Say You Love Me (22 page)

Three days until Mardi Gras

T
HE LAST TWENTY-FOUR
hours had been maddening.

More search parties were dispersed. The woman's body was found. Her name was Sissy Lecher. And Britta had received another photo.

Thankfully, the ME had found trace evidence beneath Ginger Holliday's fingernails, but it would take time to test it. Other than that, clues were nonexistent.

Jean-Paul's anger rocked back and forth between fury at the killer, his own ineptness and being angry at Britta for not confiding in him. But he didn't have time for emotions.

Carson was following Howard Keith, the photographer. Antwaun was assigned Randy Swain. Jean-Paul was going to talk to Reverend Cortain. And he'd hunted for more info on Britta. But the social worker who'd handled the Bergers' foster care had died and her records had been sketchy, so he hadn't learned Britta's real name.

A chill dampened the air as he drove to the reverend's house at the edge of Black Bayou. The weather seemed more ominous, the evening sky turned darker by the minute. The silvery Spanish moss seemed weighted with gray, the tendrils of the weeping willows waved like an old woman battling to stand up against the force of the impending storm.

The cacophony of night sounds echoed around him as he walked up the cobblestone steps toward Cortain's house, a wood-frame structure with peeling paint and faded curtains. He knocked, then identified himself. Several minutes later, the stubby man appeared in baggy black pants, his tie loosened, an open Bible in his hands.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes and removed photos of each of the victims. “Did you know any of these girls?”

Cortain adjusted his wire-rim glasses and studied the photos. “No, I've never seen any of them before. The paper said they were prostitutes?”

Jean-Paul nodded curtly. “They might have attended one of your sermons,” Jean-Paul said. “Or maybe you met them
elsewhere?
”

Cortain's eyes bulged with anger. “I'm a man of the cloth, Detective. If I visited the red-light district at any time, it would be to try to save the lost souls.”

“So you've never tried to
save
these three women?” Jean-Paul asked, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. He didn't believe for a minute that Cortain was all that holy.

“I've already answered that question. Now, is there anything else? Perhaps you have something on your mind—a confession of your own? Perhaps you need repentance?”

He sure as hell did, but he wouldn't ask Cortain for it. “Tell me about the clan your brother-in-law led. The one where fifty people committed suicide.”

Cortain's fingers flitted nervously over the Bible pages. “I was only a young man myself back then.”

Jean-Paul produced a newspaper clipping. “Then let me refresh your memory. Your brother-in-law used medieval practices. He worshipped Sobek and offered sacrifices to the gods.”

Cortain arched a brow. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long that you've forgotten?”

Sweat rolled down Cortain's ruddy cheek. “Like I said, I was only a kid myself. It was a confusing time. We all loved my brother-in-law. We were devastated when we lost his leadership.” He choked up. “And then the deaths—my sister was among them.”

“The man we're calling the swamp devil is practicing those same medieval practices. He might have belonged to that original clan. You probably knew him.”

Cortain reached up as if to shut the door. “I don't know anyone left from the group.”

Jean-Paul caught the door edge with his hand. “Then you won't mind if I take a look inside your house, will you?”

Cortain's face blanched, but he stepped aside and allowed Jean-Paul to enter. “Go ahead, Detective. Search away. I am a messenger from the heavens. I have nothing to hide.”

* * *

R.J.
WAS HIDING
something.

The nerves at the back of Britta's neck tingled. He had made an excuse the day before, begging off from visiting the wax museum with her.

Then today he'd called and insisted they go together.

Frank DeCamp, the creator of the masterpieces in wax and director of the wax museum, was now showing her a mask collection made by an artist who used the initials SW. The series of masks on display intrigued her. They were detailed—dark, each one depicting an evil force of black magic.

DeCamp indicated a second wall behind him. “These masks represent some of the famous ghosts who haunt the city.”

She studied DeCamp's features as he described a few of the local ghost legends. She had seen him before, but couldn't place him. Probably in the market. Or at one of the restaurants.

Or perhaps from her past. From the bayou?

She searched her memory, but still couldn't place his face. His eyes, though, seemed odd. Intense. Sinister. They were different colors. One brown, one hazel. Glassy-looking.

A scar crisscrossed his hand, another carved a red path up his arm and a third skated up from his shirt to his neck. They resembled bite marks from an animal. Or maybe someone had used his sculpting knives on him?

“We have a special historical display of religious memorabilia portraying customs through the ages,” he said as he led them to the next exhibit.

DeCamp showed them into a dark room filled with plastic shrubbery, trees and displays of crocodiles from different regions, then past the biggest bust of Sobek she'd ever seen.

Several low-lit cordoned-off areas showcased replicas of medieval gods and the history of religion from Judaism to Protestant origins. Opposite those, she noticed a sacrificial scene of natives dancing around an open fire while snakes hissed in a nearby pit. Lambs, calves and wildlife lay slaughtered and bloody on stones and grassy mounds—their predators down on bent knees offering their sacrifices. On a cloth of velvet lay a young girl dressed in virginal white. Four natives held the poles of her bed as if they'd carried her to the cross that they lit in honor of the ultimate sacrifice.

“Is it not totally captivating?” DeCamp asked in a low voice. “The loved ones were so unselfish.”

Britta glanced up at DeCamp's unwavering, intense eyes. Then to R.J. whose face held a smile as he studied the exhibit.

“What do you think, Britta?” R.J. asked.

That it resurrected memories from her own near-death experience. “The customs were barbaric.”

DeCamp laughed. “Some historical practices were indeed so.” He guided them to another room. “Now, you must see the heads. My personal contribution to the museum.”

The sight of the intricate, lifelike wax figurines stirred Britta's unease. The busts looked as if they were real heads that had been removed from humans.

“These are the queens of Mardi Gras,” DeCamp pointed out. “And here are the famous voodoo priestesses that came before us.”

R.J. brushed his hand along her waist, then tugged her closer to him. “The details are magnificent, are they not, Miss Berger?”

The man's choice in mediums disturbed her. It was almost as if he had known each of the women he'd sculpted. As if he'd sculpted them from memory.

“They look real,” she said in a low voice, “as if the women have been beheaded.”

DeCamp's smile sent a chill down her spine. And R.J.'s reaction—the more she learned about him, the more he frightened her.

And the more she suspected he might be the killer.

* * *

D
EBRA WANTED TO SEE
Teddy's secret room. All his artwork. Even the pieces he'd never shown another living soul.

But Teddy could not allow it. His fantasies were private.

She batted her long brown eyelashes at him. She had worn more makeup today and looked like one of the pretty girls on the street. The ones who usually didn't give him the time of day.

But Debra claimed she
loved
him.

Maybe she could make him forget the other girls. The ones who'd turned him down. The ones who'd laughed when he'd approached them. Maybe this thing with Debra
was
the real thing and he could finally love a woman.

Debra's eyes floated over him as if she might lap him up like an ice-cream cone on a hot day. He wanted to want her.

But when she ran her fingers along the inside of his thigh, his body refused to respond.

Fuck. It was happening again. Just like the other times.

He had to focus. He couldn't fail her and have her laugh at him. Then she'd run away.

Frustrated, he rolled her over and pinned her to the bed. Her eyes flared with desire. “That's it, baby,” she whispered. “Make love to me, Teddy.”

For the next twenty minutes, she tried her damnedest to turn him on. Teddy tried his damnedest to let her. He wanted real love but it escaped him.

And nothing she did with her fingers or mouth was working.

The
Naked Desires
magazine, the pictures of the girls…the Secret Confessions. They always aroused him.

And so did the picture of Britta Berger.

Frustrated, he left the bed and went into the other room. Debra called his name, but he shut the door and stared at the dolls. So pretty. So perfect. So beautiful.

The jars of eyes stared back at him. They did look real. He brought them to life.

He opened the curtain the rest of the way and studied the pictures of the naked girls. At the one of Britta he'd bought from that photographer.

A smile creased his lips. And his cock finally hardened. He slid his hand down, ready to satisfy himself, but the door opened and Debra stood watching him. Her gaze fell to his hand then to the photograph of Britta.

Anger reddened her cheeks and she slammed the door in his face.

He cursed himself then ran after her.

* * *

B
RITTA KNOTTED HER
hands together as R.J. parked in the drive to his house. She had to get him alone. Get inside his house. Get him to open up.

And find out if he was the killer.

His house, a gray Victorian with white lattice work, dormer windows and an attic window, was cloaked in darkness. The five-acre piece of property hugged the swampland, shrouded in trees. It looked…haunted.

He rushed around to open her door and she hesitated as she noticed a crocodile resting lazily in the pool of water below the tupelo tree. Years ago, some rich family probably entertained on the wraparound porch. The ladies wearing sun dresses and bonnets while they sipped mint tea and nibbled on tiny wafer cookies.

Now the ghosts of the dead whispered of danger. R.J. took her arm and guided her inside, helping her dodge the uneven ground and sticks the wind had tossed around. A light sprinkling of rain fell on her face, adding to the chill.

“Why did you choose this place?” Britta asked as they entered the dark foyer. “It's so deserted out here.”

“I prefer the quiet,” he replied in a thick voice. “And I like my privacy.”

Tension clawed at her muscles. All the swamp devil's victims were found in the bayou in run-down shanties. All in desolate areas just like R.J.'s place.

He smiled, then walked to the minibar in the corner of the living room while she studied the dark veneered wood paneling. A library of books held works of science fiction and fantasy creatures, while an array of others included titles of erotica, bestiality, S and M and half-human creatures.

The temptation to run snaked through her. But then she'd never learn the truth. And she was tired of running.

“Quite an accumulation,” Britta commented.

“If you think that's impressive, come and look at my collection of swords.”

Anxiety tingled inside Britta at his tone, but she followed him to a connecting room. Ancient swords and knives filled the walls. She surveyed the room, noting the sizes, shapes, golds, bronzes and wooden handles. Each weapon had a carved gold plate below specifying its origin, history and former owner.

“You must have been acquiring these for years.” A gold-plated lancet that resembled the one the killer had left inside the dead women's hearts caught her eye.

He smiled. “Yes, that one resembles the one the swamp devil uses, but his are replicas,” he explained. “Cheap imitations.”

He handed her a crystal wine glass filled with a bloodred merlot. “I'm glad you finally came to my house, Britta.”

He moved so close she inhaled the scent of his heavy cologne. So close she fought a shiver. “Jean-Paul Dubois mentioned that you grew up in Black Bayou.”

His eyes turned a smoky hue. “Yes.”

She sipped her wine, gauging his reaction. “He said you lost your parents to a cult thirteen years ago?”

The coarse bristles of his five o'clock shadow made a scraping sound as he ran his hand over it. “Yes, that's true. But then again, you know all about the cult, don't you, Britta?”