by Rita Herron
If the man hurt one hair on Britta’s beautiful head, he’d kill him with his bare hands. He’d even give up his badge to protect her.
* * *
BRITTA’S BODY TINGLED with the aftermath of their lovemaking. She’d never thought she’d be able to share her body with a man as she had with Jean-Paul. They had made love three times now and it was only midnight. She wanted him again.
But guilt splintered the euphoria that had spread through her limbs. Jean-Paul had needed her tonight and she needed him on the most elemental level. But she also needed him on another level.
One that she had no right to ask.
She had to confess the truth.
But would she lose what little respect she’d gained from him?
Still, Jean-Paul didn’t deserve for the town to look down upon him. And she couldn’t continue lying to him and keeping secrets.
He nuzzled her neck, then propped two pillows against the headboard for them and looked down at her. His eyes searched her face, his expression probing.
“Why did you let me believe you were experienced?”
His gruff voice skated over her nerve endings, arousing, but his question cut straight to the issues at hand.
She finger-combed her hair and tugged the sheet up to cover her bare breasts. Renewed tension filled the air, this time threatening her newfound closeness with the man beside her.
“I…don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was easier than trying to explain.”
He angled himself sideways, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so intimate she wanted to cry.
Damn, she never cried. Not over a man.
“Britta?”
She twisted the sheet in her fingers, her heart thumping. God, she didn’t want to ruin this moment. She wanted it to last forever.
He covered her hands with his, pried them loose from the sheets, then kissed her fingers. “Trust me. Tell me the truth.”
She blinked back emotions. Took one look into his eyes and her heart swelled in her chest. She was in love with Jean-Paul Dubois. She had no idea when or how it had happened. She had known better than to let her heart get involved.
But she had lost herself to him anyway. Maybe the first time she’d seen him.
Still, the guilt…the other girls’ lives rested on her head. All because she’d selfishly protected herself.
So she had to tell him the truth. But she couldn’t look into his eyes. Instead, she lowered their hands, stared at their entwined fingers and prayed that he could forgive her.
“When I was a little girl,” she began, “my mother…she worked as a dancer at one of the clubs in town.” She heard his breathing, but refused to look at him or she’d lose her courage. “I saw her turn tricks, give herself to earn money. I…hated it, but I loved her. She was doing what she had to do, she said, to take care of me.”
He didn’t comment, but she remembered his reaction to their conversation at the House of Love. Still she had to finish.
“When I was twelve, my mother joined a religious cult.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “The one that Justice’s family belonged to?”
She nodded. “Maybe. I swear, Jean-Paul, I didn’t remember him. I didn’t know him at all.”
“But he remembers you.”
Because of what she’d done. “My mother and I weren’t there long.” She paused, recalling her mother’s excitement over joining the group. “My mother thought the group would be our salvation. She would become one of the reverend’s wives and it would get her off the streets.”
“One of his wives?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Yes.” Britta shivered, remembering the disgust she’d felt when she’d realized the truth. “The cult had a lot of odd practices.” She expounded on some of the rituals. “Polygamy for one. They were afraid of the gators, so they offered sacrifices to them just as the people did in medieval times. The women were submissive, taught to share their husbands. And the young girls and boys went through a rite of passage as they aged. At sixteen, a boy chose a girl to become his first wife.”
“At sixteen?”
She nodded, lost in the past. “Any girl thirteen and older was up to be offered. They built a big bonfire, dressed the girls in virginal outfits and presented them to the boys. The girls were also bathed earlier, anointed with body oils, made to smell sensual to entice the boys to choose them.”
Jean-Paul cleared his throat. “You were one of them?”
She heard the censure in his voice. Glanced up and saw his eyes darken to a stormy hue. “Some of the people came from witches’ covens. They chanted and concocted spells to ward off evil.”
Jean-Paul’s jaw tightened and he released her hand. She stared into the darkness as he rose and went to the window and stared out. If she finished her story, he would look at her differently.
He already was. She sensed him pulling away from her. Felt the anger radiating from him. The condemnation. Knew that he’d never want her again.
She drew her legs up beneath the covers. Wrapped her arms around her knees and curled into a knot. She had once been so small she could roll herself into a ball. Make herself disappear. Become invisible. She wanted to do that again.
Run. Hide. Make herself like a little piece of dust in the sand. But she had to finish now. Had to finally own up to what she’d done, to the bad girl inside.
Because her confession might help him find the killer.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL’S JAW ACHED from gritting his teeth. He’d wondered about Britta’s past. Had guessed that she’d grown up on the streets, that her mother might have even been a hooker.
But he’d never suspected that she’d traded her daughter for a safer existence, a way to get off her back. And she’d agreed to a polygamist relationship?
Why? Had she thought one night a week with a man more appealing than a night with twenty johns? He supposed the deal seemed sweet. But at the expense of marrying her daughter at thirteen? Forcing her into sex?
No wonder Britta didn’t trust any man. God…
But she gave herself to you.
What had he done to deserve such an honor?
“Jean-Paul?”
Uncertainty laced her voice. He had to hear the rest. But it pained him to know how she’d been treated, that no one had loved her or taken care of her.
“Go on. Please.”
He tried to bottle his reaction, but anger coiled inside him. She’d tucked her legs up and leaned her head on her knees. She looked impossibly small, as if she might disappear under the covers any second, never to come out again. He couldn’t imagine her childhood and hated the people who’d hurt her. Her mother included.
“A few weeks after we went there, they had one of the ceremonies. One of the boys, Porter Tatum, the reverend’s son, he chose me.”
“What happened then?”
Britta rocked herself back and forth, her features strained. “When his father took my hand to make me go to him, I told him no. And then I ran.”
She hesitated and he started to go to her, but his cell phone rang. He glanced at it as if it was a rattlesnake, then back at Britta. She looked so pale and sweet, had trusted him with the truth. He could see the anguish on her face.
“Do you know what happened to this guy Porter?”
“I thought he died in that suicide pact.”
Jean-Paul silently cursed. He’d search for the son’s name.
The phone trilled again. He had to answer it. He connected the call, wishing he wasn’t a cop. He wanted to go to Britta and hold her. Love her again. Tell her he’d never leave her.
Instead, he answered the phone. “Dubois.”
“Jean-Paul, it’s Damon. Listen, we have a warrant for that photographer’s place. Apparently, two women filed stalking charges against him in Savannah last year. He was showing his artwork there around the same time as the murders in the city.”
Adrenaline surged through him. If Teddy wasn’t the swamp
devil, maybe it was Howard Keith. And tonight, they might find the evidence to put him away.
* * *
ONE SECOND BRITTA and Jean-Paul had been making love.
Then she’d told him about her past and seen the disgust on his face.
The phone call had been his excuse to leave her. But he would have done so anyway. His perception of her had changed. Was tainted. And he still didn’t know that she was a murderer. She had to accept that. His leaving was inevitable.
It had only been a matter of time.
She tugged the robe around her, feeling cold and alone. Maybe Howard Keith was the swamp devil and they could end the madness.
Then she and Jean-Paul could go their separate ways.
Pain knifed through her, yet she forced herself to stand tall. A heartbeat later, the landline phone jangled. Britta frowned and checked the caller ID. Unknown.
She paced to the window and stared out into the dark night. Three o’clock. No one knew where she was. Jean-Paul was on his way to Keith’s house. And she sensed that the killer was getting ready to strike again.
The phone trilled again. Five more times. A solicitor wouldn’t be calling in the middle of the night. Jean-Paul had said he had her calls routed to his house. The cops would be tracing it.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the handset. “Hello.”
“I have another girl, Adrianna.”
She closed her eyes, biting down on her lip. Not another one.
“If you want to save her, then meet me.”
“Where?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The phone clicked before she could reply.
Rage and fear rode through her in waves and Britta screamed at the walls.
She had to help Jean-Paul stop this guy. If only she knew who the girl was.
She had to call Jean-Paul.
And tell him what? That the guy had someone else? She had no information to give him. He’d spend the rest of the night going nuts, searching the bayou. And blaming himself.
She had to do something. This was all her fault.
Shack. Maybe one of his girls was missing. It was the only lead she had. She grabbed the clothes Jean-Paul’s sisters had given her and dressed in the jeans and shirt. But what about a car?
Desperate, she called a cab. Ten minutes later, she was heading into town. She’d make Shack call all his girls. Show the sketch of Teddy and Howard Keith around.
And when she saw Jean-Paul again she had to finish her story. He had to know about the man she’d killed.
Maybe Cortain would know where Reverend Tatum’s son was. If he had survived.
A cold dread washed over her. She’d suggest a trade. It was a dangerous move, but another woman’s life was at stake.
And Britta had to save her.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL HATED TO LEAVE Britta alone but they might have a lead. The photos the killer had sent Britta were taken from a camera just like Howard Keith’s. So far, they hadn’t pinpointed that it was the same camera but the information would earn a search warrant.
Damon met him at the man’s home, a small apartment off the corner of Bourbon Street.
“He’s inside,” Damon said. “I don’t think he knows we’re coming.”
“Good, we can use the element of surprise to our advantage.”
Damon rang the doorbell and Jean-Paul prayed that Britta would be okay alone. No one knew she was at his place. He’d told her to stay put. But he couldn’t wait to get back to her.
The door swung open and Keith stared at them with his one good eye. “Detective Dubois?”
“Yes. And this is Special Agent Dubois from the FBI.”
“A relative no doubt,” Keith said with a wry grin.
Jean-Paul nodded. “We have a search warrant for your premises.”
The man’s thin face turned sullen, but he stepped aside. Jean-Paul and Damon strode in, anxious to begin the search. Keith’s apartment was in a warehouse that also housed his photography studio. They were connected by double doors.
A thorough search of his bedroom and den turned up little. No swords or scepters. No red lace teddies. No religious paraphernalia. No masks of Sobek.
Frustration gnawed at Jean-Paul, but he refused to give up. If something was there, they’d find it.
He moved on to the studio. Studied Keith’s art. Photos of women hung on the wall. Dozens of Britta on the street. Some in her office. Some in her home. All candid shots. Some of her in her bedroom in her nightgown. One of her climbing from the shower, wrapped in a bath towel.
Ones that exposed the vulnerability on her face.
Keith was definitely talented. He could look at subjects and capture the secrets in their eyes.
But did that make him a killer?
He dug through the files of photographs. Found dozens of other women Keith had watched. Probably stalked. Some clothed. Some nude. But no photos of the victims or murders were among them. Did he have another hiding place?
“Search his computer,” Jean-Paul told Damon.
“I’m on it. What about trophies?” Damon asked. “Find anything?”
Jean-Paul frowned. So far, they hadn’t noticed anything missing from any of the girls. Unusual.
An hour later, and they’d gotten nowhere. Except Keith had a negative attitude pertaining to beautiful women. He hated them. Wanted to show the ugliness that lay below the beauty.
Because so many women had rejected him.
His admission substantiated Jean-Paul’s belief that Keith fit the killer’s profile, but he needed evidence. So far, he could hold him for twenty-four hours, but unless someone came forth and filed stalking charges, he’d have to let him go.
“We’re confiscating your photos and computer files,” Damon told Keith. “And you need to come with us for questioning.”
“Do I need a lawyer?” Keith asked.
“Did you kill those women?” Jean-Paul asked.
Keith shook his head. “No. I only take photographs, Detective. If I want to expose a woman’s ugly side, all I have to do is catch her at the right moment when her guard is down.”
“You mean when she thinks she’s alone in her apartment or bedroom,” Jean-Paul snapped. “When you’re invading her privacy.” The realization that the man had watched Britta in her private quarters, had photographed her nude in her bathroom stepping from the shower, at night in her bed, turned his stomach. “You’re nothing more than a peeping Tom, you bastard.”
Keith smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “I am an artist.”
“How did you get those shots?” Jean-Paul asked. “You have a telephoto lens or did you break into her apartment and watch her?”
Keith’s good eye fluttered. “I want a lawyer.”
“Let’s go.” Damon jerked the man’s arm. “Maybe you’ll feel more like talking once you sit in jail for a while.”
Jean-Paul ground his teeth as they left the man’s apartment. They needed more evidence and Keith knew it. Their only chance of making a murder charge stick was if Keith confessed to the crimes. But Keith was too cool a number to do that.
Which left them back at square one—with absolutely nothing.
Britta’s story about the cult ran through his head. The connection to Cortain. The boy she’d said had chosen her.
He and Damon would review all the articles about the cult and that suicide pact. He’d check on Porter Tatum. Maybe they’d find a picture of the boy. Damon’s people could run it through a program to age the boy and they might get an idea of what he looked like now.
It was a long shot, but they had to pursue every angle.
* * *
“WHAT IN THE HELL ARE you doing here, Britta?”
Britta stood tall, refusing to let Shack intimidate her. “There’s another woman missing. I wanted you to check your girls, see if it might be one of them.”
Shack gestured toward his cohort, a shorter black man with fists the size of melons. The man nodded and lef
t the room, hopefully to do as she’d requested.
“Look at the sketch of these men. Pass it around, see if any of your people recognize the man. Maybe he’s a client.”
Shack’s diamonds glittered beneath the dim lighting as he accepted the flier. He glanced down at the drawing of Teddy and narrowed his eyes, then cracked his knuckles. “I don’t recognize him, but I’ll check with my girls. You think this man might be the one killing the girls?”
“I’m not sure. But the police want to question him.” She explained about the porcelain dolls and the girl Debra. “The other man is a photographer. He has an odd display where he features women’s eyes. Calls it, ‘The Windows of the Soul.’”
“Sounds like an interesting character.”
Britta shivered, but the sound of a girl crying reverberated from a back room and she stiffened.
Shack rapped his knuckles on the table. “Time for you to leave now, Britta.”
“Not yet.” She gestured toward the door. “I want to see her.”
“Stay out of my business, Britta.”
“I can’t do that, Shack. Not when a girl is in trouble.”
“I’ll take care of her.” He stood, towering over her. “Now leave or one of my guys will show you out.”
Britta shook her head. “How old is she?”
“I don’t answer to you. And you know it.”
“A teenager? Thirteen, fourteen maybe?”
“Old enough to know she didn’t want to live at home with mommy and daddy.”
“Not old enough to make those decisions wisely,” Britta said. Remembering her own brush with Shack and his enticing invitations to join his business years before, Britta pushed past him and headed to the door leading to the back.
One of Shack’s men grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her.
She glared at him, knowing he could kill her if he wanted.
But the crying girl needed her and she would find a way to help her. If she didn’t, this girl might end up as another casualty on the street. Another victim of the swamp devil or a psycho just like him.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL FELT LIKE pounding the wall in frustration. Instead he paced his office.
Howard Keith refused to cooperate and had called a lawyer. Jean-Paul and Damon had reviewed the articles about the cult, the suicide pact and Cortain. According to all their information, the reverend’s son was thought to have died in the suicide pact but there was no conclusive evidence.
