The Lost Girls of Johnson's Bayou Page 6

  “At least none of them ran across my shoes. Then I would have had to burn a perfectly good pair of Nikes.”

  Paul gave her a rueful smile. “There’s still plenty of opportunity. We need to check all the drawers. See if there’s anything here that might give us an indication of what happened.”

  Ginny glanced around the room again. “Why is everything still here? Some of the furniture has to be valuable, or must have been at one time, but it’s all sat here untouched. It’s creepy.”

  “Yeah. It kinda surprised me, too. I figured someone looking to make a quick buck would have picked it over years ago.”

  “Maybe not,” Ginny said. “The New Orleans newspaper carried the story about the fire, but it never made national news that I can recall. Only people from Johnson’s Bayou knew that the police never identified a next of kin or even a friend of the headmistress. I believe some company in New Orleans owns the property, although they clearly didn’t care enough to sell off the assets.”

  “Not having a legal right to things doesn’t stop people from looting.”

  “Oh, people in Johnson’s Bayou don’t avoid the house because they’re afraid of breaking the law.”

  “Then what are they afraid of?”

  Ginny shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. I heard the whispers when I was a child. People thought the headmistress was a witch and the girls were sacrificed in some ritual. Given that her body was never found and she’s completely disappeared, people are more willing to believe the extraordinary.”

  “Is it extraordinary?”

  Ginny stared at Paul. “You’re serious? You believe in witchcraft?”

  “No, but I believe that some people believe in witchcraft. If the headmistress was one of them, then the locals’ suspicions might have merit.”

  “Then what happened to her?”

  “The easy answer—she became someone else. New identity, new past, new town.”

  Ginny shook her head, just beginning to realize how many questions needed to be answered about that night. How many avenues of investigation Paul might have to pursue before he got the answers he sought. “Then I guess we better get a move on. There’s a lot of things we don’t know.”

  Paul pulled open all the drawers on the dresser and the nightstand, but no other four-legged surprises jumped out at them. He placed the spotlight on top of the dresser with the light still shining on the ceiling to illuminate the room and pulled a flashlight from his back pocket. “I’m going to start on the next room. Are you okay in here?”

  “As long as everything in the room is bipedal, I’m fine.”

  “I’ll open the drawers next door before you check out the room, then I’ll start searching the rooms across the hall. Yell if you find anything interesting.”

  Ginny nodded and began to pull clothes out of the dresser drawers. They were dry-rotted, and many of them crumbled in places when she pulled them from their resting spot. She cringed a bit when she saw bugs on the end of the garment, but when she realized they were dead, she flicked them off with her fingernail. Carefully, she felt each garment for anything that might be hidden inside, and when the drawer was empty, she stuffed all the clothes back inside and moved on to the next drawer, repeating the process.

  The dresser yielded nothing at all of interest and Ginny moved to the nightstand. The nightstand drawer held a stack of fabric and a box of thread. Ginny pulled the stack out and opened up the square piece of cloth with the neat hem. It was dingy and rotting, but the square was the same as the blue gingham valances in the café. Ginny felt a lump in her throat and choked it down. They were normal little girls who worked on their sewing and reading books before going to bed.

  What had they felt when the fire started? When they realized they were going to die?

  She picked up one of the books from the desktop and used the swatch of fabric to wipe the cover. Dust billowed up and she dropped the fabric back in the drawer then waved her hand in front of her face, sneezing as she got a nose full of the dust. She opened the book and looked inside the first page to see if there was an inscription that gave any clue to the owner, but the inside page contained no writing, nor did any of the others.

  She picked up the next book and flipped through the pages, not expecting to find anything, when a page toward the end caught her eye. Slowly, she turned the pages back one at a time, trying to figure out what had grabbed her attention. And then she gasped.

  It was the design—the circles that she used in her jewelry.

  She drew her finger lightly over the circles, the sensitive tip of her finger picking up the tiny difference in texture of the ink used to draw the circles. Paul had been right. The circles came from her past. And now she knew for certain that she’d been in the LeBlanc School. But had she drawn the circles in the book or had someone else, maybe Paul’s sister?

  She flipped the book back to the front cover and studied the title and artwork. It wasn’t familiar. Not a single thing fired in her mind that let her know she’d seen the book before. Frustrated, she closed the book. She needed to show it to Paul and get his thoughts. He had a way of making sense out of this mess.

  As she turned to leave the room, the window behind her shattered and she felt something whiz by her head. Before she could even register what had happened, Paul rushed into the room and threw her to the floor as another pane of glass shattered behind them. She covered her head with her arms, the shards of broken glass nicking her bare skin as it fell around them.

  Paul had covered most of her body with his own when he’d tackled her, but now he moved to his hands and knees. “Get into the hallway. Do not stand.” He motioned for her to get ahead of him, so Ginny crawled out of the room and into the hallway, where she slumped against the wall on the other side of the bedroom door.

  The spotlight in the bedroom clicked off and the entire hallway pitched into darkness, not even a sliver of light making its way in. A couple of seconds later, Paul placed the spotlight on the floor next to her and turned on his small flashlight. He pulled his pistol from his waistband and checked the clip.

  “Someone was shooting at me,” Ginny said, everything that had just happened suddenly falling into place. “But I didn’t hear a shot.”

  “He’s using a silencer. Gunfire would attract attention.”

  “I can’t believe it. Why in the world would anyone shoot at me?”

  Paul hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Because they have a lot to lose if your memory returns.”

  He rose from the floor and clicked off his flashlight, pitching the hallway back into darkness. “Stay put and keep the spotlight off.”

  Ginny squinted up into the black, but Paul was only a vague outline. “Where are you going?” she asked, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  “To see if I can figure out where that shot came from. We have to get out of the house without him seeing.”

  “But he could be anywhere. He could have moved already.”

  “I know, but we’re sitting ducks here. Just stay quiet and if you hear anyone moving downstairs, yell.”

  Ginny’s grip tightened on something in her hands, and she realized with a start that it was the children’s book, the one with the circle designs drawn in it. The book had been completely forgotten in the wake of the gunfire and exploding glass.

  She sat in the darkness, listening for any sound that indicated someone was moving in the house, but even Paul had slipped into silence. Occasionally, she heard the sound of tiny scurrying feet and hoped all the four-legged creatures were far away and the sound was echoing in the cavernous hallway. The darkness closed in on her and she felt her panic rise. How were they going to get out of the house? There were probably multiple exits, but they had no way of knowing where the shooter was.

  Or if he was alone.

  Ginny sucked in a breath. They could be surrounded. They could die in here and no one would ever know what happened. No one would ever suspect that Ginny and the handsome stranger had ventu
red into the woods at night to search the LeBlanc School. And even if the sheriff eventually decided to look here, their bodies would be long gone, along with any trace that they’d been in the rotting structure.

  Why had she agreed to come here tonight? In hindsight, it was the dumbest thing she’d ever done. Well, maybe second dumbest, since coming the first time had set everything in motion.

  “Ginny.” Paul’s whisper sounded next to her and she pressed her hand over her mouth to strangle a cry.

  He stooped down and placed his hand on her shoulder. “There’s a staircase at the end of the hall that leads to the kitchen below. There’s an exit door off the kitchen.”

  “But what if he sees us?”

  “The exit in the kitchen is only twenty feet from the edge of the swamp and there’s a storage building in between. If we can make it across, we have a good chance of losing him in the swamp.”

  “What if he’s not alone?”

  “It’s a chance we have to take. If we stay here, he will find us. I have a plan that will buy us some time, I hope.”

  Ginny rose from the floor, still clutching the book. She knew he was right, but it was the last thing she wanted to hear.

  “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be right back,” Paul said.

  Ginny squinted, trying to make out his shape in the dim hall. He’d gone toward the main staircase, which didn’t make sense. He’d said they were going to use the rear staircase. All of a sudden, she heard something in the direction Paul had gone. It sounded like glass clinking together. A second later, she saw the glow of the small flashlight on the landing, partially illuminating Paul as he secured the flashlight to a chandelier just above the railing.

  He hurried back to Ginny and whispered, “Let’s go, and no talking until we’re safe.”

  Ginny clutched a handful of the back of his shirt in one hand and the book in the other and slipped down the hallway after Paul, praying that the old floor didn’t creak as they walked. They made it to the end of the hallway and Paul stopped a minute and put a finger to his lips. He listened for a moment then pointed at the stairwell. Keeping a death grip on his shirt, she followed him down the stairs into the kitchen.

  The exterior door was just beyond the staircase, and Ginny huddled beside Paul as he twisted the doorknob and leaned on the door. But it didn’t budge. He looked back at Ginny, and she could barely make out the worried expression on his face. If he had to force the door open, it would make a lot of noise.

  He leaned close to her and whispered, “Prepare to run.”

  Ginny nodded and said a silent prayer that the shooter was on the far side of the clearing. Paul placed his shoulder against the door, then froze. He looked at her and pointed in the direction of the front entry of the house. She thought for a moment he was telling her they would exit by the front entry instead, but then she heard it—the sound of the front door opening. She heard someone curse and then the sound of footsteps running up the main stairwell.

  The flashlight! The shooter had followed the light on the chandelier into the front of the house and was now running upstairs. Paul’s plan had worked. Paul tapped her and motioned to the door just as the footsteps hit the second-floor landing, then he thrust his shoulder into the kitchen door and it flew open with a screech.

  Chapter Seven

  Paul grabbed her hand and ran out of the kitchen for the swamp. Ginny ran as fast as possible, alternating between praying there was nothing to trip over in the dark and listening for the sound of the shooter behind them. When they hit the woods, Paul dropped her hand for better maneuverability but barely slowed as he angled off in the swamp in the opposite direction of town. Ginny pulled on his arm, trying to let him know they were going in the wrong direction, but he paused only long enough to shake his head and then pick up the pace again.

  She hesitated just a second then followed him deep into the swamp. The sound of the kitchen door slamming against the side of the house echoed through the swamp and Paul picked up the pace. She held the book up to protect her face as she ran, and the brush tore at the bare skin on her arms. At one point, she heard the sound of cloth ripping, but there was no time to think about it.

  Her thighs and calves burned from the exertion, and her breathing grew labored every second that they continued at full speed. Sheer adrenaline kept her pushing forward, and she knew that if she lived to see tomorrow, her body would make sure she paid for the abuse. Just as she wondered how much longer she could sustain the pace, they burst into a clearing that contained a tiny, rundown cabin.

  The moon cleared a patch of clouds and cast a dim glow around the cabin as Paul ran for the truck that was parked on the side. He paused only long enough to retrieve keys from under the wheel well and jumped inside. Bewildered, Ginny jumped into the passenger’s side of the truck, and a second later Paul tore out of the clearing down a narrow path to town.

  “Stay down,” he said.

  The words hadn’t quite finished leaving his mouth when Ginny heard the cracking of glass. Immediately, she slumped in her seat and looked up to see a small hole in the back windshield of the truck, not even an inch from where her head had been only moments before.

  Paul crouched so low in his seat that Ginny worried he could even see where he was going. She heard another pop and saw a second hole appear. She slid down until she rested on the floorboard, praying that Paul wouldn’t wreck the truck on his way out of the swamp. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that she felt it would burst.

  “Hold on!” Paul said as he made a sharp right-hand turn.

  Ginny dropped the book on the floorboard and clutched the seat, struggling to keep from falling from the momentum of the turn.

  “You can get up,” Paul said once they were going straight again.

  Ginny crawled up on the seat and let her breath out with a whoosh. Her pulse raced and she took several deep breaths, trying to calm her nervous system.

  “Are you all right?” Paul asked. “Do you have any injuries?”

  “No,” Ginny said. “Scratches from running through the swamp, but nothing serious except for the heart attack I may have when I’m able to process everything that just happened.”

  Paul placed his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. “If you’re able to make a joke, you’re a lot stronger than you realize. Most people wouldn’t have been able to handle this as well.”

  Ginny felt a bit proud at Paul’s words. She’d never considered herself particularly brave or strong. Average had been her own assessment, but maybe Paul was right. Maybe she had untapped strength resting just under the surface.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but if it takes being shot at to show my strength, I think I’ll just go back to normal.”

  Paul frowned. “I’m afraid your life isn’t going to return to normal until we figure out what’s going on here. Whoever shot at us was either anticipating you visiting the house and staking it out or was following us. I was very watchful. I don’t think he followed us there.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone back to the house. Now, he thinks I remember something, and I don’t.”

  “He already thought you remembered something, or he wouldn’t have been waiting. I’m sorry, Ginny, but you would have been in danger even if you hadn’t gone to the house. He was already watching you, or he wouldn’t have broken into your apartment and read your journal. Something in your behavior must have changed and caused him to pay closer attention to you.”

  “But he escalated because we went to the house. Maybe if I’d stopped journaling my thoughts about the house and hidden my feelings, he would have gone away, like he has for the past sixteen years.”

  Paul was silent, and Ginny knew he was thinking about what she’d said. “Hey, I didn’t mean for you to feel guilty,” she said. “I was already going to the house before tonight. That’s why I’d bought the spotlight.” She sighed. “If you hadn’t been with me, he could have easily killed me and no one would ever have known what happened.”


  Ginny stared out the windshield as Paul pulled into town, then buried her head in her hands. “What am I going to do? It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

  Paul parked in front of the café and placed his hand on Ginny’s back. “Hey, we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

  Ginny straightened up and nodded.

  “We should get inside,” Paul said.

  The terror she’d felt earlier washed over her in a giant wave, and Ginny jumped out of the truck and hurried over to the front door of the café. She fumbled in her jeans pocket for her keys, and her hands shook as she tried to place the key in the lock. She dropped the keys and cursed.

  Before she could bend over, Paul picked up the keys. “Let me,” he said and unlocked the door.

  Ginny pushed the door open and rushed inside, pulling Paul behind her. She twisted the dead bolt back into place then hurried through the café and up the staircase to her apartment, not even looking to see if Paul followed. When she reached the apartment door, she realized Paul still had her keys. Before she could call out, he stepped on the landing behind her and passed her the keys.

  This time, her hand was steadier and she managed the lock on her own, but as soon as she stepped inside the apartment, she stopped, unable to think or move. She heard Paul close and lock the door behind her, then he gently took her by the elbow and guided her to the couch to sit. He left immediately and she could hear him rummaging through her kitchen, but she didn’t even have the desire to turn and see what he was doing.

  A minute later, he handed her a glass. “Drink,” he instructed and took her hands in his, gliding the glass to her lips.

  She took a drink and grimaced at the bitter taste of the whiskey. It burned a little going down her throat, but she took another gulp then leaned back on the couch, trying to calm her frantic mind. Paul placed the glass on the coffee table and sat next to her, his worried eyes studying her face.

  “You’re in shock,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Just relax for a minute and let the whiskey do its job.”