Calloway nodded, his bald head speckled with sweat as he guided the boat’s bow between trees rising out of the water. “The spirit stays, you know. It lingers, even after the perp is gone. Y’know, like a bad smell.”

Bentz didn’t buy into Ray’s theory of lingering evil, but he couldn’t deny the sudden coolness at the back of his neck, like the breath of a demon prickling the hairs at the base of his scalp. The chill was at odds with the heat of the day. He told himself it was all his imagination. Montoya wasn’t right. Evil may have existed in this bayou where a musty smell rose from rotting vegetation, but no malingering spirits lurked in the deepening umbra.

The dinghy slipped farther into the woods, where shafts of light glinted through the branches overhead, sparkling the water. An ibis, disturbed by the watercraft, took off. White wings stretched, the bird disappeared in the higher branches.

“Here we go,” Calloway said, cutting the engine. Sure enough, the remains of a cabin came into view in the nest of foliage. Rotting on its pilings, the wooden structure sagged. Its roof had collapsed, and some of the floorboards of the porch surrounding the structure were missing.

“No one living in this mess,” Montoya observed; he seemed relieved.

“Yeah, I figured.” Bentz squinted at the dilapidated building. “This would have been way too easy, and nothing about Father John ever was.” He thought back to the time when the serial killer had been terrorizing the city. Long before Hurricane Katrina had meted out her punishment, Father John had stalked the streets of New Orleans, choosing his victims and leaving them with a necklace of bruises around their throats and a mutilated hundred-dollar bill nearby. A fake priest, serial killer, fan of Dr. Sam’s radio program. Yeah, he was a sick bastard all right.

And now he was back.

From the looks of it vandals had found the cabin. Luminescent paint had been scrawled over the remaining boards, a sleeping bag with its stuffing spilling out hung over what was left of the railing near the stairs, and beer cans and wrappers were visible. A wasp’s nest hung from a low branch, slim black insects crawling on its papery shell. Mosquitoes and dragonflies buzzed near the watercraft.

Montoya gave a wasp a swat as it hovered near his head. “Jesus, I hate the swamp.”

“Bayou,” Calloway corrected.

“All the same.” Montoya swore, slapping at his neck. “Shit, that fucker nailed me.” Sure enough, a red welt showed just above his collar. “God damn it!”

Over the idling of the boat, Calloway said, “Should never swat at ’em.”

“Yeah, right.” Montoya’s lips were pressed tight.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” Bentz said.