Don't Say a Word Page 12

  Not only was she a carbon copy of the murder victim, but the victim’s killer might be after her.

  Then again, he had no ID on Crystal yet, no way of knowing if she had her own enemies….

  His contacts at the bureau or the E-team might know. But what if alerting them to the fact that she was still alive led the wrong people to her door?

  Hell, he couldn’t protect her if he didn’t know what he was up against.

  She was the first person in months, maybe years, to make him want to live, to continue fighting the evil.

  He would give his life to protect her.

  * * *

  HE GRIPPED THE PHONE and listened to Pace rant with a smile on his face. The man was in a panic. He was also obsessed with getting the woman back and thought he was in love with her.

  Laughter erupted from deep in his belly. Love? What the hell was that? Emotion only interfered with business. Turned men sloppy. Caused them to make mistakes.

  And he did not have room for mistakes in the game. Not when he was so close to exacting his revenge.

  The Dubois family had to pay for his suffering.

  They had robbed him of a life and given it to their own boys. At least that was what they called them.

  He poured himself a stiff whiskey and studied the photos of each of the victims of the first mutilator, admiring the man’s handiwork, noting the lack of control in his first carvings versus the total and absolute precision he had used on later victims. One by one he stabbed the pictures with his knife, then jammed a thumbtack into the center and pinned them to the wall beside his bed.

  Defense wounds marked the first victim’s hands—the hands that belonged to the mutilator’s mother. He must have been a young teenager when he’d killed her.

  The next two women’s hands held similar wounds, yet by the third, he’d learned to tie the victim spread-eagle first. Though his thrusts had been sloppy and jagged in the beginning, the mutilator had eventually perfected his technique, learning to begin with small one-inch slashes that barely scored the woman’s skin. Then, each cut had pierced deeper and deeper until he’d severed muscle and tendons. Finally he’d ripped into the internal organs. Blood, guts—the woman’s insides had spilled out onto the floor, then the mutilator had spread his hands in the blood and smeared it on the walls, painting a mural with his destruction.

  He went down the row, counting the victims until he came to the fifth woman. Pale white skin like milk. Honey-colored hair. Eyes the color of an angel’s.

  Yet the devil often danced in disguise, and so had this woman or else the mutilator wouldn’t have killed her.

  Ironic though. Before her death, she had given birth to the mutilator’s son.

  He licked his lips, picked up a photo of his first mutilation and grinned.

  And he’d make sure the Duboises saw the fruits of his handiwork.

  Laughing hysterically, he slid the photos into a manila envelope and carried them to his car. He’d drop them off now. They thought they’d been hurting before.

  Now their suffering would truly begin.

  Like father like son—yes, he would make Daddy proud.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CRYSTAL’S STOMACH ROILED as Agent Dubois escorted her to his sedan and they drove away from the rehab center. She clenched her purse, thinking about the antirejection meds the doctor had given her. Dr. Pace’s admission about the face transplant replayed in her head as she tried to assimilate his story. He claimed he’d taken Kendra’s face to save Crystal’s life.

  But who had killed the woman? Was he lying about not knowing?

  How did she come to be at the center?

  Damon steered the vehicle onto the highway then slid a hand over hers. His fingers felt warm to the touch, a lifeline she desperately needed right now.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a gruff voice.

  Her chest heaved up and down as she tried to gather a breath. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry I had to do that to you,” he said with a grimace. “When I saw the woman’s mutilated body, especially her face, I started putting two and two together.”

  Her heart capitulated. “You thought I knew?”

  His dark look skated over her, unreadable and pinning her to the seat. “I had to be sure.”

  Anger mingled with hurt and disbelief. “You thought I might have had something to do with Kendra’s death? That I had her killed so I could trade my life for hers?”

  “No, nothing like that,” he said. “I just…I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t want to tell you about the face transplant if it wasn’t true.”

  A deadly quiet descended between them, fraught with the truth and the questions still plaguing her about her identity and how she’d gotten caught up in this bizarre situation. She lifted her free hand and touched her cheek, felt her body shudder, her skin tingle. Guilt engulfed her. Just thinking about her face coming from a cadaver repulsed her. And poor Kendra…

  Agent Dubois’s cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Special Agent Dubois.”

  His jaw tightened, and he suddenly sped up. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

  He flipped the phone closed with a curse.

  “What’s wrong?” Crystal asked.

  “That was my father. The press are all over my parents’ restaurant. And someone sent them disturbing photos. My mother opened them.”

  Crystal clutched the door handle as he flew around a Toyota and accelerated, weaving in and out of traffic as they neared New Orleans. Although it was early afternoon, tourists crowded the streets for late lunches, celebrating the summer and upcoming Memorial Day weekend. Along with colorful flowers, flags adorned the streets, and small markers along the edges of the sidewalks boasted the names of fallen soldiers being honored with the holiday. Jazz and zydeco music floated from nearby cafés and restaurants, and Bourbon Street already held its share of partyers sipping beer, margaritas and cocktails. Local artisans sold their wares, a hodgepodge of various art forms, sketches of the city, Mardi Gras masks, voodoo dolls, beads, scenes of the French Quarter and gator souvenirs.

  Agent Dubois parked, climbed out, came around to her side and opened the door.

  The heat and stench of stale beer, cigarette smoke and sweat permeated the air as they wove through the crowded street. Damon was right about the press mob. Several reporters flanked the door of the café, driving any potential customers away with their questions, while a small group had gathered with signs condemning the Dubois’s son as a murderer. Damon curved an arm around her waist and ushered her through the crowd, trying to avoid another reporter who pounced on him, shouting questions and accusations.

  Damon muttered, “No comment,” then pushed her inside the door.

  Just then one of the reporters shouted, “She looks like Kendra Yates!”

  The reporter snapped her photo, and Damon slammed the door. She leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, trying to compose herself. But a middle-aged man appeared, his dark thinning hair spiked, his forehead furrowed with worry. He embraced Damon.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, son.”

  Damon pulled back. “Is Maman okay?”

  “Yes, I called Jean-Paul, too. The pictures…They’re horrible, Damon. Your maman did not need to see this.”

  Damon gestured toward Crystal. “Papa, this is Crystal. She’s the woman I told you about.”

  “Oui, hello.” He wiped his hand on an apron, then extended it and shook her hand, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” He glanced back at his son as if confirming how much she resembled Kendra, but was polite enough to refrain from comment.

  Then he led them through the café. Crystal couldn’t help but admire the New Orleans artwork—charcoal sketches and watercolors of the market, Mardi Gras, the bayou, and a series of hand-painted masks. Above the hostesses’ stand a mix of family photos were displayed, several of Damon and his brothers in military uniforms.
A large bulletin board also held signed photos of families who’d donated toward a hurricane relief fund sponsored by the café. Heavenly smells of Cajun dishes filled the air, along with the scent of chicory coffee, beignets and rich, dark chocolate.

  But the atmosphere faded as Crystal spotted Damon’s mother bent over the sleek oak bar crying as she stared at photos of a woman lying on bloodstained sheets.

  At least Crystal thought they were of a woman.

  She’d never seen anything so gruesome and vile. Blood coated the body parts, flowed in a river around the woman’s chest, formed a puddle beneath her head. The body had been cut so many times that the flesh had literally been carved away, exposing jagged, splintered bones and organs.

  The early nausea she’d been battling rose to her throat, then she spotted the number one printed at the top of the photo and froze in renewed horror.

  Number one—there would be more.

  * * *

  JUDGING FROM THE PHOTOGRAPH, Damon knew that this victim was not the same one they had found in the bayou—it was of another crime. From the setting, discoloration of the photo and the quality, the picture had probably been taken years ago, which meant the crime was an old one. Details of the cuts were different, too. Tentative slices marred the upper torso, and defense wounds scarred the victim’s arms indicating she had not been tied down during the assault. She had fought back.

  The recent victim hadn’t had a chance to fight. She’d been tied spread-eagle. Although she had struggled against the bindings—rope burns on her ankles and wrists revealed how desperately she’d clawed to free herself.

  The number one either meant she was a victim of the first mutilator or the first victim in a series of many.

  Did they have a copycat serial killer on their hands now?

  Damon swallowed back fury at the bastard’s audacity in sending photos to his parents. His mother’s face was streaked with tears and horror, while his father looked haggard, torn between comforting Daniella and controlling his own anger and disgust over the photos. Why had the killer sent these snapshots to his folks instead of to him or the press?

  He wanted to torture the family….

  Sick, sadistic bastard. His mother hadn’t needed to witness this. And his father…Damon worried about his heart.

  Jean-Paul suddenly burst into the restaurant and raced toward his parents. “Where are the pictures?”

  Damon gestured toward the bar, and Jean-Paul noticed Crystal and paused as if he’d seen a ghost. “Damn, she does look like Kendra Yates.”

  Crystal bit down on her lip, and Damon reached for her, feeling protective and certain she was an innocent victim.

  She sank onto a stool, and his mother roused from her shocked state, introduced herself, then offered everyone coffee or tea. Crystal asked for water, and his mother jumped into the task as if she needed something to do to distract her from the sight of those hideous pictures. Damon walked behind the bar and slid a comforting hand to his mother’s back while Jean-Paul studied the pictures.

  “Maman, I’m sorry you had to see those.”

  His mother’s hand trembled as she tucked her curly dark hair into her bun. “Oui. What do you think it means, Damon? That the person who committed that murder is the same one who killed Kendra Yates?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to search the system when we leave and find out where that photo was taken, where and when the murder occurred, and if the killer was ever caught.” He handed Crystal the water, hating the pallor of her complexion, then paused, leaned against the counter and spoke to his mother again. “Depending on how old this case is, maybe the killer is someone Antwaun knew or crossed and they’re setting him up. Although, that photo looks years old…”

  He’d never seen his mother look so distressed. Although, bon Dieu, she’d just personally received photos of a brutal murder scene. Of course she’d be upset.

  Another thought occurred to him, and he addressed both his parents. “Maman, Papa, do you remember anything about a similar case occurring here in New Orleans in the past?”

  His father poured himself coffee, working his jaw from side to side, then moved closer to stand beside Damon’s maman. “No, not that I recall.”

  “New Orleans has had many brutal crimes over the years,” his mother said, her hand fluttering about her face nervously. “I can’t even think straight right now.”

  Damon nodded, although his parents both seemed really off.

  He grimaced, disgusted with himself. He’d been working cases and dealing with the dregs of society so long now that he was doubting his own family. For God’s sake, they wanted to help free Antwaun more than anyone.

  They would have absolutely no reason to lie.

  * * *

  AS HARRY CONNICK JR.’S DEEP voice filled the room, Crystal watched the interplay between Agent Dubois and his family with envy. This family obviously cared a great deal for one another. Judging from the pictures on the wall, and the articles about each of the sons and the hurricane, they’d had troubles but managed to stick together. One article revealed that the Duboises’ first business had been destroyed during the storms. Damon’s oldest brother Jean-Paul had also been married previously and had lost his wife in the midst of Katrina. But apparently the family had somehow pulled together, rebuilt their home and business, and now, even in this terrible crisis, seemed to be working together, supporting one another.

  A well of sadness threatened to engulf her. Did she not have any family herself? If so, why weren’t they doing everything possible to find her?

  Had she done something to make them not love her? Had nobody ever loved her?

  Was that the reason she couldn’t remember? Because she’d committed a horrible act, maybe caused someone’s death, and she didn’t want to face herself or them again?

  “Crystal, we’re going to the precinct now,” Agent Dubois said. “I want to research this photograph.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Jean-Paul said. “I phoned Stephanie and she’s coming by to stay with Maman and Papa.”

  “I told Catherine to keep Chrissy away.” Mrs. Dubois gestured at the empty restaurant. “It looks like we’re not going to have any business today anyway.”

  The men nodded grimly, and Crystal slid off the bar stool and stood beside Damon.

  “I can take you to a hotel to rest,” Damon offered.

  “No, I’d like to go with you.” She jutted up her chin, determination kicking in. “Somehow I’m involved in all this, and I need to know how.”

  His look of sympathy touched her but also hardened her. She was beginning to really like this man, to want to know him better. Someday, to have a relationship with him. But that was impossible until she learned her identity. For all she knew, she had a lover or a husband somewhere.

  Her heart squeezed, and she could hardly breathe as her nightmarish images returned. An image of a man dying beside her, his cold eyes staring up at her. An explosion rocked the world around her, and flames suddenly engulfed his clothes. She’d screamed and then…the world had gone black.

  Don’t die, don’t die….

  Those two words again. That deep throaty voice pleading with her to live.

  Had they been spoken by the man dying beside her? Someone else?

  She gripped the edge of the bar, struggling to make the image/memory return, for more details or clues as to her name, the man’s name, but the memory disappeared into the dark cavern of her mind as fast as it had come.

  Only it left her more troubled than ever, with more questions. The man who’d died had been someone she’d cared for once.

  And somehow his death had been her fault.

  * * *

  DAMON HAD COAXED CRYSTAL into sitting in Jean-Paul’s office at the police department. Hoping the picture was from a prior case, he consulted the FBI databases for the photo’s origin.

  Jean-Paul hung up his phone and turned to Damon. “I have a lead on a teller that may have been involved in helping arrange t
hat phony account in Antwaun’s name. I’m going to talk to her now.”

  Damon nodded, although his attention was focused on the data spilling onto his screen. He’d checked for current cases with a similar MO across the States but had come up empty. Then he’d plugged in the photo his parents had received, and had hit pay dirt. “Look at this, Jean-Paul.”

  Jean-Paul stood and craned his neck to look over his brother’s shoulder while Damon summarized the contents out loud.

  “This crime goes back thirty years. A serial killer the police called the Mutilator killed twelve women in a year’s time before he was caught. After interrogating the suspect, they learned the man’s first kill had been his very own mother when he was thirteen years old.”

  Photos of each of the man’s murder victims scrolled across the screen, each one more bloody and gory than the last, indicating the man’s violent tendencies and bloodlust had escalated with each crime. A true sociopath—a man who loved to kill.

  “His name is Frederick Fenton,” Damon continued.

  Jean-Paul muttered a curse. “Says here that he plead guilty. He’s a lifer in the state pen in Angola now.”

  “He should have received the death penalty,” Damon said.

  “Yeah, but the deal saved him. In exchange for life, he told them where he’d left four bodies they hadn’t found at the time of his arrest.”

  “I say we take a trip to Angola and visit Mr. Fenton tomorrow. Maybe he can tell us who’s copying him now. And why they sent the picture to our parents.”

  Jean-Paul nodded. “Set it up. I’m going to go talk to this bank teller and see if she can fill us in on who’s framing our little brother.”

  “Anything on Smith yet?” Damon asked.

  Jean-Paul nodded. “He had some trouble at his former precinct. I’m still working on the details.”

  Damon sighed. Maybe Smith was the guy.

  He glanced up to see Crystal studying the photographs. “My God, that man is sick.” She placed a hand on Damon’s shoulder, and regrets for the killer he had once been shot through him.