Say You Love Me (26 page)

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.

She fought with the oxygen mask and nodded. “I heard the window crash. Then saw the fire.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Someone started it?”

She nodded. “I think so. There was a noise outside. A fight. Protesters. Then a crash. And flames…” Her words faded into a cough, so Jean-Paul shoved the mask back over her mouth. She inhaled, felt the air soothing her throat, then lifted it again. “Jean-Paul, I tried to get down the steps. But someone attacked me.”

“Did you see his face? Did he say anything?”

She shook her head; the world was spinning again. She felt light-headed, dizzy, as if she couldn't keep her eyes open. “No, it was too dark. And he came at me from behind.”

She struggled to remain conscious. She owed Jean-Paul the truth about everything. But did she have the courage to tell him?

* * *

F
OUR HOURS LATER
. Midnight.

Jean-Paul had been called away from the hospital and had left Britta resting. Then he'd driven like demons were on his tail until he'd gotten here. The ME, Damon, locals and crime-scene techs swarmed the place. The location—only five miles from where they'd found the last victim.

He stared at the young girl's body, seething. Debra Schmale. A local hermit had found her and called it in when he'd happened onto the shanty after getting lost in the bayou. The poor guy had thrown up all over the rotting porch.

Jean-Paul sympathized. He'd seen the first three victims and it had looked ugly. But this time seemed more vile. More violent. Her eyes were painted grotesquely with black lines feathering all around her lids.

And blood was everywhere. It was almost as if this crime was more personal. Either that or the killer's bloodlust had grown stronger. He was more emotional. More enraged with hatred and anger. Not as methodical.

Which made him wonder if they were dealing with the same killer. Or if something had set the guy off.

Maybe he'd made a mistake, gotten sloppy, left some evidence.

The wind whistled through the dilapidated eaves of the shanty. Gators hissed in the background while the Mississippi churned through the labyrinth of waterways in the swamp.

Damon muttered a curse, and conferred with the ME.

In her desperation to escape, the poor girl had twisted her arms and wrists, causing layers of raw skin to peel away, exposing bone. Blood soaked her chest and had splattered the white sheets and walls. The mask of Sobek hung above her head by a rope attached to the ceiling.

Frustrated mumbles rumbled around him, everyone asking the same thing. Why hadn't they found this killer? Would they ever?

Damon's eyes shot to Jean-Paul and a moment of silent horror passed between them. Thankfully the parents weren't here to see their daughter in this condition.

“You have Justice in custody?” Damon asked.

Jean-Paul nodded. “What's the estimated time of death?”

“She's been dead a couple of hours.”

“Then Justice couldn't have done it.” Jean-Paul clenched his jaw.

“How about your other suspects?”

“Let's pick them up for questioning.” Jean-Paul explained about the fire.

“Is the Berger woman going to make it?”

Jean-Paul nodded. “A few minutes later and she wouldn't have.”

“Fire…” Damon arched a brow. “That doesn't fit our killer's MO.”

“Neither does the level of violence here.” Jean-Paul's phone jangled and he answered it. Antwaun. “Yeah?”

“Listen, Jean-Paul, the fire was definitely not accidental. Someone threw a torch inside. And trace discovered a female's acrylic nail on the landing where you found Britta.”

“It's not Britta's,” Jean-Paul said.

“I didn't think so.”

“I'm with the fourth victim now.” Jean-Paul scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Our killer is male, he couldn't have been inside Britta's apartment attacking her.”

So what the hell was going on? Were they dealing with two different killers? Or maybe two perps working together?

* * *

R
EVEREND
C
ORTAIN WATCHED
the frenzy on the streets, his blood sizzling. Firemen and rescue workers were still trying to save the building. Why in the world didn't they just let the place burn down to the ground?

Mazie Burgess, one of the popular local reporters, continued to talk into her microphone. The camera focused on her, but occasionally panned the crowd.

“Sources tell us that R.J. Justice, owner and publisher of
Naked Desires,
the building that caught fire tonight, is being held by the NOPD for questioning in the swamp-devil murders. No formal charges have been filed, but we'll keep you posted. “Apparently, the editor of the popular Secret Confessions column, Britta Berger, who lives in an apartment above the magazine's office, was trapped in the fire. She has been hospitalized for smoke inhalation and has a slight concussion. No more details have been released at this time.”

A man in a dark coat rushed over to speak to her, then she turned back to the crowd. “It appears that Britta Berger, the woman hurt in the fire earlier, has been receiving photos of the swamp devil's victims. Police have not divulged her part in the crimes, but an inside source claims that Miss Berger may be connected to the murders. We'll bring you more on this turn of events as it becomes available.”

Cortain removed a cigar from his pocket, rolled the slender length between his fingers then removed the wrapper and sniffed the rich aroma. His gaze shot around the crowd and he noticed several followers at the scene. His sermon painting Britta as a guilty accessory to the debauchery on the streets had obviously fired up the mothers of the victims.

His plan was working perfectly.

The cold air chilled him and he hunched his shoulders, then slipped into the bar across the street. Decadent partiers were in full swing. But his gaze was riveted to the TV on the wall. Several patrons had gathered to watch the news coverage. He stepped into the thick group, wanting to remain anonymous.

Mazie cleared her throat. “More news, ladies and gentlemen. We've just received word that another woman has been found dead tonight at the hands of the swamp devil.”

The cameras panned to Black Bayou, then zoomed in on a shanty in the midst of the bayou. Cops milled around the outside searching for clues. Anticipation boiled in Cortain's veins. He wished they'd show the inside of the shanty, let the world see the vile place where the woman had been left, how ugly she looked in death. How her flesh had already begun to rot. Her bones would soon be turning to dust. To know that the evil had been flushed from her body, her spirit now freed to return to good.

But the police forced the reporters behind the crime-scene tape as if to protect the world from the tawdry reality of death and her sins.

“So far, police have not revealed the woman's name or any details,” Mazie continued, “but Detective Jean-Paul Dubois is collaborating with the FBI on the case. Unfortunately, there's no indication that the police are anywhere close to finding this serial killer and stopping his heinous murdering spree.”

Cortain laughed at the foolish cops. Chasing their tails. They didn't have a clue as to how to catch this guy. Oh, well. The man was cleaning up their city for them, one whore at a time.

He was a hero.

The public should be cheering him on, not hunting him down like an animal.

T
HREE O
'
CLOCK
in the morning.

Dark shadows bathed the hospital room, sending chills cascading up and down Britta's arms. Thunder clouds rumbled outside, hinting at a storm. Where was Jean-Paul? With a fourth victim? Out searching for the killer?

Had he found him by now?

Britta's head throbbed and her throat was raw. Irrational desires made her wish that Jean-Paul would come to her during the night. But she had no right to wish for the impossible.

The familiar guilt stabbed her chest. Disturbing images of her past haunted her like choppy clips from an old horror film. The night she'd died in the bayou. Sometimes the gators gnawed at her flesh. Other times the monsters were men, the maniacs from the cult. Then she'd plunged from the dangers of the backwoods to streets where dark sinister beings stalked. Homeless, drug addicts, predators combing the alleys and bars for innocents.

And then there was Shack. The offers of prostitution. The thrill of some pretty clothes. The promise of independence.

“Stay with me, sugar,” he'd whispered. “A girl like you will get rich in no time.”

“It's simple,” one of Shack's recruits had said. “One john. Another. Soon you get regulars. Beats Dumpster diving for food.”

But Britta had fought the obvious. Then one day she'd finally understood. She had no choice. Desperation had driven her to Shack. After all, she'd been starving and had run out of fight.

Until the first man had touched her.

Then something had risen within her, a kind of angry self-preservation that she hadn't known she possessed. Or maybe she had—the reason she'd shot Reverend Tatum.

That fight had saved her from the cult and the bayou. It made her strike back again. The man had never known what had hit him. Then she'd run like hell.

Shack had beat her senseless.

But she'd sworn she'd never give in to him. And she'd found a way out. Ms. Lottie, a middle-aged woman who'd seen her own side of hell and back, had found Britta crying in a corner. She'd given her a room and helped her regain her self-respect. Since that day, Britta had sworn to do the same for others.

She wouldn't stop now. But all the good she'd done didn't change the fact that these women's deaths lay at her feet.

And that the killer remained at large.

Jean-Paul had been convinced of R.J.'s guilt. But R.J. was in jail. If he wasn't the killer, then who could it be?

The photographer who liked to capture women's eyes? Cortain or one of his followers? Maybe the boy who had chosen her as his bride—to be sacrificed, had survived. Maybe he was here in disguise, hoping to make her pay for killing his father.

Restless, she rolled into a ball. When she was little, she'd fold her body so small that it almost disappeared. Then she'd become invisible, like a fleck of dust on the wall.

But the monsters always found her, as if they had eyes in the back of their head. Not this time, she thought groggily. Jean-Paul would find the swamp devil and destroy him.

For just a moment, she allowed herself to dream that the monsters were gone. That the world was full of beautiful colors. That she was lying in bed with Jean-Paul.

That nothing could tear them apart.

But she was lying to herself and she knew it.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL DROVE LIKE
a maniac to the precinct, his system wired. The press had launched an attack on him as if
he
was the swamp devil. Only Mazie had defended him.

Dammit, he'd never deserved the hero status they'd given him. And he didn't want it now. All he wanted was to do his job.

He heard Debra Schmale's mother's sobs as he entered the station. Saw his lieutenant tackling the impossible. Promising her parents that everything would be all right when they all knew it wouldn't. Uncomfortable with emotional outbursts, Carson gave him a helpless look as if he needed saving. Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath, joined them and offered his condolences.

Mrs. Schmale dabbed a tissue under her red-rimmed swollen eyes. “My Debra was a good girl. She wasn't like those hookers that got killed.”

“She barely even dated,” the father said. “I don't understand how this could happen.”

“Why would he kill her?” Mrs. Schmale cried. “Why? She didn't dance at those strip bars like those other girls.”

“And she didn't have sex with strangers,” Mr. Schmale argued. “There's some kind of horrible mistake.”

“Had your daughter been acting odd lately?” Jean-Paul asked. “Maybe hanging out with some new friends?”

Mrs. Schmale frowned. “She refused to go with us to church on Sunday. Came out dressed in a short skirt. Said she was twenty and would do what she wanted.”

The girl's father bowed his head into his hands. “I was mad. I told her not to come back.” He choked on the words. “But I didn't mean it….”

Jean-Paul chewed the inside of his cheek. Poor guy. He understood the guilt. “She didn't mention a name?”

They both shook their heads, looking bewildered.

Carson cleared his throat. “I'll take a look at the house. Maybe there's something in her room that might tell us more.”

“Does your daughter have a computer?” Jean-Paul asked.

Mr. Schmale nodded.

“We'd like to look at that, too,” Carson said. “Maybe her e-mail will tell us who she's been seeing.”

The couple agreed, still protesting that they wouldn't find anything incriminating against their daughter in the files. But often enough parents didn't know what there kids were into. Then again, what if they were right? What if the killer's MO had changed?

It happened. A slight variation just to up the game. A different kind of victim—not just hookers now, but any girl who dressed a certain way. Something to throw off the cops.

Sweat beaded on his lip. Any MO change would make it harder for them to catch this guy. And if word spread that the swamp devil was targeting all young girls, not just prostitutes, panic on the streets would rise.

Phelps headed to the coffee machine, while Jean-Paul and Carson ducked into a side office. “Did you find out anything about the fire?” Jean-Paul asked.

Carson shrugged, noncommittal. “A bystander saw two women hanging around who looked suspicious. One of them sounds like Ginger Holliday's mother.”

Jean-Paul arched a brow. “But why attack the magazine?”

“Maybe they saw the story on Miss Berger and the fact that the killer contacted her.”

Jean-Paul gritted his teeth. “And Cortain's rantings against the magazine haven't helped. He's encouraging violence by stirring up emotions.”

Carson made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Probably. His sermons tend to create a rise in people instead of calming them down.”

Exactly what Cortain wanted. More publicity for himself. And he was practically glorifying the swamp devil. And Britta was caught in the middle.

“Did our UNSUB send the Berger woman a photo of Debra Schmale?” Carson asked.

Jean-Paul shook his head. “Not so far. If he heard about the fire, he might not. But I'm going to take one by and show her. See if she recognizes the girl.”

“I'll check out the house,” Carson said. “And the computer.”

“Let's put a team on the street, too,” Jean-Paul said. “If Debra wasn't a hooker or dancer, maybe someone in the Quarter saw her.”

* * *

S
HADOWS DARKENED
the corners of the bayou where monsters lay in waiting. Britta's nightmares launched her back in time.

She struggled to make herself small as she scooted deeper into the corner of the tiny cabin. After running miles through the brush and mud, terrified of the gators and snakes, she'd stumbled upon the shanty in the dark and had crawled inside, hoping to seek shelter until morning. Once dawn broke and sunlight shone through the massive trees, she would find her way out. From there, she didn't know where she'd go.

But she would not go back to the cult.

Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. She brushed them away, battling back the sobs that wracked her. She was all alone now. She had no one to help her. No one to protect her.

Her mother's face flashed into her mind. What was she doing? Were the cult members blaming her for Britta's escape? Would they hurt her?

She should go back but terror seized her.

No, her mother had to be all right. She had done what they'd said. It was Britta who'd defied them. In fact, her mother was probably drugged again. Furious with Britta for running away.

And for killing their leader.

If they found her, what would they do? Lynch her from a tree? Send her to prison?

The hiss of a snake broke the silence, its warning stirring other night sounds outside. The gators. The birds. Maybe bats that survived in the woodlands.

The whisper of someone's breath floated over her. Footsteps sounded. Then a man's hand clamped down
over her mouth. She bit into flesh. Tasted sweat and dirt. Nausea clawed at her stomach.

She kicked and screamed but he shoved something over her face. He was going to smother her.

She shoved her feet at him and tried to buck upward, but he was too heavy.

She couldn't breathe…she was choking.

Outside, another sound rose above the forest. Not an animal. Voices.

Human voices. The rattle of machinery.

She jerked her eyes open, but darkness filled the room. The stench was acidic. The pressure on her throat so strong and forceful that she couldn't breathe.

The nightmare was real. Except she wasn't in the bayou but in a hospital bed. And someone was trying to gag her. One of the doctors. He was dressed in surgical scrubs and mask.

She tried to pry the pair of steel hands from her mouth, but his grip tightened and he raised a hypodermic.

Desperate and weak, she kicked at him and reached out for something to protect herself, something to use as a weapon. The sheets, bedding…the metal tray…. She fumbled but grabbed the edge and slammed it into his side. He loosened his grip for a fraction of a second and dropped the needle.

She rolled off the bed. “Help!” Her voice was so hoarse from the smoke inhalation, the sound died in the air.

He lurched toward her and she fumbled again and knocked the chair. It skidded into the wall and slammed against the night table. A metal pan rattled.

Outside, footsteps sounded.

The shadow hesitated, then must have realized someone was coming because he growled, grabbed the hypodermic from the floor, and ran through the door.

She crawled sideways, gasping for air, her head spinning.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL'S CELL PHONE
rang. This time, the hospital. His heart thumped wildly. “Detective Dubois.”

“Detective, this is Dr. Samson at New Orleans General. I'm calling about the woman you brought in last night—”

“What's wrong? Is she all right?”

“Yes, but we had an incident a few minutes ago.”

His jaw tightened. “What kind of an incident?”

“Miss Berger claims that someone attacked her.”

Jean-Paul cursed, then rushed toward the door. Dammit, he'd thought she was safe there.

He never should have left her alone.

Vowing not to do so again, he jumped in his car. Time passed in slow motion, but when Jean-Paul looked at the clock as he entered the hospital, he saw that it had only taken him ten minutes to reach Britta. His pulse raced as he rushed into her room.

She looked pale and shaken and so damn beautiful his heart clenched. She'd almost died twice tonight. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms.

“Jean-Paul?”

“What happened?”

The doctor glanced up over bifocals. “She's going to be all right.”

“Someone tried to gag me,” Britta said.

Jean-Paul barely smothered an obscenity. “I want to look at your security cameras.”

The doctor nodded. Jean-Paul ordered a local who'd responded to the call from the security office to stand by Britta's door. Seconds later, he viewed the tapes. Nothing too suspicious at first. Then a person in a green surgical suit had quietly slipped off the elevator onto the third floor. He kept his head down, avoiding the camera and a cap and surgical mask hid his face.