by Rita Herron
Today she had to face reality. A killer was using her to alert the police about his murders.
Anxiety squeezed her already sore muscles, and she quickly showered and dressed in a black cotton skirt and crimson tank, donned her spangled bracelets and earrings, then fluffed the short racy ends of her hair. Her glasses came next, the perfect addition to her latest persona.
Then she grabbed her leather shoulder bag filled with the confession letters to take to Detective Dubois. Last night, after her return from the streets, she’d stayed up until four scouring the bundle for suspicious submissions. A handful stood out; she’d pass them to Jean-Paul Dubois.
She stopped in the office, but R.J. hadn’t arrived so she decided to drop by the detective’s office after she visited the café for her morning coffee and beignet. A noise outside startled her. Through the front window, she noticed a group in front of their building. A square-necked beefy man—a few years older than her, wearing a black suit and hat—lifted his hands to the gathering crowd. He shouted something she couldn’t hear, then a chorus followed. Homemade picket signs sprang up as the protesters formed a circle on the street in front of the outer entrance to Naked Desires. “Get rid of the sinners! Cast them aside and build the kingdom of God in their place!”
Britta clenched her hands together as the jeers grew louder. A camera crew arrived and a reporter and cameraman jumped out to capture the scene.
Ever since the caravan of religious fanatics had rolled into town five days ago, R.J. had warned her that they might show up. They’d already staged protest marches in front of two strip joints, another bar and the voodoo shop on the corner.
Dreading the mob and worried about a photo of her on the front page of the paper, she ducked into the hallway to phone him. He answered on the fourth ring.
“R.J., it’s Britta.”
“Morning. Is everything all right?”
She’d forgotten that she hadn’t told him about the phone call the night before and caught him up to date.
“God, Britta, maybe you should stay with me for a few days until this settles down.”
“Thanks, R.J., but I’m okay. Except that Reverend Cortain and his mongers are protesting outside the office and a reporter just showed up.”
“Shit. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“Wait. R.J., I promised Detective Dubois I’d drop by and review these letters with him today. I’ll see you when I get back. But I want you to do one thing.”
“Anything for you, Britta.”
Her shoulders tensed at his tone. “Do you think it’s possible the killer chose his victims from one of the women who wrote into the magazine?”
“You mean he thought he was fulfilling their fantasy?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s a long shot,” R.J. replied. “We have a secure database. Besides, it would be too much trouble. He can easily find a prostitute on Bourbon Street. And if he’s into S and M, there are clubs that cater to that, too.”
“Ones you frequent?” Britta instantly regretted her question. She’d tried not to show any personal interest in R.J.’s life.
“Ahh, Britta,” he said in a low, husky voice. “All you have to do is trust me and I can show you how exciting sex can be.”
She didn’t trust any man. And she didn’t need a bed of horrors. But neither could she be judgmental like Jean-Paul Dubois. “No thanks, R.J. I’d better go now. That detective is probably waiting.”
A tense second passed between them. She could almost hear the disappointment in R.J.’s labored breathing. “What about the reverend and the reporters?”
“I’ll dodge them.”
“All right, but be careful. And if you do get cornered, don’t comment.”
“Don’t worry. The last thing I want is to get caught up in the publicity.”
She said goodbye, then raced upstairs to her apartment, grabbed a hat and sunglasses and hurried down toward the back entrance. As soon as she opened the door, a camera flashed and a reporter jammed a microphone in her face.
“Aren’t you Britta Berger, the Secret Confessions columnist?”
Britta gripped the door edge, ready to run back inside, but a middle-aged woman clutched her arm. “Please, Miss Berger, stop your porn column. We have to save our children!”
“Shut down the magazine!” a man yelled.
“What do you know about the swamp-devil killings?”
They must have seen her with the detective. Britta ducked her head and covered her face with her hands, then shouldered her way through the crowd. The cameraman and reporter followed, along with others. Someone tried to rip the bag of letters from her arm, but she held on to it for dear life. Terrified of the escalating mood, she sprinted to the edge of the street corner and merged into the crowd preparing to cross.
“Stop that heathen!” someone yelled.
“Shut down the slutty column!” another person shouted.
Suddenly someone shoved her from behind. She pitched forward and tried to grab something to steady her, but her heel caught in a crack in the pavement and she fell forward. She yelled and threw out her hands to brace her fall, but her knees slammed into the concrete and pain shot through her. Tires squealed and brakes screeched around her.
She looked up in horror as a black sedan raced toward her.
* * *
THE ELEVATOR DOOR opened and Jean-Paul headed to his office.
Carson was waiting on him. “Hey, man, we’ve got Randy Swain in custody. Ready to question him?”
Jean-Paul nodded. “I’ll be right there.” He threw down his briefcase and followed Carson to the interrogation room. “Has he said anything yet?”
“No. But he’s pretty wired. I’m running his prints now.”
“Good. Does he have an alibi?”
“Claims he was working on a new song the night the Erickson woman died. Guy’s already got a big head. He’s on his way to the top of the charts with that heartbreaker song.”
“Heartache Blues.” Jean-Paul chewed the title over in his head. Could the man have decided to murder to gain attention and spike ratings?
Seemed a little drastic, but desperation and ambition were powerful motivators. Plus Jean-Paul had discovered confession letters from women who’d fantasized about having sex with the singer. He’d also found a full page ad for Swain’s CD in Naked Desires.
He stepped into the room, frowning. Swain looked skuzzy—as if he hadn’t seen a shower or razor in a couple of days—and his eyes were bloodshot, probably from drugs or lack of sleep—or both. He was sprawled out in the seat, his arm draped over the chair back, as if he was pissed at being dragged away from his apartment.
If his fans could see him now, they might rethink their loverboy image.
“Mornin’, Swain.” A table sat in the center below a lamp hanging from the ceiling. Carson sat across from the man, while Jean-Paul situated himself at an angle, half sitting, half standing for intimidation purposes.
“What am I doing here?” Swain asked. “I haven’t broken any laws.”
Jean-Paul cleared his throat. “Your new hit ‘Heartache Blues’?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
Carson leaned forward, eyes trained on Swain. “We found a copy of it at the scene of a murder.”
The man’s bushy brown eyebrows shot up. “So? There’s been thousands of them sold in the last week.”
“You don’t know how it got there?” Jean-Paul asked.
Swain ran a hand over a hole in his jeans. “Listen, if you’re talking about that girl they mentioned in the paper this morning, I don’t know jack shit about her. Never even heard her name before I read it in the paper.”
Jean-Paul zeroed in on the small scars on Swain’s hand. They were burns. Some old, some new.
“How’d you get those?” he asked.
“I burn candles and incense at night. It helps me relax when I’m trying to write.”
Jean-Paul frowned while Carson cut in. “Where we
re you last night, say around midnight?” Carson asked.
Swain tapped his temple as if trying to remember. Or formulate a lie.
“Working. I cut off from the band to write alone around eleven.”
“So no one can account for your whereabouts then?”
Swain shrugged. “No one I want to tell you about.”
“Being an ass won’t help your case,” Jean-Paul growled. “Did you make any phone calls?”
Swain worked his mouth side to side. “No.”
Easy enough to check, but Jean-Paul had to push the guy harder. “And you don’t have an alibi the night the Erickson woman was murdered?”
“If I knew I was going to need one, I would have made sure I had one,” Swain shot back.
Jean-Paul slapped his palms on the table with a thud and glared into the young man’s eyes. “You don’t have an alibi, asshole, you’re going to wind up in jail.”
Swain shifted restlessly. “What the hell kind of motive would I have for murder? I don’t know this chick that was killed.”
“She was an exotic dancer,” Jean-Paul said through gritted teeth. “You’ve been in the clubs while you were here?”
“So. Don’t tell me you haven’t?”
“This is not a game,” Jean-Paul barked.
Swain’s face paled. “Okay, so this girl that was killed, she was a hooker?”
Jean-Paul nodded. “Maybe you know her from the House of Love.”
“Is that where you met her?” Carson cut in.
The corner of Swain’s mouth lifted into a cocky grin. “I don’t have to pay for sex. Since this record aired, women are throwing themselves at my feet.”
“So much for their taste,” Jean-Paul tossed back. “And that doesn’t mean that you didn’t hook up with a prostitute. Maybe she was a fan. It started out wild and a little kinky, but something she did pissed you off, reminded you of the woman you sing about in that song and you took out your anger on her.”
Swain knotted his hands on the table. “That’s crazy. I’m not violent, I write about love.”
Carson cleared his throat. “Really? That’s not the way the chorus to ‘Heartache Blues’ calls it:
“You broke my heart.
When you left my bed
Now I’m singing the blues
Because you’re dead.”
Jean-Paul folded his arms. “Sound like a threat to me.”
“Even better, sweet revenge,” Carson added. “She dumped you so you killed her and left your CD at the scene to hype your sales.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
Jean-Paul shoved a copy of Naked Desires toward Swain. “Really? Do you know anything about this magazine?”
Swain gulped. “It’s an erotica publication.”
“Yeah. And you placed a full page ad for your CD in the magazine,” Jean-Paul said matter-of-factly.
“My publicist did that,” Swain said in a panicked voice.
Jean-Paul rapped his knuckles on the table. “Do you know Britta Berger, the editor of the Secret Confessions column?”
He shifted, chewing on the side of his lip. “What’s she got to do with all this?”
“You tell me,” Jean-Paul said.
Swain leaned his head onto his hands. “I’m through talking to you guys. I want a lawyer.”
* * *
THE SMELL OF BURNING rubber and exhaust assaulted Britta as she scrambled away from the car. The sedan swerved and barreled into a lamppost while she crawled to the sidewalk on hands and knees. Screams and shouts erupted around her. Someone’s hands reached out to help her and a claustrophobic feeling engulfed her. Memories resurfaced…men clawing at her.
“Are you all right, miss?” a voice asked.
“Are you crazy! You jumped right in front of that car!”
The driver, a man in a black suit, jumped from the sedan and stalked toward her. “I tried to stop, lady. Why’d you dive in front of me like that?”
The cameraman pushed through the crowd. A camera light exploded in her face, nearly blinding her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered raggedly. “It was an accident.”
“You got insurance, mister?” someone asked.
He mumbled “yes” and his eyes pierced Britta accusingly.
The menagerie of faces watching her jelled into a blur, like the mob from the clan. Memories bombarded her. She was running through the bayou trying to escape the men hunting her down like an animal. They swept the darkness with their crude lanterns and vile language. Bugs bit her legs and branches scraped her hands and face. Snakes hissed and alligators stalked her with hungry eyes. Eyes like the swamp devil’s.
Panic rippled through her. She had to run. Save herself.
She turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. She had escaped that past once. She wouldn’t let it catch up with her and destroy the life she was building now.
* * *
REVEREND EZRA CORTAIN SHOUTED a prayer at his followers as they chased Britta Berger. She’d either dove in front of that car out of guilt or—through God’s hands—someone had pushed her. Either way, it was time for her to repent, or die and burn in hell for her contributions to the debauchery on Bourbon Street.
As he had done for his own sins so many times.
The past two years with the deadly hurricanes had forced him to expand his mission attempts. He’d collected lost souls from Mississippi, the Louisiana border and all along the gulf coast. He went where he was needed. Was simply a vessel to carry out the word of God. But sin ran rampant here and the devil fought him every inch of the way.
Fingers of anxiety scraped his spine, though, as images of his past flickered back. Britta Berger—she had crossed his path before. Had been lost then.
Had been a temptress. Had Satan’s eyes.
Memories plucked at the recesses of his brain, triggering fear and guilt. The bayou. A ceremony. Virginal girls in white.
His brother-in-law’s blood.
Then the others.
Dead bodies everywhere. Mothers moaning. Babies crying.
The details materialized in vivid clarity, painful and debilitating. The shock. Grief. The lost, helpless feeling. The cries of emptiness. Their leader had been destroyed.
They needed another. Just as they’d needed to quench their thirst for revenge. But they had been denied.
Because they thought she’d died that night. That the crocodile gods had served their own brand of justice.
But today, when she’d exited that magazine office, he’d seen the evil lurking in her eyes. The blackness from the swamp creatures had overtaken her body, sent her to Sin City to gather her own followers.
And he had to stop her….
* * *
SOMEONE WAS STILL following her.
Britta ducked into a gift shop to lose whoever was behind her, then into the restroom to clean her bloody knees and hands. Minutes later, she sneaked out the back door and headed toward Jackson Square, this time slowing her pace so as not to call attention to herself.
The stench of the night’s celebrations flooded the streets, while heat sent a pool of sweat to her neck. She passed a few morning joggers and a man walking his dog. Two winos dug through the trash for breakfast and several shop owners were sweeping up the garbage from the night before, preparing for a new day.
Exhaustion weighed her muscles, but she turned the corner and collapsed into a chair at the café. A latte and beignet with strawberry jam helped to settle her nerves. Around her, tourists talked of the upcoming parade while she watched the local artisans set up their booths. An artist who painted abstracts hung a collection of colorful finished pieces, a voodoo and black magic display came next, then the dollmaker she’d seen for months settled into his usual spot. One by one he displayed his finely painted porcelain dolls, each one different and so beautiful they looked like real babies or children. In contrast, next to him a guy offered dark, ghoulish wooden carvings of demons and monsters along with Mardi Gras masks that portray
ed the dark side of the city. She’d bought some of them when he’d first set up. The way he painted the monster’s eyes was unnerving, but she’d been drawn to them anyway.
Jean-Paul Dubois’s sister Catherine approached the dollmaker, her hand twined with her little girl’s. Chrissy picked up a baby doll and hugged it. A baseball cap shaded the dollmaker’s face and he kept his head bowed as if he felt uncomfortable discussing his art. But Chrissy oohed and aahed over the doll until Catherine purchased it. Britta’s heart squeezed at the natural affection the woman and her little girl shared.
She’d long ago banished any hopes for a family of her own, but suddenly the longing swelled within her. The realization followed that she and Catherine would never be friends, that they didn’t belong in the same circle. Catherine and her daughter would wear the pearl combs Britta kept hidden away.
Britta would look ridiculous in them.
Mother and daughter left, hand in hand, the little girl singing and smiling. Loneliness tugged at Britta’s chest but she fought off the feeling.
Still, on a whim, she ventured over to the dollmaker’s table. “You do nice work. The eyes, they look so real.”
“Th…ank y…ou,” he stuttered.
Sympathy for him warmed her smile. “You’re welcome. You’re very talented.”
A sheepish grin crossed his face. “Th…anks.”
She studied the different faces of the dolls, then purchased a miniature doll in a pink-and-white gingham dress and had him wrap it. She put it in her bag.
He mumbled his appreciation, then began to etch tiny lines into the eyeballs of another doll while other admirers crowded around. Feeling silly for buying the doll, she rushed toward the police precinct, determined to share the letters with Jean-Paul and escape from him as soon as possible.
Hopefully, he had a lead on the woman the killer had told her about the night before, and he wouldn’t need her any longer.
* * *
A FROWN YANKED at Debra Schmale’s face. She wanted Teddy for herself.
But she’d seen Teddy watch the woman stop by his table. Britta Berger—Debra recognized her from the magazine photo. Except she was even more beautiful in person than the picture.
The bitch.
She had been flirting with Teddy for weeks now and had barely gotten him to even glance her way. He sure as heck hadn’t grinned at her like an idiot like he had that Berger babe. And she’d bought half a dozen of his miniature dolls.