Say You Love Me

by Rita Herron

  Teddy rubbed a hand over his runny nose, his body shaking. “I…wait a minute. I’ve seen them in the market. They bought some of my dolls.”

  “That’s right.” Jean-Paul gripped the man’s arm with steely fingers. “Now, tell me what you did with Catherine. Her little girl wants her back.”

  Teddy’s Adam’s apple bulged. “I didn’t do anything with them. W…w…why would I?”

  “Because you wanted to hurt Britta Berger and me,” Jean-Paul snapped.

  Teddy shook his head violently. “I…I’d n…ever hurt Miss B…erger. I…l…ike her.” He hugged the edge of the chair. “And I’m not the only w…w…one your s…sister bought from. She bought a m…m…ask from the guy next to me.”

  Jean-Paul had questioned the guy one time on the street after the first murder, but he’d had an alibi. And the masks he made were different from the one they’d found at the scene. But maybe he’d missed something.

  “What’s this guy’s name?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Sed…rick…” Teddy whined. “Whitehead. He…also paints eyes.”

  “What do you mean he paints eyes?”

  “He’s an oc…ularist. Said he started p…ainting dolls’ eyes like me, then got asked to apprentice with an ocularist.”

  “Prosthetic eyes are made from acrylic now,” Damon said. “I’ll check him out.” Damon’s heels clicked as he left the room, and Jean-Paul paced across the floor. He hoped to hell they weren’t wasting time.

  Britta had been gone for over an hour. No phone calls. No citings by the cops. No confession from Teddy. In fact, the poor guy seemed genuinely upset that Britta was missing.

  He felt like he was coming apart, that he might blow if something didn’t break soon.

  He stepped into the hallway and dialed Stephanie. Maybe she’d heard something.

  “She hasn’t called,” Stephanie said. “Do you have any leads, Jean-Paul?”

  Jean-Paul sighed, his nerves strung tight. “We’re working on it. We’ve received a few calls about the other victims. I have uniforms checking out the leads. And we’re interrogating a suspect now.” And weeding out the crank calls. He’d expected some after they’d aired on the news, but the craziness of Mardi Gras had accentuated the problem.

  “We’re also looking for an ocularist now. Apparently, he also makes masks and sells them on the street.”

  “I’ve seen his work. He has a display in the wax museum,” Stephanie said. “There’s something eerie about that place. About his work.”

  Lieutenant Phelps strode toward him, then gestured for Jean-Paul to meet him in the hallway, so he promised to keep Stephanie posted, then hung up. Phelps was already pissed at Jean-Paul for losing his gun to a civilian. Now his job was on the line.

  But he didn’t give a damn. He’d do whatever necessary to save Catherine and Britta.

  “Did you learn anything from Swain?”

  Phelps shrugged. “He admitted that he’s not who he says he is. Apparently he stole that song, ‘Heartache Blues,’ from a chick who dumped him in Nashville.” Phelps popped an antacid. “He’s a liar, a cheat and a crossdresser, but he’s not our killer.”

  Now they knew the reason the guy had acted guilty.

  Phelps put his hand on Jean-Paul’s shoulder. “Look, Dubois, this one is too personal. I’m taking you off the case. Let the other boys handle it.”

  “You can’t do that, Lieutenant.”

  “I can and I will. You’ve already lost your gun. And I watched you with that guy Teddy. You’re losing it, Dubois. Sit this one out.”

  Jean-Paul removed his badge and shoved it into his lieutenant’s hands. “Take it. I don’t care about the job. I’m not stopping until I catch this maniac.” And he fully intended to kill him.

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He’d chosen his job over his first wife. He’d be damned if he’d choose it over his sister or Britta.

  His cell phone rang, and Jean-Paul answered it. “Dubois.”

  “Detective, this is Howard Keith. There’s something you should see,” Keith said, sounding out of breath. “I think I know who your killer is.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Keith. My sister and Britta Berger are missing. If you have them—”

  “I don’t,” he said sharply. “But I may know who does. A…friend of mine, another artist. His name is Sedrick Whitehead. He’s the reason I started photographing Britta Berger in the first place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He paints eyeballs, prostheses. That’s how we met. But he also paints and makes Mardi Gras masks on the side. It’s a hobby.”

  The ocularist, the mask maker, the same one Teddy mentioned. “Why do you think he’s the swamp devil?”

  “He has scars on his face, and wears a mask to disguise it. I think his scars have something to do with a woman. Maybe Britta.” Keith’s breath was erratic. “Come to his apartment and you’ll see what I mean.” He rattled off an address.

  Jean-Paul memorized it, then told him he’d be right there.

  He rushed to inform Damon about the possible lead. They agreed to go together and leave Antwaun to keep pushing Teddy.

  Ten minutes later, he and Damon met Keith at Sedrick’s apartment complex. Jean-Paul was shocked as the photographer showed them inside the studio.

  “I…never would have noticed Miss Berger if Sedrick hadn’t pointed her out.”

  So this guy could have stalked Britta. He would have seen Catherine and Chrissy at Teddy’s doll stand, too. And he could have seen Debra Schmale with Teddy.

  Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath at the disturbing contents as he entered Sedrick’s locked studio. The walls were filled with Mardi Gras masks in every conceivable form and shape. Leather ones that resembled the S and M ones he’d seen at Justice’s apartment and at that costume shop, handpainted ones with beads and feathers and ribbons. Sinister ones that resembled fantastical mythical horror creatures. Feathers, sculpting wax, plaster, leather, paints, beads and assorted items to finish the masks occupied more shelves. Masks of Sobek filled one complete wall.

  And another shelf held eyeballs that he’d painted for the masks. They were lifelike, so real. An ocularist would fit the profile. The man was detailed, meticulous, methodical. The art form had originated in ancient times. And the eyes were made of acrylics.

  Jean-Paul dragged his gaze from the array of disturbing eyeballs to the opposite side of the room and his stomach clenched. Masks made for each of the victims of the swamp devil were displayed on the wall. Whitehead had labeled each one with the girl’s name. And he was midway through making one for Britta—it was on his work table.

  “He didn’t take trophies,” Damon said.

  But there wasn’t one for Catherine. Maybe he planned to spare her.

  “Because these were his trophies,” Jean-Paul added.

  Panic stabbed at his chest as Damon opened a cabinet and found jars and tubes of makeup. A trunk also revealed a half-dozen lancets. Another one held red lace teddies and the serpent necklaces.

  Damon cursed. “Where the hell is Whitehead now?”

  Jean-Paul tried to get into the man’s head. “He intends to end this with Britta. He’ll want her back at the place where it all began. To the place where he was going to sacrifice her years ago.”

  Damon nodded. “That makes sense.”

  Jean-Paul had a general idea of where the first cult had formed, but Justice would know the place. “Let’s pick up Justice. The hurricane changed the land slightly. Maybe he can show us the exact location.”

  Damon phoned for a CSI team to confiscate the evidence.

  “I didn’t know he was the killer,” Keith said weakly.

  Jean-Paul glared at him. “We want you at the station for questioning.” He phoned Antwaun to fill him in and learned Justice was at the station waiting to talk to him. Then he and Damon raced back to the station with Keith.

  Damon gave him a worried look as Antwaun took charge of Keith. “Your lieutenant told
me you gave him your badge.”

  “He wanted to pull me off the case,” Jean-Paul snapped. “I’m not sitting around with my thumb up my ass while my sister and Britta are missing.”

  Justice looked haggard when Jean-Paul walked in. “I saw the news report. Where’s Britta?”

  “I don’t know,” Jean-Paul said. “Apparently she received a call from the killer and left to meet him.”

  Justice launched forward and grabbed Jean-Paul by the neck. “You let her go to meet this guy by herself? What kind of cop are you?”

  A piss-poor one, Jean-Paul thought. He pried Justice’s hands off his neck and shoved the man backward. “I didn’t let her leave. She ducked out without telling me, dammit. We think we know who the killer is.”

  “There’s an old cabin near the place where the cult met years ago,” Justice said. “He may have her there. I think I can find it.”

  The three men hurried to the car. Jean-Paul turned on his siren, and sped toward Black Bayou. If Sedrick had taken Britta and Catherine to Devil’s Corner, they needed to hurry.

  He just hoped when they found them, they would still be alive.

  * * *

  THE HIDEOUS MASK hid the killer’s face.

  His voice was low, grating, a whisper of evil. His hands—hard, rough, calloused—felt like ice as he pushed her along the swampland. Rain drenched Britta’s hair and clothes, the winter wind sending a deep chill through her that cut all the way to her bones.

  She nearly stumbled over a broken tree branch, but he caught her and yanked her along. Gators lay low in the water, watching, waiting, their bodies submerged but their eyes piercing the darkness.

  He didn’t act afraid of them. Instead he seemed to have a silent connection with the creatures as if he had bonded with them through his ugliness.

  Through the fog and underbrush, she spotted a shanty in the distance. A tremor ran through her. Was Catherine inside? Was she alive?

  The urge to run shot through her, but she stifled it. She wouldn’t run until she got closer.

  A few more steps, and he dragged her through a thicket of fallen trees that were rotting and mangled from a previous storm. Vines tangled and clawed at her legs and a snake hissed from its perch on a low tree branch above her.

  He pushed her forward, across a small dilapidated wooden bridge over the river, and she looked down to see the sharp teeth of a gator glowing in the dim moonlight. It snapped at her feet, barely missing as he jerked her to the landing.

  She was only a few feet from the cabin now. “All right. You have me. Now let her go.”

  He folded his arms and laughed. “You don’t tell me what to do, Adrianna.”

  “I did what you asked. Now show me you’ll honor your word.”

  “As you did with my father?”

  “I never agreed to marry you. That choice was made without me, Porter.”

  “My name is Sedrick now. I’m growing quite famous with my masks. And even more famous as the swamp devil.” He gripped her arm, squeezing her so hard her legs buckled. “You killed my father and you have to pay.”

  “He deserved it,” Britta said. “But those women didn’t. Especially that girl Debra.”

  He bared his teeth. “That girl Debra tried to kill you. She hooked up with your friend Teddy, but she was jealous of you, so she set your apartment on fire and attacked you.”

  Britta fought back a sob. “Still, Catherine’s done nothing. Let her go and I’ll do whatever you say.”

  He leaned closer to her face, the corners of the hideous mask scraping her jaw. “Say you want me, Adrianna.”

  “Take off the mask so I can see your face first.”

  He shook his head and released her, a growl erupting from him, then he stroked a finger over her shoulder. Britta reached inside her jacket for the gun, but he lunged toward her. The gun flew from her hand and fell to the ground. Desperate, she tried to retrieve it, but it was too dark to see. He grabbed her and she clawed at his mask and tried to pull it off but he slapped her so hard her ears rang and she collapsed on the soggy ground. Then he dove on top of her. She struggled and hit at him, clawing for a tree branch or stick, anything to use as a weapon. Finally, she latched on to a thick branch and slammed it against his head.

  He bellowed in pain and rolled sideways. She jumped up and ran for the cabin. It took her a second to adjust to the darkness, then she spotted Catherine, gagged and tied to a rickety iron bed. She raced forward and began to untie the ropes.

  “We have to get out of here,” she whispered.

  Catherine nodded, wide-eyed and panicked looking. But at least she was alive. Finally she got the bindings undone and Catherine yanked out the gag.

  Britta helped her to stand. “Come on, he’ll be here any minute!”

  Catherine staggered, weak and disoriented, then leaned against Britta, and they made it down the steps outside. But Sedrick swaggered toward them with a growl. Britta spotted Jean-Paul’s gun in the weeds and shoved Catherine into a thicket of trees. “Run! I’m right behind you.”

  Catherine stumbled forward and Britta reached for the gun. He saw it at the same time and dove for it. They fought for the weapon and it went off. He knocked the gun from her hand and they both fell into the muddy swampland. Brambles and vines tugged at her ankles as she kicked at him. He slapped her again and again until her head spun. Somewhere in the distance a gator screamed. She prayed he didn’t get Catherine.

  Then Sedrick hit her one more time and she sank into the darkness.

  * * *

  JEAN-PAUL HAD JUST CLIMBED from the car when he heard a gunshot. God, he hoped Britta had killed the son of a bitch who’d kidnapped Catherine.

  Justice jerked his thumb to the left. “The shot came from that direction. That’s where the cabin is.”

  Jean-Paul pulled the weapon that Damon had loaned him and they ran into the woods. Rain beat at his face, the downpour creating a smoky mist inside the forest. Panic gripped him as Justice led the way. The thick foliage slowed their trek and Jean-Paul hacked his way through with his knife. Tangled vines and Spanish moss created a maze, making the night even grayer.

  Justice stumbled, then cursed and crawled over a fallen tree. Jean-Paul jumped it, then paused. Damon scanned the darkness.

  A noise reverberated in the silence. Feet pounding. The swish of branches and leaves. Breathing. Someone running.

  He angled his head to listen again, then motioned for Justice to wait. The sound grew closer. Footsteps slogging through the marsh. Suddenly Catherine broke through the clearing.

  He grabbed her and she screamed. He shook her gently. “Cat, it’s me, Jean-Paul. I’ve got you now.”

  Her legs wobbled and she clung to his arms to remain standing. “Britta…I thought she was right behind me.”

  His blood turned to ice. If she’d killed the man, she would have been.

  He must have caught her.

  “Jean-Paul…” Catherine cried. “She saved me. You have to find her.”

  Damon slid an arm around Catherine. “Are you okay, sis? What did he do to you?”

  “I’m fine, really,” she rasped. “Jean-Paul, please save Britta.”

  “I’ll take Cat to the car and call for an EMT,” Damon said.

  Jean-Paul frowned. He might need back-up. But did he trust Justice with his sister?

  “We need to hurry,” Justice said.

  “Go with Catherine,” Jean-Paul told Justice.

  “I’ll call for back-up and an ambulance,” Damon said.

  Justice curved an arm around Catherine to help her through the woods.

  Jean-Paul didn’t wait. He darted toward the direction of the cabin. Britta had to be all right. She was a fighter. The strongest woman he’d ever known.

  She had saved Catherine.

  Now he had to save her.

  * * *

  BRITTA’S HEAD ACHED. She wanted to curl into a ball. Be so tiny no one saw her. Become invisible like a fleck of dust on the wall.

&
nbsp; No.

  She had to fight back.

  She struggled to open her eyes. Sedrick was hauling her across the marsh by one arm and had twisted it so hard she thought it would wrench from the socket. Rain pummeled them and she made herself into a dead weight, dragging her heels into the muck. Maybe Catherine would escape and get help.

  But she couldn’t count on that. She was all alone. She had to save herself—just as she’d always done.

  Her body bounced over the rough tree branches, then he yanked her up the steps to the shanty. The wooden steps bit into her back and pain knifed through her. Where was the gun?

  Oh God, she’d lost it. She had to find something else to fight with. Another weapon.

  The door screeched open and he tossed her inside like a sack of garbage. Her head slammed against the wall and stars sparkled. Mud and rain soaked her clothing and hair. She tried to push herself up, but he dug his knee into her chest, pinning her down, and tore at her clothes. She screamed and shoved at his hands, then yanked at his mask again, determined to see his face. Finally she stripped it off and hurled it across the floor. His eyes blazed with rage and one hand automatically flew up to hide his disfigurement. “See what you did to me! See how ugly I am now.”

  “Your scars aren’t what make you ugly,” Britta whispered raggedly. “Your soul does that.”

  “No! You did it.” He grabbed her throat and shook her. “I’ve had to wear a disguise in public because I tried to save you when you ran into the bayou.” His hot breath seared her neck. “You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you anything, you monster.”

  He hit her again, and pain split her temple. Then he growled against her throat, “Say it, Adrianna. Say you want me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” His fingers dug into her neck tighter. “Yes, God dammit! Say you want me. That you love me.”

  “Never,” Britta whispered.

  He jerked her up like a rag doll, twisting his fingers into her throat, cutting off her vocal chords. “I’ve waited thirteen years for you to tell me. And you’re going to say it before I kill you.”

  Britta remembered her last words to him the night she’d killed his father and ran. She repeated them. “I could never love you.”