by Rita Herron
Finally death whispered her name. She closed her eyes and welcomed the unknown. Anything to be free of the agony. Still, she prayed again, this time that there would be a white light where she was going. That death would take her away from hell, not plunge her into its darkness.
And that someone would find her body before the gators destroyed anything that was left.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since the second woman had gone missing.
Britta had to do something.
Maybe she could help figure out the woman’s identity. If they knew her name, they could talk to her friends, search her apartment, maybe find a clue.
The night sounds of the city and bayou whispered to her, pleading and insistent. It was Saturday—the biggest night for partying. Drinking. Hooking up.
Jean-Paul Dubois had left her claiming he was going to join one of the teams and search for the second possible victim.
Now, it was midnight. Tendrils of fear slithered through Britta, reminding her of the dangers in Black Bayou. Had he found the girl yet? Was she still alive? Or had she already given into death and joined Elvira?
Dressing again to play the part, she dolled up her hair, donned a lacy bustier in bronze and a tight leather skirt with snakeskin knee-high boots. A little perfume behind her ears and between her breasts, then off with the wire-rim glasses and she’d cloaked herself with an aura of confidence. She’d done this before, she could do it again. And she would survive. She’d learned to fight. Of course, she always took a knife with her, as did all the street girls in case one of their customers got nasty.
Although she considered herself a good judge of character, men often masked their true identities just as the girls disguised themselves and offered phony names and telephone numbers.
She glanced at the miniature doll she’d bought, then down at her outfit and embarrassment flooded her cheeks. What in the world was she doing buying dolls? She’d never played with them when she was little and certainly didn’t plan to marry or have a daughter to pass them on to.
Not like Jean-Paul’s family. Not like Catherine and Chrissy.
Irritated with herself for forgetting her origins for even a moment, she opened the drawer of the corner desk and placed the doll inside. Other similar dolls—some baby dolls, some porcelain, some fairy-book story characters—lay side by side on a white blanket.
She shoved the drawer shut, putting the nonsense out of her mind as she closed the door to her apartment and hurried down the steps. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she wove her way down Bourbon Street, the raucous laughter, zydeco music and partying pounding in her ears. The pungent scent of cheap beer, urine and vomit permeated the dark alleys, and drunken patrons danced in the street, made out on benches and shouted obscenities. She parked herself on the corner, removed a cigarette and lit up. Cars honked their horns, while the people inside waved beads and Mardi Gras flags through their opened windows.
The sultry air hinted at impending rain, resurrecting memories of the floods that had destroyed so many homes and businesses after the hurricane. The stench of raw sewage, disease and vermin still haunted her. And then the looting.
Some of New Orleans’ own had turned on their brothers and sisters in their bleakest hour. Yet heroes had also risen through the masses. Jean-Paul Dubois most certainly had been one of them.
Her gaze skimmed the crowd and streets, the skin at the base of her neck prickling. A dark sedan rolled to a stop in front of her and she braced herself for action.
“This corner is taken, baby. Don’t you know that?”
She winked at the pony-tailed man with the spectrum of earrings running down his ear. “Ahh, surely there’s room for one more, sugar.”
His smile said he liked what he saw. “You have to talk to Shack. He owns the girls in this part of town.”
Exactly. She batted her fake lashes and leaned forward, making sure he caught sight of her cleavage spilling out. “Then take me to him.”
Britta’s bracelets jangled, mimicking her rattled nerves, but she blew him a kiss anyway and climbed in the backseat. Her knees knocked together as he sped off, but she forced herself to remain calm.
Shack would be pissed as hell to see her. He hadn’t liked what she’d done to him a few years ago. And he detested the fact that she’d been stealing his girls away from him. He knew she had her own agenda, and it conflicted completely with his.
Of course, he might rough her up a little before he finally listened. But a girl had to do what a girl had to do. And she couldn’t change what she’d become.
No use trying, not for a man like Jean-Paul Dubois, a hero. A man who’d never understand.
She only hoped he found the missing woman tonight, before the swamp devil claimed another life.
* * *
TWO O’CLOCK. And they still hadn’t found the woman.
She couldn’t die tonight.
Jean-Paul would not allow it.
He and his team had been searching the bayou for hours, their legs and backs breaking, but he refused to quit. Bugs, weeds, swamp water clung to their clothes and skin as if they’d been bathed in the murk. Mosquitoes fed on their arms and faces, buzzing through the air ready to feed.
It was always like this in Black Bayou. More stories of ghosts and supernatural creatures originated from this stretch than any other part. Here, night never ended. The thick trees and silvery-gray moss created a cavern that reminded him of an ancient burial ground from medieval times. It was a dark, lost place where legends touted that any human who entered never emerged alive. A place where voodoo priestesses and witchdoctors had been born, where the lowest humans were condemned to lie with the night stalkers. A place where mutant creatures existed, living in the shadows, moving along the whispery darkness like ghosts banned from the other side.
Sweat streamed down the rescue workers’ faces as they hacked their way through the weeds and brush choking the water.
“We might as well call it a night,” his brother Antwaun said. “All the men are exhausted.”
“But she’s out here.” Jean-Paul turned to survey the backwoods. “She needs us.”
Antwaun frowned. “Listen, Jean-Paul, I know this is getting to you. I understand why you’re so driven. Lucinda should have stood by you—”
“I don’t want to talk about her,” Jean-Paul snapped. Or Britta, the woman he had been thinking about instead of his dead wife.
“Stop blaming yourself. You can’t save them all—”
“I can’t stop trying, either.”
Antwaun’s expression turned solemn.
“Just a little longer,” Jean-Paul muttered. “We’re close, I can feel it….”
Jean-Paul moved his flashlight along the weeds, aware of the gators floating like tree trunks in the water. Silent. Waiting. Ready to pounce any second.
He turned to their right, heading deeper into the shadows. Five minutes later, he spotted a rotting shanty practically floating in the mud and water. Jean-Paul eased onto the wooden slatted porch, then waved for the men to wait. His own need for vengeance surfaced.
This killer deserved to die.
He braced himself to fire. Antwaun moved up behind him, his own gun raised for back-up. Jean-Paul peeked through the dirt-fogged window. Although his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the room was steeped in shadows. He couldn’t make out anything except the outline of metal bedposts.
Slowly, he eased open the door to the cabin, pointed his gun, then swept the room with the flashlight.
The killer was gone.
But he’d left his handiwork behind.
The poor woman lay in a pool of blood and sweat in the middle of the rumpled bed, tied down as if she was an animal.
Rage pumped through Jean-Paul’s stomach. She was naked just like their first victim, bloodsoaked and wide-eyed with terror. The stench had drawn the flies and bugs, making her look even more helpless and degraded.
He rushed forward to check for a puls
e, but visible signs indicated that she was dead. The heat had started rigor, but she wasn’t completely stiff yet.
Antwaun radioed for a crime-scene unit and medical examiner, then searched the room. Within minutes, both teams rushed in to process the scene.
While they went to work, Antwaun and two other officers canvassed the parameter, but the Mississippi had already washed away any footprints. Inside the cabin, the killer had wiped everything down, everything but the blood and grime on his victim. Jean-Paul forced himself into the head of the killer. The swamp devil wanted them to see the woman naked and exposed for the dirty girl he deemed her to be.
The mask of Sobek had been hung from the ceiling, which meant the girl had been forced to look at it while she’d been raped and murdered. Had the killer prayed over her body, offered her as sacrifice to the gods as the medieval Egyptians had done?
And why? Where the hell had he adopted that sick practice?
Time of death: midnight. Dammit, just about the time he’d left Britta. Three hours earlier and they could have saved this woman.
But once again, he’d been too late. And she’d suffered….
What about Britta? Where was she now?
Was she safe or had the swamp devil contacted her again to brag about his latest victim?
* * *
A FRISSON OF ALARM rippled up Britta’s spine as Shack’s buddies surrounded her. Three giant men with tree-trunk bodies, scarred black faces and fists the size of grapefruits. They could kill her with one punch if they chose.
Shack puffed on a cigar, glaring down at her with his pithy eyes. His hair looked as black as soot, his skin so pale it resembled the white flaky skin of an albino crocodile. Though they were rare, she’d seen one in the bayou the night she’d run away. The creature had actually pounced in front of another gator as if to save her.
Just as Shack had.
But he’d had another plan. Just as the albino gator probably had.
He’d intended to eat her himself.
“Why are you here, Britta? You know I’d like to strangle you.”
“Let it go, Shack. I came to give you a warning.”
Laughter boomed from his big body. “You’re warning me? That’s rich.”
The silent implication of his words sent a shudder through her. Shack thought he owned his girls. Leaving wasn’t an option. He’d told her that when she’d skipped. Every day she walked a tightrope knowing he might send someone back to force her to return to him, to the life. Why he hadn’t done so yet, she didn’t know.
She licked her parched lips, remembering her reason for braving this visit. “You need to watch out for your girls.”
“What are you talking about, Britta?”
“Elvira Erickson, the girl who was murdered. Was she one of yours?”
He blew a ring of smoke into the air, and watched it curl upward. “I was recruiting her, yeah.”
Britta crossed her leg, vying for calm. “The killer is targeting the street girls. Your girls.”
Shack’s eyelids turned to mere slits as he studied her. “So you want me to call my girls off the streets?” Sarcasm edged his voice. “I can’t do that. I’d lose too much business.”
Damn. She knew he’d say that. “Are any of your girls missing now?”
Shack sent one of the beefy men a questioning look but the man shrugged.
“Check and see,” Britta said. “If you do, we can tell the police and maybe they can save her.”
Shack drummed his diamond-clad fingers on his leg. “I’m not working with the cops, so don’t even start with that shit.”
“Then send word to me and I’ll pass on a name. This guy’s a real sicko, Shack. He ties up the girls, poisons them with a condom, then has sex with them. As if the pain from the poison isn’t enough, he sinks a lancet into their hearts and leaves them as bait for the crocodiles.”
“Jesus.”
Britta forced herself to continue, “He leaves them in a ritualistic manner, as if he’s sacrificing them to Sobek.”
His features tightened, nostrils flaring. “That is some scary shit.”
“He also leaves a mask of Sobek with the victim. Do you know any groups still honoring the medieval practices?”
The men behind Shack shifted uncomfortably. Shack leaned forward and lowered his voice, his diamonds sparkling against the dark. “There’s a new clan sprung up—out in Black Bayou—might be doing some of that weird stuff you’re talking about.”
An icy cold numbness speared Britta. She’d thought the clans had disbanded. But at least one had resurfaced.
It was too much of a coincidence to ignore.
Shack stood, buttoned his gold double-breasted jacket and stared down at her, his eyes blazing. “Now, you listen to my warning. Interfere with my business again, mess with my girls and we’re gonna have to talk. And trust me, Britta.” He raked a nail across her cheek. “It won’t be pretty.”
* * *
“DAMON, IT’S JEAN-PAUL.”
“What’s up, brother?”
“We have a serial killer.” Jean-Paul relayed the past few days’ events, the MO of the murderer, Britta Berger’s connection and their current location.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Damon said.
Jean-Paul thanked him, then stepped outside the shanty for fresh air and phoned Britta. He let it ring a half-dozen times, then checked his watch. Almost four o’clock. Hell, what was he thinking? She was probably tucked in bed, sound asleep.
Still, his nerves jangled with worry.
The CSU finished their tasks, the minutes crawling by. Another team had been dispatched to search the antebellum mansion near the shanty. One of the locals went into a tirade at Damon’s arrival, but Jean-Paul cut him off. To hell with pride and jockeying over jurisdiction; they needed all the help they could get.
Damon took one look at the crime scene and muttered, “For the love of God.”
“I know. Scary, isn’t it?” Jean-Paul commented.
Damon nodded. “I want notes on every detail about the crime scene, the victims, any other evidence you’ve collected so far.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Damon asked.
Jean-Paul explained about the CD. “So far we’ve questioned Randy Swain, a local singer, R. J. Justice, the publisher of Naked Desires, and a photographer who sent Britta a personal message through her column. Justice’s alibi for the night of the first murder checks out. Swain said he was alone working on a song. And the photographer claims he was in his darkroom.”
“But you have nothing concrete on any of them.”
Jean-Paul grunted. “Afraid not. My partner’s supposed to get back to me on the search at Swain’s place. Maybe you can run the handwriting sample through your guys. So far, we haven’t matched it to any of our suspects.”
“Sure. I also did some checking after you called,” Damon said. “It turns out there have been a few cases with similar MOs over the past few years.”
“Where?”
“Three murders in Savannah, Georgia, two years ago. They all occurred within a seven-day period, prior to the big St. Patrick’s Day Parade.” Damon removed a note pad and glanced at his notes. “Another similar group of murders occurred last year on the outskirts of Nashville the week leading up to Easter.”
Jean-Paul rocked back on the balls of his feet. “Why didn’t we hear about them?”
“Stories got buried and never made national news.”
“Because the victims were prostitutes,” Jean-Paul said in disgust. “As if the girls didn’t have families or deserve justice.”
“You know how it works. Police are understaffed. They have priorities…” Damon rubbed at the back of his neck.
“We need to see if Swain or Justice was in either of those cities around that time.”
“I’ll get someone on it,” Damon said. “You mentioned that the killer contacted the Berger woman?”
Jean-Paul nodded a
gain. “He sent her a photo of the first murder, then called to tell her he had another woman.”
Damon narrowed his eyes. “How much do you know about this woman?”
He knew she was beautiful. That she was a liar. That she was hiding from someone. That she had secrets. That she had him all twisted up inside.
That although she was nothing like Lucinda, he wanted her anyway.
“She’s a loner. Has no family. Claims she has no former boyfriends or lovers that could be after her. Says she has no idea why this guy chose to contact her, except for her column.”
“He wants the attention,” Damon said.
“Yeah, but that’s not all. His message was personal. He said he knows her secrets.”
Damon raised a suspicious brow.
Jean-Paul leaned against the doorjamb. “Britta Berger isn’t her real name,” he admitted. In fact, he still hadn’t figured that one out, although he’d searched. “She told me she lived with foster parents and assumed the name of the daughter after she and her parents died in a car accident.”
Damon frowned. “Was there an investigation into the accident?”
Jean-Paul nodded. “No foul play.”
“Do you think she’s lying?”
Hell if he knew. “The Bergers were foster parents and took in a number of kids. I’m still looking into it. Why? Do you know something about her?”
Damon hesitated, his controlled expression not giving anything away. “Her name’s come up before.”
“What do you mean?” Jean-Paul asked.
“We have a special team investigating prostitution rings.”
Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath. “How is Britta connected?”
“My guys have seen her on the streets. Word is that one of the pimps has it in for her because she tried to get out of the business.”
His brother’s words hit Jean-Paul in the gut like a fist. Britta had been a prostitute. If that was her secret, then she might have lied about knowing the victims.
He had to see her. He was sick of her lies and secrets. This time he’d damn well make her tell him the truth.