Say You Love Me (31 page)

Reverend Cortain stood in the doorway, a black and gold cape billowing around him. Images of Brother Tatum flashed before Britta's eyes. His haunting voice had chilled her to the bone. And when she'd realized that he intended to sacrifice her in a medieval ritual, she'd been terrified.

Cortain greeted them with a smirk on his face. “What can I do for you?”

Jean-Paul introduced his brother and Damon spoke up. “We need to talk to you about your brother-in-law's death.”

“Really?” Reverend Cortain's gaze pierced Britta. “So you're finally going to confess and ask forgiveness for your sins?”

Britta bit her lip, but Jean-Paul grabbed the reverend's arm. “Cut the bull, Cortain. You feel guilty for those suicides? Did you push your brother-in-law to kill himself first, or did you kill him so you could take over his clan and gain his power?”

Reverend Cortain's gray eyebrows furrowed. “Me?” A nasty chuckle reverberated through the air. “You've got your facts wrong, Detective.”

Britta's heart clenched as Cortain leered down at her.

“Your girlfriend here, she was the who murdered my brother-in-law. If you don't believe me, ask her yourself.”

* * *

H
E SMILED AS HE STUDIED
the woman.

She was terrified. Trembling. All tied up and waiting for him to begin. Mardi Gras had finally come.

But this woman was not his type.

No, it was time to take Britta.

And he had the perfect plan. The way to hurt Dubois for interfering. For turning his Adrianna into the whore she should have been for him.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. All these years and Britta had remained uninvolved. Had kept her identity a secret. The truth about who she was a lie.

But hell was about to break loose for her. And they would meet again.

He unpocketed his phone and clicked the detective's number. Wished he could be a fly on the wall to see the man's face when Dubois learned who he had kidnapped.

But at least he'd get to hear the pain in Dubois's voice when the detective learned that his sister's life lay in his hands.

And that if he wanted her back, he had to sacrifice Britta.

C
ORTAIN'S ADMISSION HAD
thrust Britta back in time.

It was D-Day—the day Adrianna Small had died.

The day the thirteen-year-old had killed a man so Britta could survive.

Britta had relived that day so many times, but hearing Reverend Cortain accuse her in such a cold way resurrected her guilt full force. She could see the blood spurting from the man's chest….

You're a bad girl, Britta.

Yes, she was. She was a murderer.

She'd never be able to escape that truth, no matter how far she'd run. No matter how many other girls she saved.

“Britta?”

Jean-Paul's gruff voice made her head jerk up. She heard the shock in his steely tone and knew that she had waited too long to confide in him.

“Tell him,” Reverend Cortain bellowed. “It's about time you owned up to what you did, young lady.”

The rain intensified, pounding the wooden porch rails. Droplets stung her cheeks as she angled her face toward Jean-Paul.

“What is he talking about?” Jean-Paul asked.

“I told you I found something,” Damon said.

“You killed Reverend Tatum, didn't you, Miss Berger?”

Jean-Paul's eyes flashed with pain. Britta started to reach for his arm to steady her shaking legs, but he stiffened. “Britta?”

“It's true,” she admitted in a low voice. “Reverend Tatum wanted me to marry his son.” Her voice grew stronger. “He also intended to sacrifice me that day. I heard the other women in the cult whispering about the rituals. The fire. The chants.
The covens.
They were alive in the group and believed in black magic. And they were terrified of the gators.”

“So they sacrificed young girls to them?” Jean-Paul asked in an incredulous voice.

“It was the ancient beliefs,” Reverend Cortain interjected. “My brother-in-law was old-school. He thought that getting rid of sin today required taking religion—values—back to the basic beliefs of our forefathers.”

Jean-Paul's eyes looked stormy in the predawn light. Damon's condemning look twisted her insides. Behind them, the wind whistled through the tupelos and a gator hissed its attack call. Britta remembered Jean-Paul's face filled with passion for her, then watched his feelings die as he saw her in a new light.

Just as the photographer had said, she had darkness, evil beneath the beauty. Ugliness in her soul. And now it was exposed.

“I tried to pull away from Reverend Tatum,” Britta admitted. “But he grabbed me and was going to force me to go through with the rituals. So I panicked. I…” She hesitated, mentally replaying the scene. “I grabbed the shotgun and aimed it at him. I was shaking so hard. And he lunged at me and the gun went off. I…shot him.” Her voice broke. “Blood was everywhere. People were screaming. I…threw the gun toward the fire and then ran.”

Jean-Paul's gaze remained steadfast on her face, his body stiff and rigid, his jaw a tight mask, his eyes glittering with rage.

“We searched the bayou all night for you,” Reverend Cortain said. “We decided that the gators ate you and we were glad.”

Jean-Paul jerked his head toward Cortain. “So you've hated her all these years. Now you're punishing her by killing innocent women, by continuing the sacrificial practices of your brother-in-law?”

“No.” Cortain leaned against the doorjamb. He looked old and tired. “I'm trying to atone for my own sins. After my brother-in-law died, the cult fell apart. People were lost without their leader. There was dissension. Some of the women spoke out about the marriages, protested men having more than one wife.”

“And you suggested the suicide pact?” Damon asked.

Cortain nodded. “I was a young man, an idealist myself.”

“But when it came time to take the poison, you were afraid to die,” Damon added.

“So you watched the others?” Disgust laced Jean-Paul's voice.

Cortain nodded, and stared at his feet. For the first time since she'd met the reverend, real pain and grief twisted his face.

“I still hear the women and children's cries at night. The ghosts of the dead haunt me. The men who gave up their lives…I had to do something to make amends.”

“So you became a preacher?” Britta asked.

He nodded and swiped at his tears with a handkerchief. “I swore I'd do everything I could to spread the word and fight evil.”

“So you tried to stop us from publishing
Naked Desires?
” Britta asked.

“Yes.” Cortain sighed. “But I'm not a serial killer.”

“Did you set fire to the building that housed the magazine?” Jean-Paul asked.

He shook his head. “No. But there are some in the congregation who blame Miss Berger and the magazine for corrupting the town.”

Jean-Paul grabbed Cortain's collar. “Because you planted the idea in their heads. I want names.”

Cortain nodded, his look haggard. “You know them, Detective, but you can't really blame them. They're the mothers of the swamp devil's victims.”

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL WAS CONFUSED
. He'd thought Debra Schmale had attacked Britta and set the fire. But what if the mothers had started the fire?

Damon was scrutinizing him, too. His brother had known about Britta. And he had looked like a fool in front of Damon.

God, how had he let himself lose perspective? He'd slept with her. Had listened to her explanation with compassion.

Yet she still hadn't trusted him with the entire truth.

No, his brother and a murder suspect had delivered that blow. They should take his badge for this.

Still…her horror story turned him inside out. As much as he'd seen on the streets, the idea of a cult actually sacrificing a young girl to save themselves, in the name of religion, was even more vile than he'd imagined.

And how had Britta survived after she'd run away? Where had her mother been when the group was about to murder her daughter?

And now…geesh. He had to bring the mothers of the victims in for questioning. They'd already been through hell.

But if they'd set that fire, no matter their justifications, they had almost killed Britta.

She wasn't the bad guy here—she had been a victim.

“Jean-Paul?”

“I'm going to have the Erickson woman and Ginger Holliday's mother picked up for questioning.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” Britta murmured.

Jean-Paul's phone rang, slicing into the tension. Cortain's head was bowed. He didn't look godly now, only worn and demented.

Jean-Paul checked the number. His sister Stephanie. His pulse hammered in his throat as he connected the call.

“Jean-Paul…”

“What's wrong?”

“It's Catherine,” she said in a ragged whisper. “She never made it home last night. Shawn and Chrissy are here and they're both frantic.”

Sweat exploded on Jean-Paul's forehead.
God no,
his sister had to be okay. Yet on the heels of his denial, reality whispered.

Another woman had been taken….

Pure panic ballooned in his chest, robbing his air. He leaned against the porch rail for a moment, his head spinning. No…not Catherine. Not his baby sister.

The swamp devil couldn't have kidnapped her.

“Jean-Paul, what's wrong?” Damon asked.

His brother's voice dragged him from his shock. Stephanie was calling his name on the other end of the line.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“At Mom and Dad's.” Her voice broke, laden with tears. “I've had a bad feeling for days, Jean-Paul. A premonition that something would happen to tear apart our family. But this…God, not this.”

Stephanie and her
feelings.
He wanted to pretend they didn't mean anything but she'd been right before.

“Damon's with me,” Jean-Paul choked out. “I'll call Antwaun and we'll meet you at home.”

He disconnected the call and turned to his brother. “Catherine's missing. We have to go.”

Damon blanched white and cursed. Britta reached for his arm to soothe him, but he stiffened and refused her touch.

Jean-Paul glared at Cortain. As much as he wanted to vent his frustration on the man, he didn't think Cortain was the killer.

“Where is your nephew, Reverend Tatum's son?” Jean-Paul asked.

Cortain's eyebrows furrowed. “I don't know.”

Jean-Paul gripped the man by the collar. He'd choke the answer out of him if he had to. “Tell me the truth, Cortain. If he hurts my sister, I'll hold you personally responsible.”

Cortain's eyes bulged. “I…really don't know,” he rasped. “I haven't seen the boy in years. Not since a few days after my brother-in-law died.”

“What happened to him?” Jean-Paul asked.

Cortain sucked in a sharp breath. “He was punished by the clan. Some of them…they thought he had warned the girl about the sacrificial ceremony, so they forced him to take the trial by ordeal.”

“What the hell is that?” Damon barked.

“It's another ancient custom. They sent him into the bayou, he was forced to cross the river. The gators attacked him, meaning he didn't pass. But he didn't die, so they banned him from the clan.”

And turned him into a killer, Jean-Paul thought. And he'd come back to exact revenge on Britta.

And now him—through Catherine, his baby sister.

Lucinda's accusations echoed from the grave.
Your work puts us all in danger.

And so had his personal involvement with Britta.

His mind swirled for answers. Who was the swamp devil? If not Justice or Cortain, then who? Keith was still in custody. Randy Swain maybe? Perhaps that guy Teddy. Debra Schmale had met with him right before she'd turned up dead.

Britta had seen him almost daily. Catherine and Chrissy had bought dolls from him, as well. He could easily have approached her without her suspecting a thing.

Bile rose in his throat. The images of the other dead women floated before him in a foggy haze of horror. No, he couldn't let the man do that to Catherine.

* * *

T
HE DAY DRAGGED BY
, the waiting excruciating. Britta moved through each painful hour on autopilot.

Jean-Paul's sister was missing. Police were combing the bayou. The dollmaker Teddy hadn't been found. And Catherine might be hurting or worse.

It was all Britta's fault.

Damon's accusing eyes sought hers in the dawning light. She wanted to plead with him for understanding, assure him and Jean-Paul that she hadn't meant to hurt them. But the apologies lay lodged in her throat, along with the tears she refused to cry. Terror for Catherine had completely immobilized her.

On the other hand, Jean-Paul and Damon had both taken charge. They rushed into their parents' with Antwaun on their heels. Stephanie was calming their mother. Jean-Paul's father paced the den, looking shaken and in shock. Shawn had put their daughter to bed and promised to wake her when her mother arrived home. He hadn't revealed how worried they all were, but his face was ashen and he obviously hadn't slept all night.

Jean-Paul phoned the precinct, filed a missing persons report on Catherine and had an APB issued for Teddy. He and Damon had also consulted with forensics and the police in Savannah and Nashville and he'd called Mazie Burgess.

Ironic. They'd avoided the press for the past few days. Now they were begging for their help. Within minutes, the camera crew arrived.

Mazie stroked Jean-Paul's arm, leaning toward him in an intimate gesture that made Britta's stomach clench. Mazie was attractive, businesslike, Jean-Paul's equal. They would make a good match. She would fit into his family.

A place where it was more obvious by the minute that she didn't belong.

“Tell me everything, Jean-Paul,” Mazie said. “I understand that the killer has been contacting Miss Berger?”

Jean-Paul's dark tormented eyes found hers. “Yes. Apparently they met when she was a child. But she hasn't seen him in years and doesn't know what he looks like now.” He showed her the sketch of Teddy to run on the air, then explained about the cult, Reverend Cortain and the suicide pact.

“We think his nephew, the son of the preacher back then, may be the killer. It's possible he's this guy Teddy, but we can't be sure. I spoke with forensics again. They found traces of acrylic paint and pancake makeup at the second crime scene, underneath Ginger Holliday's fingernails, and at the scenes in Savannah.”

“So he might be a makeup artist by day?” Mazie asked.