Don't Say a Word (2 page)

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?

* * *

L
EX
V
AN
W
ORMER 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.

A
NTWAUN
D
UBOIS 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.

* * *

D
AMON 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.

* * *

D
ESPAIR 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?

* * *

I
N 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.”