Don't Say a Word (4 page)

Antwaun gritted his teeth. “The
jolie fille
was a
reporter?
”

“Yes, the pretty lady was a reporter.” The lieutenant leaned forward, accusations brimming in his condemning eyes. “And guess what her story was about?”

Antwaun shrugged, but his mind was spinning. Now he understood why the press had pounced so quickly. “Swafford's casinos, I suppose. It was common knowledge that he donated millions of dollars to rebuild them. She probably figured the same as we did, that he was crooked.” He moved to the edge of his seat. “Don't you see? He probably found out who she was and killed her.”

Lieutenant Phelps grunted. “What do you know about Swafford's operations?”

That he was linked to illegal activities. “I hadn't found anything definitive yet. The man is a master at hiding his actions and his money.” He cleared his throat. “Then he disappeared. I figured it was to cover his ass, that he'd eventually resurface again.”

“You didn't think that he might be dead?”

“Sure, the thought occurred to me. In fact, I was looking into the angle that one of his minions might have gotten selfish, wanted a bigger piece of the Swafford pie and offed him.”

Another possibility needled him. The fact that Swafford and Kendra might have run off together. That still could have happened, then the man discovered who she was and killed her. Swafford could have also faked his death and disappeared so he wouldn't get caught. “Did Kendra have proof of his corruption?”

The lieutenant watched him with hooded eyes. “Not that we know of. But she had a theory.”

Antwaun ground his teeth, tiring of the game. “Which was?”

One black eyebrow rose a fraction. “You don't know?”

Antwaun rolled his fingers into fists to rein in the anger churning in his gut. He'd been interrogated in the military behind enemy lines before and had handled it with aplomb. He had to get through this the same way. “No.”

The lieutenant's eyes stabbed through him like lasers trying to cut out the truth he thought hidden behind Antwaun's steel mask. “Kendra Yates was not only investigating Swafford, but also dirty cops.”

In spite of his control, the air whooshed from his chest in a painful rush. Fuck.

Their rendezvous took on an entirely new light. The seduction. The mind-blowing sex. The pillow talk.

Hell, he had thought he was in control, but he was a fool. She'd been using him all along, hadn't fallen for him at all. Had she believed that he was on Swafford's payroll? That he worked for the mob? That he might have killed Swafford? That he was dirty?

His gaze swung back to his superior as he mentally replayed their conversations. Kendra must have had notes on him. Notes that pertained to her story. Notes on things he'd said that might have been misinterpreted.

Holy hell.

They obviously thought he'd killed her because of something in her notes. Something that made it look as if he were on the take.

* * *

E
SMERALDA
P
ORTER
, aka the Cat Lady, felt the tremble of the earth and the stench of death in the air. The whisper of danger rustled in the air as the winds rattled dry leaves from the weeping willow trees and sent them raining down onto the parched earth. In another place, it would have been a musical sound, but here the eerie, grating threads sounded like the devil's voice, announcing his presence.

She searched the backwoods from her porch. The rumors of the devil in the bayou taunted her—legends of faceless monsters that roamed the land. Some wore smiles to masquerade their evil souls. Damned into the darkness, kissed by the devil's breath, they licked quietly at the blood on their fingertips as they ate away at the vestiges of man's humanity. Those had clawed their way through the dirt and debris of their own graves to rise again as if the devil had pushed them upward through the ground with spiny fingers. They preyed on the weak, leaving tattered bodies and hearts in their vicious wake like the swamp gators after a nightly feeding, jagged teeth crunching on bone.

Evil cannot be destroyed. Its black unbending heart beats on, old with rage, its tendrils of anger as choking as the twisted hands of lust that consumes man's soul.

But the battle wasn't over. She summoned the magic to help fight off the evil. After all, she was a
traiteur
, a healer, a soldier for good, though not a warrior herself.

Satan must have found a victim. A new soul to possess and carry out his vile will. Another source to spread pain and anger. She smelled his victory, a coppery scent like blood.

Her black cat, Midnight, slithered onto the stone hearth and yowled to the heavens, and her tabby, Persimmon, bellowed in a long-winded refrain of terror.

“Come here,
'tite chatte
,” she murmured, scooping up the little cat in her lap. The wind chimes hanging from the porch of her wood-frame house trembled, though, tinkling and clattering so hard one of the glass angels shattered.

She pulled her black shawl around her shoulders, urging her arthritic body and mental will not to fail her. Though she'd been blind for years now, she saw things through the darkness. Living in a world without sight had honed her other senses, especially her sense of smell.

She knew each feline by its odor, as well as the unique tone of its meow, the texture as she ran a fingertip across its nose. Gorgon, an orange-striped male, climbed on top of the organ and peered out the window as if planting himself as guard against the danger waiting in the bayou.

A danger that marched closer with every passing minute.

She mentally flipped through the recipes from her book of spells, searching for one to fend off the bad coming. Not that she had power, for the magic lay in the cats.

Once upon a time, she had been a nonbeliever. But her life had taken a drastic turn into misery, and she had learned to listen to the spirits.

Her dead husband spoke to her sometimes, crying out his rage at being taken so early. Yet his demise had come from his own wrongdoings. And he had taken more secrets to his grave. Secrets that might have offered comfort and closure to some while tormenting others with the twisted viciousness of his crimes.

His transgressions were plenty. Not only to her but to humanity. And he was burning in eternity for them now.

She'd feared her grandson had fallen to the same demon. And now in death, he lingered, caught between realms. Begging for a chance to redeem his soul and go to heaven.

Titan, a fat gray cat who'd come to her during the latest storm of violence in the bayou, pawed the floor and snarled. Suddenly the earth trembled again, more violently this time, and the scent of graveyard dust filled her nostrils.

The cats slithered from their posts, tails swishing, ears perked, listening as they formed a circle. In unison, they began to scratch at the wooden floor, hissing to the heavens as they united to protect her.

But another woman needed protecting. Lex had told her so. The image of a mangled face and body materialized in her blind mind. The woman was nearby. In danger.

Someone had tried to kill her before. They'd stolen her life already. Her memory. Her face.

And they would try to finish her off if someone didn't save her….

C
RYSTAL HAD CONTEMPLATED
her loss of memory and her past so many times that she thought she was going crazy. Dr. Pace had informed her that since she had suffered a head trauma, the past might be erased permanently. The emotional trauma compounded the problem.

But after sitting with the child tonight, Crystal felt amazingly calmer. A sense of accomplishment washed over her, offering hope that she might return to a normal life someday, a welcome reprieve from the endless hours of dwelling on her own misfortune and the mystery of her missing life. Another memory had also begun to surface—one of her surrounded by small children. Feeding them. Singing to them. Helping them.

Back in her room, she flipped on the television set. It was time she connected with the real world again. And maybe she'd find a posting from someone in search of her…

She listened to the news coverage about the war in Iraq and the upcoming local Memorial Day celebrations. Then a special report flashed on the screen and caused her to sit upright.

“Earlier today, police discovered the partial body of a local reporter named Kendra Yates. Her severed hand was found in the bayou but so far, the remainder of the woman's body has not been uncovered.”

Crystal's heart raced. Kendra Yates…Why did that name seem familiar?

The reporter continued, “Sources tell us that Miss Yates was investigating the New Orleans Police Department on charges of corruption, and that tonight Officer Antwaun Dubois was brought in for questioning. An arrest is imminent in the alleged homicide.”

Crystal frowned as the camera panned a dark wooded area where they had obviously found the woman's severed hand, then moved back to the steps of the precinct where a mob had gathered and the police were escorting a man inside. For a second, her heart sputtered as if she recognized him. Several reporters yelled questions and accusations at Antwaun Dubois, then a reporter pushed a mike toward another tall, dark-haired man who resembled him. “Detective Dubois, can you tell us more about the investigation?”

Detective Dubois glared at the reporter. “Antwaun Dubois is innocent. The NOPD is doing everything in their power to expedite this investigation and will bring Miss Yates's killer to justice.”

Another reporter cornered a third man, this one even taller and more intimidating. Crystal's pulse jumped in her throat. He seemed familiar as well….

“Special Agent Dubois, were your brother and Miss Yates personally involved?”

“Was he on the take?” another reporter shouted.

“As Detective Dubois said, my brother is innocent,” Special Agent Dubois stated. “Now, please move out of the way so we can do our jobs and find the real killer.”

Crystal stared at the men as they rushed into the precinct. Something about Antwaun Dubois and the last man, Special Agent Dubois, triggered a memory. And the agent—his voice, she'd heard it before, she knew it, but she couldn't place it….

In fact, she was almost certain that she'd met both Antwaun and the agent.

But how would she know a cop or a federal agent?

* * *

D
R
. R
EGINALD
P
ACE COULD HARDLY
stand the anticipation of knowing that he would unveil Crystal's new face in the morning. He had sketched versions of each step in the rebuilding process on a specially designed medical computer program to craft her transition. She was going to be beautiful.

He wanted to show her off to the world. Let them know that he was the first in his state to perform such an intricate surgery and that he was a genius in his field.

The only problem was that he couldn't reveal his work yet.

Because he hadn't exactly followed the book on this one.

He wiped at a drop of perspiration trickling from his scalp into his hair. Didn't matter. Crystal was his now. He had made her.

He had stood by her side when others had been repulsed. He'd soothed her in the darkest of hours and held her hand to his chest just to let her know that a breathing, living man cared for her.

Soon he would tell her that he loved her as well.

Then she would return the sentiment, and they would make love and all would be right with the world. When he'd won her completely over as his wife, then she'd sign the papers stating that she'd agreed to the face transplant, and that he was the man who had given her back her life.

Then he would be famous.

He tapped a series of keys that brought up the image of what his Crystal would look like when he finally unveiled her face, and blood surged through his cock. Exhilarated, he unzipped his pants, freed himself and slid his hand around his length. Soon he would give her the present of his seed. Then they could breed more Paces who would lend their genius to the world.

For now, he'd content himself with the image of her face as he gave himself release. But even as he did, he closed his eyes and envisioned himself pouring his come into her mouth.

In the images, he reveled in the blissful smile on her exquisite new face. And he silently thanked the dead woman for her part in it all.

* * *

D
AMON CURSED
. They were officially arresting Antwaun. Arguing that they had no body didn't help. The lieutenant must have evidence he wasn't sharing.

Even with Damon being a federal agent and Jean-Paul a detective with the NOPD, they had to push to see their brother.

Lieutenant Phelps was worried about how a private meeting would look to Internal Affairs. The mayor had called, the chief of police, even the governor of the state, ordering that justice be served for the vicious way in which the young woman had died. A screwup with the brothers, and the Dubois men would be pulled off the case.

And neither Damon nor Jean-Paul trusted their brother's destiny to the fates.

Or the local police, who might have a crooked cop in their midst.

Had Kendra Yates discovered a cop on the take? Was her work related to her death, or had she been murdered by some kind of deranged sicko like the Swamp Devil?

Who had Antwaun pissed off so badly they'd frame him for murder?

Jean-Paul had phoned Jason Dryer, an attorney, who joined him and Damon in the small room. Dryer grilled Antwaun for the truth, while Damon and Jean-Paul watched silently.

“All right, Antwaun.” Damon braced his legs apart, then leaned over with his elbows on them, hands clasped. “Come on, tell us what you've been leaving out.”

Antwaun's cobalt eyes turned a smoky-gray as he ran a hand through his overly long hair. Damon zeroed in on the scars on his hand. He tried to remember where his brother had gotten the jagged marks but couldn't place the cause. Not that he knew each incident in his brother's life. Both of them had been in the military, had been to hell and back.

“I've told you everything. If I'd known Kendra was a fucking reporter, I sure as hell wouldn't have gotten involved with her.”

Damon hissed. The lieutenant didn't want the FBI involved, but with Swafford's connection to Kendra, they already were. “I'll talk to her boss tomorrow and get a warrant for her files.”

“Someone I know is setting me up,” Antwaun growled. “You have to get me released so I can track them down.”

The last thing they needed was to have Antwaun on the streets, out of control, exacting his own brand of justice—revenge.

“I'll see what I can do,” Dryer said. “But you know it will be morning before I can get a judge and bail hearing set.”

Antwaun nodded.

“Do you have any idea who would frame you?” Damon asked.

Antwaun frowned. “I can think of a few names.”

“Make a list,” Jean-Paul said. “We'll check out the names for you.”

“What was your cover with Swafford?” Damon asked.

Antwaun spoke in a low, gravelly tone. “I played the drug trafficking angle to get in with his organization.”

“Do you think Swafford discovered her identity and killed her?” Damon asked.

Antwaun shrugged. “It's possible. When they both disappeared last year, I thought she might have run off with him. I went to her apartment and searched for clues as to where she might have gone but came up empty.”

“What about her computer?”

“It wasn't there. But hell, I didn't think she had one. I thought she was a dancer.”

“She might have left willingly with him at first,”

Damon said. “He could have found out her identity afterwards and killed her.”

Antwaun scrubbed his hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “Swafford wouldn't have done the deed himself. He has hired minions.”

Another reason for the feds to be on the case. “We'll check into Swafford's organization. I'll need everything you have on him.”

Antwaun nodded. “And don't forget my buddies on the force.”

Damon grimaced. Antwaun didn't make buddies.

If there was corruption in the department, who knew how deep it went, or how far it reached. And Swafford was a slick businessman who said all the right things in public, a smarmy bastard the locals and feds had both been watching for months. A man some citizens protected because he'd helped the economy.

A man who'd disappeared without a trace.

But his money might be dirty, might be part of a money-laundering scheme. Men like Swafford thrived on power and would go to any lengths to protect themselves and their investments.

But if he and his men had killed Kendra Yates, why feed her to the gators?

To destroy evidence?

Another possibility reared its head. What if she was still alive?

They could have cut off her hand just to frame Antwaun.

“You know Swafford's body hasn't been discovered,” Antwaun said.

“You're thinking that he isn't dead?”

“Maybe. What if he disappeared or faked his death, either because of Kendra's murder, or because he thought she planned to expose him? He could have cut off her hand to make it look like she was murdered, and to set me up and get me out of the way.”

“We'll look into that angle,” Damon agreed. “He has accounts set up all over the world. Hidden money, of course.”

Antwaun looked grim. “With finances like that, he can disappear and never be found.”

And a dirty cop could help him obtain a new identity and cement Antwaun's conviction.

The realization triggered memories of Damon's own past. The depths of deception by the government. The resources available to people to help them disappear and create new lives.

The same resources criminals utilized as well.

Damon's blood pounded in his ears as his adrenaline kicked in. He'd used those resources before himself….

Dammit, he couldn't let his little brother go to jail for a crime he hadn't committed.

No, if anyone deserved to be in prison for murder, it was
him
.

* * *

T
HERE WERE SOME PEOPLE
so cold, so ruthless, so calculating that they craved the kill. Savored the pain they inflicted. Tasted the blood of their victims and drank it down like fine wine.

They were born to kill.

He knew their kind. He was one of them.

As he had thought Damon Dubois had been at one time. But Damon had betrayed him.

Just like the others.

The Dubois family—they had to pay.

He had found the perfect way.

The woman, Kendra Yates, had served his purpose well. He studied the dark lock of hair he had kept from her. His trophy, the police would call it.

He rubbed its fine silky texture between his fingers and recalled the way he'd wrapped it around his hands just before he'd pressed the blade of the knife to her pale throat. She hadn't understood that she was a sacrificial lamb for his cause.

A chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest. The file she had on Antwaun would be like a torpedo rocking the bastard's world. He would choose the exact moment that information would be revealed.

Making Antwaun suffer by being arrested for Kendra's murder was the perfect way to torture the man before he exposed him for what he really was.

The son of a murderer.

The brother of one as well.

Yes, he held the knowledge to tear the Dubois family apart once and for all. And he would enjoy every moment of their suffering until they begged for his forgiveness.

Just as Kendra had begged for her life.

The shock on her face when he'd made the first slice had been sweet. She had known her time was up. That she wouldn't die quickly or easily.

That he intended to carve her up in little pieces for his own pleasure.

He slid into the dark haunting shadows of the bayou, inhaling the musky scent of the swamp, the coppery scent of fresh blood from a dead animal, the pungent odor of the devil's breath heating the mossy banks and whispering through the tupelo trees.