by Rita Herron
Lex Van Wormer was dead. Another casualty of the war.
Another reminder of the E-team and the reason Damon didn’t deserve a life himself.
Yet, the image of Crystal’s face flashed in his mind and hunger heated his bloodstream again. Then another, an image of her naked beneath him, filled his head, and a savage need spread through him. He could almost feel her soft fingertips gliding over his skin, the gentle pressure of her succulent lips molding to his, her mouth opening to invite him inside, legs spread wide, taking him into her body with the same carnal lust that throbbed in his veins.
He cursed and accelerated.
Those damn fantasies only proved he was an evil son of a bitch who had lost his honor a long time ago.
She was a goddamn victim of some horrible accident, a woman who needed to know her name and the reason she’d spent long painful months rehabilitating, while all he could think about was how much he wanted her in his bed.
Beat the hell out of thinking about the grisly night ahead.
Sweat rolled down the side of his face. He cranked his window down and breathed in the fresh air and smell of the bayou. By the time he reached the crime scene, law-enforcement vehicles littered the road, along with the coroner’s car, and a news van—dammit.
How had the press found out about the body so quickly?
He parked, scanned the area, noting the cabin in the beam of his headlights. Switching off the lights, he climbed out, and threaded his way through the woods to the cabin. Crime-scene tape roped off the area surrounding the sagging wooden structure, taking him back to the Swamp Devil murders. Two officers walked the border, fending off the press to keep them from contaminating the scene and snagging pictures of the inside of the cabin and the body.
Damon plowed through them. Outside the shanty, crime techs already worked taking photos, searching for forensics. Lieutenant Phelps and Jean-Paul stood on the porch, both wearing grim expressions. Damon checked in with the officer in charge, accepted plastic gloves and baggies for his shoes, then climbed the steps.
“What do we have here, gentlemen?” he asked, glancing first at Jean-Paul, then the lieutenant.
“Some sick pervert’s idea of fun,” Lieutenant Phelps muttered.
“It’s the worst I’ve ever seen,” Jean-Paul said, one hand actually shaking as he lifted it to shove his hair off his forehead. “He mutilated her to pieces, Damon. I mean…there’s not much left.”
Damon braced himself, but he had to see the crime scene for himself. The odor was hideous, a mixture of the swampland, dried blood, human waste and rotting flesh. Bugs had already begun to eat at the tissue that remained.
But it wasn’t the sight of the cuts and wounds on the woman’s mangled body that made him gag.
She had been literally stripped of the outer layer of her skin—essentially the woman had no face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CRYSTAL PRESSED A FINGER to her lips, the heat of Agent Dubois’s lips still imprinted on her mouth. She didn’t know what had possessed her to kiss him—she’d only meant to kiss his cheek in thanks. But once she’d felt his face with her fingertips, the desire to be closer had overpowered her.
“You have a connection with this man,” Esmeralda said.
Crystal spun around, shocked at the woman’s comment. Esmeralda was blind—she couldn’t have seen the kiss. “I hope he can help me learn who I am.”
Esmeralda’s gnarled fingers worried the cross at her neck. “I hope you are ready for the knowledge, my dear.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Sometimes our mind has a way of protecting us from pain.” Esmeralda’s eyes expressed compassion and sympathy. “Traumatic events can rob one’s soul. You’ll remember when you’re ready to handle the truth.”
“I guess you’re right,” Crystal said softly. “But I am feeling stronger every day.”
“Agent Dubois,” Esmeralda said, “he is a good man.”
The image of the agent’s stark features rose in Crystal’s mind. He was intense, brooding, mysterious and almost sullen. Yet pain echoed in his voice and the quiet control he emanated. “Yes, I think you’re right,” she finally said.
The woman continued to stroke the gold cross. “He needs you, too. Remember that.”
Crystal frowned. Maybe the older woman was a little addled. “What do you mean? How could he need me?” Then it hit her. “To solve the case?”
Esmeralda bent to pet a huge tabby cat. “No, to heal his heart. But this connection you have—there is trouble and pain that goes with it.”
Crystal clenched her hands together. Now the woman was frightening her.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to scare you, dear.” Esmeralda patted Crystal’s hand. “You are strong, you have burdens to bear, but follow your heart and you will survive.”
Leaving off on that odd comment, she poured milk into bowls and dished a portion of food for each of the cats on saucers lined up beside the kitchen sink. The black cat Midnight swished his tail against her legs, and studied her as if he was in tune with her every move. There was something eerie about the woman and this gigantic old house. It was as isolated as the rehab center, so far away from civilization that if Crystal needed to escape it seemed there would be no place to go except into the swamp where the night crawlers and gators waited to pounce.
But Damon trusted Esmeralda, and she was Lex’s grandmother. And besides, Damon had told her his house was nearby. How close?
Her head swam, the headache she’d had earlier returning full force. She was exhausted. Thoughts of that dead woman’s mutilated body made her wonder if she might be next. After all, she looked like the reporter—what if the killer had confused the two of them?
“I appreciate you letting me stay here, Esmeralda,” Crystal said, snapping out of her fear. “I can’t tell you how much your grandson has meant to me since my hosipitalization.” Emotions choked her. She hadn’t imagined him; he’d been very real. “I don’t think I would have survived if he hadn’t visited me.”
A sense of peace washed over Esmeralda’s face. “Yes, he cares for you, dear.”
“Then he was really at the hospital. And you’ve talked to him…so Dr. Pace was lying. Lex is not dead.”
The old woman rubbed her fingers over the cross around her neck. “He has passed, Crystal. But still, he is with you and with me now. Though we must let him go soon.”
Sadness nearly robbed Crystal of her voice. Lex had been her only friend, her lifeline during the past few horrific months….
“You need to lie down, dear. The cottage is already prepared. You’ll have privacy and the rest you need.”
Crystal cradled the older woman’s hands in her own. “Thank you for your kindness. If I can ever do anything to help you, please let me know.”
Esmeralda reached out bony arms and pulled her into an embrace. Tears welled in Crystal’s eyes. She didn’t know if she had family or not, but if she did, she hoped they were as kind and loving as this lady. “You already have, dear.”
Crystal had no idea what she meant, and Esmeralda didn’t elaborate. She simply picked Midnight up in her arms and led the way through a small portico, out the kitchen to an adjoining carriage house. Wind chimes danced outside, and as they entered the cottage, Crystal noticed glass angels hanging in the doorways, as if to guard the spaces. Silver crosses created an artful arrangement above the sofa, and crystals dangled from the mirror on the entry wall.
“There are fresh linens in the bathroom, an extra blanket in the chest at the foot of the bed, and a night-light in the bathroom.” Esmeralda’s wrinkled face creased as she smiled. “If you need anything, all you have to do is tell Midnight, and he’ll get me.”
Crystal frowned at this last bit. But she didn’t want to hurt the old woman’s feelings or insult her by asking, not after Esmeralda had been so kind, so she promised she would, then locked the door with her departure. Yawning, she stripped to her underwear and fell into the antique four-poster b
ed. Lace curtains draped the bed as if to offer privacy, and a slight breeze blew through the opened windows. The smell of jasmine and lavender scented the air, and the faint sound of the river lapping up against the embankment soothed her nerves.
Tomorrow she needed to get some clothes. And maybe soon Agent Dubois—Damon—would know her identity, and if she had any family looking for her.
If she’d been involved with his brother…well, she’d deal with that, and any stories she might have been investigating.
Although the idea of her investigating stories, cops, felt strange.
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a harmonica wailed out a sad blues tune. She closed her eyes and felt Lex nearby, could have sworn she smelled the scent of his antibiotic cream, heard the whisper of his voice. She said a silent prayer that he was at peace.
But when she finally slept, more nightmares invaded her rest. Some man was after her, chasing her with a knife. Catching her in the bayou, he was going to cut off her hands. Blood spurted from her wrist as he made the first slice….
She jerked awake, and thought she heard someone breathing in the silence. The uncanny sensation of being watched sent a chill through her.
For whatever reason, she wasn’t safe. Even here where Damon had promised her she would be.
* * *
DAMON’S STOMACH PROTESTED the gruesome sight of the woman’s mutilated body. It appeared that the killer had literally carved her slowly with small knife wounds, then watched her bleed for a while, then grown more aggressive and violent and progressed in his torture.
Why?
Had he been trying to extract information from the woman, or had he simply enjoyed inflicting pain?
Whoever the perpetrator was, he had to be a sociopath. Any person with a conscience could not have destroyed another human’s body so completely.
His brother had not done this. Even if he had had opportunity, which he could not since he was in jail…
Still, there were inconsistencies with the body, rigor and blood suggesting she might have been dead longer than a day or two, that she might have been kept on ice…
Which could put her death back on his brother.
Antwaun might have a temper, but he wasn’t sadistic. He certainly didn’t have it within him to be this brutal to a woman. None of the Dubois men did.
As if to mock his thoughts, the image of the woman being engulfed in flames rose to haunt him. He had caused horrific pain to her—he had caused the explosion that took her, but, God help him, he hadn’t meant to. She was never supposed to have been there.
Not that it made any difference. She’d died at his hands, and her screams echoed forever in his head, drilling home the fact that he had once been an assassin. A paid killer.
The fact that he’d killed the enemy didn’t matter.
“Cause of death,” the medical examiner said as he wiped his forehead with his arm. “Officially a homicide. It appears that the victim bled out, but I’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“What can you tell us from the stab wounds?” Jean-Paul asked.
The doctor pointed to her chest. “The chest wound was pre-mortem, although some of the other slashes look post…He obviously enjoyed watching her bleed.” He pointed to the wall that was smeared in dried blood. “Looks like the sick bastard played in it.”
Perspiration trickled down Damon’s neck and into his shirt. The heat was stifling, making the stench of the bayou and remains of the body insufferable.
“There has to be some DNA or forensic evidence left by him in this mess,” Jean-Paul said grimly.
Lieutenant Phelps leaned against the doorjamb and wheezed as if desperate for fresh air. Sweat stains marked his white shirt, and he looked as if he might get sick any minute. “If there is, our CSI team will find it. And we don’t need you here, Agent Dubois.”
Damon frowned. “Actually, I’m officially on the case because of our interest in Swafford.” He pointed to the body. “We need to ID her. And we have to keep the press from posting a photo of this scene, or her, or the town will panic again.”
“We can’t cover it up,” the lieutenant said. “Thanks to your brother, IA is all over everybody in the department.”
Jean-Paul glared at his superior. “This is not Antwaun’s fault. If there is a cop on the take, it isn’t him. And you’d better be looking at your men and figuring out who it is.”
Damon heard the threat in his oldest brother’s voice but also saw the determination and condemnation in Phelps’s eyes. He’d already tried and convicted Antwaun.
“I don’t understand how anyone can be so depraved,” Jean-Paul said as the lieutenant walked outside. “If this is one of my guys, I want to see him pay.”
Damon moved closer, forced himself to study the carvings the killer had made. But his focus drifted to her face. The missing outer layer of skin. The bones and tissue were exposed. Somehow the cutting seemed different.
Smith, Antwaun’s partner, had been first on the scene and was examining the body. Damon made a mental note to tell Jean-Paul to find out more about the officer. What if he was the dirty cop who’d set up Antwaun? Damon narrowed his eyes and squatted down, examining the viciousness of the other knife marks. They were jagged, angry, uncontrolled, with no definite pattern.
The area around her face however looked as if it had been cut by a skilled professional. Even the cuts around her hairline were drawn carefully, done so in a nice neat line, almost as if a surgeon had drawn an oval around her face to keep the skin intact.
He rocked back on his heels, his mind spinning with questions. Memories bombarded him—of being in Pace’s office, seeing the sketches he drew on dummies before facial reconstruction surgeries, how he drew off the areas where he intended to work. Then Pace talking about current research he was working on. Cutting-edge techniques that other doctors were also exploring, but that were controversial and dangerous. The press hinting about a new discovery to be unveiled soon.
The procedure—face transplants.
Damon had seen a special news report on the possibilities a few weeks ago, and had thought of Pace and his cutting-edge work. Pace had been researching the procedure for years.
His jaw tightened as he realized that Crystal might have been a recipient of one herself. That the reason she resembled Kendra Yates might not be because she was the woman, but because she had received her face.
And if Pace had given it to her, then he had to know something about Kendra Yates’s murder.
* * *
ANTWAUN STARED at his brothers in the prison visiting room, his body humming with angry tension. It was barely dawn, although he hadn’t been sleeping when they’d arrived. After the way they’d described the woman’s body—Kendra’s body, most likely—he didn’t know if he’d ever sleep again.
To think that the woman he’d been involved with had died such a horrible death choked the breath from his lungs. He braced one hand on the cell bars and inhaled, battling nausea. What if somehow he was responsible? Maybe someone had a grudge against him and had killed Kendra to get revenge on him.
“I’m sorry, Antwaun,” Damon said. “But we wanted you to hear this from us, not see it in the paper tomorrow or hear it from one of the guards or another cop.”
“You really think it’s Kendra?”
Jean-Paul shrugged. “We can’t be sure until we get the results of the DNA, but preliminary blood tests are a match.”
“Then who the hell is the woman you brought here earlier?” Antwaun asked.
“I don’t know yet, but we’ll find out,” Damon said. “I’m waiting on DNA and blood tests now.”
“Did you check out my list of enemies?” Antwaun asked.
Jean-Paul nodded. “Carson has been checking out the list you gave me, but so far we haven’t turned up anything.”
“Are you sure you can trust him?” Antwaun asked.
“Like a brother.”
Damon gritted his teeth. “Do you think Swafford’s me
n are capable of this kind of murder?”
Antwaun retraced the last few months’ investigation in his mind. “So far, they’ve been into money laundering big-time, but not murder. Although he has some thugs on his payroll, their style would be a bullet in the head execution style, not this type of violence.”
“I’d say it was personal, a crime of passion,” Damon said. “But this crime was colder. It was almost overkill. The guy wanted to make a statement.”
“It’s not a cop’s style either,” Jean-Paul interjected. “Cops would be more likely to use a gun as well.”
Damon shoved his hair back from his forehead. “The crime scene reads like a sociopath,” he surmised. “The brutality, viciousness, the mutilations…This guy enjoyed inflicting pain. He probably hates women. Maybe Kendra—or whoever this woman was—was someone he was stalking. Or she could have been an innocent victim. But definitely not his first kill.”
“So you don’t think the murder is related to Swafford, or Kendra’s story on dirty cops at all?” Antwaun asked.
“It’s too early to tell,” Damon said. “But we have to look at every angle. By the way, Antwaun, how well do you know your partner?”
Antwaun shrugged. “Not well. He just joined the squad.”
Jean-Paul clinched his teeth. “I’ll look into him.”
Damon turned to Jean-Paul. “I haven’t seen a case with an MO like this, but we’ll need to search the databases again.”
“I’ll get on it,” Jean-Paul agreed.
“Damon?” Antwaun growled. “You know something. I can see it in your eyes.”
Damon’s mouth twisted in disgust. “The mutilated woman we found in the bayou—the sick bastard removed the top layer of her face.”
Antwaun rolled back on his heels. “What?”
“I think this plastic surgeon, Dr. Pace, may be involved. He works for the government, helps witnesses and others who need to disappear get a new life. Sometimes a new face. He’s also been researching cutting-edge techniques with burn patients that involve complete face transplants from cadavers.”