Say You Love Me (33 page)

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.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL 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?

* * *

D
ÉJÀ 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.

“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.”

Teddy rubbed a hand over his runny nose, his body shaking. “I…wait a minute. I've seen them in the market. They bought some of my dolls.”

“That's right.” Jean-Paul gripped the man's arm with steely fingers. “Now, tell me what you did with Catherine. Her little girl wants her back.”

Teddy's Adam's apple bulged. “I didn't do anything with them. W…w…why would I?”

“Because you wanted to hurt Britta Berger and me,” Jean-Paul snapped.

Teddy shook his head violently. “I…I'd n…ever hurt Miss B…erger. I…l…ike her.” He hugged the edge of the chair. “And I'm not the only w…w…one your s…sister bought from. She bought a m…m…ask from the guy next to me.”

Jean-Paul had questioned the guy one time on the street after the first murder, but he'd had an alibi. And the masks he made were different from the one they'd found at the scene. But maybe he'd missed something.

“What's this guy's name?” Jean-Paul asked.

“Sed…rick…” Teddy whined. “Whitehead. He…also paints eyes.”

“What do you mean he paints eyes?”

“He's an oc…ularist. Said he started p…ainting dolls' eyes like me, then got asked to apprentice with an ocularist.”

“Prosthetic eyes are made from acrylic now,” Damon said. “I'll check him out.” Damon's heels clicked as he left the room, and Jean-Paul paced across the floor. He hoped to hell they weren't wasting time.

Britta had been gone for over an hour. No phone calls. No citings by the cops. No confession from Teddy. In fact, the poor guy seemed genuinely upset that Britta was missing.

He felt like he was coming apart, that he might blow if something didn't break soon.

He stepped into the hallway and dialed Stephanie. Maybe she'd heard something.

“She hasn't called,” Stephanie said. “Do you have any leads, Jean-Paul?”

Jean-Paul sighed, his nerves strung tight. “We're working on it. We've received a few calls about the other victims. I have uniforms checking out the leads. And we're interrogating a suspect now.” And weeding out the crank calls. He'd expected some after they'd aired on the news, but the craziness of Mardi Gras had accentuated the problem.

“We're also looking for an ocularist now. Apparently, he also makes masks and sells them on the street.”

“I've seen his work. He has a display in the wax museum,” Stephanie said. “There's something eerie about that place. About his work.”

Lieutenant Phelps strode toward him, then gestured for Jean-Paul to meet him in the hallway, so he promised to keep Stephanie posted, then hung up. Phelps was already pissed at Jean-Paul for losing his gun to a civilian. Now his job was on the line.

But he didn't give a damn. He'd do whatever necessary to save Catherine and Britta.

“Did you learn anything from Swain?”

Phelps shrugged. “He admitted that he's not who he says he is. Apparently he stole that song, ‘Heartache Blues,' from a chick who dumped him in Nashville.” Phelps popped an antacid. “He's a liar, a cheat and a crossdresser, but he's not our killer.”

Now they knew the reason the guy had acted guilty.

Phelps put his hand on Jean-Paul's shoulder. “Look, Dubois, this one is too personal. I'm taking you off the case. Let the other boys handle it.”

“You can't do that, Lieutenant.”

“I can and I will. You've already lost your gun. And I watched you with that guy Teddy. You're losing it, Dubois. Sit this one out.”

Jean-Paul removed his badge and shoved it into his lieutenant's hands. “Take it. I don't care about the job. I'm not stopping until I catch this maniac.” And he fully intended to kill him.

He didn't wait for a reply. He'd chosen his job over his first wife. He'd be damned if he'd choose it over his sister or Britta.

His cell phone rang, and Jean-Paul answered it. “Dubois.”

“Detective, this is Howard Keith. There's something you should see,” Keith said, sounding out of breath. “I think I know who your killer is.”

“Don't play games with me, Keith. My sister and Britta Berger are missing. If you have them—”

“I don't,” he said sharply. “But I may know who does. A…friend of mine, another artist. His name is Sedrick Whitehead. He's the reason I started photographing Britta Berger in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“He paints eyeballs, prostheses. That's how we met. But he also paints and makes Mardi Gras masks on the side. It's a hobby.”

The ocularist, the mask maker, the same one Teddy mentioned. “Why do you think he's the swamp devil?”

“He has scars on his face, and wears a mask to disguise it. I think his scars have something to do with a woman. Maybe Britta.” Keith's breath was erratic. “Come to his apartment and you'll see what I mean.” He rattled off an address.

Jean-Paul memorized it, then told him he'd be right there.

He rushed to inform Damon about the possible lead. They agreed to go together and leave Antwaun to keep pushing Teddy.

Ten minutes later, he and Damon met Keith at Sedrick's apartment complex. Jean-Paul was shocked as the photographer showed them inside the studio.

“I…never would have noticed Miss Berger if Sedrick hadn't pointed her out.”

So this guy could have stalked Britta. He would have seen Catherine and Chrissy at Teddy's doll stand, too. And he could have seen Debra Schmale with Teddy.

Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath at the disturbing contents as he entered Sedrick's locked studio. The walls were filled with Mardi Gras masks in every conceivable form and shape. Leather ones that resembled the S and M ones he'd seen at Justice's apartment and at that costume shop, handpainted ones with beads and feathers and ribbons. Sinister ones that resembled fantastical mythical horror creatures. Feathers, sculpting wax, plaster, leather, paints, beads and assorted items to finish the masks occupied more shelves. Masks of Sobek filled one complete wall.

And another shelf held eyeballs that he'd painted for the masks. They were lifelike, so real. An ocularist would fit the profile. The man was detailed, meticulous, methodical. The art form had originated in ancient times. And the eyes were made of acrylics.

Jean-Paul dragged his gaze from the array of disturbing eyeballs to the opposite side of the room and his stomach clenched. Masks made for each of the victims of the swamp devil were displayed on the wall. Whitehead had labeled each one with the girl's name. And he was midway through making one for Britta—it was on his work table.

“He didn't take trophies,” Damon said.

But there wasn't one for Catherine. Maybe he planned to spare her.

“Because these were his trophies,” Jean-Paul added.

Panic stabbed at his chest as Damon opened a cabinet and found jars and tubes of makeup. A trunk also revealed a half-dozen lancets. Another one held red lace teddies and the serpent necklaces.

Damon cursed. “Where the hell is Whitehead now?”

Jean-Paul tried to get into the man's head. “He intends to end this with Britta. He'll want her back at the place where it all began. To the place where he was going to sacrifice her years ago.”

Damon nodded. “That makes sense.”

Jean-Paul had a general idea of where the first cult had formed, but Justice would know the place. “Let's pick up Justice. The hurricane changed the land slightly. Maybe he can show us the exact location.”

Damon phoned for a CSI team to confiscate the evidence.

“I didn't know he was the killer,” Keith said weakly.

Jean-Paul glared at him. “We want you at the station for questioning.” He phoned Antwaun to fill him in and learned Justice was at the station waiting to talk to him. Then he and Damon raced back to the station with Keith.

Damon gave him a worried look as Antwaun took charge of Keith. “Your lieutenant told me you gave him your badge.”

“He wanted to pull me off the case,” Jean-Paul snapped. “I'm not sitting around with my thumb up my ass while my sister and Britta are missing.”

Justice looked haggard when Jean-Paul walked in. “I saw the news report. Where's Britta?”

“I don't know,” Jean-Paul said. “Apparently she received a call from the killer and left to meet him.”

Justice launched forward and grabbed Jean-Paul by the neck. “You let her go to meet this guy by herself? What kind of cop are you?”

A piss-poor one, Jean-Paul thought. He pried Justice's hands off his neck and shoved the man backward. “I didn't let her leave. She ducked out without telling me, dammit. We think we know who the killer is.”

“There's an old cabin near the place where the cult met years ago,” Justice said. “He may have her there. I think I can find it.”

The three men hurried to the car. Jean-Paul turned on his siren, and sped toward Black Bayou. If Sedrick had taken Britta and Catherine to Devil's Corner, they needed to hurry.

He just hoped when they found them, they would still be alive.

* * *

T
HE HIDEOUS MASK
hid the killer's face.

His voice was low, grating, a whisper of evil. His hands—hard, rough, calloused—felt like ice as he pushed her along the swampland. Rain drenched Britta's hair and clothes, the winter wind sending a deep chill through her that cut all the way to her bones.

She nearly stumbled over a broken tree branch, but he caught her and yanked her along. Gators lay low in the water, watching, waiting, their bodies submerged but their eyes piercing the darkness.

He didn't act afraid of them. Instead he seemed to have a silent connection with the creatures as if he had bonded with them through his ugliness.

Through the fog and underbrush, she spotted a shanty in the distance. A tremor ran through her. Was Catherine inside? Was she alive?

The urge to run shot through her, but she stifled it. She wouldn't run until she got closer.

A few more steps, and he dragged her through a thicket of fallen trees that were rotting and mangled from a previous storm. Vines tangled and clawed at her legs and a snake hissed from its perch on a low tree branch above her.

He pushed her forward, across a small dilapidated wooden bridge over the river, and she looked down to see the sharp teeth of a gator glowing in the dim moonlight. It snapped at her feet, barely missing as he jerked her to the landing.

She was only a few feet from the cabin now. “All right. You have me. Now let her go.”

He folded his arms and laughed. “You don't tell me what to do, Adrianna.”

“I did what you asked. Now show me you'll honor your word.”

“As you did with my father?”

“I never agreed to marry you. That choice was made without me, Porter.”

“My name is Sedrick now. I'm growing quite famous with my masks. And even more famous as the swamp devil.” He gripped her arm, squeezing her so hard her legs buckled. “You killed my father and you have to pay.”

“He deserved it,” Britta said. “But those women didn't. Especially that girl Debra.”

He bared his teeth. “That girl Debra tried to kill you. She hooked up with your friend Teddy, but she was jealous of you, so she set your apartment on fire and attacked you.”

Britta fought back a sob. “Still, Catherine's done nothing. Let her go and I'll do whatever you say.”

He leaned closer to her face, the corners of the hideous mask scraping her jaw. “Say you want me, Adrianna.”

“Take off the mask so I can see your face first.”