I hefted my pack onto my back and slammed my trunk closed. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath my boots as I studied the small slope to my left. I’d parked on an old logging road to the west of Blackwood near the site I’d described to the sheriff. Instead of heading south toward the clearing, I consulted my map and walked into the woods toward the northeast.

I’d studied aerials and satellite data from the area and marked sites of interest—sites where I might find some trace of my father. I would hike to the Choctaw field after I checked the first spot, an area where something glinted from beneath the trees on the aerials. If I was lucky, I might find something of interest concerning my father or my dig along the way.

The wind had died down, but the chill air remained. I started off through the pine woods, the ground sloping gently. The eastern edge of the Delta wasn’t as marshy as the lands closer to the Mississippi River, though wet patches and streams were frequent. The terrain remained almost flat, only rolling slightly, as alluvial soils fanned across the gentle slope down to the river. Preparing for the terrain and the weather was half the battle. I wore layers, jeans, waterproof boots, and carried another coat in my pack.

The day had dawned bright and cloudless, and the sun helped me pick my way through the thickets and brambles. I snapped twigs and crunched pine cones as I trekked through the taciturn landscape. An hour of tramping later and I came to a wide stream, its surface placid in areas and gurgling over rock in others. I walked farther north, looking for an easy spot to cross.

Cypress trees loomed overhead, their feathery branches leaning down to the water’s surface as the ground became boggier, my boots sinking with every step. I leaned against a twisting cypress root and grabbed my canteen. The woods remained silent around me, no summertime cicadas singing in the trees and the sun too high for the frogs to serenade me.

After downing a few pulls of water, I stowed my canteen and stared down the path of the stream, looking for the easiest way across. A small outcrop about twenty feet ahead seemed like my best bet. I’d have to step through the stream to reach a dirt bank on the other side, but the water was shallower and clearer there.

A twig snapped nearby. I whirled and peered through the trees, searching for movement. After staring for a solid thirty seconds, I relaxed against the cypress, the gray moss hanging from the low limbs forming a curtain around me. Whatever animal was out there likely caught my scent and fled.

The stream crossing went smoothly, my boots keeping my feet warm and dry despite the frigid water swirling around them. Once I gained the opposite bank, I continued my trudge, checking my compass every so often to make sure I was still on track to find the spot of interest. Every so often, I thought I heard some sounds in the woods, more twigs cracking or the crunch of dead leaves. Whenever I stopped, the only sound was my breathing and the quiet gurgle of the nearby waterways.

After another hour of hopping smaller streams and picking my way through the undergrowth, my stomach began to grumble.

A clearing opened ahead of me, the brown grass absorbing the sun’s rays and storing them up for the green of spring. I recognized it from my satellite map. The shine in the woods wouldn’t be much farther ahead.

I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead where a fine sheen of sweat had grown during the journey. I’d spent hours on the treadmill getting ready for the arduous task of surveying the properties, but the actual hike—pack included—was proving more demanding than I’d thought.

The sun hit my face with full force, warming my cold cheeks as I stepped into the small clearing, about fifty yards wide. Some of the grass was matted down, a sleeping area for deer or some other animals. I walked about twenty feet away and settled in a spot where the ground was dry and solid.

My lunch consisted of a simple turkey sandwich and some chips. But food always tasted better when your senses were full of the palate-cleansing outdoors. Something about the clear air, or perhaps the cold and lonesome woods, made everything so much sweeter.

I finished my food and stowed my trash in my bag. Before leaving the clearing, I unhooked my small spade from my pack and walked a few paces away, my eyes trained on the ground. When I found a slightly mounded section of ground at the edge of the plot, I dug down, turning a few shovelfuls of dark dirt onto the dormant grass.

The smell of rich earth permeated the air, and I remembered why I loved archaeology—finding things, learning about the past, and trying to preserve whatever fleeting lessons the ghosts could teach us. I dug a layer deeper and found some particularly juicy earthworms, then changed position around the mound. I sank my spade deep, then hammered it further with my boot. Something hard clicked against the spade’s tip. Likely a rock, but maybe something else.

I pulled the spade out, moved it back a few inches, then plunged it in again and pushed on the handle, leveraging the dirt up and over. Pottery pieces crumbled on top of the pile. My body buzzed with the thrill of discovery as I zeroed in on the find.

Kneeling down, I picked up the biggest shard. Only a few inches across, it was a medium brown with scored lines across it in a repeating pattern—likely etched solely for decoration. I carefully turned it over and studied the inside. Made of clay and crushed ceramic, the piece was at least two-hundred years old. Yes.

I returned to my pack and pulled out my map. With a charcoal pencil, I marked the spot for future exploration, but frowned when I remembered that I was still inside the bounds of Blackwood property. Did I have permission for future exploration, or even current exploration? No. But I decided to let future Elise worry about that tiny snag.

After carefully stowing the artifact, I got to my feet and continued my trek. Renewed energy flowed through my limbs from my lunch and the pottery find. The trees thinned a bit as I crossed a boggy area and then climbed a small hill.

I was getting close and kept scanning the trees for any sign of something other than vegetation. Cresting the rise, I pulled out my binoculars and studied everything I could see as I spun in a circle. I stopped when an odd break in the trees caught my eye. That was it, the anomaly on the satellite image.

My breath grew short as I hurried toward the spot. My heart constricted, and I was drawn to the odd patch of woods like a hunting dog toward its quarry. Somehow, I just knew it would give a clue to my father’s disappearance.

“I wouldn’t go that way if’n I was you.”

I spun and froze. A man approached from about twenty feet behind me, his feet quiet on the pine needles as he chose his steps with care. He was tall with bushy eyebrows, an overgrown beard, and a smile that revealed crooked, yellow teeth.

“Who are you?” I reached into my pocket, palming my knife.

He spat out a stream of dark liquid and grinned, a lump in his cheek next to his gum.

“Are you following me?” Fear slid down my spine like a runnel of ice water.

“Yep.” He kept walking toward me, and I felt the urge to back away. Instead, I flicked my knife open, the blade locking into place with a quiet click inside my pocket.

“Why?”

He stopped a few feet away and looked at me with curiosity. His beard was matted, the hair reminiscent of steel wool. “You shouldn’t be out here, punkin.” He let his gaze slide down my body, then back to my eyes. “Not safe out here for a girly like you. No telling what kinda madman might take a shine to you and carry you off.”

“Is that a threat?” I held my knife with a death grip.

“Just a fact.” He spat again, the stream tangling in his beard and dripping down to his tatty t-shirt.

“I’ll be sure to be careful.”

“You do that, punkin.” He grinned again and walked past me.

I turned as he went, keeping him in front of me. “Who are you?”

“Nobody important. Nope, not important. I’ll tell you something, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I would turn around if I was you, punkin.” He disappeared behind a tree, reappeared on the other side, and continued along as if he knew exactly where he was headed. “Go back. Go back to whatever town you come from. Don’t come here ever again.”

“You can’t scare me away.” I tipped my chin up, trying to speak the lie with conviction. “I have permission from Mr. Blackwood to be on this property.”

He cackled but didn’t look back. “Mr. Blackwood, is it? He’s the one you should be afraid of the most.”

“Why?”

Another cackle, which faded as he wandered farther away. “I warned you, punkin. Don’t never say I didn’t warn you.”

I stared after him for a long while until he was completely lost from view. His cryptic warnings only strengthened my resolve to keep digging. Whatever secrets these woods held wouldn’t stay secret for long.

Keeping one eye on the direction he’d gone, I moved slowly toward my goal. There was nothing particularly different about the trees themselves, but something rested at the base of one of them just ahead. As I approached, I realized whatever it was had been covered in branches. Even so, the afternoon sun glinted off metal.

My heart sped up as I took the final steps toward the biggest clue yet. There, under the canopy of trees and covered with rotten limbs sat my father’s green El Camino.