Say You Love Me (32 page)

“That or he's into another art form. At best, he's using the makeup to disguise himself.” The acrylic—hell, with all the artists in town, they had to narrow down where it was bought, the exact type and its use…Damon had guys working that angle now.

Britta twined her fingers together, feeling helpless. Today was Mardi Gras. A day when half the town would be in disguise, wearing masks. How would they ever find him?

“He wants me,” Britta said. “Let me go on the air.”

The commotion in the room came to an abrupt halt. Jean-Paul's mother looked up at her with tear-stained eyes. His sister Stephanie bit down on her lip but refrained from a reply. Shawn gave her an accusatory look that matched Damon's and Antwaun's.

“We can arrange a meeting,” she said into the silence.

Tension whistled through the room as if a ghost had walked by. Jean-Paul shook his head, but Damon caught his arm. “Jean-Paul, think about it.”

Antwaun cleared his throat. “It's worth a shot. This is our sister we're talking about.”

A muscle ticked in Jean-Paul's jaw. Jean-Paul knew they were right.

But Britta knew he wouldn't ask her to take a chance. He was after all, a hero at heart.

He couldn't save everyone, though. And Catherine, who had a daughter, was an innocent in all this. She didn't deserve to die.

“Let's get a trace in place,” Jean-Paul commanded. “We'll make a plea, offer a ransom and give out phone numbers for the killer to call or for leads.”

He was calm, poised. Seething below the surface. Britta could read him so well.

God, how she loved the man.

And his family…they huddled together as if they were one. Painted a heartrending picture as the camera zoomed in to capture their terrorized faces.

“Please,” Shawn said. “My daughter needs her mother. Send Catherine back to us alive.”

Mazie took the mike next. “Please help this family and N'Awlins stop this reign of terror by the swamp devil. If you have any information regarding the recent murders, about a suspect. If you've seen this woman, Catherine Dubois—” the TV station flashed a photo of her, then Teddy on the screen “—or this man, please call.” She repeated the phone number, then they displayed it on the screen again.

Chrissy, Catherine's little girl, suddenly appeared at the bottom of the steps in tears. “Daddy, where's Mommy?” Her big eyes stared at the reporter in horror. She'd heard the news report. Knew her mother was missing.

Shawn rushed to her and tried to comfort her. And the family encircled her.

“Please, Uncle Jean-Paul,” Chrissy cried. “Get my mommy back.”

Antwaun gestured toward Britta. “Come on, Jean-Paul, give Britta a shot. It might be the only chance we have.”

Jean-Paul jerked his finger toward the kitchen. “In there, now. We have to talk.”

The family moved together into the kitchen, leaving her behind. Mazie Burgess raised her brows in a confused frown.

Britta had started this mess thirteen years ago when she'd killed a man and run into the bayou. She had to make things right.

As soon as the Duboises were out of earshot, she turned to the reporter, then took the mike.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL TRIED DESPERATELY
to soothe Chrissy's cries. Finally his mother took her in her arms and she seemed to calm. But the little girl's red-rimmed eyes held expectations, and Jean-Paul wanted to erase her fear.

“Why are you protecting that Berger woman when your own sister's life is at stake?” Anger deepened Antwaun's voice.

“You don't understand,” Jean-Paul argued.

“I understand that Catherine is in trouble,” Shawn snapped, “and that we're standing here arguing over whether this stranger should help us.”

Jean-Paul's mother leaned into his father. He patted his wife's back. “We have to stick together,” his father said. “Stay strong. Trust our boys to find her.”

“Britta is more than a stranger. Isn't she, Jean-Paul?” Stephanie asked.

Jean-Paul frowned, wincing internally. How could he possibly make them understand his relationship to Britta when he didn't understand it himself? She was so complicated, so lost.

So brave.

How could he trade one life for another?

“She's a victim here,” he said in a gruff voice. He filled them in on what had happened to Britta as a child, not surprised when horror struck their faces.

“We can't ask her to face that man,” his mother said softly.

“Mom, it may be our only chance to save Catherine,” Antwaun argued.

“It's going to be night soon,” Damon interjected. “We need to move.”

“Let her make a plea,” Antwaun suggested. “Agree to meet him somewhere. We'll wire her, follow her and let her lead us to him.”

Jean-Paul wavered slightly. Every hour that passed lessened the chances they had of finding his sister alive. No telling what kind of pain the man was inflicting upon her….

But bartering an exchange for Britta, sacrificing her? He'd be no better than her mother…. It was too risky. “Even if we set up Britta, if the guy sees us tailing her, he might kill Catherine anyway.”

Tension vibrated between his family as they exchanged frantic looks. The air was charged with the question nobody wanted to ask. What if Catherine was already dead?

* * *

Mardi Gras day

* * *

T
HE PARTIES WERE IN FULL
swing. Children raced to catch candy as the parade leaders tossed to the street. Beer and liquor flowed freely. A maze of drunken partiers wearing Mardi Gras masks and costumes overflowed the bars.

But the Dubois family and Britta Berger were not in the Quarter. Not celebrating. No, they were huddled together discussing
him.
Wondering who he was. Where he was. What he had done with their beloved sister.

Laughter bubbled in his throat.

After running from the press for days now, Jean-Paul Dubois had finally gone public. To save his sister.

Would he trade Adrianna to have Catherine back?

He fingered the mask he'd designed for Britta. He'd most enjoyed painting the wide, stricken eyes.

Why hadn't
she
appeared on the news? Didn't she know that it was her he wanted? That today, Mardi Gras, the day of celebration, was the day he had to make his sacrifice?

He peeled back the mask he'd donned when he'd captured Catherine and breathed out deeply as he stared at his scarred face in the mirror. The dead, mangled skin, the reddened patches, his disfigurement—it had all been Adrianna's fault. Her fault that he'd never been normal, that the women hadn't wanted him, that they'd turned away in horror.

That he'd been forced to hide in disguise.

Catherine moaned in the background and he glanced over his shoulder. He should show her his hideous face, watch the terror streak her eyes.

But the news reporter's voice broke into the quiet. “Folks, Britta Berger is with us now. She has been in contact with the killer and wants to make a statement.”

His pulse clamored as he turned toward the rickety set in the corner. Bloodlust thickened in his veins as Britta appeared on screen.

She was finally going to talk to him. When she finished, he'd give her a call. Tell her that if she wanted to save Catherine, she had to meet him in the bayou.

Back to the place where it had all begun.

The bayou killed. It took lives. And gave them, as well.

It was his home.

And the place where Adrianna would die.

“M
Y NAME IS
B
RITTA
B
ERGER
. I want to address the man who has Catherine Dubois-Cramer,” Britta said into the microphone. “You knew me as Adrianna Small. We belonged to the same cult a long time ago. And the night your father was killed, the night I shot him, I ran away.” The reporter's eyebrows lifted and shock settled on her face. But Britta ignored her reaction and forged on.

If she went to jail after this, so be it. She could live with whatever happened, as long as her plan worked and they saved Catherine.

“It's me you want,” she said calmly. “Not Catherine. She is innocent in all this. She has a daughter herself. You remember what it's like to lose a parent and you don't want to do that to this sweet little girl.” She prayed he still had some conscience left. “Call me on the cell phone listed and let's talk. I'll meet you anywhere you want.” She lowered her voice. “Please just don't hurt Catherine. Let me take her place.”

Mazie was frowning. The cameraman gaped as if she'd lost her mind. But Britta had hidden long enough.

And Jean-Paul…he still blamed himself for his wife's death. She wouldn't let him lose his sister, especially because of her.

The reporter repeated the number again, and Britta startled as her cell phone rang. She grabbed it quickly and pressed it to her ear. “Hello.”

“I saw you on television, Adrianna.”

She angled herself away from the reporter's watchful eyes. “Is Catherine all right?”

A long pause. “For now.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“No.” His quick, low reply sent a shudder through her. “You want her released?”

“Yes.”

“You'll meet me?”

“Yes. Wherever you say.”

“You have to come alone. “His voice was harsh, muffled. “If you bring Dubois or anyone else—police, the feds, even that reporter—Catherine will die.”

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.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL 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.

* * *

B
RITTA 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….

* * *

H
OWARD
K
EITH 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.