by Rita Herron
“Everybody has something to hide,” Britta said softly.
He shook his head. “Not everyone, Britta. With me, what you see is what you get.”
“Then why aren’t you married with your own family?”
Pain knifed through him like a razor blade. She was right. He did have secrets. A part of his life he wouldn’t discuss.
She leaned closer, her dark eyes probing his. “See what I mean? You want to tear apart my life and examine it, but you won’t let me look into yours.”
Her comment hit so close to home that emotions crowded his throat. “Just be careful around Justice,” he ground out. “He could be dangerous, Britta.”
“You really think he might hurt me?”
“I think he wants you,” he said deadpan. Not that he didn’t want her, too. But in another way. “And Justice strikes me as a man who gets what he wants no matter what he has to do to get it.”
* * *
JEAN-PAUL’S COMMENT ABOUT R.J. disturbed Britta, but not as much as the pain she’d seen on his face when she’d asked why he didn’t have a family of his own.
She should have kept her mouth shut. Shouldn’t have tried to get personal. But the man was getting to her on more than one level. Sexually, she had to admit wanting him. Craving his touch. Even fantasizing about his hands on her body.
And God, he’d been so compassionate with the Ericksons. He was smart, too. And worried about R.J. hurting her.
He’s simply doing his job. He doesn’t care about you.
But what would it feel like if he did? She’d ruin it with the truth.
Reality intervened quickly and she forced herself back to the task.
My Secret Confession:
My sexual fantasy is to have a man love me in public. We’ve just shared a bottle of Chardonnay and fed each other strawberries dipped in chocolate.
He reaches beneath the table and slides his hand up my thigh, then strokes the inside of my leg, slowly, inch by inch until he reaches my heat. His look of surprise when he discovers I’m not wearing panties gets me more excited and I spread my legs wider under the table so he can feel my damp cunt. By this time, my breasts are heavy and aching and my breath erupts in small little spurts. He senses my excitement and slides one finger into my aching heat. I straighten in the seat, holding on to the edge of the chair with sweaty fingers as he moves deeper, deeper into me, then he slowly withdraws his fingers and licks them where my wet juices linger. My body cries out for more.
Realizing I’m on the brink of screaming his name, he crawls beneath the table to have his dessert. I lean back in the chair, sip my wine and pretend nonchalance as if he’s searching for a missing cuff link, but the waiter pauses with a grin and begins to watch. Two other tables realize our game and wave. One of the men gets so turned on, he cups his wife’s breasts while the woman at the adjacent table places her husband’s hand on her crotch.
My own guy slides his tongue around and around my dripping mound, making me squirm. Then, finally, he dips his long, wet tongue inside me. I grip the table, shaking and heaving for air, as he delves deeper.
Spasms rock through my body, relentless and intense and all I can think about is having him make love to me. I can’t wait, I’m already coming….
Britta licked her lips, her own body feeling hot and heavy, then glanced up to see Jean-Paul watching her. She had forgotten that she wasn’t alone, had allowed the woman’s fantasy to become her own. And Jean-Paul Dubois was on the floor in the restaurant giving her the orgasm of her life.
“Should I read that one?” Jean-Paul asked in a thick voice.
His dark gaze met hers, the telltale smile in his eyes indicating that he realized exactly what had happened. Humiliation flooded her cheeks and she shook her head.
“No. This one isn’t violent.”
His chuckle rumbled through the air, and she closed the letter, deciding to include that fantasy in her column. But it told her nothing about the killer, so she moved on to another submission, this time skimming for any mention of lancets, snakes, S and M, poisons or the swamp devil.
Just the image the killer’s name produced destroyed any lingering sexual desires she might have had.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER. All Jean-Paul had learned was how titillating the written word could be.
Each minute his awareness of Britta had grown stronger. He’d loosened his own tie and shirt, the air growing warmer and the room smaller with each letter. A few times he’d even forgotten his purpose because he’d become engrossed in the fantasy. And in each one, the woman he’d been making love with was Britta.
Not Lucinda.
This realization shook him to the core. His reaction had everything to do with proximity, he told himself, to the fact that Britta was a much more sexually oriented person than his wife had been. To the fact that he’d been celibate for two years.
And maybe to the fact that Lucinda wouldn’t have been caught dead reading sexual fantasies. If he’d suggested they teeter on the wild side or branch out in new positions or…other things he’d dreamed about doing, she would have thought he was perverted.
He brushed sweat from his brow, silently cursing the infernal heat, and he began to read again, hoping this one might provide something more than arousal—like answers to the killer’s identity.
My Secret Confession:
I am a sexually hungry man but not always able to get the girls I want. I have begun to fantasize about voyeurism. In my apartment I have a telescope that allows me to watch women in the apartments across from me.
Jean-Paul shifted in his seat. So far, suspicious, but not anything criminal.
At night I see the woman in 3B strip and walk around naked. She likes to touch herself. And the lesbians in 4F like do to it all over the place. Man, can they eat some pussy.
Sometimes I photograph them and have started a book of all the beautiful women in the city. Just walking in the Quarter, the Market or on Bourbon Street, I see dozens every day. Sometimes I try to talk to them but the pretty ones don’t even look my way. So, I photograph them when they’re not watching. Their beautiful eyes. Their perfect sexy bodies. Their made-up faces meant to hide their flaws.
Each time the camera captures their image and tells all. When I look at the pictures, I focus on their eyes. The windows to the soul.
Although some of their eyes hold emptiness. They are the lost souls. The tramps. The ones in disguise. I want to carve out their eyes, display them and show the truth behind the lies.
I have one eye on you, Britta, for I know the truth.
That you are one of them.
His suspicions raised, Jean-Paul searched for a signature, but found nothing. The envelope was postmarked from the post office in town but there was no return address, no post office box, nothing to indicate who had sent it.
He sighed, stood and handed it to Britta. “Read this. See if the guy sounds familiar.”
Britta’s face paled as she digested the letter. “It sounds like the photographer I saw watching me.”
Jean-Paul nodded. He didn’t like it one damn bit, either.
“I wonder if his work is on display at the art festival.”
Jean-Paul stood. “Let’s check and see.”
“We still have a couple more hours’ worth of letters to read.”
“Let’s divide them up and take them home for the night.” Jean-Paul stretched his arms. “I’m getting antsy.” If this guy had been watching Britta and was their killer, he wanted to find him now.
He didn’t intend to take a chance on the sick bastard getting to her.
She nodded. “Let me call R.J. and tell him my plans.” Jean-Paul frowned. He didn’t want her anywhere near the man.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL WAS TENSE. Britta was tense. And the time was ticking by, counting off the seconds until another woman died.
Britta tried desperately to stifle the guilt that consumed her. At the same time, her emotions toward Jean-Paul p
ing-ponged back and forth. She wanted to be near him. She felt safe by his side.
And she wanted to trust him with the truth.
But not yet….
She couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes.
Still, he kept her close to him as they toured the art displays, his hand always guiding her along, his body always a buffer as if he had assigned himself her protector.
Booths lined the walkways and square, stretching on for miles. Artists’ exhibits included ceramics, wood-carvings, wax sculptures, metal art, junk and auto-parts art, along with every type of painting imaginable—oils, charcoal, watercolors, textured art, sand paintings—and bubble art, homemade voodoo dolls, serpent necklaces, gris gris, woven clothing, baskets and Mardi Gras masks.
A fortune teller had set up camp, along with a psychic who claimed to talk to the dead. Lines for both of them snaked around the square. The dollmaker barely lifted his head to acknowledge Britta as she passed. The mask artist worked diligently, deeply intent on adding feathers to a morbid creation while admirers watched. Booths offering local foods ranging from beignets to gator on a stick, shrimp po’boys and gumbo scented the air.
An hour later, the sun disappeared behind dark storm clouds, causing a chill in the air. A life-size wooden carving of a crocodile from the Nile drew gatherers and a line formed for the wax museum’s latest display.
Just as they neared the museum, they found what they were looking for. The artist had created a wall of photographs. Instead of faces, he had only showcased the eyes and mounted them in black. All female, although the pictures ranged with eye color, expression and depth. A very dark, imposing display.
“Some of them are the same subject,” Jean-Paul said, “only in different situations. He wanted to capture their various moods.”
He pointed to a series of blue eyes, the eyes wide with fear. “That could be Elvira’s.”
A chill slid down Britta’s spine. He was right. And beside it rested a pair of brown eyes with amber flecks that could very well belong to her.
Her gaze flew to the sign advertising his work. A shot of one dark eyeball painted on a black background served as the logo.
Britta glanced up to see the bald man who’d been watching her stride toward her. “What do you think of my exhibit?”
“You’re the artist?” Jean-Paul asked.
He nodded and extended his hand. “Howard Keith.”
“You took pictures of me,” Britta said.
He shrugged. “You’re a beautiful woman. I take photographs of interesting subjects in the Quarter all the time.”
“Why do you choose to only photograph the eyes?” Jean-Paul asked.
“The eyes are the windows to the soul. When you can look into a woman’s eyes, you can see everything about her. What she feels. What she thinks. If she’s hiding something.”
Jean-Paul removed the letter from his pocket. “Mr. Keith, I’m Detective Dubois of the New Orleans Police Department. Did you mail this letter to Miss Berger?”
Keith stared at the piece of paper and shrugged. “It’s not a crime to submit to the magazine, is it?”
“No,” Jean-Paul said. “But stalking is a crime.”
Keith drew back, his good eye raised. “Who said anything about stalking? It’s a free country. I can take pictures of public property. I’m free to voice my opinion or fantasies if I like.” He stared at Britta, his voice growing deeper. “Isn’t that right, Miss Berger?”
Britta tensed. “Yes, but I don’t want you to photograph me anymore. And I don’t like being followed.”
A small tattoo of a snake coiled on his neck made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. She’d seen one like it before, years ago. The men from the clan had worn it.
The clan that she had been running from ever since.
* * *
GINGER HOLLIDAY BLINKED through a drug-induced fog, the tiny room spinning in a pit of never-ending black. Darkness cloaked the room, the stench of sweat and mold nearly suffocating her. Her arms and feet were tied to the metal bedposts. She’d cried for hours. Dirt and blood from her brawl with her attacker had hardened on her face with her tears.
Night swept over the cabin and fear consumed her. When he’d left her this morning, he’d promised to return, each hour that passed drawing her closer to another insufferable attack.
At some point, she’d prayed he’d just go ahead and kill her, but then her resolve to live had returned.
Although hope faded quickly. This dilapidated shack was tucked so far into the backwoods that no one would look for her here.
On the heels of despair, thoughts of sweet revenge surfaced. If she could just free her hands and feet long enough to grab the knife, she’d cut off his damn balls, and he’d never again rape another woman. Then she’d tie him up and watch him bleed to death while he listened to the eerie sounds of the bayou. Let him envision the alligators nibbling at him while he lay dying alone in the bowels of hell where he belonged.
Footsteps sounded outside on the wooden planked porch. He kicked the door and it swung open. Her blood ran cold. It was so black outside, the gnarled branches of the oaks looked like the hands of a sea creature reaching toward her.
A sliver of moonlight caught his shadow, then disappeared as if the bayou had snuffed it out. But in that brief fleeting second, she saw the mask. A dark, eerie one of a monster.
He slowly began to undress. The sound of buttons popping grated on her skin like fingernails scraping a chalkboard.
“Please let me get up and go to the bathroom.”
He paused, a sudden stillness filling the room like the quiet before a storm. She expected him to deny her, but he slowly walked toward her, untied her and dragged her into the bathroom. She was so damn weak and disoriented from the drugs she could barely stand. But she used the dirty facility, then stood, ran cold water and splashed it on her face, trying to wash away the foul stench of his mouth on her skin. Her bloodshot swollen eyes pierced the darkness, shining with terror in the broken mirror. She jerked open the medicine cabinet, hoping to find a razor, can of hair spray, anything to use as a weapon, but a bug crawled across the rusted empty metal shelves and she slammed it shut.
“That’s long enough.” His fingers pinched her sore wrist as he dragged her toward the bed.
“Let me go,” she whispered. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“You’ll do that anyway,” he growled.
This was her last chance. She spotted her boots on the floor and tried to reach them, but he slammed his hand into the side of her face. Pain exploded inside her temple and she blinked to clear her vision, but white lights swam in front of her eyes. Still, she kicked at him, but he flung her onto the bed. Another whack to her head and the room went black.
Sometime later, she finally regained consciousness. He had retied her to the bed, stripped his clothes and stood above her. He dribbled oil on her skin, then massaged it into her bare arms and neck. She tried to scream, but he’d gagged her so tightly, the fabric caught the sound. Another sliver of moonlight caught his silhouette, highlighting a crisscrossing of scars on his pale chest. Other red, fleshy, puckered scars that resembled burns dotted his arms, and bite marks that could have come from a gator attack marred his arms and torso. No wonder he wore the mask. He was hideous. A monster.
He removed a condom from the bedside table, then donned rubber gloves on his hands and sprinkled something on the outside of the rubber.
She watched in horror as he peeled it over his penis. Surely if he was using a condom, he didn’t mean to kill her.
He bent over and whispered against her neck, “Say you love me.”
She shook her head no, but he slapped her again and clenched her by the throat. “Say you love me. That you’ll never leave me. Then I’ll save you.”
Desperation clawed at her as he loosened the gag. She gasped for air, coughing, choking.
“Say it now.”
“No,” she rasped. “Never.”
He twisted her nipples, and his mouth bit down on her neck. She closed her eyes and blocked out the feel of him as he pushed inside her. Tears filled her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks, but she imagined that she was somewhere else. A beach. The mountains. Drinking in the fresh air. Looking at the heavens. The air was cool, crisp. She was all alone. She’d start over. Leave her past behind.
Start in a new place where no one knew that she’d spread her legs for strangers to pay her way through school.
“I said, ‘say you love me,’” he groaned against her throat, “that you’ll never leave me.”
Exhausted, she choked out the words, sobbing as he bellowed his release.
Tears flowed down her cheeks and she silently begged him to leave her alone with her misery. Instead, a violent pain shot through her stomach. Bile rose to her throat and she sobbed as pain slithered through her limbs and splintered all the way to her head. Then her body began to jerk. What was happening to her?
He ran his hand over her quivering stomach and her past flashed like candid shots in her mind. Of her dressed in the pink-dotted Swiss Easter dress her mother had sewn for her when she was five. Then later, the dorky Christmas photo they’d taken every year. Her mother had insisted they all wear red and white. Then the fights with her parents when she was a teenager. Her mother’s sad eyes. Her brother pleading with her not to leave. Her father…His shouts that if she left, she was not to come back.
God, she’d been such a brat. If she could take it all back. The pain and grief she’d caused them, the hateful words she’d said. Things she hadn’t meant.
She’d get a real job, apologize, prove she wasn’t trash.
Another horrific pain tightened her muscles and twisted her insides. She was being ripped apart. The condom…the stuff he’d sprinkled on it. What was it? Some kind of poison?
No…no! She didn’t want to die. He’d promised if she said she loved him that he’d save her!
But her body spasmed again, her limbs useless and heavy. The world grew darker, as black as the bottom of the Mississippi. With one last gulp of air, she sank her nails into his arm, hoping to leave some DNA behind. Then maybe the police could make this man pay for what he’d done.