Don't Say a Word (16 page)

He frowned. “Blood.”

Fear crawled into her. She glanced at the hallway, then around the corner and saw a foot twisted in the doorway, a body sprawled on the floor in the kitchen. Damon unholstered his gun and shoved her behind him. Blood streaked the floor, the walls, the carpet. So much blood.

She covered her mouth to stifle a scream, her stomach clenching. They were too late. Kendra's mother wouldn't be able to tell them anything.

* * *

D
AMON'S INSTINCTS ROARED
, the scent of death so strong that he had to swallow back the bile. He scanned the hall, then spotted a mangled body lying in a pool of blood on the floor and whipped around to Crystal, all the time his senses tuned to high alert in case the killer remained hidden inside.

“Listen to me,” he said in a low whisper as he handed Crystal the new cell phone Jean-Paul had given him. “Go to the car, lock the doors and call Jean-Paul. His number is programmed in.”

Her glazed eyes told him she'd seen the body. Jesus. He shook her by the shoulders. “
Go
, Crystal. The killer may still be here.”

His words registered, and she nodded numbly, clutched the phone and ran outside. He inched to the door to make sure she made it safely to the car, scanned the property in front and breathed a sigh of relief when she slammed the car door shut.

Inside, a noise jerked his head back to the staircase, and he wielded his gun, ready to fire. His lungs squeezed air from his chest as he slowly climbed the stairs, each creak of the step making him pause to listen for an intruder. Upstairs, the windowpane rattled, and he clenched his Glock as he climbed the last step and twisted around the corner.

Nothing.

He slowly crept forward, searched the two bedrooms to the right, then the third one, which must have been Kendra's, as photos of her lined a white bookshelf. The windowpane rattled again, and he finally realized that it was only a bird perched on the ledge pecking at the glass.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he finished checking the upstairs, then inched his way back down and checked out the master suite to the left of the foyer, then the den, and finally he found his way back to the kitchen where Mrs. Yates's mutilated body lay.

Fury raced through his veins as he studied the crime scene. She had been sliced and diced as if she weren't human. Not exactly a copycat of the first Mutilator, but similar to his last crimes.

Still, it was overkill. The sadistic maniac took pleasure in the act.

To hell with the law. This guy deserved to suffer the way he'd caused these women to suffer.

Fury ripped through Damon's gut as he remembered the handwritten number one on the photo the copycat had sent them. Kendra had been his victim.

And now victim two—Kendra's mother.

Would there be another? The Mutilator had killed twelve before being caught. He was joy-killing—harder to create a logic for and trace.

Unlike the first killer though, these victims were related. Mother and daughter, not random victims.

Suspicions mounted. Like Damon, this copycat killer must have thought Kendra might have told her mother something important about her research. Maybe the name of the dirty cop. Or Swafford's location.

But there was no way they could pin this crime on Antwaun because he was in jail during this second killing.

He contemplated the killer's pattern—if their UNSUB intended to murder everyone who knew Kendra or was related to the case, he might come after Crystal. And if he planned to mutilate her this way…

God, no.

He couldn't let that happen. He'd go back into the dark world of his ops training and kill the sicko first.

* * *

A
SIREN WAILED
in the distance. The dead woman's face was etched in Crystal's mind. As was the photo of Kendra on the wall. And the family picture at Christmas when they were children…

Images bombarded her like small snippets out of a foreign film, a documentary of someone else's life. Only there were mere bits and pieces—the whole story wasn't appearing on-screen…as if clips had been cut from the show.

She buried her face in her hands, trying to put the world back together. She
had
seen Kendra recently. She had known her because…they were related?

She'd joined her at another relative's funeral.
Her
father's…

Grief consumed her, took the air from her lungs. Her father…the car explosion. The man with the wide accusing eyes. The fire eating at his face and body…

My fault…my fault…my fault…
she'd cried over his casket.

Her mother's scream echoed in her ears. “Jacqueline!”

Sobs racked Crystal's body, and she rocked herself back and forth in the car. Jacqueline—was that her name?

Yes, it sounded right. And Kendra was her cousin, although they'd lost touch.

Until the day of her father's funeral. Then she'd appeared out of nowhere. Pulled Jacqueline aside, warned her that her father had been murdered. That she knew the killer.

And that she might be next on his list.

T
HOUGH HE WANTED DESPERATELY
to go to Crystal, Damon first spoke with Jean-Paul, his partner, Detective Carson Graves, and the crime-scene unit outside the house to explain what he had found.

Jean-Paul wiped sweat from his brow. “At least they can't hang this on Antwaun.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Damon said. “But we need to search the house. My guess is that the killer thought Kendra might have told her mother something important about her investigation. Maybe she even sent her some kind of evidence.”

Jean-Paul looked grim as he climbed the porch. “Let's just hope the killer didn't find it first.”

Damon nodded. “I need to check on Crystal.”

“Go ahead,” Jean-Paul said. “I'll oversee the crime scene.”

Blue lights swirled against the gray sky, and the heat bore down on him as Damon made his way to his car. His heart pounded with fear. Dammit, he couldn't let another woman down.

Crystal had turned on the air conditioner and sat in the passenger seat, her hands clenched, her eyes staring at the house, a haunted expression on her face.

He opened the driver's door and climbed in, then took her hands in his. “Crystal, I'm sorry you had to see that. Are you okay?”

She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “I…had a memory. Just a flash but…I did know Kendra, and her mother. Kendra was my cousin…We hadn't seen each other in a long time, but recently we reconnected.”

Damon's interest perked up. Maybe Kendra had confided something about what she'd been working on. The name of the dirty cop. Swafford's location. Another enemy she might have made. Maybe she'd been researching the original Mutilator case. Crystal looked so fragile, he hated to push her; unlocking the truth might be the only way to keep her safe. “What else did you remember?”

“She came to the funeral.” Her chin quivered as she grappled for control over her emotions.

“What funeral, Crystal? I don't understand.”

“The car explosion I saw in my nightmares. It wasn't me inside the car, it was my father. His wide eyes, accusing me. The fire, the flames. And then he…died.”

He squeezed her hands tighter, wanted her to know he was there. “He had an accident and you witnessed it?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don't think it was an accident. I think he was murdered. That it was my fault. I heard my mother scream…my name. I think it's Jacqueline.” A strangled cry erupted from deep inside her. “Oh, God, Damon, Kendra said she knew the killer—that I was next!”

Damon froze, his adrenaline pumping blood through his veins at an accelerated speed. Crystal knew her first name.

And if Kendra had warned Crystal she was in danger, likely the accident that had stolen her face and memory wasn't an accident at all.

So who had killed her father and why was he after her now?

* * *

G
UILT CLAWED AT
J
ACQUELINE'S
chest. Her father was dead; she knew it in her heart. Worse, she felt she was to blame. But how?

“Were you driving the car that caused your father's death?” Damon asked in a low voice.

“No.” She struggled to recall more details but they eluded her. Though she felt they teased at the edge of her mind, within reach.

“What else do you remember?” He smoothed her tear-dampened hair from her cheek.

“I remember seeing Kendra, she was standing beside me at the graveyard. She insisted we had to talk.”

“And Kendra knew who killed your father?”

She nodded, though she was still confused. “She said that I knew him, but I don't remember his name. And I still feel like it's my fault he died, then maybe I deserve to have died, too.”

He lifted her chin with his thumb, gazed at her intently. She expected to see disgust, condemnation, but understanding glinted in his hard eyes. “Crystal, Jacqueline…There are all kinds of reasons we feel guilty when a loved one dies. Maybe you and your father had had a disagreement of some kind, a falling out and you hadn't had time to reconcile.”

She wanted to believe that was true, but she sensed whatever had happened was much more serious.

“Now, think,
chère
. You see his face. What is your father's name?
Your
last name?”

She closed her eyes, pictured him again. Tried desperately to see the name on the tombstone…But the shadow of darkness that shrouded the lettering felt like death all over again. Only a black wall of pain and grief remained.

Damon's quiet breathing filled the car. She wanted to lean into him, let him help her forget the horror inside her aunt's house. The realization that she might have in some way brought about her father's death. Maybe even her cousin's.

“I need to go back inside, help Jean-Paul,” Damon said, cutting into her thoughts. “When we're finished, I'll let you look around. Maybe seeing some of Kendra's things, her room, photos, might help.”

She nodded, desperate now for more answers, wanting to fill in that black screen with the story of her life.

“Will you be okay out here alone?” he asked.

She nodded, then squeezed his hand in return. “Yes, go. I want you to find the man who did this to my cousin and her mother. And maybe you're right. Maybe seeing Kendra's things will trigger my memory of our conversation that day.”

But a sliver of fear caught in her throat. If Kendra had shared her suspicions or something about the other stories she'd been working on, maybe Jacqueline's own accident hadn't been an accident at all.

Maybe her earlier sense that someone had tried to kill her was reality, and that the shooter who'd run Damon off the road had been gunning for her. Maybe it had been her father's killer, and he wanted to silence her, to keep her from remembering who he was—because maybe she could identify him.

* * *

M
RS
. Y
ATES'S BODY
had sustained countless stab wounds. Every inch of her that could be sliced had been. The number of wounds, the depth, and the blood splatters on the wall indicated a highly vicious attack. It was so unnecessary that it sickened him.

Blood pooled beneath her head and torso but also dotted the floor and formed a stream where she'd tried to crawl away from her attacker. Clumps of her hair had been pulled out and lay in the dried blood.

“Poor woman never had a chance,” Jean-Paul mumbled.

“No. And this level of overkill has to be a message. We just have to figure out what the hell the killer is trying to tell us.” Damon knelt and studied the floor, searching for signs of mud, dirt, a shoe print, anything that might help them pinpoint the perp's identity. Meanwhile, the CSI team was photographing the scene, beginning to dust for prints and searching for trace evidence.

Damon stood and surveyed the room. Drawers had been pulled open and rifled through by the killer, the desk in the corner disturbed, the remainder of the first floor and the den adjoining it obviously searched. He was sure the rest of the house had been as well.

He conducted a preliminary search himself but found nothing, then pulled aside one of the crime techs. “Be sure to bag any notes, messages, computer disks, anything that might have information on it, even if it's a goddamn grocery list.”

The tech nodded, and Damon headed upstairs. Jean-Paul followed him, and although it was obvious the killer had already combed the place, they spent the next hour searching the bedrooms, closets and Kendra's room. Judging from the frilly comforter, rose-print wallpaper and collection of photos on the desk, Kendra's mother had preserved her childhood room. Her high-school and college yearbooks filled a shelf along with several copies of the
New Yorker
and books on writing. A photo album of her with friends and family was jammed in the corner, so Damon took it down, deciding to show it to Crystal/Jacqueline and see if it jogged her memory.

Finally, in the lower desk drawer, he found a pink diary that looked like something a teenage girl might have. When he opened it, he discovered it was from when Kendra was only thirteen. Interestingly enough, the entries were written as if she were a reporter, indicating she'd had career aspirations to be a journalist early on.

She couldn't have dreamed back then that her job would get her killed.

He was just about to put the diary in the drawer when a key fell from the inside. He first thought it belonged with the diary. But when he examined it, it didn't fit. It was slightly larger, more like a lockbox or safety-deposit key.

* * *

J
ACQUELINE'S NERVES WERE
strung tight as she sat in the outer waiting room of the state prison in Angola. Damon and Jean-Paul had gone in to question Frederick Fenton, a serial killer who had murdered twelve women in the same cruel manner Kendra and her mother had died.

Had Kendra talked to the man herself? Could she have been working on a story about Fenton's past crimes?

And what did all this have to do with Jacqueline and her father's death?

Was her mother still alive? Had she looked for her missing daughter? Did she have any other family she'd forgotten about?

If only she could remember everything she and Kendra had talked about…

Her palms felt clammy as she ran her fingers over the photo album Damon had confiscated from Kendra's house. He'd gotten special permission to remove it from the crime scene.

She thumbed open the book and glanced at the first picture—a shot of Kendra when she was a child sitting in her mother's lap. She skimmed the first section, which held mostly photos of Kendra between infancy and high school. Some of the older shots seemed familiar.

The next section showcased high-school prom, graduation, sorority functions and a wedding that must have been a friend's. Then came photos of Kendra's graduation from college, her journalism awards, a photo of her and the governor of the state after her feature stories on Hurricane Katrina, the aftermath, and heroes she'd discovered during the revival of the city.

Jacqueline scoured the pages searching for other family photos, anything to connect her to Kendra or jog her memory. Stuffed in the lining of the album, she discovered a photograph of a closed casket and a woman bent over it in tears. Roses covered the slick gray coffin in a bed of crimson while the woman seemed stark-faced white in contrast, a picture of grief and remorse.

Her heart clenched. She squinted at the woman's face and realized she resembled Kendra…The woman must be
her
.

This was her father's casket, his funeral, just before Kendra had approached her.

A memory flashed in the darkness that had become her mind, and she closed her eyes, struggling to recall every detail. She'd been sobbing, heart-wrenching cries torn from her gut. Her father was gone. Her hero. Mentor. The man she had adored. The man she'd followed around the world.

She'd been standing by his car, waving goodbye when it had gone up in flames. The explosion had rocked the café beside them, and sent her falling to her knees to dodge the flames and debris. She'd seen his anguished, shocked face as he'd tried to claw the door open, but it had been too late. A second later, flames had consumed the vehicle, the sharp blast of gas and metal exploding into the air, mingling with her screams.

Shell-shocked, she had mourned his senseless loss. Then Kendra had appeared at his graveside to add to Jacqueline's guilt, suggesting it was her fault. The man she'd been dating, the one she'd met at a fund-raiser in Copenhagen with her father, the man whose charming smile and flamboyant attention had seduced her into his bed—he was not the man she'd thought him to be. Kendra said he had used Jacque line to get to her father.

She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out the accusations screaming through her head that Kendra was right. And trying to force the man's name and face in her mind. But it eluded her.

The sounds of male voices in the prison resounded through the tumult. The clinking of hand cuffs. The prison guards, the police officers, the memory of the fence she'd seen when she'd arrived.

Something about prison…Kendra had said that Jacqueline's lover deserved to go to jail for all the men he had killed.

What kind of monster had been her lover?

* * *

B
EFORE
D
AMON AND
J
EAN
-P
AUL
met with Frederick Fenton, they had a chat with the warden. Rodney Rivera insisted Fenton's mail had been routinely scanned. In fact, he checked the mail and discovered a photo of Kendra's death that the killer had sent Fenton. Thankfully, Fenton hadn't seen it yet.

The hulking, forty-something warden scratched his balding head. “I'll tell my guys to be on the lookout in case he receives anything else suspicious.”

“Tell them to ask around inside, see if Fenton's talked to anyone about the Yateses' murders, too,” Damon added.

Jean-Paul reviewed the visitor's log for the last six months, but the warden said the only visitor he'd had was some prison groupie who'd become his pen pal through a magazine ad. Fairly common, but they would check her out anyway.