by Rita Herron
She closed her eyes, fighting panic. Seconds later, self-preservation kicked in. She had escaped the bayou monsters. She’d save herself now, too.
Smoke was rising; the flames crawled toward the steps. She covered her mouth with one hand and belly-crawled forward. One step. Two. Another. And another. She batted a patch of flames with her foot, then managed to make it up one step. One more. Then another.
Wood cracked and splintered behind her, trapping her. Panic welled in her chest. The acrid scent of burning wood and metal scorched the air and singed her skin. Another step. Another. A few more and she’d make it.
Then what? Her head felt fuzzy. Not a smart move to go up, but there was nowhere else to go. Make it to the window and crawl out the fire escape. Or jump if she had to. She would not die in this inferno.
Two more steps. Her head spun. Her arms and legs were so heavy she could barely move.
She collapsed on the landing. Wondered if R.J. had confessed. If Jean-Paul had found that missing girl, Debra.
She should have been honest with Jean-Paul. Trusted him for a moment. Despair nearly choked her. She wished she’d spent at least one night in his bed. But death was coming for her.
And she was running out of time before it claimed her.
* * *
HE WATCHED THE FLAMES in horror.
No! It wasn’t time for Britta to die. Not like this. Not without his hands upon her. Not until she looked into his face and realized who he was. And why he’d come for her.
Not until he received the glory.
He started to run in to save her, but the fire truck raced up and police arrived. Too risky for him. They would rescue her.
A shadow moved in the distance. The alley. A man or a woman? The person who’d set the fire? Jesus. It was a woman. And she was running away, slinking into the darkness, leaving the havoc and the pain she’d caused behind her.
Rage splintered through his blood! He’d waited too long for his revenge for this girl to kill her. She had to pay for trying to ruin his plan.
Mindless with anger, he tore off after her.
As he ran through the alley, the night he’d chased Adrianna into the bayou bled through his fury. It was as if that night was happening all over again.
He was back in Black Bayou. Chasing the woman who’d hurt him. The backwoods screamed with the sound of the gators chomping. Bones crunching. Drums pounded out the ancient chants, the voodoo priestess hummed her spell and the witches made black magic.
He had tried so hard to be good. The perfect son. To please his father.
But the goddamn girls had taunted him just as the whores did today. Dancing naked. Skimming their hands over a man’s body. Showing off flesh and skin that made a man’s mouth water. Looking at him with lust in their eyes.
He had to destroy them.
The girl paused and leaned over to catch her breath in the corner alley. He grinned.
He had her.
Another one he’d add to his kingdom. At Mardi Gras, he would offer the ultimate sacrifice. The one who had started it all. The one who would redeem him from hell and allow him to enter the pearly gates of heaven.
ACOLD KNOT OF FEAR cramped Jean-Paul’s stomach as he ran toward the burning Naked Desires building. The entire downstairs was in flames, smoke swirling through the sky and street. Bystanders gawked as the firemen attached hoses and began to douse the flames. Two rescue men darted toward the back entrance and Jean-Paul followed.
“Britta Berger lives upstairs!” Jean-Paul yelled. “We have to rescue her.” He lunged forward but the first guy grabbed him.
“Stand back and move out of the way, sir.”
“Detective Dubois.” Jean-Paul flashed his badge. “I know the woman. She might be trapped inside.”
“We’ll get her,” the fireman shouted. “Wait here!”
The bigger man attacked the door with an ax while Jean-Paul ran to the side of the building where the fire escape snaked upward. He didn’t see flames in the upstairs window yet. Maybe she was safe.
But why hadn’t she climbed down the fire escape?
Sweat poured down his face from the heat, but he grabbed a metal trash can, scooted it over, then climbed on top of it so he could reach the fire escape. He caught the wrought-iron and swung himself upward. Once he latched on to the rail, he took the stairs two at a time. Smoke curled from the top of the building. Inside, wood shattered and boards splintered. Where the hell was Britta?
A crowd gathered around the side, gawking and watching. Someone shouted at him to stop but he forged on. Seconds later, Jean-Paul kicked the window and sent glass raining to the inside.
“Britta! Where are you?”
He covered his mouth with a handkerchief, then climbed through the window and rushed through the apartment. She wasn’t inside.
His heart raced as he hurried to the front door and checked the stairwell. Darkness cloaked the stairs while orange flames flickered and crawled toward his feet. The building was so old it would go up in minutes.
“Britta!”
Flames hissed and a board crashed to the floor in the hallway. He heard a low moan and spotted Britta lying on the landing. Heat scalded his face as he ran and checked her over.
Blood dotted her head and she moaned. “I’ve got you, baby.” He hauled her up into his arms, turned and ran up the steps to her apartment. Fire nipped at his heels, eating the wood behind him.
A fireman met him at the top of the steps. “I’ll take her.”
“No, I’ve got her!” Jean-Paul pushed past him and carried her to the window. He climbed through the opening and started down the fire escape. She whimpered and he clutched her closer, his heart beating wildly.
“Jean-Paul…”
“Hang on. We’ll be down in a second.”
She snuggled into him, and faded back into unconsciousness. Jean-Paul’s lungs tightened as the smoke choked him. A few minutes later and Britta could have died.
He climbed down the last two steps, then over onto the fireman’s ladder and hurried to the ground, then ran around the building toward the ambulance. The paramedic jumped into action: helped him settle Britta onto a stretcher, placed an oxygen mask over her face, then checked her vitals.
Through the pandemonium, his partner headed toward him.
“Is she all right?” Carson asked.
Jean-Paul gripped his hands into fists. “I think so. But it was close.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Get a couple of locals and canvass the crowd. See if anyone noticed anything.”
“You think the fire was intentional?”
Jean-Paul shrugged. “My gut says this wasn’t an accident. Either someone was attacking the magazine or trying to kill Britta. Or both.”
* * *
BRITTA’S HEAD POUNDED. She struggled to open her eyes, but a haze of smoke and chaos clouded her vision. What had happened?
The last hour was a blur but she remembered seeing the fire. Jean-Paul…where was he? She was in an ambulance on the street. She whispered Jean-Paul’s name, searching for his face. Then suddenly he was beside her.
“Shh,” Jean-Paul murmured next to her ear. “You’re safe now, Britta. I’m here.”
She clutched his hand. She’d almost died tonight. She never wanted to let him go.
“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?
* * *
FOUR 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?
* * *
REVEREND CORTAIN 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.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THREE 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. Anot
her. 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.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL 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.