by Rita Herron
A cold knot of fear clenched her stomach. “Why would you say that?”
“Because we were both there.” His low voice rumbled with insinuations. “Don’t you remember, Adrianna?”
Denial stabbed at her. Thirteen years had passed. The day she’d run, she swore she’d never look back. But she’d also thought she’d never forget the boy’s face…. Had he survived?
Had he taken on a new identity as she had?
She searched R.J.’s features. His seething brown eyes. His muscular frame. There was no way R.J. could be the young boy who had tried to make her his wife. Could he?
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
He traced a finger along her arm, then up her shoulder to her cheek. “I didn’t want to scare you away. I had to get to know you. Earn your trust.”
But she didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust any man.
Except maybe Jean-Paul….
“I know what happened to you that day,” he murmured. “I saw you run into the bayou.”
Her breath caught. He knew her secrets. Her shame. Everything about her. “Then you blame me for your parents’ deaths?”
“No.” His lips thinned into a straight line. “I blame Cortain.”
She backed away, ready to flee in case Jean-Paul was right, but R.J. caught her around the waist and dragged her to him.
“Don’t you see? We were meant to be together, Britta. Once the bayou gets in your soul, it won’t let go.”
Britta shook her head, unable to accept his words as true. She had escaped. This couldn’t be happening…. “What happened to my mother after I left? Did they hurt her?”
“I don’t know. I never saw her. But I heard rumors that they killed her, then other rumors that she ran off, too.”
He paused, his expression pained. “A few weeks later, Cortain suggested everyone make a suicide pact. He was convinced that if the authorities found out about the cult, that they’d disband the cult and arrest us all.” He hesitated, his voice lower, more ominous when he continued, “He convinced the others he was right. But Cortain chickened out at the last minute.”
She shivered, realizing the trauma he’d suffered. “I’m sorry about your parents, R.J. I didn’t know.”
“Shh, it’s over.” He gripped the elaborately carved handle of the scepter and raised it to her neck. “The past, the secrets, the darkness, they bind us together—forever.”
She felt the first prickle of pain as the sharp blade grazed her skin. Felt a drop of blood slide down her neck. He caught it in his finger, lifted it to his lips and sucked it away.
Fear caught in Britta’s throat. He was crazy. A killer.
But why would he murder innocent women? To get back at Cortain, maybe frame him? Or to get back at her? Became he blamed her for his parents’ deaths? He claimed he didn’t but the predatory gleam in his eyes indicated otherwise.
What was he going to do to her now? Torture her like he had the other women, then leave her for dead in the bayou?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THREE VICTIMS SO FAR. The killer was probably searching for another one already. In fact, a woman named Winifred Schmale had reported her twenty-year-old daughter Debra missing.
Another day had passed. Night had fallen. And Jean-Paul was desperate for answers.
He drove up and down the edge of the Mississippi, checking isolated areas in search of a gathering place for a new cult. Finally, in the heart of Black Bayou, he found an abandoned campsight that looked suspicious. Animal feathers and blood were splattered on a pile of rocks. A decapitated chicken lay in the center. Other signs of mojos were evident.
Voodoo. Black magic. Whoever had been here was a believer.
He stooped by another mound of rocks and noted freshly turned dirt. A thorough dig revealed several pouches of black magic potions. Various roots and herbs, probably frogs legs or other animal parts were inside and urine soaked the outside. Had someone cast a spell to ward off evil or to conjure the Devil?
The scent of opium lingered in the air as he stirred the embers of the fire. A black piece of cord like the string of the serpent necklace found with each victim lay half-charred in the dirt. He bagged it for evidence.
Hoping he might be on to something, he searched the campsight one more time, then ducked into the thicket of trees to hunt for a shanty or clearing where the group had banded or a cabin where a killer might take a victim.
The picture of Debra that Mrs. Schmale had shown him replayed in his head, and he grunted in frustration. Debra was so young. Not a prostitute or stripper. But if she wound up on the streets for long, she might end up turning tricks to survive.
He had officers checking with her friends, questioning neighbors. They were running her picture in the paper and on the news. Maybe someone had seen her or would spot her.
Twigs snapped and leaves rustled beneath his boots. Lightning streaked through the thick vines and leaves; the wind whistled like an animal’s screech before it attacked.
Yellow-greenish eyes peered at him in the darkness—waiting, watching. Suddenly his cell phone vibrated. He jerked it up, surprised he had service. The signal was weak, but one of their beat cops, Henderson, came through.
“Dubois, listen, you asked me to tail Justice.”
“Yeah, what’s he up to?” Jesus, he hoped this was the break they needed.
“That Berger woman is with him at his house.”
Jean-Paul’s blood ran cold.
Justice’s house was only a mile away.
“I’ll be right there.” Jean-Paul hung up, then rushed back toward the car. As soon as he climbed inside, he punched Phelps’s number. “I’m on my way to Justice’s house now. You got that search warrant?”
“In my hands as we speak.”
“I’ll stop by and get it. I’m going to search his house tonight.”
And he’d find out what Britta was doing there, then get her out before Justice hurt her.
* * *
“R.J., STOP IT,” Britta whispered. “This game has gone far enough.”
His low chuckle echoed in her ear. “Isn’t your adrenaline pumping?” he asked softly. “Can’t you feel the excitement between us? The connection on the most intimate level?”
“Is fear the most intimate level for you?” she whispered.
He slid the knife lower on her neck, scraping bare skin. “That edge only heightens the pleasure, darlin’.”
“Is that what you told the other women?”
He hesitated, his breathing erratic. “I don’t deny I’ve had other lovers.”
“I’m not talking about your lovers, R.J.” Britta sucked in a sharp breath. She had to confront him. Seduce him into talking. Make him stop. “I mean the swamp devil’s victims.”
“You think I killed those women?” His voice reverberated with barely controlled anger.
“You hate Cortain. You blame me for your parents’ deaths.”
He released his grip, but swung the knife down by his side, then handed her the glass of wine and led her to his bedroom. “I’m not a killer, Britta. I want to be your lover.”
Dark red velvet curtains hid the outdoors while a matching coverlet draped the antique four-poster bed. Sheers hung from the wooden posts and thick gold ropes encircled them—to hold back the sheers or to imprison whoever lay inside?
He gestured toward a massive bar in the corner complete with crystal flutes and champagne chilling on ice, then opened a small wardrobe. Dozens of red and black lace teddies, nightgowns, camisoles, stiletto heels and mesh stockings occupied the cherry cabinet along with an assortment of gothic masks.
“See? I mean to seduce you, Britta. Not hurt you.”
The sword glinted in the soft glow of the candlelight as he laid it beside the bed. Instincts told her to run.
Would he let her escape?
He picked up a black scarf from the end table and approached her. Britta’s pulse pounded. He slid the scarf around her wrists. She stiffened, but he jerk
ed her to him and pressed his lips to hers. Britta suddenly shoved against him.
“No. R.J., I can’t do this.”
“Britta, relax—”
“No!” Memories flooded her. One man handing her over to his son. Planning to take what she didn’t want to give.
Panicked, she turned and darted from the room. R.J.’s footsteps clicked behind her. He called her name, but she raced toward the door and grabbed the knob, anxious for air. He caught her and manacled her wrists with his hands. “Stop running, Britta. We were meant to take down Cortain together. To be lovers forever.”
The doorbell rang and someone pounded on the door. “Open up, Justice. It’s Detective Dubois.”
A muscle ticked in R.J.’s jaw. Then he pressed a kiss to the back of Britta’s neck. “It’s not over between us, Adrianna. You will be mine one day, and you’ll come willingly.”
* * *
JEAN-PAUL’S HEART RACED with worry. What if he was too late? What if Justice had hurt Britta? He couldn’t bear the thought.
He pounded on the door again.
“Detectives Dubois and Graves,” Jean-Paul shouted. “If you don’t let us in now I’m going to break down the damn door.”
The door finally swung open. A growl erupted from the gargoyle knocker and Jean-Paul grimaced. Justice stood in the foyer, his tie askew, his shirt unbuttoned, his cheeks flushed as if he’d been exerting himself.
Behind him, Jean-Paul spotted Britta and fury slammed into his chest. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks pale and her clothes rumpled. What in the hell had they been doing?
Jean-Paul held up the warrant. “We have a search warrant for the premises, inside and out.”
Justice lifted one brow. “What do you expect to uncover?”
He hoped to hell something to put the man behind bars. “We’ll let you know when we find it.” He slanted Britta a worried look. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, although she avoided his gaze. He could tell she was shaken. He had the insane urge to touch her, to make sure she was really okay, but he refrained. She sat down on the sofa and folded her hands together in her lap while Justice poured himself a Scotch and settled in his recliner.
Jean-Paul and Carson wasted no time searching. They examined the sword collection first, taking photos before they checked for prints.
Next came Justice’s bedroom. Several paintings of nudes in various sexual positions graced the walls and a wooden carved crocodile decorated the chrome-and-glass bar. An assortment of lotions and body oils were situated on a glass tray. The decadent bed, bar and piped-in music verified Justice was a seductor. So where did he keep his whip and chains? Velvet ropes hinted at romance, but not necessarily S and M.
Then Jean-Paul found a wardrobe full of lingerie. Red teddies similar to the ones the victims had worn. He studied the brand label. Not the same. But that didn’t mean Justice hadn’t purchased others. And then there were masks. S and M ones made of leather, gothic renditions that were morbid.
A more thorough search turned up several porn tapes. All recorded by Justice’s film company. What if he’d taped his victims’ deaths? Jean-Paul dug around inside the cabinet, but couldn’t find any personal tapes. Dammit.
He spent the next hour searching the remainder of the house. The closets, additional bedrooms, then the basement, looking for a darkroom or even the camera used to take the photographs of the vics.
They found nothing.
Carson checked out Justice’s computer and they confiscated his files to search for evidence. As he entered the den again, Britta was perched on the sofa’s edge with her hands entwined, as if she might run any second. Justice had moved over to sit beside her. Anger tightened Jean-Paul’s throat—he didn’t like seeing them together.
“You have another room somewhere,” Jean-Paul said. “One where you entertain.”
Justice’s black eyes scoured over him. “You mean a secret room?”
“Yes, one that’s reserved for special guests.”
Justice smiled, the whites of his teeth so bright they appeared eerie in the dim interior. “And if I do?”
“Show it to us,” Jean-Paul snapped.
Seemingly relaxed, Justice stood and crossed the room, then pushed a button inside one of the built-in bookcases that flanked the fireplace. The bookcases swiveled, revealing a hidden door. He gestured with his hand. “It is my private lair. But it is to protect my guests’ privacy as much as my own.”
Jean-Paul stepped into the small room, half-expecting to find a naked woman tied and tortured inside. But it was empty.
A bed dominated one corner, while various S and M paraphernalia was stored on black metal shelves. Cameras hung from the ceiling, candles and oils sat on a low table and a tripod occupied the corner. Ropes made of silk, velvet and thick cord lay near the bed.
Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes at the space above the bed. “Those spatters on the wall look like blood.”
Carson nodded, and reached for his phone. “I’ll get a forensics team here ASAP.”
Carson stepped outside to make the call while Jean-Paul opened doors to the entertainment unit. At least two-dozen homemade videos filled the shelves, each one dated and titled.
Jean-Paul would view each and every one of them. Maybe he’d get lucky.
Maybe Justice had videotaped his murders.
* * *
THE WAITING WAS driving Britta crazy. Curiosity made her want to see what R.J. had inside that secret room, while another part of her didn’t want to face it.
If R.J. was the killer, would he reveal her secrets if he was arrested?
She needed to tell Jean-Paul herself before that happened….
Jean-Paul strode back to where she and R.J. sat, a tape in his hand. “I’m going through each and every one of these,” he said. “If you’ve filmed the victims’ murders, we’ll find it.”
Justice glared at Jean-Paul. “Knock yourself out, Detective. But you won’t find anything incriminating because I’m not a killer.”
“Come on, Justice. There’re too many connections here,” Jean-Paul reasoned. “Either you’re the swamp devil or you know who is. Maybe Cortain? What I don’t understand is why you’d protect him.”
“I wouldn’t,” Justice barked. “Cortain was the reason my parents died. He started that suicide pact. He was the damn leader. Then he chickened out at the last minute.” Justice ran a hand over his forehead, wiping off the perspiration. “He just stood by and watched idly while my folks and the others killed themselves.”
A real holy man, Jean-Paul thought. “Then maybe you’re murdering these women so you can frame him.”
Justice gave a nasty laugh. “If I was going to do that, I’d have pointed the finger at him from the beginning.”
“Maybe you plan to kill him, then.”
Justice tossed back his Scotch, fury radiating from him. “He deserves to die for what he did.”
That was the one and only thing he and Justice agreed upon.
“I think you’d better come down to the station.”
“You can’t arrest me,” Justice protested. “You don’t have enough evidence—”
Jean-Paul pushed the man forward. “I can hold you overnight for questioning.”
“I want a lawyer,” Justice demanded.
“You can call one when we get to the station.” Jean-Paul pushed Justice outside, questions drumming in his head. Was Justice their killer or was he just another deranged psycho on the streets of New Orleans?
* * *
RANDY SWAIN COULD NOT let anyone discover his true identity or his pastime.
Then his career would be over. He’d be back to begging for girls. Back to being alone.
Back to being a nobody.
He sipped his beer, smiling from the barstool as country music blared from the speakers. His song, “Heartache Blues,” wafted through the smoky haze. He grinned at the females who crooned the words along with his recording.
Thank God the police hadn’t
found anything on him earlier. Lucky for him. Just as he’d get lucky tonight. He could have his pick of women. Take one or all of them to bed if he wanted.
Damn if his dick wasn’t hard as a rock just thinking about it.
He’d screw them, then send them on their way without having to make a commitment. So different from before when he’d been nothing but a poor old country boy with nerdy glasses.
He was no longer that nerdy country boy.
In fact, no one he’d known before would even recognize him. He’d squashed that loser identity and taken on a new persona.
“I could never be with a guy like you,” one girl had told him.
He’d been so mad he’d wanted to strangle the life from her.
Anger tore through him, vile and hot, and he found himself squeezing the neck of the beer so hard his fingers ached.
What would that girl say if she saw him now, surrounded by young and beautiful women always touching him, wanting him?
“Come on, Randy,” a brunette pleaded in his ear. “Dance with me tonight.”
A blonde wearing red stilettos and a top opened down to her navel brushed her tits over his chest. “No, take me, Randy. You know you want me.”
He grinned and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, then pulled the brunette onto his lap.
“What if I want you both?” he growled.
They giggled together as if a threesome was right up their alley. He planted a kiss on the blonde’s mouth, then slid his hand down the brunette’s thigh. He’d pleasure them both tonight if they wanted. He already had his condoms.
Then he’d add their names to his list of conquests. The shrine to Randy Swain he called it.
The face of the girl who’d denied him long ago flashed in his mind and adrenaline pumped through his system. One day he’d let her know he was here in New Orleans.
And she’d be sorry she’d turned him down when he was done with her.
* * *
ON THE OUTSKIRTS of town where the fresh scents of the bayou heated the chilly wintry air, Hilda Holliday listened to Reverend Cortain’s sermon with an open heart. She missed her girl Ginger like the dickens and wished she could bring her back. But Cortain was right. Ginger had moved on to another place. Was resting now with the angels. Had the purity back in her soul.
