by Rita Herron
His phone jangled and he checked the digital display. Antwaun. He clicked to answer, “Jean-Paul here. What’s up, little brother?”
“I located that pimp you wanted to talk to. Shack.”
“Yeah?”
“You won’t believe this, Jean-Paul, but guess who just went in to see him?”
“I’m not in the mood for games, Antwaun. If you have something, tell me.”
“The Berger woman.”
Jean-Paul’s throat closed. Britta? God, what was she doing there?
He’d left her in bed, naked and sated. Scared, too, although she wouldn’t admit it. And he’d told her to stay put.
“Jean-Paul, are you there, man?”
His brother’s voice hurled him back to reality. “Yeah. Where are you?”
Antwaun recited an address in the low-rent district and Jean-Paul headed to his car. He had to get to Britta. Find out why she’d do something so foolish. She was in danger, for God’s sake. And the killer picked his girls off the streets.
Did she have a death wish or what?
Anger spurned him forward and sent him racing toward the pimp’s place. He took the corner on two wheels, his heart pounding as he steered into a side alley and parked. The warehouse building had been divided into apartment units. The street was dark, the smell rancid.
Antwaun met him outside at the corner. “She’s been in there about half an hour.”
“I don’t understand what she’s doing,” Jean-Paul said.
Voices echoed from the steps. Jean-Paul stepped into the shadows and waited. A big burly black man stepped outside, his hand folded around Britta’s arm.
“Get lost,” the man bellowed. “And if you mess with Shack’s girls again, you’ll be sorry.”
Britta raised her chin, angry. “I’m not leaving without the girl.”
Jean-Paul and Antwaun exchanged curious looks, then Jean-Paul stepped forward. “What’s going on?”
The burly man cut his gaze down to Britta, then his right hand inched toward his back pocket.
“Police. I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jean-Paul warned.
Antwaun circled the man and patted him down. A smile flickered on his mouth when he held up a .45. “You have a license for this?”
The guy glared at Antwaun but released Britta and stepped away. “Look, man, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then don’t threaten Miss Berger again.”
“No problem.” The man sent him a sour look but backed away.
Jean-Paul turned to Britta. “What in the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay at my house.”
“The killer called after you left. He has another girl.”
Jean-Paul knotted his fists. “Why didn’t you phone me?”
“I thought I’d see if one of Shack’s girls was missing. If we had a name, it would be easier to find her.”
Antwaun glanced at Jean-Paul, but he ignored his brother’s curious look.
“Was he any help?” Antwaun asked.
Britta shrugged. “He’s checking with them. I also showed him the sketch of Teddy. He’s going to pass it to the girls. Maybe they’ve seen something that will help us.”
Jean-Paul moved closer to her, then reached for her arm. “Dammit, Britta, I told you to let me handle things.”
“I was trying to help.”
“How?” Anger hardened his tone. “By getting yourself killed?”
She licked her dry lips; a soft rain was beginning to fall. “Shack wouldn’t hurt me.”
Jean-Paul indicated the gun Antwaun had confiscated and the guy who’d been manhandling her.
Britta winced. “I’m all right.”
Jean-Paul tugged at her hand. “Let’s go.”
Britta dug in her heels. “Not yet. I’m not leaving without the girl inside.”
“What girl?”
“She’s a runaway,” Britta said. “I have to help her.”
Jean-Paul’s gaze locked with hers, then shot to Antwaun’s. His little brother was studying him intently, but he ignored the questions in his eyes. He finally understood Britta. She had been lost herself, had almost ended up on the streets. Now she hid behind a bad-girl disguise while she helped others.
His throat swelled with emotion. He started to speak, then had to clear his throat to get rid of the knot. “Show me where she is and we’ll take care of her together.”
Britta gripped his arm, her voice soft and pleading. “Jean-Paul, please, if she sees the cops, she’ll run. Let me do this my way.”
“She doesn’t have to know who I am.”
Britta hesitated. “Then just stand back and let me do the talking. If she agrees, you can drive us to Miss Lottie’s.”
Miss Lottie?
“Yes. She helped me. She’ll give her a place to stay. Help her get on her feet. Maybe convince her to call her parents.”
The same Miss Lottie who’d taken Britta in years ago. She must have been her salvation. He wanted to thank her personally. If she hadn’t helped, what would have happened to Britta?
The reality of their situation sobered him. What would happen to her if he failed her as he had his wife and the other swamp devil victims?
* * *
BRITTA APPROACHED the girl with caution. She looked hungry, dirty and terrified.
Shack had protested, but when Jean-Paul intervened and pulled his badge, he had become resigned.
“I can’t go back home,” the girl whispered. “My parents…I can’t face them.”
“What’s your name?” Britta asked.
The teenager’s green eyes appeared huge in her slender face. “Please…”
“I won’t call your folks right now,” Britta promised. “But please, just tell me your first name. I want to help you.”
The girl’s chin quivered. “It’s…Carol.”
Britta smoothed a strand of blond hair behind the girl’s ear. She had a half-dozen earrings crawling up and down her lobe, a hickey on her neck and bruises along her jaw. No telling what atrocities she had suffered so far.
“Okay, Carol, that’s a start.” She smiled and took the girl’s tiny hand in her own. “My friend, Jean-Paul, and I, are going to drive you to another friend of mine’s. Her name is Miss Lottie. She’s someone really special.”
“She takes in girls who work on the streets?”
Britta barely suppressed a shudder. “Yes and no, sweetheart. She’s not a madam. She gives you a place to stay. Some meals. A clean start.” Along with counseling and advice. If Carol’s parents were worth calling, Miss Lottie would figure that out. Britta had no desire to put her back in an abusive home or throw her to the wolves of foster care.
Carol pulled her ratty sweat jacket around her trembling frame. “But she’ll think I’m awful. I’m not cleaned up.”
Britta put her arm around Carol’s shoulders and helped her to stand. “Honey, Miss Lottie has seen everything. She can’t be shocked.”
“How do you know?”
Britta’s chest squeezed. Jean-Paul was watching. She hated to reveal any more of herself. Because Miss Lottie had not had a prim existence herself. Another reminder that she and Jean-Paul were worlds apart.
But Carol needed the truth. The very reason Britta had put herself out here now. The very reason she would continue to do so when Jean-Paul Dubois went back to his perfect family and hero status in the town.
“Because Miss Lottie took me in a long time ago, honey.” Britta hugged Carol. “She was the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Jean-Paul was polite but quiet and he allowed Britta to coax the girl into the car. She tried to read his thoughts, but he’d slammed that ironclad mask of control over his face.
A deep-seated anger darkened his eyes when he saw Miss Lottie’s shack. Britta should have warned him that the housing wouldn’t be fancy or up to the Dubois standards. But it had sufficed for her and it would for Carol for the night.
Miss Lottie had connections to folks who helped young girls like Carol
. Some were social workers who abided by the law. Others worked underground to help women and girls start over if they needed a new life or identity. The arrangements were made in private. Britta never asked. She just delivered the girls to Miss Lottie and trusted her to do the rest.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL DIDN’T ASK questions as Britta escorted the young girl to her friend’s house. But his cop instincts urged him to find out the girl’s last name. Who her parents were. And how to contact them.
They must be worried sick.
He drummed his fingers on the dash, his hands beating a staccato rhythm like the rain pounding the sidewalk. It was almost dawn and another girl was missing.
He had no idea who.
And Britta and he were at odds again. Two people who’d slept together who didn’t know how to scale the walls that stood between them. He wanted to tear them down but anger and bitterness toward the people who’d hurt her kept him tied in a knot.
Britta hugged the elderly woman at the door, then rushed through the rain to his car. He gritted his teeth, aching to take her in his arms.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she shut the door.
“We should call her parents,” he said gruffly. “They’re probably out of their minds with concern.”
Britta ran a hand through her damp hair. She looked exhausted and worried. And so damn beautiful he wanted to hold her. But he had to convince her that she couldn’t go running off in the night, confronting pimps and their bodyguards, putting herself in danger, forgetting that a killer was out there. Targeting her—maybe next.
“Jean-Paul, trust me this time. If Miss Lottie decides that Carol’s parents are worth calling, she’ll do everything within her power to reunite them.”
“Everything except call the damn police.” Frustration sharpened his voice. “For God’s sake, Britta, hundreds of girls go missing every year. The system is clogged with them. If she’d cooperate with us, it would make our jobs a hell of a lot easier.”
Britta’s eyes shimmered with rage. “Yeah, but the cops would send them back. Some of their homes are horrible, Jean-Paul. The parents, they’re the reason the girls run away. They don’t deserve to have them back.”
“But the others—”
She cut him off. “I told you to trust me this once. Miss Lottie will get to the truth. She’ll do what’s right.”
He wanted to trust her. And he did trust that she wanted to help this girl.
Dammit. He had pegged Britta wrong from the beginning….
His phone buzzed, and he read Damon’s number, then connected the call.
“Jean-Paul, listen, I may have found something. Meet me at Reverend Cortain’s house.”
Jean-Paul pressed the gas pedal. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
THE EARLY MORNING FOG rose through the bayou like misty rain above a grave. The bayou stretched beyond, the backwoods filled with the mysteries of the night. Rain drizzled onto the ground, making the Spanish moss droop with its weight. Britta’s shoulders sagged with despair. She had to confess the truth.
But she couldn’t find her voice for the deluge of dread that filled her.
“Damon’s meeting us at Cortain’s to question the reverend. If the killer is from the cult where the suicide pacts took place, then Cortain may know who he is. Or he may be Cortain himself.” Jean-Paul pulled up to Cortain’s house, then cut the engine. “He already has a God complex. And his background and history fit the profile. The suicides could have sent him over the edge.”
She touched his hand wanting to explain, but his brother pulled up in a dark sedan. Damon’s look turned to ice when he saw her with Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul climbed out, then started around to her side but she climbed out herself, her stomach knotting as the three of them rushed through the rain up the porch steps.
“What did you find out?” Jean-Paul asked.
Damon shot Britta an odd look but the door opened, cutting off his reply. She felt as if she’d just walked to her own trial and had already been judged and declared guilty.
Reverend Cortain stood in the doorway, a black and gold cape billowing around him. Images of Brother Tatum flashed before Britta’s eyes. His haunting voice had chilled her to the bone. And when she’d realized that he intended to sacrifice her in a medieval ritual, she’d been terrified.
Cortain greeted them with a smirk on his face. “What can I do for you?”
Jean-Paul introduced his brother and Damon spoke up. “We need to talk to you about your brother-in-law’s death.”
“Really?” Reverend Cortain’s gaze pierced Britta. “So you’re finally going to confess and ask forgiveness for your sins?”
Britta bit her lip, but Jean-Paul grabbed the reverend’s arm. “Cut the bull, Cortain. You feel guilty for those suicides? Did you push your brother-in-law to kill himself first, or did you kill him so you could take over his clan and gain his power?”
Reverend Cortain’s gray eyebrows furrowed. “Me?” A nasty chuckle reverberated through the air. “You’ve got your facts wrong, Detective.”
Britta’s heart clenched as Cortain leered down at her.
“Your girlfriend here, she was the who murdered my brother-in-law. If you don’t believe me, ask her yourself.”
* * *
HE SMILED AS HE STUDIED the woman.
She was terrified. Trembling. All tied up and waiting for him to begin. Mardi Gras had finally come.
But this woman was not his type.
No, it was time to take Britta.
And he had the perfect plan. The way to hurt Dubois for interfering. For turning his Adrianna into the whore she should have been for him.
Laughter bubbled in his chest. All these years and Britta had remained uninvolved. Had kept her identity a secret. The truth about who she was a lie.
But hell was about to break loose for her. And they would meet again.
He unpocketed his phone and clicked the detective’s number. Wished he could be a fly on the wall to see the man’s face when Dubois learned who he had kidnapped.
But at least he’d get to hear the pain in Dubois’s voice when the detective learned that his sister’s life lay in his hands.
And that if he wanted her back, he had to sacrifice Britta.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CORTAIN’S ADMISSION HAD thrust Britta back in time.
It was D-Day—the day Adrianna Small had died.
The day the thirteen-year-old had killed a man so Britta could survive.
Britta had relived that day so many times, but hearing Reverend Cortain accuse her in such a cold way resurrected her guilt full force. She could see the blood spurting from the man’s chest….
You’re a bad girl, Britta.
Yes, she was. She was a murderer.
She’d never be able to escape that truth, no matter how far she’d run. No matter how many other girls she saved.
“Britta?”
Jean-Paul’s gruff voice made her head jerk up. She heard the shock in his steely tone and knew that she had waited too long to confide in him.
“Tell him,” Reverend Cortain bellowed. “It’s about time you owned up to what you did, young lady.”
The rain intensified, pounding the wooden porch rails. Droplets stung her cheeks as she angled her face toward Jean-Paul.
“What is he talking about?” Jean-Paul asked.
“I told you I found something,” Damon said.
“You killed Reverend Tatum, didn’t you, Miss Berger?”
Jean-Paul’s eyes flashed with pain. Britta started to reach for his arm to steady her shaking legs, but he stiffened. “Britta?”
“It’s true,” she admitted in a low voice. “Reverend Tatum wanted me to marry his son.” Her voice grew stronger. “He also intended to sacrifice me that day. I heard the other women in the cult whispering about the rituals. The fire. The chants. The covens. They were alive in the group and believed in black magic. And they were terrified of the gator
s.”
“So they sacrificed young girls to them?” Jean-Paul asked in an incredulous voice.
“It was the ancient beliefs,” Reverend Cortain interjected. “My brother-in-law was old-school. He thought that getting rid of sin today required taking religion—values—back to the basic beliefs of our forefathers.”
Jean-Paul’s eyes looked stormy in the predawn light. Damon’s condemning look twisted her insides. Behind them, the wind whistled through the tupelos and a gator hissed its attack call. Britta remembered Jean-Paul’s face filled with passion for her, then watched his feelings die as he saw her in a new light.
Just as the photographer had said, she had darkness, evil beneath the beauty. Ugliness in her soul. And now it was exposed.
“I tried to pull away from Reverend Tatum,” Britta admitted. “But he grabbed me and was going to force me to go through with the rituals. So I panicked. I…” She hesitated, mentally replaying the scene. “I grabbed the shotgun and aimed it at him. I was shaking so hard. And he lunged at me and the gun went off. I…shot him.” Her voice broke. “Blood was everywhere. People were screaming. I…threw the gun toward the fire and then ran.”
Jean-Paul’s gaze remained steadfast on her face, his body stiff and rigid, his jaw a tight mask, his eyes glittering with rage.
“We searched the bayou all night for you,” Reverend Cortain said. “We decided that the gators ate you and we were glad.”
Jean-Paul jerked his head toward Cortain. “So you’ve hated her all these years. Now you’re punishing her by killing innocent women, by continuing the sacrificial practices of your brother-in-law?”
“No.” Cortain leaned against the doorjamb. He looked old and tired. “I’m trying to atone for my own sins. After my brother-in-law died, the cult fell apart. People were lost without their leader. There was dissension. Some of the women spoke out about the marriages, protested men having more than one wife.”
“And you suggested the suicide pact?” Damon asked.
Cortain nodded. “I was a young man, an idealist myself.”