Say You Love Me

by Rita Herron

  Britta closed her eyes, willing herself to be strong. “I’ll come alone. I promise.”

  Heavy breathing rattled over the line. “Then I’ll see you where we first met.”

  “Black Bayou?”

  “Yes. At Devil’s Corner,” he specified. “You do remember it, don’t you, Adrianna?”

  “Yes.” The whisper was ripped from her as an image of the area resurfaced. How could she forget the place where she’d nearly lost her life as a child—and lost her soul?

  He ended the call with a click and she glanced up to see Mazie approaching her. “What did he say?”

  “I have to meet him,” Britta said.

  “I’ll get Jean-Paul.”

  “No.” Britta grabbed the woman’s arm, pleading, insistent. “This man will kill Catherine if I don’t come alone. I can’t take that chance.”

  “You can’t face him alone,” Mazie argued. “Jean-Paul—”

  “Shouldn’t have to watch his family suffer,” Britta finished. “Or choose to trade someone to get Catherine back.”

  Emotions flickered in Mazie’s eyes. Compassion. Worry for Jean-Paul. Maybe even for her.

  “Please,” Britta whispered. “Let me go now. I started this years ago. I have to finish it now.”

  Their gazes locked, their admiration for Jean-Paul binding them together.

  “All right,” Mazie agreed, resigned. “But you can’t go unprotected.”

  Footsteps clattered on the wooden floor, Jean-Paul’s voice growing closer. The family would be back in the room in seconds.

  Mazie gestured toward the drawer where Jean-Paul’s mother had made the boys store their weapons when they’d arrived. “Take a gun with you.”

  Britta found the key, unlocked the drawer, then removed Jean-Paul’s gun.

  “Do you know how to use it?” the woman asked.

  Britta nodded, tucked the weapon inside her jacket, then grabbed the keys to Jean-Paul’s car and rushed out the door. She prayed she’d survive this meeting. If not, hopefully she’d at least send Catherine back alive.

  * * *

  JEAN-PAUL HAD MADE A decision during the hurricane and lost his wife, and had to live with the consequences. No matter what he did now, someone he cared about might die. But he couldn’t sacrifice Britta….

  Antwaun poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’d never let a woman come between me and the family.”

  “Boys, please don’t argue,” his mother pleaded. “We have to stick together.”

  Stephanie worried her lip with her teeth. Jean-Paul didn’t want to ask if she’d had a premonition. Damon gave him a silent questioning look. Shawn and Chrissy’s expression was pleading, tormented.

  Jean-Paul’s chest clenched. If he agreed, he’d be throwing Britta to the wolves just as her mother had done. She’d never had a family to take care of her.

  And dammit, he wanted to do so now.

  “I’ve negotiated hostage exchanges before, Jean-Paul,” Damon said. “Trust me. We won’t let the killer get Britta. We’ll protect her.”

  Damon’s phone jangled, cutting him off. The air was so tense that his niece’s breathing sliced into the silence. Damon connected the call and listened.

  “All right. We’ll be right there.” Damon disconnected his phone. “One of my agents found your guy Teddy at a service station near Black Bayou and is bringing him in. I told the agent we’d meet him at the precinct.”

  Jean-Paul nodded. “Let me tell Britta.”

  Damon and Antwaun followed him into the den. Jean-Paul’s gaze scanned the room. Mazie was tucking her notes in her briefcase while the cameraman headed outside with his equipment to load it into their news van.

  “Where’s Britta?”

  Mazie bit down on her lip. “She’s gone, Jean-Paul.”

  “What?” He grabbed her arm and made her look at him. “Gone where?”

  She cast her eyes toward the door and his heart stopped.

  “She went on air while you were in the other room. She asked the swamp devil to meet her.”

  A bead of perspiration trickled down Jean-Paul’s back. “And you let her leave! Why didn’t you call me?”

  “She wanted to do this, Jean-Paul.” Mazie squeezed his arm. “For you. For your sister.”

  Her gaze met his and Jean-Paul’s throat closed with emotions.

  Damon moved near him and Antwaun shuffled up beside him. They had obviously overheard. “We can try to track her,” Damon said.

  “Then let’s go.” Jean-Paul turned to the desk to retrieve his gun and saw the opened drawer.

  Damon and Antwaun noticed at the same time and retrieved their weapons.

  “She took yours for protection,” Mazie said.

  Jean-Paul gritted his teeth. He’d be in deep shit at the precinct. But he didn’t care about the law this time. Not one iota.

  “I hope to hell she knows how to use it,” he muttered. In fact, he hoped she killed the bastard just like she had that Reverend Tatum.

  * * *

  BRITTA PRESSED THE GAS peddle, accelerating as she veered onto the highway leading out of town. The lights and party sounds of Mardi Gras echoed in the background, mocking her with their frivolity. The afternoon rain had stopped long enough for the parade, but now it splattered the windshield. Storm clouds thundered ominously, the occasional streak of lightning that flashed off the cemeteries making the gravestones look as if they were about to come alive. She imagined ghosts walking the land and wondered if Brother Tatum was among them. Had he been trapped in the city of the dead all these years, waiting on her to resurface so he could watch her pay the price for killing him?

  Would he be satisfied when she was arrested and finally move on? Or did he want to see her in the grave beside him?

  Fatigue pulled at her muscles, reminding her she hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. She sighed and turned up the defroster, glad the truth was out in the open. It was a relief not to carry the burden of her secret.

  Her only regret was that she’d hurt Jean-Paul and endangered his family.

  Wind made the branches on the trees sway and dip, its shrill whistle chilling her as she approached Devil’s Corner. Some claimed they’d actually spotted the swamp devil at the corner of the two dirt roads that intersected the swampland. Some left offerings—voodoo mojos and gris gris—for protection.

  The cult had met there years before to fight the evil. Only they had lost.

  Because she had destroyed their leader?

  Or because they were trapped by superstition and the barbaric practices of the past?

  The last bad hurricane had altered the property slightly, so she had to drive a couple of miles to the west. But she recognized the gigantic rock shaped like a devil’s horn and parked beside it. The rain softened to a drizzle, the fog barring her vision as she searched the darkness.

  If the swamp devil had Catherine, then he must have found a shanty nearby to hold her prisoner. Britta killed the engine, then took a deep breath and checked her coat pocket for Jean-Paul’s gun.

  The eerie sounds of the bayou echoed around her as she waited….

  * * *

  R.J. RACED TOWARD THE police station, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe Britta had gone on air and offered to meet the killer.

  What in the hell was she thinking?

  He slammed on the brakes, tires squealing as he turned into the parking lot, then cut the engine. He’d been so furious when he’d been released from jail that he’d gone to see one of his girlfriends. He’d needed release and she’d given it to him.

  Then he’d heard about the fire at the office and gone into shock. His building, his magazine, all in shambles. And all because of that damned Cortain and this fucking serial killer.

  And now Britta, the one woman he actually had feelings for, was in even more danger. She’d put her life on the line for that cop Dubois, he was sure of it.

  That and the guilt over Reverend Tatum’s death. She didn’t deserve that guilt.
>
  She didn’t deserve death, either.

  He had to talk to Dubois. If the killer called her, R.J. had a hunch where he’d want to meet her. And Britta would be walking into a trap….

  * * *

  HOWARD KEITH HAD BEEN wrong about Britta Berger.

  She had substance to her. An unselfishness below the surface that she had hidden from the world. Even he, the master of capturing the windows to the soul, had not seen it.

  So maybe he was flawed. Had been wrong. In spite of her physical beauty, she was brave. Go figure.

  He and the camera had both been incorrect in their perception of her. He wanted the whole story now. After all, the police were trying to pin the crime on him and he was innocent.

  Why had Britta Berger chosen to face a killer and put her life on the line rather than run again?

  Howard had understood her hiding out. He’d been running most of his life. Hiding his face because of his imperfection.

  In that way, he could relate to the killer. Howard shot beautiful women’s faces and revealed their ugly sides. The killer exposed the pretty girls with dirty souls.

  Just like his friend…Sedrick offered masks to hide behind, although some of his masks were grotesque themselves.

  He knocked on his friend’s apartment door, then tapped his foot, impatient. Sedrick had first pointed Britta out to him. Maybe he knew more about her. He’d claimed Britta had snubbed her nose at him because of his looks. And lately, Sedrick had behaved oddly. Even made comments that had made Howard wonder how long he’d known Britta. And Sedrick’s face…his scars.

  How had he gotten them?

  Sedrick was so secretive. Mysterious. Intense. Remote. He never discussed his past. And he was methodical. A perfectionist. Detail oriented. Which served him well in his profession.

  Howard knocked again, but his friend didn’t answer. Maybe he was working on a new art project.

  Another mask. Or more eyes.

  The guy was a wizard with design. He’d started his masks as a hobby, but today many of the more intricate Mardi Gras masks sold in town could be attributed to his talent. He even designed masks for the S and M shop and had a display in the wax museum. Of course, Howard understood his obsession with the art form.

  His friend had his own flaws, imperfections.

  In fact, the two of them had bonded at first sight because of them.

  When Howard had lost his eye and decided to get a prosthetic one, he’d met with the ocularist. Sedrick suggested a custom prosthesis instead of the stock variety because it fit better and looked more natural.

  But plastic surgery, his new fake eye, nothing had been able to compensate for Howard’s flaw. He was scarred. Disfigured. Just like Sedrick. Except Sedrick’s scars were physical, so deep he was forced to either wear a custom mask or heavy makeup.

  Deciding Sedrick wasn’t home, Howard removed the key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. A sudden cold feeling split down his spine, as if fingers of ice had touched his skin. Bits and pieces of conversation with Sedrick rattled back in his mind.

  Sedrick had grown up in Black Bayou. He hated women. He created masks of Sobek. Sedrick thought the swamp devil’s victims deserved their fate. That Britta Berger was being contacted because of her magazine.

  Suspicions skated through his head. Twice, on nights when women had died, he’d dropped by and his friend hadn’t been home.

  His pulse clamored as he let himself inside the apartment. He made a quick walk through but Sedrick wasn’t home.

  Nerves on edge, he hurried to the studio. Two new masks lay half-completed on the work table. Both dark, sinister—like some kind of mystic gothic creature.

  His gaze shot to the locked door, Sedrick’s private room. Sedrick had gotten upset when Howard had tried to open it.

  His heart hammering, he hurried to the work table and found a small knife. He had to see what was behind the locked door. And why Sedrick kept it a secret.

  * * *

  JEAN-PAUL WAS GOING out of his mind.

  They had lost Britta. And they hadn’t been able to trace the call to her cell phone.

  “Dammit, Damon, we have to find her.”

  “Hang in there, Jean-Paul.” Damon drove along Bourbon Street, his methodical mind checking streets, while Antwaun had driven to the station to question Teddy. Jean-Paul had hoped Britta would return to her place. Maybe meet the guy there or at the office.

  But so far nothing.

  The windshield wipers scraped the glass, rain pinging off in a steady drizzle. The timing of the killer’s call to Britta didn’t feel right. If Teddy was in custody, he wasn’t meeting Britta. So who had Catherine? “What if the killer has Britta and Catherine now?”

  Damon cut his eyes toward Jean-Paul. “This woman has really snuck under your skin, hasn’t she?”

  His brother didn’t know the half of it. He couldn’t deny it. “She has me in knots, Damon. She’s this lost kind of woman, afraid and secretive. And she kept the truth from me about killing Reverend Tatum, but she had her reasons.”

  “Yeah, she was afraid you’d arrest her.”

  He ran his hand over his stubble, barely cognizant of the fact that he hadn’t showered or shaved or slept in almost two days. “You heard what she said, that Tatum was going to sacrifice her. She was thirteen, Damon, just a kid.”

  Damon’s jaw tightened. “I know, that’s pretty horrible.”

  “If she hadn’t escaped the cult, she’d be dead. She’s a gutsy lady. She killed that guy in self-defense.” His breathing wheezed out, choppy. “Just look at her now. She’s putting herself in danger to save our sister.” Because of guilt. Because she felt all alone. Because she thought no one loved her.

  Because she wanted to spare Catherine and his family pain.

  At any cost to herself.

  “You’re sure it was self defense? She wasn’t a street girl—”

  “Hell, no. She let me believe the worst, but she’s been out there helping girls, Damon. Getting them off the street. She even spends Sundays feeding the homeless.” And probably searching for the mother who’d abandoned her.

  “If it had been Steph or Cat or, for God’s sake,” he continued, “Chrissy in her shoes, wouldn’t you have wanted Britta to fight back?”

  Damon gave him a long concerned look, then nodded. At least he and his brother saw eye to eye. Convincing Antwaun to accept his view would be a different story, but he’d worry about that later.

  Right now all he could think about was finding Britta and Catherine. Where was Britta? Was she all right?

  And what about his sister? Was she still alive?

  * * *

  DÉJÀ VU STRUCK Britta. The bayou looked different tonight. Felt different. The winds had changed. Some of the topography.

  But the sounds were the same. The incessant trolling of the gators. The Mississippi churning against the bank. And the smell of blood and danger permeated the air.

  She climbed from the car, searching the dense trees, knowing the swamp devil was out there somewhere. Waiting. Watching. Hungry for the kill.

  Her breath felt painful in her chest as she checked the inside of her jacket for the gun. A twig snapped somewhere in the distance. Rain sluiced around her feet. The mud pulled at her shoes like quicksand trying to drag her into the bowels of the ground. She refused to give in.

  Then she saw his eyes. Glowing dark embers of fire bursting through the night. They almost didn’t look real.

  An animal howled, low and throaty.

  Then he whispered her name.

  She wanted to curl into that teeny little ball of a girl she’d been once. Disappear. Become invisible.

  But she couldn’t abandon Catherine.

  “I’m here.” Her voice carried into the wind like a ghost’s cry. The rustle of leaves reverberated behind her. Then to the right. Evil filled the air, and she sensed the swamp devil watching, ready to pounce.

  She stood her ground, waiting on him to show his face.
Then she’d follow him wherever he wanted to take her.

  Suddenly a memory broke through the fog of her brain. The shanty she’d discovered when she’d been running from the clan. Deep in the heart of the backwoods, surrounded by water and weeds. It was close by.

  That’s where he’d taken Catherine.

  Her heart pounding, she stepped into a knot of trees, letting them swallow her shadow as she blended into the world that she’d once tried to escape. A second later, she felt his cold hands.

  “I knew you’d come, Adrianna. We were meant to be together.”

  Thirteen years ago, she’d spit in his face and run.

  She was tempted to shoot him now, then search for Catherine. But what if she was wrong? What if the shanty was somewhere else or what if it had been demolished in the hurricane?

  She couldn’t take the chance. She had to let him take her to Catherine first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I DIDN’T KILL Debra.”

  Jean-Paul studied Teddy and wondered if Britta had been right—on the surface, Teddy didn’t appear capable of sadistic murder. But what if he had a hidden personality?

  “Then why were you leaving town?”

  Teddy’s pale face turned ruddy. “Be…cause I saw the news. I knew p…olice would think I killed D…ebra.”

  Jean-Paul slapped the table. “She was last seen with you.”

  Teddy sniffled. “I know. We…she came home with me, but she was alive when she left.”

  “What happened between you?”

  Teddy ducked his head. “We had…started to have sex…she said she loved me. But…she got mad when she saw me l…ooking at that magazine and ran out.”

  “Her fingernail ended up in Britta Berger’s apartment after that fire. We think she attacked Miss Berger.”

  Teddy’s eyes widened in shock. “I…don’t know.”

  Jean-Paul hit the table with his fist again. “Where’s my sister?”

  “I told you, I don’t know your sister.”

  Antwaun shoved a photo of Catherine and her daughter in front of his face. “Try again.”