“I have to leave,” he said in lieu of hello.
“Doucet?” Johnson asked. Bobby heard him shifting, moving, probably looking around. “Where are you?”
“On my way to the airport.”
“What happened?”
He wasn’t touching that question. “Make sure Raye is protected. I’ll call you.” He hung up before the chief could ask anything else.
He made it another mile or two before he stopped again. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and tried to calm his heart, his breathing, his mind. It wasn’t easy.
No one spoke to him about Genevieve. No one. As a result he hadn’t heard her name in so long the first mention of it nearly broke him.
Her death had driven him insane with grief. To be fair, it had had the same effect on Audrey. He didn’t know if her overdose was accidental—the result of her overmedicating her pain—or on purpose for the same reason. When her supposedly psychic pal Marlene had offered to use her “gift” to contact his child—for a price—he’d agreed. Certainly he’d been self-medicated at the time—whiskey not coke—but that didn’t excuse the second or third time. And definitely not the fourth.
When Marlene had disappeared with most of his savings, he had no one to blame but himself. But he didn’t have to like it. And he didn’t have to let anyone ever make a fool of him again.
Nevertheless, he’d traveled to New Bergin because what he’d thought was a serial killer had come to the small Wisconsin town. Now he knew that the killer was, in fact, killers, and they weren’t going to stop. No matter how much he might want to leave, he couldn’t. He wasn’t that guy.
His phone vibrated. As it was most likely Johnson calling him back, and Bobby would rather speak to the man in person, he nearly ignored it. Could be Raye, though he doubted it. His reaction had shocked her. Though what she’d expected, he wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, old habits died hard, and he couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the caller ID.
Franklin.
“Where are you?” the FBI agent asked.
“Where are you?”
“I was at the crime scene.”
“Which crime scene?”
“J.J. Stafford’s. Why’d you leave?”
Bobby resisted the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not there anymore. I need you to meet me in the woods, about half a mile off Route Seventy-three. Walk in from the mile eight marker sign.”
“It’s getting dark.”
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not a trained observer,” Franklin said. “Just get here. Cassandra heard of a place that’s perfect for the kind of things that have been going on.”
“Who’s Cassandra?”
“Voodoo priestess.”
Bobby was tempted to laugh, but he had a feeling the FBI agent wasn’t joking. Did they ever?
Franklin let out an exasperated huff. “I said I was bringing a witch expert, who better than a voodoo priestess?”
What was Bobby supposed to say to that? Luckily Franklin didn’t wait for an answer.
“I’m surprised you don’t know her. She runs a voodoo shop in New Orleans.”
“I don’t go to voodoo shops.” Ever. Despite his many greats-removed grandmother—or maybe because of her—voodoo gave him the heebie-jeebies.
“She knows your partner.”
“Sullivan?”
“You got more than one?”
“No.” Bobby found it odd that Franklin’s witch expert was from his own hometown. Then again, voodoo capital of the world. But was a priestess a witch? Did one have to be a witch to be an expert on them?
Bobby groaned. His mind hurt.
“You okay?” Franklin asked.
“Not really.”
“Finding a kid is always tough. I’m sorry about that.”
“Me too.” Bobby pulled onto the road and headed for mile marker 8. He was already on Route 73. There weren’t exactly a lot of roads into or out of New Bergin. “What’s so special about this place anyway?”
“According to what Cassandra heard through the spooky grapevine, there’s a natural sacrificial altar.”
Bobby leaned forward, his eyes straining to distinguish the numbers on the markers. The sun had fallen beyond the tree line, casting wavering shadows everywhere. He hated it.
“What in hell is a natural sacrificial altar?”
“A rock, a burial mound, something raised in a clearing that’s used for sacrifices.”
“You think it’s where the coven meets?”
Silence settled over the line for a minute. “There’s a coven?”
“Apparently, though I’ve never met any witches here that aren’t dead. Why do you want to look at this altar?”
“You said your first victim wasn’t killed where you found her.”
“You think she was killed there?”
“Considering we’ve got witches and witch hunters, as well as an increasing number of dead people, I think we should look.”
Unfortunately … so did Bobby.