Rita Herron - Don't Say a Word

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To all the soldiers fighting for our country

and our freedom—you are the real heroes!

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

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.

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.