Don’t Say a Word
Rita Herron

To all the soldiers fighting for our country

and our freedom—you are the real heroes!

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

May, New Orleans

THE WOMAN HAD NO FACE. No voice. No name.

Dr. Reginald Pace studied her near lifeless form as it lay on the shiny surgical table. The harsh fluorescent lights glared off her charred skin and raw flesh, painting an inhuman picture.

Her silent, vacant eyes begged for mercy. For death.

But the voice inside his head whispered that he could not fulfill her wish. It proclaimed that her body craved the transformation only his gifted hands could offer.

As a plastic surgeon, he saw the ruins of people’s faces and bodies on a daily basis. But never had he beheld a sight like the one before him—the very reason he’d made a deal with a demon to get her. She was the perfect one for his experiment.

Mangled, charred skin had peeled away from the severed tendons. Lips that once held a feminine smile now gaped with blisters and raw flesh. Bloodshot eyes, blinded by pain, had flickered with pleas for death before he had swept her under with the bliss of drugs.

His healing hands would piece her back together.

His healing hands and time…

Layer by layer he would rebuild her. Repair severed nerve endings, damaged cartilage. Replace tissue. Mold the monster into his beauty.

Without a face, a name, a picture, he could shape her into whatever he chose.

The woman of his dreams, God willing. She would be his creation. His to keep forever…

He gently brushed the remnants of her singed hair from her hairline. She would be in agony for a while, but he would be there with her every step of the way to offer her comfort.

And she would recover; he wouldn’t rest until she did.

A smile curled his mouth as he picked up the scalpel to get started. Yes, she would thank him in the end.

CHAPTER ONE

A year later, New Orleans

DAMON DUBOIS WAS A DEAD MAN.

As dead as the soldiers who’d fallen and given their lives for the country. As dead as the ones who’d lost their lives during the terrible hurricane that nearly destroyed New Orleans.

As dead as the woman he had killed.

His own heart did still beat and blood still flowed through his veins, forcing him to go through the motions of life.

A punishment issued by the gods, he was certain.

He could still see the flames licking at her skin, see the smoke swirling above her face, hear the crackle of the house as wood splintered and crumbled down upon her body.

For although his head hadn’t yet touched the pillow this dreary evening, nightmares already haunted him with the cries of that anguished woman screaming in pain.

And the bébé’s ghostlike cry…

“Tite ange,” he whispered. “Little angel, you did not deserve to die.”

Perspiration beaded on his neck and trickled down into the collar of his shirt as he opened the French doors to the hundred-year-old bayou house and breathed in the sultry summer air. The end of May was nearing and already the summer heat was oppressive. Sticky. The air hung thick with the scent of blood and swamp water. Eerie sounds cut through the endless night. The muddy Mississippi slapping at the embankment. A faint breeze stirring the tupelo trees. The gators’ shrill attack cry in the night. Insects buzzing for their next feed. A Louis Armstrong blues tune floated from the stereo, the soul-wrenching words echoing his mood.

Though a thick fog of blessed darkness clouded the waning daylight, forming morbid images to bombard him. A hand outstretched, begging for help. The fingers curled around the tiny bébé’s rattle. The accusing, horror-stricken eyes.

He blinked to stop the damning images, but they flickered in his mind like flashes of lightning splintering the sky.

The scream tore the air again, and he swallowed back bile. Its tormenting sound refused to stop, pounding against his conscience with a will he couldn’t defy. Reminding him of his past. His sins.

His vow of silence.

So many secrets…Tell and you die.

Inside his pocket, his cell phone vibrated, jarring him back to the present. Hauling him away from the pain and self-recriminations clawing at his mind.

He connected the call with sweaty fingers.

“Special Agent Damon Dubois.”

“Damon, thank God you answered.”

His little brother Antwaun’s strained voice rattled unevenly over the line. Something was wrong.

What kind of mess had his youngest sibling gotten into this time?

Hell, not that he had a right to judge anyone.

But the family knew nothing of his secrets. Or his lies…

“You have to come meet me. We found a woman…at least part of one.”

Holy Christ. “I’ll be right there. Where are you?”

Antwaun relayed the GPS coordinates and Damon snapped the phone closed, grabbed his badge and weapon and strapped it onto his shoulder holster. Fifteen minutes later, he parked and headed through a dense stretch of the swamp. The scent of murk floated from the marshy water as the mud sucked at his feet. The voices and faint beams of flashlights ahead served as his guide through the knot of trees, and when he reached the crime-scene tape, he identified himself to the officer in charge.

Through the shadows, he spotted Antwaun and strode toward him. His brother’s forehead was furrowed with worry, the intense anger in his dark eyes warning Damon that this was not an everyday crime scene. Something personal had entered into it.

“What’s going on, Antwaun?” he asked quietly.

Two uniforms frowned and muttered curses at his arrival, already the thread of territorial rights adding tension to an anxiety-ridden situation.

Antwaun leaned in close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Hell, Damon. I think I know the victim.”

Damon’s gaze shot to his brother’s, his pulse racing. “How do you know her?”

“I can’t be sure, but…” His gruff voice cracked. “But if it is who I think it is, we dated.”

The heat thickened, causing a cold clamminess to bead on Damon’s skin. “You recognize her or what?”

Antwaun scrubbed a hand over the back of his scraggly hair, his face as pale as buttermilk. “Like I said, we only found part of her.”

Damon sucked in a sharp breath, then followed Antwaun over to the edge of the swamp. The murk chewed at Damon’s shoes, the stench of blood and a decaying animal hitting him. Somewhere nearby the hiss of gators warned him that hungry creatures lurked at the edges of the rivers. Yellow eyes pierced the inky darkness, scaly predators hiding beneath the water’s surface, taking stock of their prey. Biding their time. Waiting to strike.

Then he saw her. At least the part that was visible.

Her hand.

Just a single hand sticking up through the quicksand.

Brittle, yellowed bones poked through skin that had been gnawed away. The fingertips were half-gone. Blood dotted the remnants of mangled flesh, revealing exposed veins that had been sawed away by the jagged teeth of animals now watching nearby in silent reverie.

“How…” He had to clear his throat, push away the mounting fury and choking bile. No woman deserved to end up like this.

Had she been dead or alive when the gators got her?

“If this is all they found, what makes you think you know her?”

Antwaun’s hand shook as he pointed to what was left of her third finger. “That ring…”

“Yeah?” Damon squinted, moved closer, knelt and caught the thin thread of silver glinting through the mud and debris. Amazingly, the simple silver band still clung to the bone.

“I gave it to her,” Antwaun said in a low, tortured voice. “Right before she went missing.”

SHE LIVED IN THE DARKNESS. Had known nothing but pain for months.

And all that time, she had been missing, but no one had come looking for her. Why?

Clutching the sheets of her hospital bed between bandaged fingers, she begged for relief from the agony of her tormenting thoughts. Time bled and flowed together, sometimes nonexistent, sometimes lipping through the hourglass in slow motion. Sometimes chunks and days, even weeks gone by without notice.

Isolated, starved for human contact, she lay waiting for the doctor’s visit.

The bleep-bleep of hospital machinery became her music. His voice, her salvation.

Gruff. Soothing. Coaxing her to sit up. Eat. Fight for her life. Heal.

His touch offered comfort, compassion. It murmured promises that she might recover one day. Be human. Even beautiful.

His miracle.

Yet as much as his manner evoked concern and care for her, even growing feelings, the scent of medicine and hospital permeated his clothing, reminding her that he was her doctor, she his patient.

She was only one of many he had helped. But she’d heard the rumors. The hushed voices. And she had yet to see her reflection because he had stripped the hospital rehab facility of mirrors.

She was the woman without a face. A human monster.

He had repaired what he could. Endless, countless surgeries over the past few months. Bandages and medication, hours and hours of mind-control techniques to keep from going crazy. Sometimes she feared she walked a tightrope to insanity.

And when he left her room for the night, another man came. A monster like her who whispered in the shadows. The man with the scalelike skin.

Her one and only friend here. Lex Van Wormer.

He seemed to sense when she was teetering on the edge, and reeled her back in, sewing the tethered strands of her mind together with some fanciful story. Silly dreams of a future she had to look forward to.

One he dreamed about as well, but one that eluded them both. Instead they had become prisoners of the darkness.

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and the heavy wooden structure squeaked open. A sliver of light from the hall sliced the black interior, causing her to blink. Slowly over the past months of her imprisonment, her vision had adjusted and returned to near normal, though she still preferred the shadows. Whether this was to shield herself from having to face others and see the disgust or pity in their eyes, or because she’d begun to view the darkness as her best friend, she wasn’t certain.

Her breath lodged in a momentary panic in her throat as she listened to the approaching footsteps. One of the nurses with another round of injections? Dr. Pace with his soothing voice and promises that she would get better? Or Lex, somehow sensing that she had suffered another nightmare?

Nightmares or memories—she could no longer distinguish the difference. She only knew that night after endless night, some fathomless, sightless, black-hearted devil chased her. That he waited around every corner, watching, stalking, breathing down her neck. That she had to escape. That he wanted her dead and would stop at nothing until he achieved his purpose.

The door closed, blanketing the room once again in the gray fog that offered her safety.

It was always twilight in her room.

“Crystal?”

“Lex.” She exhaled a sigh of heartfelt relief. Still, the name felt foreign. The first time he’d seen her, he’d commented that her eyes reminded him of sparkling crystal cut glass, so he’d called her Crystal, and the nurses had latched on to it.

That she’d been blind at first and hadn’t been able to see him hadn’t mattered. She’d relished his company.

Then, finally, on a pain-filled admission to prove to her that she wasn’t alone in her world of shadows, he’d allowed her to touch his hand. She’d felt the scaly dry patches of leatherlike skin and had understood his reason for withdrawing from the world.

The condition, caused by exposure to an unknown chemical he’d been exposed to in the war, had disfigured him and eaten away at his body like battery acid. For a brief time before the bandages from her eyes had been removed, she’d feared she would react to his impairment.

But she had grown accustomed to the sound of his voice as he read her poetry at night, to the cadence of his laugh as he fabricated stories of journeys he’d taken, and his looks hadn’t mattered. In fact, she hadn’t even cringed when she’d finally rested her eyes upon him.

Apparently, he had adjusted to seeing her without a face, and covered in bandages as well. Who else would be so accepting?

He dragged the straight chair against the wall near her bed, then reached for her hand. A light squeeze, and her breathing steadied.

“Thank you for coming.” Heavens, she hated the choked, childish quiver of her voice. But she had been so lonely.

“I’ll always be here for you, Crystal. Always.”

She closed her eyes to stem the tears threatening. Theirs was an odd relationship. Two misfits thrown together, two survivors hanging on to life by a severed thread. Yet they weren’t really living either.

“I’ve missed you since last night, Crystal,” he said in a low voice.

She tensed. She’d sensed that his friendship ran deep, that he wanted more from her. She loved him in a platonic way.

Too many pieces of her past lost. Too many questions unanswered.

Another man…maybe waiting.

The sound of Lex turning his harmonica over in his hands with fingers brittle from his disease forced her to open her eyes again.

“Our quote for the day,” he began, “is from Ecclesiastes 49:10. ‘Two are better than one, for if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow.’”

A sliver of unease tickled her spine as his words washed over her. Lex was her friend, but if she healed as Dr. Pace promised, and she had to hold on to the hope that she would recover, she couldn’t imagine Lex as her lover. And she knew that he wanted more from her.

He lifted his harmonica and began to wail out a blues song that gripped her with sadness. Regret fed the flames of her emotions. She loved Lex, and she didn’t want to hurt him.

But she had to find out who she was. Where she’d come from. How she had ended up here.

If she had a family, a husband, other friends. A lover.

And why in the past months, not a single person had cared enough to hunt for her.

DAMON STUDIED HIS BROTHER’S face as he drove toward their family’s house. Of all the confounded nights to have a homey get-together…but his mother had refused to take no for an answer. She’d hinted that his oldest brother, Jean-Paul, a detective with the New Orleans Police Department, had to see them.

God, he hoped that didn’t mean more trouble. Their family had been through hell the past two years. Katrina had nearly destroyed the family home and business—Jean-Paul had lost his first wife during the ordeal—and only a few months ago, their baby sister, Catherine, had almost died at the hands of a serial killer they’d dubbed the Swamp Devil.

Tonight—after witnessing the extraction of the woman’s mutilated hand from the swamp, listening to conjecture about the cause of death and the perp from the officers at the scene, and watching his brother sweat bullets for three hours—Damon’s head throbbed with anxiety.

But his mother insisted the Dubois family needed to celebrate Jean-Paul’s marriage to Britta Berger, the editor of a secret-confession column for a local magazine called Naked Desires, a woman who had drawn the serial killer to New Orleans a few months ago and given his brother the chase of a lifetime.

And the woman of Jean-Paul’s dreams.

Granted, Damon had been suspicious of Britta at first, and with good reason. Britta had a shady past, a traumatized upbringing, had lied and had secrets. But when the truth had been revealed, he’d realized she had been an innocent victim of a sinister cult that had sacrificed humans to a god they called Sobek. Not only had she survived and escaped the cult, and the leader who’d tried to kill her, now she helped teenage prostitutes get off the streets. She also loved his brother dearly.

Lucky bastard.

Damon pulled down the drive to their parents’ house, weaving through the maze of giant live oaks and the moss sweeping downward like spiderwebs. “Tell me about this woman, the one you think is our victim.”

“Her name is Kendra. Kendra Yates.”

“And how did you meet her?”

“She was a dancer at a casino bar. I…didn’t ask questions until later.”

Antwaun coughed into his hand. “Much later.”

So they’d slept together. No big surprise. His brother was quite the ladies’ man, in a hellion, take-me-as-I-am kind of way. “Dammit, Antwaun, when are you going to stop picking up chicks in bars?”

“Look, Damon, not everyone’s the sainted ex-marine that you are.”

Damon gritted his teeth, guilt plaguing him. “I’m not a saint. Never claimed to be.”

Antwaun scowled. “The folks and people in town sure see it that way.”

Damon narrowed his eyes. He didn’t have time for this bullshit. “Just tell me what happened between you and this woman.”

Antwaun flexed his fisted hands and stared at the blunt tips of his fingers. “We saw each other for a while. I…thought we were getting close.”

“You gave her a ring?”

“Yeah.”

He cut his eyes sharply to the side. “And its significance?”

“I didn’t propose, if that’s what you’re asking. But I did think about it, although the ring wasn’t expensive. I bought it from one of those artists on the streets.” He cleared his throat. Hesitated. Looked almost sheepish. Then a frown pulled at his mouth. “Later that night, she disappeared.”

“You reported her missing?”

“No. I thought she’d just left. Me.” His eyes darkened with hurt. “Figured I’d scared her off, or the ring wasn’t expensive enough.”

Damon contemplated his brother’s declaration. He sounded serious.

“I’ve never known you to fall for a woman, Antwaun.”

Antwaun shrugged his blue denim-clad shoulders. “Never thought I would either.”

Damon’s neck tightened as he parked the black FBI-issued sedan in the drive of his parents’ antebellum home. Since his last visit, they’d painted the house a pale yellow, the trim white. Huge ferns swung from the awning, and his dad had built a porch swing at one end and staged rocking chairs between pots of geraniums. Such a domestic setting.

So at odds with the Dubois men and their jobs. And now this trouble…

His mind spun back to Antwaun’s admission. If his little brother had actually fallen in love with Kendra Yates, she must have been pretty damn special.

But now the woman was dead. Murdered—and they both knew that Antwaun’s relationship with her meant he would be interrogated.

“All right, Antwaun. Now tell me the truth. Do you know why someone would kill her?”

“No. Like I told you, I have no idea what happened to her.” His brother shifted, chewed the inside of his cheek, then stared at the woods that backed his parents’ property. A shadow caught Damon’s eye, and he watched a gator slither up onto the bank and settle in the dark bed of weeds, hidden.

Damon’s gut churned. The cops called Antwaun a chameleon. When undercover, he could change colors to blend in with any background. Like the gator who hid in the spiny shadows of the weeping willow.

But Antwaun also had a temper, and a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He also liked to break the rules and push the limits. And sometimes he played the role of undercover bad guy a little too convincingly. His hotheaded temper had landed him in jail a few times when he was younger, and Damon and Jean-Paul had bailed out his ass, although they hadn’t been happy about it. And even in the service, he’d walked a fine line between fighting the enemy on the field and ending up in the brig for insubordinate conduct.

Damon studied the rigid set to his jaw as Antwaun climbed out. There was more to the story than he was telling. Something Antwaun didn’t want him to know. Something about Kendra Yates? Or was it about himself and their relationship? What else had happened between them?

LEX VAN WORMER WATCHED her sleep.

Crystal, he called her, because she had no name. Not that she knew of anyway.

Still, in spite of the way she had come into his life, she was an innocent angel shining light on his darkest hour. Like a rare piece of cut glass or a precious gem he’d discovered buried in graveyard dust.

At a time when he hung in limbo, he’d found a kindred soul.

Restless, tortured sounds erupted from her throat, drawing his aching eyes to the pale column of her neck. Whispers of fear echoed in her cries. Moments of reliving such horrid pain that even he felt like weeping from the misery.

He had known misery himself.

He had also caused it some, for which God would never forgive him.

He tucked the sheet gently around her slender, quivering form, then laid a hand against the silky hair that fanned across the hospital pillow. His breath caught in his throat as he waited for her to turn and scream, then jerk away from his touch. Yet she nestled farther into the bedding and turned to press her cheek against his scaly hand.

Tears of joy dampened his eyes. She trusted him. Needed him. And had accepted that he was grotesque from the disease that chewed away at his flesh. And not with his birth as a dark soul. One that had allowed him to push aside his conscience. One that had allowed the seeds of wrong to fester inside him. His diseased body now bore witness.

And so he lived in a world between heaven and hell, fighting the demons that wanted to take his soul.

Crystal was his salvation. If he could hang on long enough to save her, he just might escape the wrath of Satan….

Yet, even as regrets for the evil he had done burned his throat, the thrill of the blood hunt still seized his soul.

CHAPTER TWO

ANTWAUN DUBOIS HATED THE way his brother was looking at him. As if he didn’t trust him enough to confide the truth.

Dammit, trust had nothing to do with his silence.

If anything, Antwaun had to keep his secrets to himself to protect his brother. Every aspect of undercover police work involved putting up fronts. Pretending to be something you weren’t. Lying.

Sometimes he told so many lies he didn’t know the truth himself.

As the Chameleon, he could change his appearance to blend in anywhere. No job was too dangerous or too edgy for him to tackle. The risks be damned.

Unfortunately, the fact that he melded with the dregs and crooks of society meant it would be easy for him to cross the line, and almost as easy for him to hide his indiscretions. His poker face kept him alive. It could keep him from revealing his motives if needed.

He silently cursed as sweat trickled down the side of his face. He’d been warned how enticing the other side of the law could be, and he had been tempted more than once….

Hell.

How could he blame his big brother for scrutinizing him when Antwaun had a reputation as a troublemaker?

Anger churned in his belly as he and Damon walked up the clamshell-lined entry to his parents’ house. How the fuck could he ever live up to his older brothers?

“Bon à rien, toi, ’tit souris,” Jean-Paul had said to him when he was younger, meaning “good for nothing, you, little mouse.”

It had been true. But he’d tried to change that reputation since he’d been on the force.

Jean-Paul and Damon had always been good. As a detective, Jean-Paul had been decorated for bravery and saving lives during Katrina. Damon, the special agent in the mix, had received commendations from the military and goddamn president for bravery and heroism.

Antwaun…he was the screwup.

A rookie on the police force, and now that position might be in jeopardy.

The door swung open, and his mother squealed as if she hadn’t seen them in years. God, he loved his boisterous family. Just wished he fit in better and didn’t disappoint them so much.

Damon, quiet, methodical and intense as always, bent to hug their mother, Daniella, a short, roundish woman who ran the show at home and at the new restaurant they’d opened in New Orleans. She and their father made the best Cajun cuisine in the state.

All the boys were over six feet, and towered over Daniella, but she boasted that she would turn them over her knee if she needed to, and Antwaun believed her.

Damon finally released her from the bear hug, and his mother yanked Antwaun close, enveloping him in the heavenly scents of her spicy jambalaya, fresh bread and sinful chocolate cake. He leaned into her, allowing her to rub his back and pat his cheek, but his stomach clenched when she looked into his eyes with a fine sheen of tears.

“It’s so nice to have all my wonderful boys here together.”

Wonderful? If she only knew…

But neither he nor Damon would discuss the mutilated corpse of the woman they’d discovered earlier, or the implications of his involvement. The unspoken rule—they left their weapons and gritty police talk at the door and didn’t bring either to the dinner table.

Yep, act like a chameleon. Put on a pretty coat. Smile as if the world wasn’t all gray. Pretend not to have seen the monsters encountered in the bayou and on the streets.

Damon cleared his throat, looking almost as uncomfortable as Antwaun felt. For the past year, he’d been even more solemn. Brooding at times. Almost distant.

Daniella beamed with pride and ushered them into the homey kitchen. Already Jean-Paul and his new wife, Britta, his baby sister, Catherine, her daughter, Chrissy, and his other sister, Stephanie, had gathered. His father wore a chef’s hat and stirred the bubbling stew while Jean-Paul popped the cork on a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured them all a glass.

Antwaun would have preferred a beer, but Jean-Paul wanted to make a toast.

“Let’s all sit down.” Daniella Dubois waved her hands, shooing them to their places as she hoisted bowls full of the Cajun foods and carried them to the table. Catherine deposited baskets of steaming bread; Stephanie grabbed his and Damon’s arms, and dragged them to sit on either side of her; and Chrissy plopped down, her ponytail bobbing as she sipped freshly squeezed lemonade.

“So, what is all this urgency, Jean-Paul?” dark-haired Stephanie asked, eyes twinkling.

Jean-Paul clutched his bride’s hand and grinned like a cat that had just swallowed a canary. “Britta and I have an announcement.” He turned to his wife. “Britta?”

Britta laughed. “Go ahead, you tell them, sweetheart.”

Antwaun shifted uncomfortably. Not that he wasn’t happy for Jean-Paul, but seeing his tough brother act so mushy was just plain weird.

His father, Pierre, tapped his wineglass. “Don’t keep us in suspense, son. Spill it.”

Jean-Paul grinned, then pressed his wife’s hand to his chest. “Britta and I are expecting a baby.”

Shouts erupted around the table. His mother dabbed tears from her eyes and jumped up to hug Britta and Jean-Paul. Catherine, little Chrissy and Stephanie joined the milieu of chattering excited voices.

Antwaun stood and pounded Jean-Paul on the back in congratulations. Damon’s hand tightened around the wineglass in a white-knuckled grip. Then the glass shattered and red wine splattered all over the tablecloth, mingling with drops of blood spewing from Damon’s palm.

DAMON BIT BACK A CURSE, and tried to mop up the spilled wine with his napkin.

“Damon, oh, my good gracious!” Chaos erupted, and Damon noticed the blood. His mother rushed to retrieve a towel, and Stephanie grabbed his hand and wrapped her napkin around the jagged cut.

“Are you all right, Damon?” she asked in a low voice.

Stephanie had always been the perceptive one. Sometimes he thought she sensed things, maybe possessed a touch of ESP. Feeling panic tease at his nerves, he masked his thoughts. He couldn’t let anyone see inside his bleak, ugly mind.

Besides, this was his brother’s moment. “I’m sorry, Jean-Paul. How clumsy of me. I didn’t mean to spoil your announcement.”

His oldest brother’s eyes registered concern, but he shook off the apology and curved his arm around Britta’s shoulders. “No problem, bro. Are you all right?”

Damon and Antwaun exchanged a glance, silently agreeing not to broach the latest challenge facing Antwaun. Hopefully the DNA would prove that the severed hand hadn’t belonged to Kendra Yates and clear Antwaun of any suspicion.

But if the hand wasn’t hers, then whose was it? Had another serial killer surfaced—one who enjoyed hacking off women’s body parts and leaving them scattered all over the bayou?

“Do you need stitches?” his father asked.

Damon shook his head. “No, I’ll just clean it up. Please continue the celebration.”

His mother trailed him to the kitchen, removed the first-aid kit and played nursemaid as if he were five years old again and had just had a bicycle accident.

“What’s troubling you, son?” Daniella asked.

He rinsed the droplets of blood down the drain, wishing he could rid his mind of the tormenting memories that dogged him daily. “Nothing, Maman, it was just a stupid accident.”

She pierced him with a disbelieving frown. “There’s more, Damon. I’m your maman, you cannot lie to me.”

A family portrait in oils that hung on the opposite kitchen wall mocked him. God, he had to lie to her. If she knew the truth about the things he’d done, who he had been in the service, she wouldn’t look at him with love in her eyes. No, she’d be sickened and appalled.

Guilt clouded his vision, making the veins in his head pulse with tension. “This is Jean-Paul and Britta’s night, Maman. I want them to enjoy it.” He brushed a kiss on her chubby cheek. “And you, too. You’re about to be a grand-mère again.”

His mother’s face beamed with excitement. “I know, is it not wonderful? I can not wait to have another bébé in the house.” She tweaked his cheek. “Maybe we’ll have a little boy this time, another man to carry on the Dubois name.”

Damon’s throat thickened as he imagined the scene. His formidable older brother with an infant in his arms. Jean-Paul was a hero. He deserved a family. A son.

But marriage and kids were not in the picture for him.

A man who had destroyed a family, the way he had, had no right to one of his own.

DESPAIR AND FEAR TINGED the frail sound of an infant’s cry as it reverberated through the air like the strings of a harp that needed careful tuning.

Crystal jerked awake, her head swimming with confusion. A child…where? Had she dreamed the baby’s cry or had it been real? Or had it been a memory?

Disoriented momentarily, she searched the dim light of her room for the doctor or the nurse. No. Maybe Lex had come to visit again.

But all was silent. She was alone.

The low sob echoed through the thin walls again as if the wind had captured the ghostly cry, beckoning her to listen. Reminding her that she wasn’t alone in her pain and suffering.

Stiff from sleep, she stretched her limbs to force the circulation back around, an exercise she did routinely after her long hours in bed, then pushed her feet to the floor and into her slippers. She grabbed her thin cotton robe with one hand and shrugged it on, the other hand self-consciously touching the bandages on her face. At first she hadn’t ventured outside the room, but lately, as she’d begun to heal and regain her strength, she’d taken daily walks.

The rehab facility was situated on acres of private property by the river, surrounded by the backwoods, offering privacy and seclusion for its inhabitants. During the day, other patients strolled the gardens or rested in their wheelchairs in the shade of gigantic live oaks. Some gathered to play cards in the solarium or watch television together in the common game room, but she had yet to join the social scene. Although others suffered injuries, scars, some disfigurements, hers had been one of the most severe cases the hospital had seen, or so she’d heard, and she hated the gossip and stares that accompanied her outings.

Padding slowly, she opened the door and peered into the hallway. Shadows flickered across the corridor. The dim light from the nurses’ desk down the hall was just enough to allow her to see without being so stark it hurt her eyes or highlighted her own morbid appearance should another patient pass by. Blessedly, though, she was alone.

The cry jarred the air again, a low sob, then another. Realizing the sound originated from the room next to hers, she tiptoed toward the closed doorway.

Inhaling a deep breath and hoping her mummified face wouldn’t frighten the neighboring patient, she gently pushed on the door. She would just check and see if the person was all right.

Inside, a small night-light in the shape of a duck sent sparkles of faint yellow light across the white sheets and shadow-filled room. The bed seemed to swallow the tiny figure who lay curled into a ball, facing the window. Dark brown curls cascaded down the child’s back, her little body jerking up and down with her cries.

Tears sprang to Crystal’s eyes, but she blinked them away and slowly tiptoed into the room. The little girl turned toward her and lifted her face slightly, her arms in a death grip around a big brown teddy bear. She looked so lost and alone that Crystal’s heart clenched.

“Hi, honey,” she said softly. “My name is…Crystal.”

The child’s eyes widened momentarily, and Crystal wondered if she’d made a mistake in visiting, if her bandaged face terrified the toddler even more. Then she realized the little girl was Hispanic, and wondered if she spoke English, so she introduced herself in Spanish.

A second later, she realized she’d just learned something about herself. She was fluent in the language.

“Are you a ghost?” the little girl asked.

Crystal laughed softly, then they chatted for several minutes. The child’s name was Maria, and she’d lost her mother in a car accident the day before. Maria’s nana was supposed to come and get her the next day.

The self-pity Crystal had wallowed in for the last few months dissipated as compassion for the toddler mushroomed inside her. She sat down beside the girl, then read and sang to her until Maria finally fell asleep.

As Crystal made her way back to her own room, questions taunted her. Where had she learned to speak Spanish? Maybe she’d worked with children. Could she possibly have a child of her own?

IN THE DEN, Mr. Dubois sipped his coffee. “Damon, you will be at the upcoming Memorial Day celebration, won’t you?”

Damon poured himself a cup of his parents’ choice rich chicory blend. “I don’t know.”

The last thing he wanted was a commendation for honor and bravery now.

Laughter erupted in the background, drawing him back to the moment just as the doorbell rang. His sisters and mother were discussing baby names, debating over French versus American. Jean-Paul argued that they had to focus on boys’ names since the firstborn would certainly be a son.

The doorbell dinged again, and Damon frowned into his coffee, then gestured to his father that he would answer it.

Who the hell was stopping by on a Friday night unannounced? Not that he should be surprised that his parents would have company. They’d made a wealth of contacts and friends through their restaurant. And they had donated both time and money to so many charities following the hurricane that they were practically local celebrities.

Leaving his coffee cup on the table, he rammed a hand through his hair, then answered the door, hoping it was some salesman he could vent his anger on.

Instead, Lieutenant Phelps of the NOPD stood on the stoop.

A pair of silver-gray eyes wrought with turmoil met Damon’s.

Not a good sign.

Lieutenant Phelps nodded. “Special Agent Dubois.”

A formal greeting. Also not good.

“Lieutenant? What’s going on?”

The man’s eyes shifted over Damon’s shoulder where Antwaun stood in the shadows of the entryway’s arched doorway that led to the hall.

“We’re here on official business,” Lieutenant Phelps stated. “I need to speak to Antwaun.”

Antwaun made a grunting sound in the background and Damon silently cursed.

“Guys, why don’t we discuss this tomorrow?” Damon suggested. “It’s Friday night, and we’re having a family gathering.” As if a Friday night had ever dissuaded him from following a lead or pursuing a case.

Behind Phelps, Antwaun’s partner, George Smith, shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

“Sorry, guys. But you were both at the crime scene. We’ve ID’d the woman and have evidence that has to be answered for.” The lieutenant’s ruddy complexion colored with distress. “Antwaun, we need you to come with us for questioning.”

CHAPTER THREE

ANTWAUN SCOWLED. “Are you arresting me?”

Phelps frowned. “Do we need to?”

Damon stepped up to run interference. “Lieutenant…we’ll meet you at the station.” He turned to his parents and tried to quiet his mother’s shocked cry that seemed to still reverberate in the room. Injecting a calmness to his voice that he’d learned from his military training, he said, “Maman, Papa, don’t worry. We’ll clear this up and be back later tonight.”

“Antwaun…what’s going on?” Daniella screeched.

“Son.” Pierre pressed a hand to Antwaun’s shoulder. “Whatever you need…you can count on us.”

Antwaun’s eyes turned a tortured black. “I’ll straighten it out,” he muttered. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

Jean-Paul appeared, a frown marring his forehead. “What in the hell is this?” He glared at the lieutenant. “This is inexcusable. If there was a problem, why didn’t you phone me first instead of barging in on our family? We would have met you at the station.”

The lieutenant’s steady gaze flashed across the family, then settled on Jean-Paul. “The press knows about the partial body. We had to do this by the book or they’d slaughter us for protecting one of our own.”

“You should protect your own,” Damon muttered. So why weren’t they? Damon wondered. Had Antwaun made an enemy on the force, someone who wanted to see him in trouble?

Lieutenant Phelps narrowed his eyes at Antwaun.

“I’m sorry, Jean-Paul,” Antwaun said in a gravelly voice. “Please go back and finish your celebration. I’ll have this issue resolved in no time.”

“What does he need protecting from?” Jean-Paul snapped. The lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, but Jean-Paul cut him off. “Never mind. We’ll settle this at the precinct.”

The family had gathered in the hall to see what was happening, a mass of anger and bewilderment charging the air.

“We’ll need your gun,” Lieutenant Phelps ordered.

Antwaun glared at him, but Jean-Paul calmly retrieved the weapon from the locked cabinet. Damon’s heart bled for his brother. He had never quite understood Antwaun and his temper, but he was blood kin, and he loved him just the same. Nothing would be more humiliating than being treated like a criminal in front of your family.

He should know—he feared it on a daily basis.

Still, as quiet murmurs of disbelief and support rumbled through the room from various family members, his gut tightened with worry.

“Damon, Jean-Paul,” Stephanie said in a muffled voice. “What’s happening?”

“We found a woman’s body, that is, part of one, today in the bayou.” Damon turned to his family while the officers escorted Antwaun to the squad car. “It may be someone Antwaun knows. I’m sure we can clear this up. But I need to go.”

His mother pressed a hand to his back. “Yes, Damon, please go. Help your brother.”

Jean-Paul touched Britta’s cheek. “Sweetheart—”

“Shh. Go, Jean-Paul. Your maman is right. Take care of Antwaun.”

His father pasted on a confident face as he curved an arm around Daniella, though anxiety lined his mouth. Catherine and Stephanie, encircled their parents like protective watchdogs. Their father had been injured during the last big hurricane, and they all worried about his health now, especially his heart.

His sisters agreed to stay with their parents while Damon and Jean-Paul rushed out. As soon as they climbed in the sedan, Jean-Paul barked, “How bad is it, Damon?”

Damon clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. Like I said earlier, we found part of a body. A woman’s hand.” He explained about the ring and Antwaun’s connection to Kendra Yates, and they both speculated over how the police had identified her so quickly.

Jean-Paul muttered something about Antwaun always finding trouble, then turned to stare out the window, and Damon stepped on the gas, his anxiety rising with every passing second. He wanted to hear exactly what Antwaun had to say.

His brother had lied to him before. Antwaun knew more than he’d admitted about this woman, Kendra. And Damon intended to find out what Antwaun was keeping from him and why the police, his own fellow officers, suspected he might be a murderer.

A PRESS MOB AWAITED ANTWAUN at the police station, turning his steel nerves to mush. How the hell had they identified this victim and discovered his involvement with her so quickly? Cameras flashed, reporters shoved microphones toward his face, firing questions at him that blurred in a giant fog.

“Officer Dubois, were you the last person to see Kendra Yates alive?”

“Is it true that she was mauled by the gators, that only her hand was found?”

“Do you know who left her to the gators?”

“Is there another serial killer in New Orleans?”

“Did you kill her, Officer Dubois?”

Antwaun barely resisted shooting daggers at the reporters with his eyes and clamped his mouth shut, knowing anything he said might be misconstrued. Why the fuck was the press so interested in this story? Who had leaked the details of the crime scene to them?

His throat clogged with emotions at the realization that Kendra was dead. Mon coeur he had called her. She’d asked about the French Cajun term and he’d taken her hand and placed it over his chest. “My heart,” he’d said, letting her know it belonged to her.

She had been so young, so pretty, her body lithe and elegant like a dancer’s. Her hands had been like magic, those slender fingers always gliding over him, so titillating and ready to please. And that tongue—she was sharp witted and quick with words, yet in bed she’d used that mile-long tongue to bathe him in ecstasy. Hell, she’d been a pussycat, who’d lapped him up like a bowl of cream. No wonder he’d fallen for her.

His partner ushered him to the side door while the lieutenant fended off questions with a statement about releasing information as soon as it became available.

Jean-Paul and Damon arrived and wove through the crowd. One of the reporters snagged Jean-Paul by the shirtsleeve, forcing him to stop. Jean-Paul curled his hand into a fist, and Antwaun waited with bated breath, half hoping his older brother would lose his cool just once and pound the guy’s mouth shut.

“Detective Dubois?” the catty reporter snarled at Jean-Paul. “We know how the cops think. They protect their own. How can the public get justice in this case?”

Jean-Paul stabbed him with a knifelike glare, but kept his fist clenched by his side. “We are here to see that justice is served.”

“How is that possible? Antwaun Dubois is not only surrounded by his friendly police force, but you and your brother, a federal agent, are here to defend him.”

In a barely controlled move, Jean-Paul jerked the man by the tie, knotting it into his fist until the pissant coughed to get air. “My brother is here to help his fellow officers find this woman’s murderer. Now, get out of the way.”

Antwaun’s emotions boomeranged between gratitude to have his brothers on his side, and humiliation that they had to be. His partner pushed him inside the door, and Antwaun glared at a couple of rookies who watched him with lecherous expressions as if they were ready to string him up and hang him.

Clenching his jaw, he braced himself to face being seated on the other side of the table in the interrogation room. He knew how the cops would play him; he’d acted the role of bad cop a hundred times himself, although truth be told, he didn’t have to act.

At the same time, his mind spun with questions, theories, and…lies.

Had he been the last person to see Kendra alive?

“All right, Dubois.” Lieutenant Phelps spread photos of the decimated hand across the scarred wooden table. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Antwaun forced himself to remain calm. He hadn’t yet requested legal representation, but he would if needed. For now, he schooled his reactions. He didn’t want to antagonize his superior, and calling in his union rep or a lawyer would do that. So would being a smart-ass. He’d had that lesson pounded into him in the military more times than he could count.

“It’s a hand, Lieutenant. A very decomposed one at that,” he said quietly. “I can’t say with any certainty that I know who it belonged to, not without forensic reports.” He paused, leaned back in his chair. Knew his brothers were watching from the other side of the two-way glass. If ever he’d wanted to impress them by being cool and professional, it was now.

But sweat rolled down his back, soaking his shirt and making it stick to the cheap vinyl chair. A droplet tickled his scalp, slowly making its way down his crown. The next thing he knew it would be trickling down into his eye. He’d wipe it, the cops would see that he was nervous, then they’d pounce like vultures hunting prey. Even aware of the goddamn drill, he still couldn’t stop the flow of nervous energy seeping through his veins.

“Who do you think this woman is? And do you have proof?” Antwaun asked.

“We checked fingerprints. Her name is Kendra Yates,” Lieutenant Phelps said with no inflection in his voice. “We also know that you and she dated. That the ring on the finger of the woman’s hand we found was bought by you.”

Antwaun schooled his reaction. They’d done their homework, and very quickly. “So. I haven’t seen her in months.”

“You were working undercover at the time?”

He nodded. “I thought she might have a connection to Karl Swafford.”

“And what had you discovered about him?”

This was all in his report, but again, he wrestled his anger under control. He had to go through the motions. “Since Katrina, Karl Swafford has spent millions of dollars rebuilding the casinos. He was being investigated for possible connections to the mob, embezzlement, money laundering and murder.”

“You suspected Miss Yates was involved with him?”

“Yes.”

“What made you suspect they had a relationship?”

Antwaun hesitated. Kendra had no idea how he’d first seen her. What he’d thought. “I was doing surveillance on Swafford. I saw her in bed with the man.” In fact, he’d watched her perform a very seductive strip show for the bastard. Had seen her give Swafford a blow job that had made Antwaun want her mouth wrapped around him. Then he’d watched Swafford run his fingers over her naked body, throw her down on the bed and bang her with such force that Antwaun had nearly ground his molars down to nubs with envy…and disgust.

When Swafford had crawled off her, he’d noticed the tears in Kendra’s eyes. He’d never quite understood them, but that one glimpse of her vulnerability had twisted at heartstrings he hadn’t even known he possessed.

But he was all about the job, and like a good cop, he’d cozied up to her to use her.

Then he’d been the recipient of that mouth, and he’d fallen in love.

No, lust. He might have mistaken the two a couple of times, but never again.

“You began seeing Miss Yates, hoping she’d squeal on Swafford?”

He nodded. He’d thought he could seduce her into talking. “But it didn’t pan out. Turns out she was just a dancer who hooked up with him one night.”

The lieutenant exchanged a querulous look with the female cop, and Antwaun knew he was cooked. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure how. What did they have on him? On Kendra?

Sure, maybe he’d been an idiot. Gotten tangled up with a suspect. A woman who had slept with a man he’d been investigating for illegal activities.

And when she’d gone missing, he’d been curious, even suspicious at first. But reporting her missing would have blown his cover. And he’d wanted to put the guy away. Especially if he’d killed Kendra…

“Then what happened?” the lieutenant ordered in a brittle tone.

Antwaun chewed the inside of his cheek, then explained his reasoning. “She admitted that Swafford didn’t want to end things with her.” A river of tears had fallen afterward that had wrenched his heart. She’d claimed he’d blackmailed her into sex, trapped her into being with him, and that she wanted out. Shaking with rage toward Swafford, and tenderness toward her, Antwaun had drawn her into his arms. He’d have promised her anything to alleviate her pain and stop her cries. “Then she disappeared. I figured she’d left town to escape the bastard.”

“You reported her missing?”

Antwaun shifted. “Not exactly. I couldn’t let anyone know our connection. I asked around, but didn’t find anything.”

“You know I want to believe you.” The lieutenant tilted his head sideways, his deep-set gray eyes narrowed to slits. “Kendra Yates didn’t connect with Swafford by accident.”

Antwaun frowned. The ax was about to drop.

“Neither did she meet you by coincidence either.”

Anger burned a path down his belly as reality interceded. “She made me for a cop?”

The lieutenant offered a mirthless laugh. “Dammit, Antwaun. She didn’t just make you for a cop. She was a reporter working undercover. She came onto you for information.”

Antwaun gritted his teeth. “The jolie fille was a reporter?”

“Yes, the pretty lady was a reporter.” The lieutenant leaned forward, accusations brimming in his condemning eyes. “And guess what her story was about?”

Antwaun shrugged, but his mind was spinning. Now he understood why the press had pounced so quickly. “Swafford’s casinos, I suppose. It was common knowledge that he donated millions of dollars to rebuild them. She probably figured the same as we did, that he was crooked.” He moved to the edge of his seat. “Don’t you see? He probably found out who she was and killed her.”

Lieutenant Phelps grunted. “What do you know about Swafford’s operations?”

That he was linked to illegal activities. “I hadn’t found anything definitive yet. The man is a master at hiding his actions and his money.” He cleared his throat. “Then he disappeared. I figured it was to cover his ass, that he’d eventually resurface again.”

“You didn’t think that he might be dead?”

“Sure, the thought occurred to me. In fact, I was looking into the angle that one of his minions might have gotten selfish, wanted a bigger piece of the Swafford pie and offed him.”

Another possibility needled him. The fact that Swafford and Kendra might have run off together. That still could have happened, then the man discovered who she was and killed her. Swafford could have also faked his death and disappeared so he wouldn’t get caught. “Did Kendra have proof of his corruption?”

The lieutenant watched him with hooded eyes. “Not that we know of. But she had a theory.”

Antwaun ground his teeth, tiring of the game. “Which was?”

One black eyebrow rose a fraction. “You don’t know?”

Antwaun rolled his fingers into fists to rein in the anger churning in his gut. He’d been interrogated in the military behind enemy lines before and had handled it with aplomb. He had to get through this the same way. “No.”

The lieutenant’s eyes stabbed through him like lasers trying to cut out the truth he thought hidden behind Antwaun’s steel mask. “Kendra Yates was not only investigating Swafford, but also dirty cops.”

In spite of his control, the air whooshed from his chest in a painful rush. Fuck.

Their rendezvous took on an entirely new light. The seduction. The mind-blowing sex. The pillow talk.

Hell, he had thought he was in control, but he was a fool. She’d been using him all along, hadn’t fallen for him at all. Had she believed that he was on Swafford’s payroll? That he worked for the mob? That he might have killed Swafford? That he was dirty?

His gaze swung back to his superior as he mentally replayed their conversations. Kendra must have had notes on him. Notes that pertained to her story. Notes on things he’d said that might have been misinterpreted.

Holy hell.

They obviously thought he’d killed her because of something in her notes. Something that made it look as if he were on the take.

ESMERALDA PORTER, aka the Cat Lady, felt the tremble of the earth and the stench of death in the air. The whisper of danger rustled in the air as the winds rattled dry leaves from the weeping willow trees and sent them raining down onto the parched earth. In another place, it would have been a musical sound, but here the eerie, grating threads sounded like the devil’s voice, announcing his presence.

She searched the backwoods from her porch. The rumors of the devil in the bayou taunted her—legends of faceless monsters that roamed the land. Some wore smiles to masquerade their evil souls. Damned into the darkness, kissed by the devil’s breath, they licked quietly at the blood on their fingertips as they ate away at the vestiges of man’s humanity. Those had clawed their way through the dirt and debris of their own graves to rise again as if the devil had pushed them upward through the ground with spiny fingers. They preyed on the weak, leaving tattered bodies and hearts in their vicious wake like the swamp gators after a nightly feeding, jagged teeth crunching on bone.

Evil cannot be destroyed. Its black unbending heart beats on, old with rage, its tendrils of anger as choking as the twisted hands of lust that consumes man’s soul.

But the battle wasn’t over. She summoned the magic to help fight off the evil. After all, she was a traiteur, a healer, a soldier for good, though not a warrior herself.

Satan must have found a victim. A new soul to possess and carry out his vile will. Another source to spread pain and anger. She smelled his victory, a coppery scent like blood.

Her black cat, Midnight, slithered onto the stone hearth and yowled to the heavens, and her tabby, Persimmon, bellowed in a long-winded refrain of terror.

“Come here, ’tite chatte,” she murmured, scooping up the little cat in her lap. The wind chimes hanging from the porch of her wood-frame house trembled, though, tinkling and clattering so hard one of the glass angels shattered.

She pulled her black shawl around her shoulders, urging her arthritic body and mental will not to fail her. Though she’d been blind for years now, she saw things through the darkness. Living in a world without sight had honed her other senses, especially her sense of smell.

She knew each feline by its odor, as well as the unique tone of its meow, the texture as she ran a fingertip across its nose. Gorgon, an orange-striped male, climbed on top of the organ and peered out the window as if planting himself as guard against the danger waiting in the bayou.

A danger that marched closer with every passing minute.

She mentally flipped through the recipes from her book of spells, searching for one to fend off the bad coming. Not that she had power, for the magic lay in the cats.

Once upon a time, she had been a nonbeliever. But her life had taken a drastic turn into misery, and she had learned to listen to the spirits.

Her dead husband spoke to her sometimes, crying out his rage at being taken so early. Yet his demise had come from his own wrongdoings. And he had taken more secrets to his grave. Secrets that might have offered comfort and closure to some while tormenting others with the twisted viciousness of his crimes.

His transgressions were plenty. Not only to her but to humanity. And he was burning in eternity for them now.

She’d feared her grandson had fallen to the same demon. And now in death, he lingered, caught between realms. Begging for a chance to redeem his soul and go to heaven.

Titan, a fat gray cat who’d come to her during the latest storm of violence in the bayou, pawed the floor and snarled. Suddenly the earth trembled again, more violently this time, and the scent of graveyard dust filled her nostrils.

The cats slithered from their posts, tails swishing, ears perked, listening as they formed a circle. In unison, they began to scratch at the wooden floor, hissing to the heavens as they united to protect her.

But another woman needed protecting. Lex had told her so. The image of a mangled face and body materialized in her blind mind. The woman was nearby. In danger.

Someone had tried to kill her before. They’d stolen her life already. Her memory. Her face.

And they would try to finish her off if someone didn’t save her….

CHAPTER FOUR

CRYSTAL HAD CONTEMPLATED her loss of memory and her past so many times that she thought she was going crazy. Dr. Pace had informed her that since she had suffered a head trauma, the past might be erased permanently. The emotional trauma compounded the problem.

But after sitting with the child tonight, Crystal felt amazingly calmer. A sense of accomplishment washed over her, offering hope that she might return to a normal life someday, a welcome reprieve from the endless hours of dwelling on her own misfortune and the mystery of her missing life. Another memory had also begun to surface—one of her surrounded by small children. Feeding them. Singing to them. Helping them.

Back in her room, she flipped on the television set. It was time she connected with the real world again. And maybe she’d find a posting from someone in search of her…

She listened to the news coverage about the war in Iraq and the upcoming local Memorial Day celebrations. Then a special report flashed on the screen and caused her to sit upright.

“Earlier today, police discovered the partial body of a local reporter named Kendra Yates. Her severed hand was found in the bayou but so far, the remainder of the woman’s body has not been uncovered.”

Crystal’s heart raced. Kendra Yates…Why did that name seem familiar?

The reporter continued, “Sources tell us that Miss Yates was investigating the New Orleans Police Department on charges of corruption, and that tonight Officer Antwaun Dubois was brought in for questioning. An arrest is imminent in the alleged homicide.”

Crystal frowned as the camera panned a dark wooded area where they had obviously found the woman’s severed hand, then moved back to the steps of the precinct where a mob had gathered and the police were escorting a man inside. For a second, her heart sputtered as if she recognized him. Several reporters yelled questions and accusations at Antwaun Dubois, then a reporter pushed a mike toward another tall, dark-haired man who resembled him. “Detective Dubois, can you tell us more about the investigation?”

Detective Dubois glared at the reporter. “Antwaun Dubois is innocent. The NOPD is doing everything in their power to expedite this investigation and will bring Miss Yates’s killer to justice.”

Another reporter cornered a third man, this one even taller and more intimidating. Crystal’s pulse jumped in her throat. He seemed familiar as well….

“Special Agent Dubois, were your brother and Miss Yates personally involved?”

“Was he on the take?” another reporter shouted.

“As Detective Dubois said, my brother is innocent,” Special Agent Dubois stated. “Now, please move out of the way so we can do our jobs and find the real killer.”

Crystal stared at the men as they rushed into the precinct. Something about Antwaun Dubois and the last man, Special Agent Dubois, triggered a memory. And the agent—his voice, she’d heard it before, she knew it, but she couldn’t place it….

In fact, she was almost certain that she’d met both Antwaun and the agent.

But how would she know a cop or a federal agent?

DR. REGINALD PACE COULD HARDLY stand the anticipation of knowing that he would unveil Crystal’s new face in the morning. He had sketched versions of each step in the rebuilding process on a specially designed medical computer program to craft her transition. She was going to be beautiful.

He wanted to show her off to the world. Let them know that he was the first in his state to perform such an intricate surgery and that he was a genius in his field.

The only problem was that he couldn’t reveal his work yet.

Because he hadn’t exactly followed the book on this one.

He wiped at a drop of perspiration trickling from his scalp into his hair. Didn’t matter. Crystal was his now. He had made her.

He had stood by her side when others had been repulsed. He’d soothed her in the darkest of hours and held her hand to his chest just to let her know that a breathing, living man cared for her.

Soon he would tell her that he loved her as well.

Then she would return the sentiment, and they would make love and all would be right with the world. When he’d won her completely over as his wife, then she’d sign the papers stating that she’d agreed to the face transplant, and that he was the man who had given her back her life.

Then he would be famous.

He tapped a series of keys that brought up the image of what his Crystal would look like when he finally unveiled her face, and blood surged through his cock. Exhilarated, he unzipped his pants, freed himself and slid his hand around his length. Soon he would give her the present of his seed. Then they could breed more Paces who would lend their genius to the world.

For now, he’d content himself with the image of her face as he gave himself release. But even as he did, he closed his eyes and envisioned himself pouring his come into her mouth.

In the images, he reveled in the blissful smile on her exquisite new face. And he silently thanked the dead woman for her part in it all.

DAMON CURSED. They were officially arresting Antwaun. Arguing that they had no body didn’t help. The lieutenant must have evidence he wasn’t sharing.

Even with Damon being a federal agent and Jean-Paul a detective with the NOPD, they had to push to see their brother.

Lieutenant Phelps was worried about how a private meeting would look to Internal Affairs. The mayor had called, the chief of police, even the governor of the state, ordering that justice be served for the vicious way in which the young woman had died. A screwup with the brothers, and the Dubois men would be pulled off the case.

And neither Damon nor Jean-Paul trusted their brother’s destiny to the fates.

Or the local police, who might have a crooked cop in their midst.

Had Kendra Yates discovered a cop on the take? Was her work related to her death, or had she been murdered by some kind of deranged sicko like the Swamp Devil?

Who had Antwaun pissed off so badly they’d frame him for murder?

Jean-Paul had phoned Jason Dryer, an attorney, who joined him and Damon in the small room. Dryer grilled Antwaun for the truth, while Damon and Jean-Paul watched silently.

“All right, Antwaun.” Damon braced his legs apart, then leaned over with his elbows on them, hands clasped. “Come on, tell us what you’ve been leaving out.”

Antwaun’s cobalt eyes turned a smoky-gray as he ran a hand through his overly long hair. Damon zeroed in on the scars on his hand. He tried to remember where his brother had gotten the jagged marks but couldn’t place the cause. Not that he knew each incident in his brother’s life. Both of them had been in the military, had been to hell and back.

“I’ve told you everything. If I’d known Kendra was a fucking reporter, I sure as hell wouldn’t have gotten involved with her.”

Damon hissed. The lieutenant didn’t want the FBI involved, but with Swafford’s connection to Kendra, they already were. “I’ll talk to her boss tomorrow and get a warrant for her files.”

“Someone I know is setting me up,” Antwaun growled. “You have to get me released so I can track them down.”

The last thing they needed was to have Antwaun on the streets, out of control, exacting his own brand of justice—revenge.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dryer said. “But you know it will be morning before I can get a judge and bail hearing set.”

Antwaun nodded.

“Do you have any idea who would frame you?” Damon asked.

Antwaun frowned. “I can think of a few names.”

“Make a list,” Jean-Paul said. “We’ll check out the names for you.”

“What was your cover with Swafford?” Damon asked.

Antwaun spoke in a low, gravelly tone. “I played the drug trafficking angle to get in with his organization.”

“Do you think Swafford discovered her identity and killed her?” Damon asked.

Antwaun shrugged. “It’s possible. When they both disappeared last year, I thought she might have run off with him. I went to her apartment and searched for clues as to where she might have gone but came up empty.”

“What about her computer?”

“It wasn’t there. But hell, I didn’t think she had one. I thought she was a dancer.”

“She might have left willingly with him at first,”

Damon said. “He could have found out her identity afterwards and killed her.”

Antwaun scrubbed his hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “Swafford wouldn’t have done the deed himself. He has hired minions.”

Another reason for the feds to be on the case. “We’ll check into Swafford’s organization. I’ll need everything you have on him.”

Antwaun nodded. “And don’t forget my buddies on the force.”

Damon grimaced. Antwaun didn’t make buddies.

If there was corruption in the department, who knew how deep it went, or how far it reached. And Swafford was a slick businessman who said all the right things in public, a smarmy bastard the locals and feds had both been watching for months. A man some citizens protected because he’d helped the economy.

A man who’d disappeared without a trace.

But his money might be dirty, might be part of a money-laundering scheme. Men like Swafford thrived on power and would go to any lengths to protect themselves and their investments.

But if he and his men had killed Kendra Yates, why feed her to the gators?

To destroy evidence?

Another possibility reared its head. What if she was still alive?

They could have cut off her hand just to frame Antwaun.

“You know Swafford’s body hasn’t been discovered,” Antwaun said.

“You’re thinking that he isn’t dead?”

“Maybe. What if he disappeared or faked his death, either because of Kendra’s murder, or because he thought she planned to expose him? He could have cut off her hand to make it look like she was murdered, and to set me up and get me out of the way.”

“We’ll look into that angle,” Damon agreed. “He has accounts set up all over the world. Hidden money, of course.”

Antwaun looked grim. “With finances like that, he can disappear and never be found.”

And a dirty cop could help him obtain a new identity and cement Antwaun’s conviction.

The realization triggered memories of Damon’s own past. The depths of deception by the government. The resources available to people to help them disappear and create new lives.

The same resources criminals utilized as well.

Damon’s blood pounded in his ears as his adrenaline kicked in. He’d used those resources before himself….

Dammit, he couldn’t let his little brother go to jail for a crime he hadn’t committed.

No, if anyone deserved to be in prison for murder, it was him.

THERE WERE SOME PEOPLE so cold, so ruthless, so calculating that they craved the kill. Savored the pain they inflicted. Tasted the blood of their victims and drank it down like fine wine.

They were born to kill.

He knew their kind. He was one of them.

As he had thought Damon Dubois had been at one time. But Damon had betrayed him.

Just like the others.

The Dubois family—they had to pay.

He had found the perfect way.

The woman, Kendra Yates, had served his purpose well. He studied the dark lock of hair he had kept from her. His trophy, the police would call it.

He rubbed its fine silky texture between his fingers and recalled the way he’d wrapped it around his hands just before he’d pressed the blade of the knife to her pale throat. She hadn’t understood that she was a sacrificial lamb for his cause.

A chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest. The file she had on Antwaun would be like a torpedo rocking the bastard’s world. He would choose the exact moment that information would be revealed.

Making Antwaun suffer by being arrested for Kendra’s murder was the perfect way to torture the man before he exposed him for what he really was.

The son of a murderer.

The brother of one as well.

Yes, he held the knowledge to tear the Dubois family apart once and for all. And he would enjoy every moment of their suffering until they begged for his forgiveness.

Just as Kendra had begged for her life.

The shock on her face when he’d made the first slice had been sweet. She had known her time was up. That she wouldn’t die quickly or easily.

That he intended to carve her up in little pieces for his own pleasure.

He slid into the dark haunting shadows of the bayou, inhaling the musky scent of the swamp, the coppery scent of fresh blood from a dead animal, the pungent odor of the devil’s breath heating the mossy banks and whispering through the tupelo trees.

The dense overgrown foliage hid his form as he slithered through the cypress trees toward his lair. Blood splattered the floor and walls of the dilapidated cabin, the smell of ripening flesh mingling with the loamy scent of the earth. The sound of Kendra’s terrified screams still echoed in his ears, as shrill and chilling as the alligator’s attack cry just before he bit into his victim.

He stepped into the cabin, his nose burning from the acrid odors of waste and rotting flesh.

Aah, sweet heaven.

Antwaun and Damon Dubois had both been shocked by the woman’s severed hand.

Laughter bubbled in his throat. He couldn’t wait to see their reactions when they found the rest of her.

CHAPTER FIVE

CRYSTAL TWISTED THE BEDSHEETS in her fists, the sound of a chilling cry ringing in her ears. Her own scream of terror boomeranged back, having fallen into deaf air, reminding her that she was alone.

Dying. No, alive. Barely. But forced to live in pain.

Because of the car explosion. The fire that licked and ate at her face and body.

She could almost feel the scalpel slicing through her frail skin. Cutting away dead flesh. Peeling away the brittle ashes and papery fabric of her face until her hand touched shattered bone.

She stared into the mirror, praying, hoping the nightmare would end. But horror seized her at the reflection that faced her. Gory and inhuman were the only two words to describe her. A hideous, faceless monster sentenced to live in the shadows.

A scream tore from her throat as the outer skin of her new forehead begin to peel away. One by one like the layers of an onion, the layers slid down her cheek, cracking and breaking into a thousand black pieces that scattered over the white bedsheet like charred ashes of a fire. The muscle of the right side of her face drooped, causing her lip to sag downward, and the bones in her face shifted, cracked and turned jagged, splinters of bone jutting out as if toothpicks had been jammed into her cheeks. Her right eye settled over the place where her cheekbone lay, while the left one inched upward, the eye milky-white.

Nausea gripped her stomach as her eye sockets curled, and her eyelids fell away. Her eyebrows disappeared into the folds of dead skin on the bed, and she felt her lips swelling, then bursting open. Blood dripped down her chin and trickled into a red river, the scarlet droplets splashing against her scarred breastbone.

No…

Her sob wrenched the air, and she balled her hand into a fist and slammed it into the mirror. Glass shattered and slivers pelted her, yet she hit the glass again and again. Blood cascaded down her wrist and fingers, and she picked up a fragment of jagged glass and held it to her wrist. Slice the main artery and she could end the pain and suffering. Never have to face the monster again.

It was so tempting.

She lifted the shard, jammed the point to the curve of her wrist, but suddenly a scream ripped through the air.

No…Don’t die. Please don’t die.

She whipped her head around. Was someone there? Calling to her? Someone who wanted her to live? Someone who cared…

Maybe a family, a man, husband, lover, child who wanted her.

And more children…the ones who needed her.

SHE JERKED AWAKE, HER breathing heavy and labored, her body sweating as she twisted and clenched the sheets. Memories of the nightmare and the past few months crashed like a tidal wave through her mind. The agony of the burn marks that had scalded the layers of skin and turned her face into a monster. The baths she’d been forced to endure had helped, but even then, mind-numbing pain had thrummed through her every cell. Endless surgeries and bandages to repair her disfigurement had added to the agony.

And now…

She lifted her hand to the bandages and felt them still covering her face.

“It’s all right, Crystal.”

Lex. His low voice soothed her in the darkness.

He pressed his scaly hand over hers, then brought their joined hands down to his chest. She felt the strong beating of his heart, and knew he’d heard her cries from his room.

Or had he already slipped in to watch her sleep like a ghost in the night, as he did sometimes?

At first that realization had frightened her. But he’d assured her he’d only come to protect her while she slept. To chase away the demons taunting her.

And she’d felt a small measure of relief that she hadn’t been totally alone.

“You’re nervous about having your bandages removed tomorrow?” he asked quietly.

She nodded as a tear escaped and shimmied down her cheek to dampen her bandage. “What if…”

“Shh, go back to sleep now.” He stroked her hand with his thumb, gentle, comforting. “I will care for you and watch over you no matter how you look.”

Blessed words to hear. Yet she didn’t want to have to remain in the shadows. Or frighten the children who needed her.

That voice that had called her back from the nightmare echoed in her head. The sense that there was someone out there who loved her, who wanted her to fight for her survival, a reason why her sanity had kept her alive all these months. She wouldn’t give up that hope now.

She closed her eyes, and tried to doze back to sleep. Tomorrow her face would be unveiled.

She prayed she would recognize the image in the mirror, that it wouldn’t resemble the creature she’d seen in her dreams.

DAMON STEERED THE federal-issued sedan down the drive to his parents’ house and parked. Both he and Jean-Paul took a long breath, then climbed out. Damon felt as if he were facing the firing squad, and he imagined Jean-Paul felt the same way.

A blustery wind rattled the leaves on the trees, making the spidery Spanish moss shiver, creating snakelike shadows along the ground. Dry grass crunched beneath his feet, the sound like brittle shells breaking in the quiet. The scent of the swamp grew bolder, more pungent, mingling with the hint of impending rain.

He pushed open the front door and paused as the ominous feeling of doom pervading his family home settled over him. It was almost as if someone had died.

As Damon expected, his entire family, except for his niece, was waiting up, all collected in the den, holding hands, comforting one another, praying and telling themselves that the evening had been a nightmare that would soon fade.

Jean-Paul assured them that Antwaun was all right, although his father insisted they be brutally honest and share the details of the charges and the investigation.

Damon relayed the facts that he knew so far. His mother’s face paled, and she turned to stare at the family photos on the hearth as if the mere act could draw their family back together.

Stephanie stood beside her, rubbing slow circles on their mother’s back to soothe her, while their father paced to the window and looked out into the dark sky. Storm clouds hung heavy and low with the certainty of bad weather. Thunder rumbled and shook the trees outside. More dry leaves scattered across the edges of the swamp. The woods beyond looked murky and ominous, filled with night crawlers and secrets of the bayou. Maybe another swamp devil lurked nearby.

The family drew together for a prayer, then parted, each hugging and promising to call soon.

After everyone left, Damon joined his parents in the kitchen and sipped a cup of coffee, waiting to see if they fell apart, but they insisted he leave and get some rest.

He promised them he’d be there for Antwaun’s bail hearing and let himself out.

As he climbed inside the sedan, he automatically reached for his cell phone to call his partner from the bureau, but he’d left it inside the house. Going back he found it on the sofa, but his parents’ voices echoed from the kitchen and caught his attention.

“Maybe we should tell them,” Daniella screeched.

“Shh, no,” his father said. “We promised each other a long time ago that we’d keep things to ourselves, and we have to stick to that vow.”

“But, Pierre, what if we failed?” his mother cried. “What if Antwaun really did hurt that woman? We know his history…”

“Shh, don’t say that,” his father said quietly. “Our Antwaun is not a killer. We raised him the same as we did the other boys. Jean-Paul and Damon will prove his innocence. We have to trust them, and pray.”

“I hope you’re right,” his mother murmured. “Because if our secret comes out, it will only make Antwaun look guilty.”

Damon’s chest tightened. As he barged into the kitchen, he wondered what his parents could possibly know about Antwaun that would damn him to his fellow officers….

MORNING SUNLIGHT SHOT THROUGH the dark clouds and streamed through the blinds, sending slivers of light across the hospital room. Crystal blinked, searching the corners for Lex, eyes still sensitive and adjusting to bright lights.

But Lex was gone, the room empty.

She was alone again. She understood his need to stay in the darkness. She’d been hiding for months as well.

Would she be able to show her face after today?

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and the door squeaked open. She braced herself for the doctor, forcing a smile past her stiff lips although she had no idea if he could see it with the bandages covering her face.

“Good morning, Crystal,” Dr. Pace said.

She greeted him, but her voice quivered, giving away her nervous energy.

The nurse behind him offered her a warm but sympathetic smile, then took her vitals. “It’s always scary when the bandages come off,” she said softly. “But don’t worry. Dr. Pace is the best.”

Dr. Pace assembled supplies on the tray beside her, then motioned for her to lean back. “Just relax, Crystal. This part is painless.”

She sucked in a sharp breath as he snipped at the bandages, then began to slowly peel them away. The nurse bustled out the door, leaving her alone with the doctor.

Another layer fell away, and she inhaled sharply. Cool air brushed bare skin, the whisper of hope causing goose bumps to cascade up her arms.

His lab coat glided against her elbow as he bent over her. She opened her eyes and stared into his. The gray orbs probed her face as his fingers gently assessed each area, from her eyelids to her nose and her cheeks to her chin.

Her throat clogged with emotions. “Well?”

“It looks good so far. There aren’t any signs that you’re rejecting the new skin. Of course, you still need to continue the antirejection meds.”

She nodded. “Can I see now?”

He gave her a grave expression, one she remembered too well from the unsuccessful skin grafts.

“What’s wrong?”

He released a long sigh. “You’re going to look beautiful,” he said in a husky voice. “Right now you still have a lot of redness, some slight swelling and bruising. I want you to get the full picture when you finally look in the mirror.”

She didn’t believe him. Had to touch her face herself, feel the scars, see if the skin was smooth. She lifted a hand to check, but Dr. Pace caught her.

“It would be better if you don’t touch your face yet. Any germs could cause an infection.”

Tears of fear choked her throat as she knotted her hands in her lap. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He folded his arms. “We might need to make a few adjustments. But, like I said, things are progressing.” He patted her arm. “Trust me, Crystal. When you see yourself, I want you to love your new face. Just be patient. I’ll tell you when the time is right.”

Unwanted tears filled her eyes, but she nodded. Compassion underscored his tone as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her into his arms and hugged her.

“Shh, don’t cry. I promised you that I would make you beautiful again and that’s what I’m doing. Just trust me, hold on a little longer.”

She nodded against him, although inside she died a little, and the hope she’d felt dissipated. Something was wrong. Something he wasn’t telling her.

She needed more surgeries. More skin grafts. More months of healing.

She was still a monster.

As much as she wanted to leave this place, what kind of life could she have if she couldn’t stand to look at herself in the mirror?

DR. PACE SMILED TO HIMSELF as he left Crystal’s room. Pride mushroomed inside him regarding the beautiful woman he had created.

She was exquisite now. Her bone structure, strong and restored, lifted her cheekbones to a model’s perfection. Tissues had repaired and skin almost healed from the face transplant.

Yet he wasn’t ready to tell her.

No, she might not be able to accept where the new skin that covered her face had come from.

She looked so much like the dead woman that it sent a chill up his neck.

A seed of guilt gnawed at him for his deception, but he cast it aside. He needed to keep her dependent on him a little longer.

Soon she would realize that she couldn’t leave, either. That she needed him in every way. Then she would be his forever.

And none of the lies would matter.

But if she thought she was healed before he could completely win her, she might ask to be dismissed from the hospital.

And it was too soon for her to leave him.

If people recognized her, it would cause problems for him. And danger for her.

CHAPTER SIX

THE NEXT MORNING, DAMON was still stewing over the conversation with his parents while he drove to the courthouse for Antwaun’s hearing.

Dammit. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have secrets from them. But he’d kept them to protect them. And some of them he’d been sworn to by the government, by his job, his duty. Others’ lives might be endangered if he broke his vows.

This situation, their silence, was different. This had to do with his own damn brother.

Although they claimed they were protecting him. But, if he knew the secret, he might be able to better help Antwaun…. Had something happened to his brother in the military?

A half hour later, he, Jean-Paul, Antwaun’s lawyer, Dryer, the D.A. and judge convened for the bond hearing. Antwaun shuffled in, handcuffed and shackled like a common criminal, his expression dark and hooded, his mouth set in a grim line. Damon knew it had been a rough night for his brother and tried to offer him a look of encouragement. But Antwaun’s eyes seemed as empty this morning as if he’d already been tried and convicted.

The proceedings moved forward quickly. Antwaun pleaded not guilty. The D.A. muttered rhetoric about the blemishes on Antwaun’s career, his ability to easily access phony ID and passports, his connection to the underbelly of crime in the city, then produced photos of Kendra Yates’s mauled hand and emphasized the viciousness of the crime, using every punch he could think of in his request that Antwaun be remanded into custody until the grand jury reviewed the evidence. The police had searched Kendra Yates’s apartment. The inside had been ransacked before they arrived, and blood had been smeared on the walls. They hadn’t found a computer. The only fingerprints they’d discovered were Antwaun’s.

Dryer argued the fact that only a hand was found, not a body, that all the evidence was circumstantial, and then cited Antwaun’s work and the sacrifices he made daily for the city, his family background, and planting doubt about allowing the press to try the case instead of Antwaun receiving due process.

“The family has deep roots in the community, Your Honor, has donated time and money to rebuilding the city. Antwaun Dubois is not a flight risk. He is not wealthy, nor does he have a current passport. His parents are even willing to put up their home and business to cover the bail.”

“Our resources show us that Mr. Dubois may not be wealthy, but that a sizable amount of money has recently been deposited in his account,” the D.A. argued. “In fact, a deposit of one million dollars was placed into an offshore account for Mr. Dubois two days after Kendra Yates went missing.”

Shock registered on Antwaun’s face. He turned to his lawyer, leaned forward and hissed a denial. Dryer held up his hand in warning, then spoke. “Judge, Mr. Dubois has no idea where that money came from and denies receiving it.”

But Damon studied the judge, read his body language, sensed that the D.A. had even more evidence that hadn’t been shared with Antwaun’s attorney. Evidence that threw a red flag up to the judge and went against Antwaun’s favor.

Having picked up on the same vibe, Jean-Paul shot Damon an anxious glance.

Judge Mattehorn rolled his shoulders and pinned Antwaun in his seat with his gaze. “Due to the circumstances of the case, evidence before me, the recent change in Mr. Dubois’s financial status, and the viciousness of the crime, along with the D.A.’s words, I’m denying bail. Antwaun Dubois, you will remain in custody until such time that the grand jury has reviewed and ruled whether or not to move forward with a trial.”

Dryer cleared his throat. “Your Honor, we are seriously worried about Mr. Dubois’s safety—”

Judge Mattehorn cut him off. “I will order administrative segregation until the next court appearance.”

Judge Mattehorn pounded his gavel then stood, dismissing the proceedings and leaving Antwaun in shock. Even with administrative segregation, he faced the gruesome reality of spending more nights in jail, quartered near some of the very perps he had arrested.

The anger of injustice rolled through Damon. The judge’s ruling only cemented in his mind the fact that Kendra Yates might have been right about a dirty cop on the force. Someone who could have accessed Antwaun’s accounts and planted money to make it appear as if he’d accepted a bribe.

Or maybe someone who also had a judge in his pocket….

ALL NIGHT, CRYSTAL HAD struggled with nightmares about her face. She spent the morning with Maria, reading to her until her nana arrived.

Finally, she crawled back into bed and fell asleep, but images of another life taunted her. A beautiful family. A mother who loved her and was worried sick about her. A man who’d cared for her. No, she’d been wrong. He was bad. He didn’t love her. She was surrounded by small children, yet they were starving. They needed her.

She jerked awake, bathed in sweat. Dark storm clouds obliterated the sunlight outside and cast a threatening, dreary gray hue on the room that mirrored her mood.

“Crystal, you had a bad dream again.”

Lex. His husky voice reverberated through the shadows.

“Yes,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. The scaly skin should have made her withdraw, but she barely noticed. Oddly though, his hand felt colder. Almost icy to the touch. And he didn’t seem to react to her face at all. Maybe she wasn’t so hideous…

“I dreamt I had a child somewhere.” Her voice caught. “A baby crying for me.”

He squeezed her hand, brushed her hair from her cheek. “You will find your way, my sweetness.”

Tears clogged her throat. “But I’ve been gone for months. What if I have a child and he or she has forgotten me?” Panic seized her chest and turned her voice into a whimper.

“You will find your answers,” Lex said calmly.

“Dr. Pace says I need to heal more. I hear what he’s not telling me—I need more surgery. This latest treatment didn’t work.”

“Do not believe everything he tells you.” Lex’s brittle tone sent goose bumps down her spine. Footsteps sounded outside the door, then suddenly a cold wind blew through the room, rattling the windowpanes. “He has his own agenda.”

“What do you mean?” He had been everything to her these last few months: doctor, friend, savior.

“Don’t trust anyone, Crystal. Even Dr. Pace.”

Crystal shivered and turned to face Lex, but he was gone, and, once again, the room was empty.

THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON was a virtual nightmare. Damon and Jean-Paul met briefly with Antwaun and Dryer, but Antwaun was so volatile that they spent their short time together attempting to calm him. Jean-Paul gave him a good dressing-down about behaving inside, keeping a low profile and putting his ear to the wall. Sometimes, insiders talked, and Antwaun might possibly learn something helpful from one of the inmates.

Such as who had set him up. Which cops the prisoners liked to work with.

Antwaun finally agreed, and adopted his game face. The Chameleon—if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to play a part. Lie.

Surely he wasn’t lying to them about his innocence.

Jean-Paul went to the station to look into the offshore account and see if he could find out who had planted the bribe money, while Damon drove to his parents’ to give them the bad news.

His heart wrenched at the pain on their faces. Even as he assured them he and Jean-Paul would clear Antwaun, the anguish of his family made him feel raw inside. Antwaun was innocent.

But he was not. If they knew what he had done, about the E-team and the missions they’d pulled off, about the woman who’d gotten caught in the middle and lost her life, it would kill them.

So many secrets…Tell and you die.

He wasn’t worried about dying himself, but he knew repercussions would spread to his family. Not just the pain of the truth about his last mission—their lives would also be endangered.

When he left, he drove straight to Kendra Yates’s apartment to meet Jean-Paul’s partner, Detective Carson Graves. Kendra lived in a modest older unit on the fringes of Bourbon Street. The place had already been thoroughly searched and, as the police had reported, they found no computer or files. Damn. He wanted her research on the dirty cops. The furniture was a hodgepodge of antiques and crafty items that she had obviously picked up in the market. A few photos adorned the built-in bookshelf; one of her receiving some kind of journalism award drew Damon’s eye. He stared at the face in the photo, trying to reconcile the beautiful brunette with a heart-shaped face and deep-set eyes with the mutilated hand they had found, and his stomach revolted.

“I can see why Antwaun was enthralled,” Jean-Paul commented.

Damon nodded. He took a newspaper photo from the desk to have a reference when he asked around. Carson searched her bedroom, and Jean-Paul the den, finding a book planner the police and the people who’d ransacked the place had missed.

“There are a couple of names of contacts in here that I want to check out,” Jean-Paul said. “They may be informants, may have talked to her before she disappeared.”

“The police confiscated a toothbrush and hairbrush for DNA,” Damon said. “Jean-Paul, can you access the results of the trace evidence the police found?”

Jean-Paul agreed and Damon thumbed through past issues of the papers stacked in the corner, searching for Kendra’s byline, hoping to find another story she’d written that might have landed her in trouble. But nothing jumped out at him. “I’m going to the newspaper office and pushing the publisher to tell us what he knows.”

They agreed to check in and left Carson to finish searching her apartment.

At the newspaper office where Kendra Yates had worked, Damon asked to speak with the head of the paper. Warren Allan, a middle-aged man with a bad comb-over, yellowed teeth from smoking and a jacket two sizes too small, gestured toward an orange vinyl chair. His desk overflowed with newspapers, clippings of various articles, bulging file folders, coffee cups, chewing-gum wrappers and an ashtray that looked as if it hadn’t been emptied in days.

“I’ve been expecting you, Special Agent Dubois.” A small smile stretched his thick lips into a rubbery line. “In fact, I expected an entire fort of you by now.”

Damon narrowed his eyes to slits. “Then I’ll cut to the chase, Mr. Allan. My brother is innocent. Someone is setting him up and I’m going to find out who it is.”

Allan’s chair squeaked as he leaned back and steepled his hands. “Are you sure about that? Maybe you don’t know your brother as well as you thought.”

“And you don’t know him at all.” Damon gritted his teeth. “Tell me what Kendra Yates had on Karl Swafford, and any tips she had on the possibility of corruption in the NOPD.”

“You really think I’m going to divulge that information?” His cheeks swelled with his chuckle. “I’m sitting on the hottest story to hit New Orleans since the Swamp Devil murders last Mardi Gras. And the murdered victim happened to be one of my own reporters.” He leaned forward, a menacing glint to his eyes. “I want the bastard who killed her to pay.”

“So do I,” Damon stated matter-of-factly. “And I can assure you that your cooperation will help us find the person responsible for her death.”

A long, tension-filled pause stretched between the two men.

“Just give me something,” Damon finally conceded. “Some hint as to where she was on the investigation. And I’ll be certain that you get the exclusive on anything I find out, when the time is right, of course.”

Allan hesitated, then nodded. He didn’t believe that Kendra had run off with Swafford and thought the man had faked his own death and might have killed her. “She traced him to a plastic surgeon who works for the government.”

Damon’s blood heated. “His name?”

“Dr. Reginald Pace.”

Damon gripped the edge of the chair with white knuckles. Reginald Pace…had assisted the E-team in secretive projects. He’d been known to alter appearances for the witness protection program. And he would also do the same for any criminal for the right price.

Unfortunately, extracting information from him was going to be nearly impossible.

LEX VAN WORMER RUBBED A HAND across his scaly skin, watching the dry particles float to the floor like dust. His skin grew drier, flakier every day as if death was slowly rusting away his flesh, tearing it from his brittle bones with jagged fingers. His body felt cold, too, chilled to the bone, as if ice had settled into his veins, or perhaps his blood had ceased to flow and had turned to stone. Sometimes darkness robbed him of precious seconds, minutes, hours, and the time he was able to drag himself from the depths grew shorter and less frequent as each day passed.

Only the thought of seeing Crystal spurred him to fight his way through the muck of quicksand trying to consume him.

He had waited all his life to find a woman like her. A woman to love. A woman who needed him. A woman to guide him into redemption.

For the devil had owned his soul most of his life.

Like an off-key song you couldn’t get out of your mind, his father’s vile descriptions of the devil’s wrath burned in his head. He would pay for his transgressions. Burn for his sins. Spend eternity being punished.

Despair made his chest ache, and he dropped to his knees beside the bed, lowered his head against the mattress and prayed to the heavens to help him last another day. To help him find his way into the light. To allow him to atone for his sins by watching over Crystal.

For she was in grave danger.

Dr. Pace pretended to care, but Lex knew his lies. Lex had seen the man’s other side. He, too, had been possessed by the devil.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT TOOK DAMON ANOTHER week to get in touch with Dr. Pace, a week of anxious hell for Antwaun and the family.

“Dr. Pace, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.” Damon settled into the leather wing chair across the plastic surgeon’s desk. Although Pace consulted and sometimes took on patients not associated with government projects, many were of a confidential nature. He also worked with universities on the latest research techniques involving plastic surgery and had assisted in cutting-edge work with facial reconstruction on severely injured patients, including infants with birth defects.

“Yes, well, we do have a history, Special Agent Dubois.” Pace stared at him over his reading glasses. “So, to what do I owe this visit? Your team have another problem you want me to take care of?”

Damon swallowed at the reminder of his secret military missions. The E-team, the Erasers, had been a special-ops elite squad, carefully chosen for their individual skills. Damon, a tactical leader as well as an explosives expert; Max Levine, helicopter pilot and computer genius; Calvin Norris, sniper and search-and-rescue leader; and Lex Van Wormer, security specialist.

If there was any problem the government wanted taken care of, sanctioned or not, the E-team was called in to erase it. No one was to know of their existence. Even Pace didn’t know the details of their work. And no member would ever tell.

Tell and you die.

“I’m with the bureau now,” Damon responded.

Pace nodded, a small grin splitting his face. “Yes, that’s right. FBI.”

Damon almost laughed. Pace didn’t believe him. The team was tight-knit and was virtually impossible to escape. But when he’d left, the three guys on the original E-team had formed a private business after they’d left the military, conducting government missions as well as taking on private cases. Max had said some of the new members were even needlessly violent, and had asked about his defection.

Damon had opted out and left, although the others hadn’t liked it one damn bit.

“I need to know any information you may have on a man named Karl Swafford.” Damon watched Pace for signs of recognition. But not so much as a blink of an eye or a twitch. Of course, the man was trained in scrutinizing body gestures and hiding them as well.

“I’ve heard of him, as most of the people in New Orleans have.”

Damon grunted. “I have reason to believe that he faked his death and disappeared. And that you helped him.”

Pace’s eyebrow arched upward. “And where did you get this information?”

“Let’s just say that the death of a certain reporter brought it to light.”

“You mean Kendra Yates, the woman your brother is accused of murdering.”

“Antwaun is innocent,” Damon said. “And I need your help, Reginald. If Swafford is alive, he may have killed Miss Yates. I also think he has someone on the inside who helped frame my brother for her death.”

“Interesting theory. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

“Did Kendra Yates question you about Swafford?”

“No. And I did not perform plastic surgery on him either.”

Damon silently cursed, then withdrew the photo of Kendra and placed it on the desk. “Look at this carefully, Reginald. Are you sure this woman didn’t approach you? She might have worn a disguise.”

Dr. Pace made a token show of examining the photo, then exhaled and leaned back nonchalantly. “No, I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Damon understood the reason for Dr. Pace’s secrecy. His silence protected not only himself, but the members of the E-team, government VIPs, witnesses in the WITSEC program and current patients. Hell, his secrecy had kept Damon alive.

But the tiny tremor in the doctor’s eyelid gave him away this time. He had seen Kendra Yates, but he didn’t want to admit to it.

Possibilities floated through Damon’s head. What if Kendra had threatened to write about Dr. Pace in the paper?

Perhaps he’d panicked and killed her. Or he might have reported her snooping to the military or another fed who’d decided she needed to be diposed of.

His gut tightened. What if the insider who’d killed her and set up Antwaun wasn’t with the local police department but was one of his coworkers at the agency?

CRYSTAL FELT AS IF she were crawling out of her skin. She had to get out of the room.

The sidewalk was dimly lit, the woods creating shadowy nooks that offered privacy. Surely the garden would be empty, and she wouldn’t have to worry about being seen or the pitying gossip.

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