by Rita Herron
“But when it came time to take the poison, you were afraid to die,” Damon added.
“So you watched the others?” Disgust laced Jean-Paul’s voice.
Cortain nodded, and stared at his feet. For the first time since she’d met the reverend, real pain and grief twisted his face.
“I still hear the women and children’s cries at night. The ghosts of the dead haunt me. The men who gave up their lives…I had to do something to make amends.”
“So you became a preacher?” Britta asked.
He nodded and swiped at his tears with a handkerchief. “I swore I’d do everything I could to spread the word and fight evil.”
“So you tried to stop us from publishing Naked Desires?” Britta asked.
“Yes.” Cortain sighed. “But I’m not a serial killer.”
“Did you set fire to the building that housed the magazine?” Jean-Paul asked.
He shook his head. “No. But there are some in the congregation who blame Miss Berger and the magazine for corrupting the town.”
Jean-Paul grabbed Cortain’s collar. “Because you planted the idea in their heads. I want names.”
Cortain nodded, his look haggard. “You know them, Detective, but you can’t really blame them. They’re the mothers of the swamp devil’s victims.”
* * *
JEAN-PAUL WAS CONFUSED. He’d thought Debra Schmale had attacked Britta and set the fire. But what if the mothers had started the fire?
Damon was scrutinizing him, too. His brother had known about Britta. And he had looked like a fool in front of Damon.
God, how had he let himself lose perspective? He’d slept with her. Had listened to her explanation with compassion.
Yet she still hadn’t trusted him with the entire truth.
No, his brother and a murder suspect had delivered that blow. They should take his badge for this.
Still…her horror story turned him inside out. As much as he’d seen on the streets, the idea of a cult actually sacrificing a young girl to save themselves, in the name of religion, was even more vile than he’d imagined.
And how had Britta survived after she’d run away? Where had her mother been when the group was about to murder her daughter?
And now…geesh. He had to bring the mothers of the victims in for questioning. They’d already been through hell.
But if they’d set that fire, no matter their justifications, they had almost killed Britta.
She wasn’t the bad guy here—she had been a victim.
“Jean-Paul?”
“I’m going to have the Erickson woman and Ginger Holliday’s mother picked up for questioning.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Britta murmured.
Jean-Paul’s phone rang, slicing into the tension. Cortain’s head was bowed. He didn’t look godly now, only worn and demented.
Jean-Paul checked the number. His sister Stephanie. His pulse hammered in his throat as he connected the call.
“Jean-Paul…”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Catherine,” she said in a ragged whisper. “She never made it home last night. Shawn and Chrissy are here and they’re both frantic.”
Sweat exploded on Jean-Paul’s forehead. God no, his sister had to be okay. Yet on the heels of his denial, reality whispered.
Another woman had been taken….
Pure panic ballooned in his chest, robbing his air. He leaned against the porch rail for a moment, his head spinning. No…not Catherine. Not his baby sister.
The swamp devil couldn’t have kidnapped her.
“Jean-Paul, what’s wrong?” Damon asked.
His brother’s voice dragged him from his shock. Stephanie was calling his name on the other end of the line.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At Mom and Dad’s.” Her voice broke, laden with tears. “I’ve had a bad feeling for days, Jean-Paul. A premonition that something would happen to tear apart our family. But this…God, not this.”
Stephanie and her feelings. He wanted to pretend they didn’t mean anything but she’d been right before.
“Damon’s with me,” Jean-Paul choked out. “I’ll call Antwaun and we’ll meet you at home.”
He disconnected the call and turned to his brother. “Catherine’s missing. We have to go.”
Damon blanched white and cursed. Britta reached for his arm to soothe him, but he stiffened and refused her touch.
Jean-Paul glared at Cortain. As much as he wanted to vent his frustration on the man, he didn’t think Cortain was the killer.
“Where is your nephew, Reverend Tatum’s son?” Jean-Paul asked.
Cortain’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know.”
Jean-Paul gripped the man by the collar. He’d choke the answer out of him if he had to. “Tell me the truth, Cortain. If he hurts my sister, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”
Cortain’s eyes bulged. “I…really don’t know,” he rasped. “I haven’t seen the boy in years. Not since a few days after my brother-in-law died.”
“What happened to him?” Jean-Paul asked.
Cortain sucked in a sharp breath. “He was punished by the clan. Some of them…they thought he had warned the girl about the sacrificial ceremony, so they forced him to take the trial by ordeal.”
“What the hell is that?” Damon barked.
“It’s another ancient custom. They sent him into the bayou, he was forced to cross the river. The gators attacked him, meaning he didn’t pass. But he didn’t die, so they banned him from the clan.”
And turned him into a killer, Jean-Paul thought. And he’d come back to exact revenge on Britta.
And now him—through Catherine, his baby sister.
Lucinda’s accusations echoed from the grave. Your work puts us all in danger.
And so had his personal involvement with Britta.
His mind swirled for answers. Who was the swamp devil? If not Justice or Cortain, then who? Keith was still in custody. Randy Swain maybe? Perhaps that guy Teddy. Debra Schmale had met with him right before she’d turned up dead.
Britta had seen him almost daily. Catherine and Chrissy had bought dolls from him, as well. He could easily have approached her without her suspecting a thing.
Bile rose in his throat. The images of the other dead women floated before him in a foggy haze of horror. No, he couldn’t let the man do that to Catherine.
* * *
THE DAY DRAGGED BY, the waiting excruciating. Britta moved through each painful hour on autopilot.
Jean-Paul’s sister was missing. Police were combing the bayou. The dollmaker Teddy hadn’t been found. And Catherine might be hurting or worse.
It was all Britta’s fault.
Damon’s accusing eyes sought hers in the dawning light. She wanted to plead with him for understanding, assure him and Jean-Paul that she hadn’t meant to hurt them. But the apologies lay lodged in her throat, along with the tears she refused to cry. Terror for Catherine had completely immobilized her.
On the other hand, Jean-Paul and Damon had both taken charge. They rushed into their parents’ with Antwaun on their heels. Stephanie was calming their mother. Jean-Paul’s father paced the den, looking shaken and in shock. Shawn had put their daughter to bed and promised to wake her when her mother arrived home. He hadn’t revealed how worried they all were, but his face was ashen and he obviously hadn’t slept all night.
Jean-Paul phoned the precinct, filed a missing persons report on Catherine and had an APB issued for Teddy. He and Damon had also consulted with forensics and the police in Savannah and Nashville and he’d called Mazie Burgess.
Ironic. They’d avoided the press for the past few days. Now they were begging for their help. Within minutes, the camera crew arrived.
Mazie stroked Jean-Paul’s arm, leaning toward him in an intimate gesture that made Britta’s stomach clench. Mazie was attractive, businesslike, Jean-Paul’s equal. They would make a good match. She would fit in
to his family.
A place where it was more obvious by the minute that she didn’t belong.
“Tell me everything, Jean-Paul,” Mazie said. “I understand that the killer has been contacting Miss Berger?”
Jean-Paul’s dark tormented eyes found hers. “Yes. Apparently they met when she was a child. But she hasn’t seen him in years and doesn’t know what he looks like now.” He showed her the sketch of Teddy to run on the air, then explained about the cult, Reverend Cortain and the suicide pact.
“We think his nephew, the son of the preacher back then, may be the killer. It’s possible he’s this guy Teddy, but we can’t be sure. I spoke with forensics again. They found traces of acrylic paint and pancake makeup at the second crime scene, underneath Ginger Holliday’s fingernails, and at the scenes in Savannah.”
“So he might be a makeup artist by day?” Mazie asked.
“That or he’s into another art form. At best, he’s using the makeup to disguise himself.” The acrylic—hell, with all the artists in town, they had to narrow down where it was bought, the exact type and its use…Damon had guys working that angle now.
Britta twined her fingers together, feeling helpless. Today was Mardi Gras. A day when half the town would be in disguise, wearing masks. How would they ever find him?
“He wants me,” Britta said. “Let me go on the air.”
The commotion in the room came to an abrupt halt. Jean-Paul’s mother looked up at her with tear-stained eyes. His sister Stephanie bit down on her lip but refrained from a reply. Shawn gave her an accusatory look that matched Damon’s and Antwaun’s.
“We can arrange a meeting,” she said into the silence.
Tension whistled through the room as if a ghost had walked by. Jean-Paul shook his head, but Damon caught his arm. “Jean-Paul, think about it.”
Antwaun cleared his throat. “It’s worth a shot. This is our sister we’re talking about.”
A muscle ticked in Jean-Paul’s jaw. Jean-Paul knew they were right.
But Britta knew he wouldn’t ask her to take a chance. He was after all, a hero at heart.
He couldn’t save everyone, though. And Catherine, who had a daughter, was an innocent in all this. She didn’t deserve to die.
“Let’s get a trace in place,” Jean-Paul commanded. “We’ll make a plea, offer a ransom and give out phone numbers for the killer to call or for leads.”
He was calm, poised. Seething below the surface. Britta could read him so well.
God, how she loved the man.
And his family…they huddled together as if they were one. Painted a heartrending picture as the camera zoomed in to capture their terrorized faces.
“Please,” Shawn said. “My daughter needs her mother. Send Catherine back to us alive.”
Mazie took the mike next. “Please help this family and N’Awlins stop this reign of terror by the swamp devil. If you have any information regarding the recent murders, about a suspect. If you’ve seen this woman, Catherine Dubois—” the TV station flashed a photo of her, then Teddy on the screen “—or this man, please call.” She repeated the phone number, then they displayed it on the screen again.
Chrissy, Catherine’s little girl, suddenly appeared at the bottom of the steps in tears. “Daddy, where’s Mommy?” Her big eyes stared at the reporter in horror. She’d heard the news report. Knew her mother was missing.
Shawn rushed to her and tried to comfort her. And the family encircled her.
“Please, Uncle Jean-Paul,” Chrissy cried. “Get my mommy back.”
Antwaun gestured toward Britta. “Come on, Jean-Paul, give Britta a shot. It might be the only chance we have.”
Jean-Paul jerked his finger toward the kitchen. “In there, now. We have to talk.”
The family moved together into the kitchen, leaving her behind. Mazie Burgess raised her brows in a confused frown.
Britta had started this mess thirteen years ago when she’d killed a man and run into the bayou. She had to make things right.
As soon as the Duboises were out of earshot, she turned to the reporter, then took the mike.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL TRIED DESPERATELY to soothe Chrissy’s cries. Finally his mother took her in her arms and she seemed to calm. But the little girl’s red-rimmed eyes held expectations, and Jean-Paul wanted to erase her fear.
“Why are you protecting that Berger woman when your own sister’s life is at stake?” Anger deepened Antwaun’s voice.
“You don’t understand,” Jean-Paul argued.
“I understand that Catherine is in trouble,” Shawn snapped, “and that we’re standing here arguing over whether this stranger should help us.”
Jean-Paul’s mother leaned into his father. He patted his wife’s back. “We have to stick together,” his father said. “Stay strong. Trust our boys to find her.”
“Britta is more than a stranger. Isn’t she, Jean-Paul?” Stephanie asked.
Jean-Paul frowned, wincing internally. How could he possibly make them understand his relationship to Britta when he didn’t understand it himself? She was so complicated, so lost.
So brave.
How could he trade one life for another?
“She’s a victim here,” he said in a gruff voice. He filled them in on what had happened to Britta as a child, not surprised when horror struck their faces.
“We can’t ask her to face that man,” his mother said softly.
“Mom, it may be our only chance to save Catherine,” Antwaun argued.
“It’s going to be night soon,” Damon interjected. “We need to move.”
“Let her make a plea,” Antwaun suggested. “Agree to meet him somewhere. We’ll wire her, follow her and let her lead us to him.”
Jean-Paul wavered slightly. Every hour that passed lessened the chances they had of finding his sister alive. No telling what kind of pain the man was inflicting upon her….
But bartering an exchange for Britta, sacrificing her? He’d be no better than her mother…. It was too risky. “Even if we set up Britta, if the guy sees us tailing her, he might kill Catherine anyway.”
Tension vibrated between his family as they exchanged frantic looks. The air was charged with the question nobody wanted to ask. What if Catherine was already dead?
* * *
Mardi Gras day
* * *
THE PARTIES WERE IN FULL swing. Children raced to catch candy as the parade leaders tossed to the street. Beer and liquor flowed freely. A maze of drunken partiers wearing Mardi Gras masks and costumes overflowed the bars.
But the Dubois family and Britta Berger were not in the Quarter. Not celebrating. No, they were huddled together discussing him. Wondering who he was. Where he was. What he had done with their beloved sister.
Laughter bubbled in his throat.
After running from the press for days now, Jean-Paul Dubois had finally gone public. To save his sister.
Would he trade Adrianna to have Catherine back?
He fingered the mask he’d designed for Britta. He’d most enjoyed painting the wide, stricken eyes.
Why hadn’t she appeared on the news? Didn’t she know that it was her he wanted? That today, Mardi Gras, the day of celebration, was the day he had to make his sacrifice?
He peeled back the mask he’d donned when he’d captured Catherine and breathed out deeply as he stared at his scarred face in the mirror. The dead, mangled skin, the reddened patches, his disfigurement—it had all been Adrianna’s fault. Her fault that he’d never been normal, that the women hadn’t wanted him, that they’d turned away in horror.
That he’d been forced to hide in disguise.
Catherine moaned in the background and he glanced over his shoulder. He should show her his hideous face, watch the terror streak her eyes.
But the news reporter’s voice broke into the quiet. “Folks, Britta Berger is with us now. She has been in contact with the killer and wants to make a statement.”
His pulse clam
ored as he turned toward the rickety set in the corner. Bloodlust thickened in his veins as Britta appeared on screen.
She was finally going to talk to him. When she finished, he’d give her a call. Tell her that if she wanted to save Catherine, she had to meet him in the bayou.
Back to the place where it had all begun.
The bayou killed. It took lives. And gave them, as well.
It was his home.
And the place where Adrianna would die.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“MY NAME IS BRITTA BERGER. I want to address the man who has Catherine Dubois-Cramer,” Britta said into the microphone. “You knew me as Adrianna Small. We belonged to the same cult a long time ago. And the night your father was killed, the night I shot him, I ran away.” The reporter’s eyebrows lifted and shock settled on her face. But Britta ignored her reaction and forged on.
If she went to jail after this, so be it. She could live with whatever happened, as long as her plan worked and they saved Catherine.
“It’s me you want,” she said calmly. “Not Catherine. She is innocent in all this. She has a daughter herself. You remember what it’s like to lose a parent and you don’t want to do that to this sweet little girl.” She prayed he still had some conscience left. “Call me on the cell phone listed and let’s talk. I’ll meet you anywhere you want.” She lowered her voice. “Please just don’t hurt Catherine. Let me take her place.”
Mazie was frowning. The cameraman gaped as if she’d lost her mind. But Britta had hidden long enough.
And Jean-Paul…he still blamed himself for his wife’s death. She wouldn’t let him lose his sister, especially because of her.
The reporter repeated the number again, and Britta startled as her cell phone rang. She grabbed it quickly and pressed it to her ear. “Hello.”
“I saw you on television, Adrianna.”
She angled herself away from the reporter’s watchful eyes. “Is Catherine all right?”
A long pause. “For now.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“No.” His quick, low reply sent a shudder through her. “You want her released?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll meet me?”
“Yes. Wherever you say.”
“You have to come alone. “His voice was harsh, muffled. “If you bring Dubois or anyone else—police, the feds, even that reporter—Catherine will die.”