Don't Say a Word (22 page)

“I heard about Pace.”

“The cops are all over it, Cal. And this Mutilator copycat thing…it looks as if the case is coming back to us.”

“What? How?” Cal's coarse voice sounded agitated. “And don't tell me you're thinking of exposing us,” he barked. “You can't say a word, Dubois. You know the rules.”

“My brother is in jail for a murder he didn't commit. Max has disappeared. We have an UNSUB murdering women, and now Pace is dead, his files gone. Someone using a voice masker also called Jacqueline and suggested she ask me about the night she nearly died.” Damon's pulse clamored. “The only people who knew about that night are us, Cal. The E-team.”

A long silence, then Cal wheezed. “You may be right about Max,” he said, voice cracking. “He got caught in an explosion in our last mission and suffered a head injury. Ever since then, he's been having nightmares, memory lapses, emotional breakdowns. I thought I'd convinced him to get help, that's why I didn't tell you.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“Yeah. The head injury triggered a psychotic break. He claims he hears voices in his head urging him to destroy evil, right the wrongs we did. Pay penitence.”

“Then why kill Kendra Yates?”

“She showed up asking questions. I suspect he was her informant, that he told her about us. When I confronted him and reminded him of the repercussions of her exposing us, he freaked. The guy's not stable, Dubois.”

There was nothing worse than a brilliant trained killer, except a crazy one.

“I have his new address,” Cal said. “Meet me there and we'll talk to him.”

Damon agreed and hung up, then went back inside the office to tell Jean-Paul.

His brother gave him a grave look.

“I got the fingerprint on the baby rattle,” he began. “You're right. It belongs to Jacqueline.”

Damon shifted on the balls of his feet. How the hell was he supposed to tell the woman he'd just made love to that he had almost killed her months ago? That he was responsible for the pain she'd suffered, the countless surgeries, the physical scars, the loss of her memory?

The loss of her own face.

And her child, if she'd been pregnant…

His phone vibrated inside his jacket, and he retrieved it and checked the number. His parents' restaurant. God, what now?

“Damon, it's your father.”

Damon didn't like the troubled sound in his voice. “Hey, Papa. Is everything all right?”

“No.” His father's heavy sigh shook with worry. “We just received some more photographs.”

“More of the Mutilator's victims?”

“Yes.” His father hesitated. “Listen, son, there's something we have to tell you. It's about Antwaun and this case.”

“What is it, Papa?”

“You have to come over now. We can't talk about it over the phone.”

“Does this have anything to do with the secret you and
Maman
were talking about the other night?”

“Yes,” his father said. “And I think it might be the connection you need to help find the man who murdered Kendra Yates and her mother.”

“Jean-Paul and I are on our way.”

* * *

T
HE
D
UBOISES SHOULD HAVE
the photos by now. Soon they would know the vile things their precious Damon had done.

The family and Damon had to see the connection between the Mutilator and their son Antwaun now.

Then Antwaun would finally know the truth as well.

Laughter bubbled in his throat as he watched Damon, Jean-Paul and Jacqueline Braudaway leave the police station. They were in a hurry, appeared agitated and sped off in the direction of the family restaurant.

Yes, time for things to come to a head.

The Memorial Day parade was the next day. All three Dubois brothers were to be honored. But none of them would make it. They'd still be busy picking up the pieces of their lives instead.

Speaking of lives—time to end one tonight.

Jacqueline Braudaway's.

He inched the white delivery van from the curb and drove toward the Dubois café, his heart pumping with adrenaline as he watched the brothers climb out and hurry to the entrance. Too bad the press weren't present to see the shit hit the fan; they were still circling Pace's hospital and home. But they would get here soon enough. The fireworks would bring them running in droves.

He parked in the rear, near the service entrance, then waited until the Dubois brothers and Jacqueline were inside. He set the timer on the explosive he'd rigged in the kitchen for ten minutes—long enough for Mr. and Mrs. Dubois to confess their secrets about Antwaun. And if they didn't,
he
would when Damon walked into his trap.

Sweet revenge—he tasted it on his lips.

Instead of cutting up Jacqueline and sending the parts to Damon, he'd decided to let the man watch him slice her bit by bit.

He lit a cigarette, took a drag and watched the smoke curl toward the sky as he began the countdown. In ten minutes, the place would be filled with flames and a fog of smoke. The Dubois family would panic and come scrambling out.

While Damon and his brother tried to extinguish the fire and save their precious family business, he'd grab Jacqueline and disappear.

He reached inside his glove compartment, removed the knife he'd used to kill Kendra Yates, and to cut out Pace's tongue, pressed the tip to his hand, then jabbed the point into his palm. Blood spurted from the cut, and he smiled as he licked the salty, coppery droplet.

Soon, it would be Jacqueline's blood filling his hands and the real fun would begin….

D
AMON ASKED
J
ACQUELINE
to wait at the bar area while he and Jean-Paul met their parents in their office. He hadn't wanted to drag her along, but he hadn't trusted anyone at the police department, and he couldn't leave her alone.

Of course if she knew the truth about him, she wouldn't feel safe by his side either. She'd probably run like hell.

His parents both looked ashen-faced and upset, even more worried than they had when the business had been lost after the hurricane. Something was terribly wrong.

“What's going on,
Maman?
Papa?”

His father spread the photos they'd received on the desk, and he and Jean-Paul both moved closer to study them. A red-haired woman, probably mid-twenties, was sprawled on the floor in a bloody mess. Her hands, breasts, legs had been wounded multiple times.

It was the work of the first Mutilator.

Even more disturbing—the woman was obviously pregnant. Killing her would have killed the child. Perhaps that had been his motivation—but why kill the other woman?

His gaze rose to meet his parents' pale faces. His father leaned against the filing cabinet and heaved for a breath while his mother sat with her hands clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

“All right,” Damon said, still not understanding the depth of his parents' reactions or what this had to do with Antwaun. “What's going on? And I want the truth this time.”

His mother swallowed, a small sob catching in her throat, and Jean-Paul placed a hand on her back. “I know this is upsetting,
Maman
. This man is cruel to send you these photographs.”

“We didn't want to believe it,” his mother whispered.

“But we have to face the fact that it's all connected,” Mr. Dubois said.

“What are you talking about?” Damon asked. “You didn't want to believe what?”

“That the reporter's murder had something to do with Antwaun.”

A sharp pain clawed at Damon's chest.

“Maman,”
Jean-Paul said. “You can't think that Antwaun killed Kendra Yates?”

“No,” Mr. Dubois said. “But if the truth gets out, it will make him look guilty as hell.”

Damon rarely heard his father use profanity. “Why? What is it about the past that you're so secretive about?” A long tense pause took hold where his parents shared a terrified look.

Their father finally cleared his throat, pain in his eyes when he spoke. “We promised never to say a word, to bring Antwaun up just like you boys, that he would never know.”

“Know what?” Jean-Paul asked softly.

“That he is not our son,” Mr. Dubois said.

Damon clenched the desk edge while Jean-Paul grunted in shock. “What do you mean,
not your son?
” Damon tried to remember their childhood and when Antwaun had been born. But Jean-Paul had been only two, and Damon only one.

Mrs. Dubois pointed toward the picture of the woman in the bloodbath. “That lady, Irene, that was Antwaun's birth mother.”

“She was a victim of the first Mutilator,” Mr. Dubois explained.

“The man left her for dead, thinking the baby had died, too, but he survived.” Mrs. Dubois wiped at a tear trickling down her cheek. “I found Irene…She was a neighbor, a friend. She'd come to New Orleans because she had gotten pregnant and her family threw her out.”

Wheels rolled in Damon's head, fingers of unease stirring along his spine as unexpected thoughts began to click into place. “You're saying you adopted Antwaun after this woman died?”

His mother nodded. “Yes. We raised him as our own. We thought it would be better for him if he believed he was our son, if he didn't know that his mother had been murdered.”

Jean-Paul frowned and drummed his fist on the desk, studying the pictures again. “So, you think whoever killed Kendra and her mother framed Antwaun to hurt you because you raised this baby?”

Damon's head spun. He'd thought the E-team was involved. That one of his men was trying to get back at him. But someone had a vendetta against the entire family.

Because his family had raised a dead woman's baby? It still didn't make sense.

“
Maman
, Papa, who was Antwaun's father?” Damon asked.

They exchanged another troubled look, then his father spoke in a tortured voice. “Frederick Fenton, the man who mutilated Antwaun's mother, along with eleven other women that year.”

Damon tried not to react, but his parents were right. If this leaked out, Antwaun would look guilty as hell.

Dammit. How would Antwaun feel when he learned the truth?

* * *

J
ACQUELINE'S HEAD POUNDED
with questions. Who had called and why? What did Damon know about the fire that had sent her to the hospital, and why had Damon lied?

After the heavenly night they'd spent together, and all they'd shared, she wanted to trust him without doubt, but he knew more than he was telling her, and she had a right to the truth. If they were going to have a future together, they had to be honest, let go of old hurts.

But Damon hadn't mentioned love or a future at all.

And what was the family discussing now? Something to do with her?

Outside, the street bustled with activity just as the French Market did. Tourists and locals clamored to various restaurants for lunch. But the Dubois place was empty, a shell of the place it had once been, she was sure—apparently the locals chose not to support the family of an alleged killer.

Suddenly a loud explosion rocked the building, and flames shot up in the kitchen, behind the bar and in the entry to the front door. Smoke mushroomed like a cloud around her, filling the air, and making her eyes and throat burn. Wood crackled and popped, the flames quickly catching the tablecloths and chewing at the walls. The mirror behind the bar splintered, wineglasses and goblets shattered and crashed to the floor, shards stabbing at her arms and face. The building shook and pictures tumbled from the walls into the fire, sizzling as the heat melted the frames and consumed them.

She yelled for Damon, grabbed a napkin, covered her mouth and jumped off the stool to get help. But déjà vu immobilized her.

Memories of struggling to escape the fire months ago seared her brain, and she screamed again. Smoke filled her lungs, and she coughed, choking on the thick plumes. She couldn't breathe. She'd been trapped then. She didn't want to be trapped again.

Before she could run to Damon, someone grabbed her from behind and slammed something hard into her temple. Lights spun amid the fog of smoke, then sparks of fire glittered in the darkness as she collapsed into unconsciousness.

* * *

“
M
AMAN
, P
APA, ARE YOU
all right?” Damon shouted.

The force of the explosion had knocked Damon backward and crashed a bookcase on top of him. His father had thrown himself over his mother to protect her, even Jean-Paul covered them both and pushed them to the floor. Smoke curled through the door, and heat seeped into the small office, the flames burning hot and spreading quickly.

“We're all right,” his father yelled.

“How about you?” Jean-Paul shouted.

“Yeah.” Damon tore books, photos and pieces of broken wood off himself and pitched them to the side.

“We have to get out!” Jean-Paul yelled.

“Jacqueline!” Pure panic slammed into Damon, stealing the wind from his lungs as he crawled to his knees. His brother was calling 911 on his cell while he felt the door.

“It's already getting hot. Dammit!”

“The back door through the kitchen is closest,” his father shouted.

Jean-Paul nodded and inched open the door, checking the growing flames. Smoke seeped through the doorway, creating a thick, blinding haze.

“Get them out,” Damon barked. “I have to find Jacqueline.”

Jean-Paul nodded and grabbed his mother's arm to help her. She struggled to her feet, sobbing softly, and his father clutched her other arm. “We'll make it,
chère
, just hang on.”

Damon's heart squeezed at the way his parents stuck together, no matter what. He wanted that kind of life, a chance to have that with Jacqueline.

God, please let her be alive
.

He peered through the door and searched the room. Patches of flames ate at the kitchen and raced into the short hallway to the front dining room. Jean-Paul grabbed a fire extinguisher from the kitchen wall and used it to battle the flames as he guided his parents through a narrow trail that hadn't yet caught fire, yelling for them to watch out for crashing plaster from the ceiling.

“Jacqueline!” Damon found another fire extinguisher and tore it from the wall. Mindless of the heat, he ran the opposite way, weaving through the flames, coughing and yelling Jacqueline's name as he kicked at broken table legs, shattered wood, stepped over glasses and debris. The café consisted of one large room with the L-shaped bar situated in the right-hand corner. Jacqueline was nowhere in sight.

Panic ripped through him again. “Jacqueline!” Fire singed his clothes and shoes as he searched the bar, the space behind it and beneath the ceiling, which had crashed down in the middle of the room. Embers crackled and shot up, flames bursting toward the front door.

Finally a siren wailed in the distance, then roared closer and screeched to a stop. He heard the firemen shouting as they began to douse the flames, and two ran in, masked and suited.

“You have to get out now, mister!” one of them yelled as he grabbed at Damon's arm.

“A woman was in here!” He yanked his arm free, frantic to find her. Sweat poured down his face, and his hands were scalded from tearing away burning wood and metal.

The firefighter traded a hopeless look, then searched the room as well. But Jacqueline was nowhere to be found.

Maybe she had escaped….

But as he crawled over a bar stool, he spotted her cell phone. A foot away, he saw blood trailing outside by the door and had a bad feeling that she hadn't escaped at all. Dammit. The fire had been a diversion.

The killer had Jacqueline.

* * *

J
ACQUELINE ROUSED FROM
unconsciousness. A ringing echo in her ears triggered nausea and fear. The smell of blood and death filled her nostrils, her vision blurring with remnants of smoke and memories of the explosion at the Duboises' café. Into the confusion popped flashbacks of the fire that had sent her to Pace's hospital—then her mother's harsh words of condemnation—then the memory of her father's sightless eyes—the photos of Kendra faceless, stabbed and mutilated beyond belief. She closed her eyes against the images.

What had happened?

Think, Jacqueline, think. You have the key to this all locked in your head
.

Retrace your last steps
.

She'd been sitting at the bar when the explosion had occurred, then the smoke and flames. She'd screamed and wanted to find Damon, but something had hit her from behind. A piece of falling wood?

She blinked, trying to focus, then move, but her hands were bound behind her, and her legs tied to a chair. Panic zinged through her, and she squinted through the darkness, suddenly zeroing in on the fact that she was not anywhere near the café or Damon now. She was in a rotting room with dingy walls painted in blood.

Bile rose in her throat, and she tried to scream, but her throat was so dry from smoke, that no sound came out. God…where was she? Who had brought her here?

She had to get a grip. Figure out what to do, how to escape. How to find Damon…

“I'm sure you're wondering where you are.” The smoker's voice intensified her fear. It must be the man from the phone.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

“You'll find out, when the rest of our party arrives.” His silhouette flickered in the thin light seeping through the edge of the boarded windows. Then the shiny glint of a knife blade flashed in front of her face. He raised it to her neck and she sucked in a sharp breath. He jabbed the point into her skin, then blood trickled down her chest. In spite of the courage she struggled to hold on to, a cry erupted from her, a shrill and pitiful sound amid the silence.

His vile breath bathed her neck. “A taste of what's to come, sweetheart. Now relax and think about your cousin's face. How pretty it is on you.” A nasty laugh followed, rumbling with menace. “You won't have it for long.”

He made another slice with the knife across her thigh, bringing blood pooling to the surface.

He laughed again. Then he was gone.

* * *

F
RUSTRATION AND PANIC TORE
at Damon. The firemen continued to pour water onto his parents' café, while his parents huddled in each other's arms. His mother cried softly and his father stroked her back, murmuring soothing words of comfort, her Rock of Gibraltar as always. Just as Damon would like to be for Jacqueline.