced at the sky again. From the position of the sun it was midafternoon. I couldn’t believe I’d zoned out that long.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” I said. “I paid you. Why did you come after me?”



“I’m a lot of things, but a murderer isn’t one of them.”

“Murder? Am I missing something?”

“You think I’d take your money and trot back to Port-au-Prince, leaving you to wander the enchanted forest until you die?”

“Aren’t you being a little melodramatic?”

“No.”

Oooo-K.

“Why did you call it the enchanted forest?”

“I was trying to be funny. How come you never laugh?”

“I laugh.”

“Must be silent laughter. I’ve never heard you.”

“I don’t see much to laugh about in this world.”

Murphy tilted his head, then touched my cheek. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Isn’t your fault.”

“I’d still like to kick that guy’s ass for hitting you.”

I realized then that he wasn’t apologizing for my lack of laughter but my black eye.

“Damn near impossible to kick a zombie’s ass,” I said.

He sighed. “We’re back to that?”

“Did we ever leave it?”

“How can I convince you there’s no such thing as a zombie?”

“You can’t, because there is.”

“Cassandra—”

“Did you know there was a Harvard ethnobotanist who proved the zombie phenomena is real?”

“I doubt that.”

“Seriously. In the early eighties there were two documented cases of people who showed up alive here in Haiti years after they were declared dead. Wade Davis, the ethnobotanist, discovered a poison derived from the blowfish which caused the victim to appear dead.”

“I’ve heard about this,” Murphy said slowly. “The victim ‘died,’ then was called from the grave by the bokor and sold into slavery far away from home.”

“So when he returned he was labeled a zombie.”

“Except he’d never truly been dead,” Murphy pointed out, “which means he wasn’t a zombie.”

“Exactly. But I’m not interested in the zombie poison.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“You said there was no such thing as zombies, but there is.”

“And I suppose those werewolves and vampires you mentioned—”

“Exist, too. There’s a whole world out there most people don’t even know about.”

“Maybe that’s because it doesn’t exist outside your own head.” My lips tightened, and he lifted one hand to forestall my tirade. “Cassandra, you worry me. Mezareau is not a nice man.”

I winced at his use of the bokor ’s name, waited for the telltale chill and the sensation of being watched. I didn’t feel it. Of course that didn’t mean Mezareau wasn’t snooping.

“He won’t have any patience for your fairy tales,” Murphy continued. “I don’t want you to disappear like all those others did.”

“The man is a bokor,” I said. “The very word means my request won’t cause him to bat an eye.”

“He’s already sent a man to kill us.” Murphy frowned. “And the more I think about those guys in Port- au-Prince, the more I wonder if he sent them, too.”

I’d figured they were hired guns, but I’d kind of thought my ex-husband had hired them. Either way, guns were guns and dead was dead.

Sometimes.

“He doesn’t know what I want from him,” I pointed out. “Why get his knickers in a twist already?”

“According to you, just saying his name gives him power. He knows who we are, where we are, and exactly what we want.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Murphy said. “But if you care to take the saner point of view, the man has people everywhere and every one of them would love to get on his good side.”

That still didn’t explain why someone had tried to kill me three times. I thought of the bringing of the dead to my hotel room. Make that kill me twice, drive me insane once.

I glanced around the small clearing. Or maybe drive me insane twice.

Had Mezareau sent Sarah? How could he know about her? Was he able to read minds?

If the bokor was that powerful there was no telling what he could do. I was both excited and terrified.

“He doesn’t want us to find him,” I said.

“You think?” Murphy muttered.

“All I need is a little knowledge. Is that so much to ask?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to share.”

I hadn’t considered that Mezareau wouldn’t want to teach me. The religion of voodoo was inclusive —full of gentleness, love, and sharing. But a voodoo sorcerer probably didn’t follow the rules.

I got to my feet. Murphy held out a hand and without thought I took it, leaning back as he levered himself upward. I tried to release him, but he held on tight. I glanced into his face, confused.

“Who’s Sarah?” he asked.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I thought about her all the time. I called out for her in the night. But no one had spoken Sarah’s name in my presence for so long the word tore at my heart.

“Where did you hear that?”

My voice was hoarse, harsh. Murphy frowned. “You were mumbling it when I got here.”

Oh, right. The dream. Vision. Visitation.

“Who is she?” he pressed.

“My daughter.”

His fingers tightened on mine until I winced, but he didn’t let go. “Where is she?”

“California.”

Bellehaven Cemetery, true. But that was in California.

He turned over my left hand, passed a thumb over my bare ring finger. “Husband?”

“Not anymore.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Relief?” I peered into his face as he continued to rub my knuckles.

“I try not to put my tongue in the mouths of married women.”

I winced at the reminder of how I’d practically begged him to take me. “You don’t seem the type to care.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what type I am.”

He was right. I was angry with myself, not Murphy. I didn’t want to want him, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

I withdrew my hand from his and he let me. Turning away, I bent to grab my backpack, and my gaze was caught by a mark on the ground, half-obscured beneath a low-lying bush. I reached out and swept back the foliage, just as thunder rumbled from above.

“Storm’s coming,” Murphy said. “We should probably stay here until it passes. Shouldn’t be long. They never last.”

The sun was gone; shadows flickered. I could do nothing but stare at the footprint that seemed to waver first closer, then farther away the longer I stared at it Very small, tiny, perfect toes and a teeny round heel.

Slowly I got to my feet, took a step into the trees, and I saw another one, then another.

I was running. Murphy was shouting. He let me get pretty far before he came after me. By then I’d seen ten footprints, all leading up the same trail I’d been following all night.

“Cassandra!” Murphy shouted.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not even when the sky opened and the rain came tumbling down—hard, harsh, chilling needles that soaked us in minutes.

I skidded in the mud, and Murphy caught me before I fell. “What are you doing?”

“Footprints.”

He shook the rain from his eyes. “What footprints?”

“I’ll show you.”

Murphy followed me back in the direction we’d come. I squinted at the dirt, went down on my knees in the mud.

There were no footprints. Not anymore. Had there ever been any at all?

What did it matter since they were now as gone as Sarah herself?

I became aware of another sound, louder than the whoosh of rain and the distant rumble of thunder.

Water rushing—a lot of it.

Hell. We were on a mountain and the rain was coming down in sheets.

“Flash flood,” I shouted above the storm, but Murphy shook his head.

Instead of running, which would have been my vote, he kept hold of my hand and dragged me toward the sound.

I struggled, not ready to die before I’d tried everything I could to get my life back, but Murphy was strong and for some reason determined.

He shoved me through a tall sheaf of what appeared to be palm fronds, and I stumbled to the other side, bracing myself, expecting a wall of water to sweep from on high and end everything.

Instead, I gaped at the hugest waterfall I’d ever seen.

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