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After the shrimp boats had tied up their trawlers for the day, she purchased a generous amount of fresh seafood for both The Boot Top Bistro and The Bayside Crab House and then made subtle inquiries on how to reach a recluse named Munin.
    The shrimpers knew Munin only as “the witch” and none were interested in taking Olivia within a mile of her swamp, but one of the captains knew someone who would.
    “Fellow by the name Harlan Scott knows how to find her,” the grizzled seaman said. “But look out, girlie. There are wild things in that swamp. Things you won’t see comin’, things that’ll creep out of the shadows like a shark risin’ from the deep water. Bring a big stick. Maybe even the kind that fires bullets.”
    Olivia had disregarded the fisherman’s advice and left her Browning BPR rifle in the coat closet. Instead, she’d packed insect repellant, a canteen of water, Haviland’s travel bowl, a granola bar, a bag of dried beef strips, and something that was precious to her into a sturdy knapsack.
    Yesterday, she’d felt prepared to face the witch, but now, as the sun-bleached shore of the parkland grew closer and Harlan eased off the throttle, dulling the motorboat’s roar to a low rumble, she wasn’t so sure.
    She and Harlan hadn’t exchanged a single word during the crossing, but Olivia suddenly wanted to speak with her guide. She stood and moved next to him, her body close to the steering wheel. “How did you come to know Munin?” she called over the sound of the engine and the wind.
    Harlan kept his eyes fixed on the water. “I used to be a park ranger. Knew every inch of this place.” He encompassed the land before them with a sweep of his arm. “I was clearing one of the trails when I lost my footing and stepped on a fallen log. The eastern diamondback rattlesnake hiding underneath didn’t appreciate the intrusion. He bit me twice before he ever made a noise. Couldn’t radio for help because I hadn’t bothered to check my battery before heading out that morning. I hollered as loud as I could, hoping against hope that someone would hear me.”
    “And Munin did?”
    He nodded. “She saved my life.”
    Olivia hadn’t expected this. “How? I thought the venom from an eastern diamondback was lethal.”
    “She had antivenom. She’s got vials of the stuff from a bunch of different snakes. We’ve got copperheads, cottonmouths, and rattlers in the forest. Munin milked all of the poisonous ones and injected a bit of venom into her goat. Don’t know how that works, but without that goat I’d be six feet under.”
    “Antibodies,” Olivia murmured, impressed by Munin’s ingenuity. “The goat produced antibodies as a response to the venom.”
    Harlan shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Anyhow, I make deliveries for her now and then and I’ll run folks out to see her if they want to go. It’s the least I can do.”
    “How often do people seek her out?”
    The shore was closer now and Harlan slowed the boat until it was barely coasting forward. Olivia could see the mouth of the creek opening up before them. It resembled a wide river now, but she knew enough about the waterways of the North Carolina coast to predict that the shallow banks would draw close together without warning and then continue to narrow until even the diminutive Whaler would be unable to progress any farther.
    Once Harlan had set his craft on a course favoring the right side of the creek, he pushed his faded baseball cap back on his head and scratched his brow. “Less and less,” he said, answering Olivia’s question. “And they all look the same. Full of fear and hope and a little desperation. Sometimes she has answers. Sometimes not.”
    “Do I seem desperate?” She kept her tone light, but there was a hint of hesitation in her voice.
    Harlan’s gaze took in the thick underbrush of the salt marsh and the cypress trees rising in the distance. “Everybody is at one point or another. That’s when folks seem to need Munin