Say You Love Me

by Rita Herron

  He thought about the killer after her. About her initial reaction to the threats. And to him. To the fierceness with which she was determined to keep her secrets. To the way she responded to his family and the fact that he’d seen her feeding the homeless. To those tiny little dolls.

  To the journal entry where she’d admitted she wanted him.

  He could fulfill her sexual fantasy.

  And God help him, he wanted to.

  But afterwards, he’d have to walk away and that would hurt her.

  “I’ll leave for now.” He paused and brushed a tendril of wet hair from her cheek. “But I will be back, Britta.” He cupped her face in his hand and forced her chin up, but she tried to turn away. Instead of allowing her that reprieve, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to her mouth. He kissed her so gently his body throbbed for more, but the fact that she didn’t reciprocate warned him to stop.

  He’d break down that wall with Britta. If anyone knew about darkness, he did. He lived it every day with his job. No grays, just black and white. Right or wrong.

  But sometimes there were grays…and he was slipping into the murkiness now. Crossing the line with Britta. Wanting her even though he knew she harbored secrets from him. Secrets that might be relevant to the case. That she might have done bad things in the past. That she might be a street girl.

  But she wasn’t all bad.

  He would prove to her that every man wasn’t a bastard. That she could trust him with her secrets. That he wouldn’t let this crazy man hurt her.

  That he’d protect her with his life if he had to.

  * * *

  BRITTA CLOSED THE door behind Jean-Paul, her insides quivering. How much of her journal had Jean-Paul read? Had he seen the notations about her secret fantasy of making love with him? And not just making love, but making a family. And those silly dolls…

  But other entries were more damning.

  The ones where she’d described D-day—the day she’d died and been reborn?

  Outside, the storm clouds moved in front of the window, obliterating the sunlight. Winter screamed its arrival. The dark black sky looked like the empty canvas she’d written about. One void of colors and hope where silence echoed around her.

  The phone rang, startling her, and she rushed toward it, half-hoping Jean-Paul was calling, that he’d insist he’d take care of her. But leaning on him would be too easy….

  The caller ID read out-of-area. She frowned and almost turned away, but remembered that the killer’s number hadn’t shown up before. No reason for it to now.

  Bracing herself, she answered. “Hello.”

  “I have made another offering.”

  Britta tightened the robe around her waist. “Who are you? Why don’t you just tell me your name?”

  “You know me. You just don’t want to admit it.”

  She glanced out the window to see if someone was outside, watching her, but no one seemed visible from the street in front of Naked Desires.

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m close by.” The voice was whispered. Muffled. “Watching you. Waiting.”

  She scanned the building across from her and detected movement in an apartment on the corner. The curtain shifted and she thought she saw a shadow move. Then it disappeared and there was nothing.

  “Are you across the street?” she asked.

  His breathing wheezed out. “Only four more days until Mardi Gras, Adrianna. Until the final sacrifice.”

  She shivered and sank onto the sofa. Adrianna? He knew who she was. Had known her in her former life.

  Someone from the clan. Maybe the boy she had run away from…. But he was dead, wasn’t he? His name had been listed in the paper among the suicide victims.

  She opened her mouth to call him by name, but the phone clicked into silence. Barely a minute had passed. Probably not long enough to trace, although it had felt like forever. And she’d learned nothing helpful to tell Jean-Paul—nothing except that another woman was dead.

  Shaking with helpless fury, she punched in his number. “Jean-Paul?”

  “Britta?”

  “He just called again. He’s killed another woman.”

  His heavy sigh reverberated with frustration. “I’ll see if we got a trace. Did he give any indication where she is?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “There’s no need. I’m all right.” Britta dropped her head into her hands. “Just find the girl, Jean-Paul.”

  Silence stretched for a painful heartbeat. “All right. But I’ll send a uniform by. Stay put and keep your doors locked.”

  Britta hung up, then once again walked to the window and stared out. Stay put?

  No, she couldn’t do that. She had to help him find this murderer. He knew her real name. Knew her past. Knew that she was a killer herself.

  That was the reason he’d called her. He thought she’d understand.

  Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away. He was wrong. She had shot Reverend Tatum out of fear. Self-preservation. And not a day had passed by that she hadn’t felt the weight of guilt upon her.

  But this man…he had no conscience. He killed innocent women for the game. In the name of sacrifice. And he wouldn’t stop until they caught him.

  Jean-Paul thought R.J. might be involved. If he had lost parents to the clan, if he was taunting her now, she’d find out that, too.

  Jean-Paul would say it was too dangerous. But maybe she could assuage the guilt of the other girls’ murder if she could prevent another.

  Three days until Mardi Gras

  THE LAST TWENTY-FOUR hours had been maddening.

  More search parties were dispersed. The woman’s body was found. Her name was Sissy Lecher. And Britta had received another photo.

  Thankfully, the ME had found trace evidence beneath Ginger Holliday’s fingernails, but it would take time to test it. Other than that, clues were nonexistent.

  Jean-Paul’s anger rocked back and forth between fury at the killer, his own ineptness and being angry at Britta for not confiding in him. But he didn’t have time for emotions.

  Carson was following Howard Keith, the photographer. Antwaun was assigned Randy Swain. Jean-Paul was going to talk to Reverend Cortain. And he’d hunted for more info on Britta. But the social worker who’d handled the Bergers’ foster care had died and her records had been sketchy, so he hadn’t learned Britta’s real name.

  A chill dampened the air as he drove to the reverend’s house at the edge of Black Bayou. The weather seemed more ominous, the evening sky turned darker by the minute. The silvery Spanish moss seemed weighted with gray, the tendrils of the weeping willows waved like an old woman battling to stand up against the force of the impending storm.

  The cacophony of night sounds echoed around him as he walked up the cobblestone steps toward Cortain’s house, a wood-frame structure with peeling paint and faded curtains. He knocked, then identified himself. Several minutes later, the stubby man appeared in baggy black pants, his tie loosened, an open Bible in his hands.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes and removed photos of each of the victims. “Did you know any of these girls?”

  Cortain adjusted his wire-rim glasses and studied the photos. “No, I’ve never seen any of them before. The paper said they were prostitutes?”

  Jean-Paul nodded curtly. “They might have attended one of your sermons,” Jean-Paul said. “Or maybe you met them elsewhere?”

  Cortain’s eyes bulged with anger. “I’m a man of the cloth, Detective. If I visited the red-light district at any time, it would be to try to save the lost souls.”

  “So you’ve never tried to save these three women?” Jean-Paul asked, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. He didn’t believe for a minute that Cortain was all that holy.

  “I’ve already answered that question. Now, is there anything else? Perhaps you have something on your mind—a confession of your
own? Perhaps you need repentance?”

  He sure as hell did, but he wouldn’t ask Cortain for it. “Tell me about the clan your brother-in-law led. The one where fifty people committed suicide.”

  Cortain’s fingers flitted nervously over the Bible pages. “I was only a young man myself back then.”

  Jean-Paul produced a newspaper clipping. “Then let me refresh your memory. Your brother-in-law used medieval practices. He worshipped Sobek and offered sacrifices to the gods.”

  Cortain arched a brow. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not so long that you’ve forgotten?”

  Sweat rolled down Cortain’s ruddy cheek. “Like I said, I was only a kid myself. It was a confusing time. We all loved my brother-in-law. We were devastated when we lost his leadership.” He choked up. “And then the deaths—my sister was among them.”

  “The man we’re calling the swamp devil is practicing those same medieval practices. He might have belonged to that original clan. You probably knew him.”

  Cortain reached up as if to shut the door. “I don’t know anyone left from the group.”

  Jean-Paul caught the door edge with his hand. “Then you won’t mind if I take a look inside your house, will you?”

  Cortain’s face blanched, but he stepped aside and allowed Jean-Paul to enter. “Go ahead, Detective. Search away. I am a messenger from the heavens. I have nothing to hide.”

  * * *

  R.J. WAS HIDING something.

  The nerves at the back of Britta’s neck tingled. He had made an excuse the day before, begging off from visiting the wax museum with her.

  Then today he’d called and insisted they go together.

  Frank DeCamp, the creator of the masterpieces in wax and director of the wax museum, was now showing her a mask collection made by an artist who used the initials SW. The series of masks on display intrigued her. They were detailed—dark, each one depicting an evil force of black magic.

  DeCamp indicated a second wall behind him. “These masks represent some of the famous ghosts who haunt the city.”

  She studied DeCamp’s features as he described a few of the local ghost legends. She had seen him before, but couldn’t place him. Probably in the market. Or at one of the restaurants.

  Or perhaps from her past. From the bayou?

  She searched her memory, but still couldn’t place his face. His eyes, though, seemed odd. Intense. Sinister. They were different colors. One brown, one hazel. Glassy-looking.

  A scar crisscrossed his hand, another carved a red path up his arm and a third skated up from his shirt to his neck. They resembled bite marks from an animal. Or maybe someone had used his sculpting knives on him?

  “We have a special historical display of religious memorabilia portraying customs through the ages,” he said as he led them to the next exhibit.

  DeCamp showed them into a dark room filled with plastic shrubbery, trees and displays of crocodiles from different regions, then past the biggest bust of Sobek she’d ever seen.

  Several low-lit cordoned-off areas showcased replicas of medieval gods and the history of religion from Judaism to Protestant origins. Opposite those, she noticed a sacrificial scene of natives dancing around an open fire while snakes hissed in a nearby pit. Lambs, calves and wildlife lay slaughtered and bloody on stones and grassy mounds—their predators down on bent knees offering their sacrifices. On a cloth of velvet lay a young girl dressed in virginal white. Four natives held the poles of her bed as if they’d carried her to the cross that they lit in honor of the ultimate sacrifice.

  “Is it not totally captivating?” DeCamp asked in a low voice. “The loved ones were so unselfish.”

  Britta glanced up at DeCamp’s unwavering, intense eyes. Then to R.J. whose face held a smile as he studied the exhibit.

  “What do you think, Britta?” R.J. asked.

  That it resurrected memories from her own near-death experience. “The customs were barbaric.”

  DeCamp laughed. “Some historical practices were indeed so.” He guided them to another room. “Now, you must see the heads. My personal contribution to the museum.”

  The sight of the intricate, lifelike wax figurines stirred Britta’s unease. The busts looked as if they were real heads that had been removed from humans.

  “These are the queens of Mardi Gras,” DeCamp pointed out. “And here are the famous voodoo priestesses that came before us.”

  R.J. brushed his hand along her waist, then tugged her closer to him. “The details are magnificent, are they not, Miss Berger?”

  The man’s choice in mediums disturbed her. It was almost as if he had known each of the women he’d sculpted. As if he’d sculpted them from memory.

  “They look real,” she said in a low voice, “as if the women have been beheaded.”

  DeCamp’s smile sent a chill down her spine. And R.J.’s reaction—the more she learned about him, the more he frightened her.

  And the more she suspected he might be the killer.

  * * *

  DEBRA WANTED TO SEE Teddy’s secret room. All his artwork. Even the pieces he’d never shown another living soul.

  But Teddy could not allow it. His fantasies were private.

  She batted her long brown eyelashes at him. She had worn more makeup today and looked like one of the pretty girls on the street. The ones who usually didn’t give him the time of day.

  But Debra claimed she loved him.

  Maybe she could make him forget the other girls. The ones who’d turned him down. The ones who’d laughed when he’d approached them. Maybe this thing with Debra was the real thing and he could finally love a woman.

  Debra’s eyes floated over him as if she might lap him up like an ice-cream cone on a hot day. He wanted to want her.

  But when she ran her fingers along the inside of his thigh, his body refused to respond.

  Fuck. It was happening again. Just like the other times.

  He had to focus. He couldn’t fail her and have her laugh at him. Then she’d run away.

  Frustrated, he rolled her over and pinned her to the bed. Her eyes flared with desire. “That’s it, baby,” she whispered. “Make love to me, Teddy.”

  For the next twenty minutes, she tried her damnedest to turn him on. Teddy tried his damnedest to let her. He wanted real love but it escaped him.

  And nothing she did with her fingers or mouth was working.

  The Naked Desires magazine, the pictures of the girls…the Secret Confessions. They always aroused him.

  And so did the picture of Britta Berger.

  Frustrated, he left the bed and went into the other room. Debra called his name, but he shut the door and stared at the dolls. So pretty. So perfect. So beautiful.

  The jars of eyes stared back at him. They did look real. He brought them to life.

  He opened the curtain the rest of the way and studied the pictures of the naked girls. At the one of Britta he’d bought from that photographer.

  A smile creased his lips. And his cock finally hardened. He slid his hand down, ready to satisfy himself, but the door opened and Debra stood watching him. Her gaze fell to his hand then to the photograph of Britta.

  Anger reddened her cheeks and she slammed the door in his face.

  He cursed himself then ran after her.

  * * *

  BRITTA KNOTTED HER hands together as R.J. parked in the drive to his house. She had to get him alone. Get inside his house. Get him to open up.

  And find out if he was the killer.

  His house, a gray Victorian with white lattice work, dormer windows and an attic window, was cloaked in darkness. The five-acre piece of property hugged the swampland, shrouded in trees. It looked…haunted.

  He rushed around to open her door and she hesitated as she noticed a crocodile resting lazily in the pool of water below the tupelo tree. Years ago, some rich family probably entertained on the wraparound porch. The ladies wearing sun dresses and bonnets while they sipped mint tea and nibbled
on tiny wafer cookies.

  Now the ghosts of the dead whispered of danger. R.J. took her arm and guided her inside, helping her dodge the uneven ground and sticks the wind had tossed around. A light sprinkling of rain fell on her face, adding to the chill.

  “Why did you choose this place?” Britta asked as they entered the dark foyer. “It’s so deserted out here.”

  “I prefer the quiet,” he replied in a thick voice. “And I like my privacy.”

  Tension clawed at her muscles. All the swamp devil’s victims were found in the bayou in run-down shanties. All in desolate areas just like R.J.’s place.

  He smiled, then walked to the minibar in the corner of the living room while she studied the dark veneered wood paneling. A library of books held works of science fiction and fantasy creatures, while an array of others included titles of erotica, bestiality, S and M and half-human creatures.

  The temptation to run snaked through her. But then she’d never learn the truth. And she was tired of running.

  “Quite an accumulation,” Britta commented.

  “If you think that’s impressive, come and look at my collection of swords.”

  Anxiety tingled inside Britta at his tone, but she followed him to a connecting room. Ancient swords and knives filled the walls. She surveyed the room, noting the sizes, shapes, golds, bronzes and wooden handles. Each weapon had a carved gold plate below specifying its origin, history and former owner.

  “You must have been acquiring these for years.” A gold-plated lancet that resembled the one the killer had left inside the dead women’s hearts caught her eye.

  He smiled. “Yes, that one resembles the one the swamp devil uses, but his are replicas,” he explained. “Cheap imitations.”

  He handed her a crystal wine glass filled with a bloodred merlot. “I’m glad you finally came to my house, Britta.”

  He moved so close she inhaled the scent of his heavy cologne. So close she fought a shiver. “Jean-Paul Dubois mentioned that you grew up in Black Bayou.”

  His eyes turned a smoky hue. “Yes.”

  She sipped her wine, gauging his reaction. “He said you lost your parents to a cult thirteen years ago?”

  The coarse bristles of his five o’clock shadow made a scraping sound as he ran his hand over it. “Yes, that’s true. But then again, you know all about the cult, don’t you, Britta?”