by Rita Herron
* * *
“I WANT YOU, Sissy. Say you want me, too.”
Sissy Lecher struggled against the bindings, a tear dribbling down her face. “Why are you doing this?”
He tightened his fingers around her throat. Felt her muscles contract. The breath whoosh out. Her eyes flared with panic and fear. God, she had beautiful eyes. “Say it. Say you love me.”
She shook her head, but he jerked her neck, shoving her into the pillow. “Say it.”
“I…love you,” she whispered, choking on the words.
Heat fired his blood. The more resistance she offered, the more excited he became. The more she strained against the bindings, the harder he got.
He stroked his cock, then shoved his full length toward her mouth. He’d make her eat out of the palm of his hand.
Laughter escaped him at the double entendre. But he’d better not indulge. He might leave evidence. And he had to be careful. Couldn’t get caught.
The muscles in his thighs tensed and she tried to press her legs together. But he pried them apart, rolled on the condom and straddled her. Her bare nipples stood erect, begging for his mouth but he twisted them with his fingers instead. Dressed in the crotchless red teddy, her pale skin looked like an angel’s yet her eyes held a devil’s desires.
He’d finish with her now.
Then he’d take another. One that nobody would guess. A stray from his pattern that would have the cops jumping up and down with shock.
Two more days until Mardi Gras.
Two more days until he had Britta.
But Dubois was in the way.
His plan took shape in his mind. He knew the perfect way to get back at Dubois for interfering. A way to assure himself that Britta would come to him.
A way to hurt them both.
And show them that he would win.
Sissy began to convulse around him, and he emptied himself inside the poisoned condom, then watched as she clawed the sheets from the pain.
Seconds later, it was over. She screeched a ragged breath. Gasped and choked on the bile. Then her chest ceased to move up and down.
He climbed off and studied her in disgust as he raised the lancet toward her heart. The blade pierced her skin, then ripped through cartilage and muscle. Bones snapped and cracked. Her organs appeared, exposed and raw. She looked so ugly. Her eyes aghast.
He’d had to do it.
Satisfied she had been punished, he snapped a photograph to send to Britta.
* * *
“We MUST WIN THE WAR over sin!” Reverend Cortain shouted.
Hilda Holliday bowed to him in front of the fire, desperate for answers and relief. Ever since she’d heard her baby girl Ginger had been killed by the swamp devil, she’d been sick.
She’d cried till her tear ducts had dried up, had yelled and screamed at her husband and blamed him. If he hadn’t been such a tough son of a bitch, her little princess never would have run away. And Lord Almighty, to have turned to selling herself on the streets—No, no, no, it just wasn’t possible.
“Thank you for having this special prayer service, Reverend,” Hilda whispered raggedly. “I’m just so hollow with grief.”
He pressed his hands gently over hers. “To lose a loved one, even though we know they’ve gone to a better place, is hard for the mortal soul.”
“The police, they don’t know who did it yet. But I want justice.” Her hand shook violently as she removed an old worn photo of her daughter at age three and laid it on the altar. “I know she strayed, but she didn’t deserve this. The Lord forgives all, don’t he, Reverend?”
Reverend Cortain shifted, tugging at the white-collared shirt. “Yes, sister, he heard your daughter’s whispered plea to be saved before she met her master.”
Sweat created dark pools on his shirt below his armpits as he raised them to spread his fingers across her head. “The Lord told me himself.”
She nodded, grateful to hear his words of comfort. She’d waited for answers to her prayers when Ginger had first left home, but she’d never made a connection like some of the sainted chosen people claimed. But then again, she’d been lost herself when she was young. Her pappy had told her she weren’t worth nothin’ and then she’d married Jim Bob and proved his point.
Only good thing she’d ever done was birth Ginger.
“Reverend, someone has to pay the price for killin’ innocent children, for leading them astray.”
You’re right,” Cortain said. “The ones who entice our children into temptation should suffer.”
“You mean my husband and me?”
“I mean the other street girls. The pimps. All those who run the strip clubs and bars. Feeding alcohol and drugs to ravage the young people’s minds.” His voice rose with conviction, “Just look at that magazine Naked Desires. They’re positively shameless the way they print pornography. They emphasize the rewards of sinning and entice girls to cross over into the dark side. Britta Berger, the confessions columnist, encourages sex with strangers. The hussy must be stopped.”
Hilda nodded, finding a new focus for her anger. She could crusade against the bars and strip clubs. And she could help destroy that magazine. Especially that Berger woman. Women ought to be helping one another, not glorifying sin.
She spotted Elvira Erickson’s mama and headed toward her. Debra Schmale’s mother claimed that her daughter had run out that day looking like a whore. Together they could band together to try to save the children.
Maybe they could even run that Berger woman out of town.
* * *
“WHY WOULD YOU keep it a secret that you help the homeless people, Britta?” Jean-Paul rushed to keep up with her as she practically sprinted through the streets.
She swung around as if desperate to escape him. “I’m not looking for rewards or attention,” she said. “Like I told you, they’re family to me just like yours are to you.”
Silence lapsed, taut and thick, charged with tension. They passed a walking ghost tour, a cool mist falling, making the air gray with fog. Up ahead, the daily parade had started with dozens of floats, motorcycles, dancers, horse-drawn carriages filled with sponsors, a train of voodoo princesses and other cultural displays. Britta wove through the side streets, avoiding the crowd.
“You don’t have to follow me home,” she said.
“Dammit, Britta, I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“I can take care of myself. Why don’t you go work on the investigation?”
Her jab hit home and he sighed in frustration. “That’s just it. We’re checking leads, but so far nothing. Well, except for Justice.”
She paused, planted her hands on her hips and fumed at him. A smudge of creole sauce had splattered and dried to her cheek, her hair was flat and sweaty, her clothes damp with perspiration and food. She’d never looked more beautiful.
“What about him?”
“Justice has a collection of medieval weapons. I’m talking swords, lancets and spears. I’ve requested a search warrant now for his house. If we find out he bought the ones used in the murders, we can nail him.”
“You’re determined to pin this on R.J., aren’t you?”
“And you’re determined to defend him.” He arched a brow. “What kind of hold does he have on you, Britta?”
“He doesn’t have a hold on me,” Britta snapped. “No man does.”
Or ever would. He heard the underlying message and wanted to know more. Like why she wouldn’t let him get close. “Justice also knows Reverend Cortain.”
“Everyone knows the reverend, Jean-Paul. He’s been all over the place—in the papers, on TV.”
“No, I meant he knew him before. From his past.”
Britta’s wary gaze swung back to him. “How?”
“Apparently Justice lost his parents in a suicide pact. The pact was made by a religious cult near Black Bayou about thirteen years ago.”
Britta cast her eyes toward the ground. She looked nervous. Shaken. Bothered.
His comments about the pact had obviously struck a nerve. “You know something about the suicide pact, don’t you?”
Britta shook her head. “I…maybe I heard about it somewhere. You know how the worst stories are passed around in New Orleans.”
“Stop lying to me, Britta. I need to know the truth.”
* * *
BRITTA TRIED TO temper her reaction. But she had no idea that R.J. had been involved in a cult. Had it been similar to the one she’d escaped? Or could it have been the same one?
She searched her memory bank for details. After she’d escaped, she’d lived on the streets. Occasionally, she’d seen a newspaper. Had read something about all those people killing themselves. And she had scanned the names to see if her mother had been listed among them, but she hadn’t.
“I did read about the mass suicide in the paper,” Britta finally admitted. “I was only thirteen at the time.”
“Cortain’s brother-in-law, Brother Theodore Tatum, apparently led the cult,” Jean-Paul offered.
Britta shuddered at the sound of the man’s name. And if Jean-Paul was right, then Reverend Cortain was related to Tatum, the man she’d shot.
Britta began walking again, heading toward her apartment. She hated being out in the open now, exposed. Raw. If Jean-Paul had figured out Justice’s past, he would figure out hers, as well.
But Jean-Paul didn’t back down. He moved up beside her, keeping pace with her as they threaded their way through the streets. Silent. Waiting for her to open up and offer information.
“Even if Justice’s parents did commit suicide because of Cortain,” she finally said, “what would that have to do with these murders?”
Jean-Paul tugged her to the left to avoid a guy on rollerblades. “I don’t know yet. Probably the suicide traumatized Justice. Maybe he’s killing these women and spinning a religious angle on to it, so he can frame Cortain.”
In a bizarre way, his theory made sense. But why frame Cortain? Because his father convinced R.J.’s parents to kill themselves. Then again, if Jean-Paul spoke the truth, R.J. should hate her, want to punish her, because the people killed themselves out of grief for their leader. The man Britta killed.
“I saw Justice at Cortain’s sermon,” Jean-Paul said.
Panic slammed into her. “I didn’t think he went to church,” she admitted.
“Like I said, there’s a history with Cortain.” He placed his hand at the small of her back as they crossed the intersection. “Has he ever mentioned his background to you?”
She shook her head. “No, we’ve never talked about it.”
The storm clouds above suddenly darkened. Grew more ominous. A gust of wind shook the trees, the Spanish moss wavering like a ghost had shifted through the branches.
Maybe it had.
If Justice or Cortain had been involved in the original cult, they might know her real identity.
And that she had killed Reverend Tatum. And if Cortain was, he might want to see her dead out of revenge.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MARDI GRAS WAS ALMOST upon them. His favorite time of year.
R.J. could feel the excitement mounting. The partiers growing anxious. The costumes and masks becoming more prevalent. The celebration of the New Orleans customs heightening the anticipation in the air.
The city of the dead was truly alive.
Dusk settled across his bedroom, cloaking the corner in shadows of day and night. The woman below him moaned and R.J. settled himself between her legs, trying to find fulfillment when his urges cried out for another woman.
Not the one who lay beneath him. She was a temporary fix.
Soon he would be with Britta. Just to touch her skin, finally show her some of his coveted collections, to have her in his bed…he could hardly stand the wait.
The woman below him wrenched at the bindings around her arms and wrists, the agony of her imprisonment only heightening his sexual drive. She was the second woman he’d taken like this today.
He plucked a feather from his nightstand and traced it over her bare breasts. She whimpered, fighting the pleasure, waiting to see what he did next. He lowered his head and bit her nipple, tasting the sweet droplet of blood that flowed into his mouth. He glanced at the clock, gauging his time. Another hour and he’d be done with her.
Another hour to kill.
He lowered his head and took another bite.
* * *
“STAY AWAY FROM JUSTICE,” Jean-Paul declared as he and Britta entered her apartment.
Britta shivered at his ominous tone. “That’s impossible. He’s my boss.” She dropped her keys on the black lacquered end table. “Besides, I told him I’d meet him at the square this evening. We’re going to look at that new exhibit in the wax museum.”
Jean-Paul bit back a nasty reply. “It’s not safe, Britta. Cancel the meeting.”
“If he is your killer, he’s not going to do anything to me in public, Jean-Paul.” She fidgeted with the tail end of her stained T-shirt. “And I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure the other hookers thought the same thing.”
He realized his gaffe a second later when fury flattened her lips into a thin line. “I’m going to take a shower. When I get out, I want you gone.”
“Britta—”
She held up her hand in warning. “Don’t apologize, Jean-Paul. You said what you meant.”
“But—”
She cut him off by storming into the bedroom and slamming the door. The lock clicked a second later.
He cursed himself for fouling up with her again. They’d been going rounds ever since they’d met. He’d never win her trust with insults. But dammit he didn’t understand her. And she had his emotions in a knot.
The shower water clicked on, unnerving him more as images of Britta assaulted him. Britta naked, her flesh coated in bubbles, warm water running a path over her face, her breasts, her abdomen, then down to her heat. Unable to leave her alone and desperate to understand her, he searched her den. Maybe he’d find some clue as to who she really was. He checked the tiny desk in the corner. More confession letters and notes she’d made about upcoming magazine pieces.
He looked in the end tables, then the drawers on the entertainment unit. A white blanket held several miniature porcelain dolls. He’d seen similar ones at Cathy’s; his niece collected them from a local street artist.
Odd. He wouldn’t have pegged Britta for a doll collector. Then again, she was the most complex woman he’d ever met. They especially seemed out of place next to the macabre masks and bayou creatures on her walls. Why had she hidden them?
In the next drawer, he discovered a photo album. Britta had claimed she had no family, so he opened it and looked inside. A lone photo of a small child with dark red hair and big eyes stared back. It was Britta. She looked so small and alone that his heart clenched. And with her was a woman, probably in her late twenties, although the misery in her eyes aged her considerably.
Britta’s real mother? What had happened to her? Had she died? Or had she abandoned Britta for some reason?
And why did Britta have only one photo? His mother had dozens of albums filled with pictures, along with numerous videos of him and his siblings.
Curious, he checked the next drawer but found it empty. Frustrated, he sat down in her armchair to wait and confront her. But he felt something hard beneath the cushion. He dug underneath and found a velvet-covered book wedged between the cushions. Curious, he examined the outside.
Secret Confessions.
Guilt nagged at him and he started to put it down. But dammit, he had to know more about Britta. Women’s lives were at stake.
The first entry described her move to her current apartment. Her excitement over the job. Another described her job interview with R.J. She thought the man was attractive. Enigmatic. Frightening. And the job posed an opportunity that would pay well.
It was also a perfect cover.
He frowned. A cover for what?
&
nbsp; Could she possibly be in cahoots with Justice?
Hmm, she didn’t go into the details. He skipped a few pages and found an entry about him.
Jean-Paul is the sexiest man I’ve ever met. Sometimes I fantasize about him at night. I close my eyes and pretend that he is touching me, holding me, making love to me.
But he’s a cop. I can’t get too close to him or he might discover the truth. The darkness that I am.
When I think about my past, I see the bayou and I fall into the endless abyss of tangled vines and trees. The monsters live with me. They follow me everywhere I go.
Even in my sleep.
But sometimes in the early morning, I dream that I have escaped. I see light, the colors of the rainbow. I have a clean slate and I paint over the black and gray until I see vibrant colors of red and gold, blue and orange.
But when morning comes, the big dark hole is back. It’s a black so dark that no light or color exists, only the tentacles of evil that lie below, feeding on my fears and the bad things I did in the past. Then it swallows me, and I know I can never climb out or escape.
Disturbed by the entry, he skipped over and read another one, this one much different.
Secret confessions:
I want to make love to Jean-Paul Dubois. I imagine his arms around me and close my eyes, wanting, craving his touch. I can hear him whisper how much he wants me, that nothing can keep us apart.
Then I know that I’m not like my mother. That the past doesn’t matter and that I’m not alone.
That I never will be again because someone loves me.
* * *
“WHAT ARE YOU doing?”
Jean-Paul jerked his head up just as Britta snatched the journal from his hand. “How dare you read my private thoughts.”
The look of utter anger and hurt that lined her face made his chest ache. Dressed in that terry-cloth robe with her hair damp from the shower, she looked young and vulnerable. Then he saw the moisture in her eyes.
“Get out, Detective Dubois. And this time don’t come back.”
He started to apologize again, but she rushed to the door, opened it, then tapped her foot, waiting.
