The Vanishing. Jana DeLeon
looking for a young woman, a friend of my fiancée’s,” Max said.
Colette struggled to keep her expression neutral at Max’s comment, but a moment later, she understood his tactic. He didn’t want to reveal himself as a detective. That might make them close up even more. If she and Max had a personal relationship, it gave him a good reason to be involved.
“She told my fiancée she had an emergency back home, but when she didn’t return, we started to worry. We know she’s from Cache, so we figure that’s where the emergency was. We want to help her if she’s in some kind of trouble. If you know anything about the town, I’d really appreciate the help.”
“Can’t tell you what I don’t know. Far as I know, there ain’t no Cache and never has been.”
The cook dropped his gaze to the sink behind the counter, then picked up a glass and started washing it. Colette was certain he was lying.
“Are you from this area?” Max asked.
“Yep. Name’s Tom. I’ve owned this café for over thirty years.”
“You mean to tell me that no one lives in the swamp outside of this town?” Max asked. “I find that hard to believe.”
Tom rinsed the glass and started drying it with a dish towel. “Plenty of people live in the swamp,” he said. “But that don’t mean they all living in some legendary community, and certainly not one running everything with black arts, like all the rumors say. If something like that was going on around here, don’t you think we’d have heard about it by now?”
“I guess so. So where did my fiancée’s friend come from, you think?”
Tom shrugged. “I got no idea. I guess when you find her, you can ask?”
“If we find her. Even if she’s from this area, a young woman has no business roaming the swamp alone.”
“That is a fact.” Tom cocked his head to one side and studied them for a moment. Then he narrowed his gaze on Colette. “How come you know the girl if she’s from the swamp?”
“She works for me at a hospital in New Orleans,” Colette said. “She’s studying for her nursing degree. I’ve been helping her, so we’ve become close.”
“And she said she was from Cache?”
“Yes.”
“You must not be from around here if you didn’t think that was odd.”
“I grew up in New Orleans, and I’ve heard all the stories about Cache. I don’t believe half of them, but that doesn’t mean the village doesn’t exist.”
“You hadn’t heard all the stories about Cache, because even if you believed only half of ‘em, you wouldn’t want to be finding it.”
“I’m not a coward. I want to help my friend.”
Tom shook his head. “You ever stopped to think that it’s far more likely your friend has told you a story because she’s got trouble with the law or a man? Some women always got problems with a man.”
“You could be right, but I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t at least try to find her and help if she’s in trouble.”
He sighed. “You seem to be a nice woman, looking out for someone that ain’t even kin. I wish I could help.”
“Do you recall anyone with a daughter, about twenty or so, that lives out in the swamp?” Max asked.
“The swamp people’s got very little cash, and what they have they don’t spend on food service, so I don’t see them much. When they come into town, it’s for gas and minimal supplies. Talk to Danny over at the gas station. He may be able to help you.”
“Thanks,” Max said. “I’ll check with him when we leave.”
Tom glanced at the two old men in the corner and they rose to leave. They nodded to Tom and left the restaurant without so much as a backward glance. Colette looked out the plate-glass window and saw them cross the street and go into the gas station. She looked over at Max, who barely shook his head.
Colette tackled what was left of her lunch, anxious to leave. She felt more uncomfortable in this café than she ever had anywhere else. The undercurrents were almost palpable.
The waitress returned from the back and removed their empty plates from the counter. Colette noticed her movements were jerky and she barely looked at them. “Do you know where to find any of the swamp people?” Colette asked the waitress.
She stiffened and glanced over at Tom before replying. “I don’t ever go into the swamp. It’s too dangerous.”
“Have you ever met any of the people when they come here?” Colette asked. “A young Creole woman, about twenty?”
The waitress grabbed a dish towel and started wiping down the coffeepot behind the counter. “I don’t know any girl. Don’t know any swamp people.”
Max pulled out his wallet and left some money on the counter. “Thanks for the information and the food,” he said.
Tom nodded, but the waitress didn’t even look up. As soon as they got outside the café, Colette said, “The old men went to warn the gas-station guy we were coming, didn’t they?”
“Probably, which is interesting.”
“Tom was lying. What are they hiding?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t believe our reason for wanting to find Cache.” Max pointed to the gas station and they started across the street.
“Then what else could we possibly want?”
“Maybe reporters writing a story. Maybe someone looking for the ability to do black arts. If Cache really exists somewhere in the swamp near this town, they’ve managed to keep its location a secret for a long time. There must be something in it for the locals to keep the town protected.”
A chill passed over Colette, even though it was a warm fall afternoon. “What could be so important or so dangerous that generations of people made sure it stayed a secret all these years, and what would the villagers have to give to the townspeople to gain such a collective silence?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t know, but I have to tell you, I don’t get a good feeling about this.”
As they approached the gas station, the two old men who’d left the café walked out the front door and hurried down the sidewalk, careful to avoid making eye contact. Colette looked beyond the gas station to the dense swamp behind it.
She didn’t get a good feeling, either.
Max held open the door and they walked inside the station. A man, probably in his thirties, with unkempt brown hair and wearing a greasy shirt and jeans was stocking a beer cooler and looked up when the bell above the door jangled on their entry.
“You folks need gas?” he asked.
“No, we were hoping for some information.”
The man straightened and walked over to them. “My name’s Danny Pitre. I own this station.” He extended his hand to Max, who shook it, and then nodded at Colette.
“What kind of information you looking for?” Danny asked.
“We’re looking for Cache,” Max said.
Danny narrowed his eyes. “You the people from the café?”
“Yes.”
“Old Joe told me you was looking for a missing girl that claimed she was from Cache.”
“That’s right. She’s my fiancée’s friend and coworker. She hasn’t reported to work for several days and we can’t reach her by cell.”
Danny rubbed