Don't Say a Word (14 page)

* * *

D
AMON HAD COAXED
C
RYSTAL
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 that 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.

“I don't know how you do this job,” she said softly.

Sometimes he didn't know either. But he'd vowed long ago to fight the bad guys and he had to keep at it.

The soft pressure of her hand against him made him hot. He wanted to turn and take her in his arms, shield her from seeing any more of the vile side that consumed his life.

But she needed more than that from him. She needed answers and so did he. The truth might be the only way to protect her. He'd promised to help her find out more about herself, so he entered the date Pace claimed he'd found her at the hospital and ran a check on automobile accidents that might match the one that had injured her.

She sat down beside him, her gaze intent on the screen, her hands knotted in her lap. Tension stretched between them as they waited for the information. Several reports of accidents during that week appeared, but none involved a woman being burned.

“I don't see anything,” Crystal said in a strained voice.

“Maybe Pace had the dates wrong.” He punched in dates ranging from three months prior to and after the time Pace had given him, and they scanned through each of them, but again no Jane Doe had been found or taken to a hospital as a result of a car explosion.

“Do you think that someone covered up my accident?” she asked.

Damon scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I don't know. It's possible.”

“You said you'd worked with Dr. Pace before. That he performs facial reconstructions and helps witnesses and people in the WITSEC program obtain new identities. Do you think that's what happened to me?”

“I asked my partner at the bureau to check out that angle, but so far I haven't heard anything.”

“Damon, I…had a flash of a memory,” she said quietly.

He pivoted to study her. “What did you remember?”

She bit down on her lip as if afraid to tell him, then exhaled sharply. “I was looking at a car exploding, into the eyes of a dead man.”

His heart rate picked up. He wished he could comfort her. “Crystal…it's all right.”

She stood, shook her head savagely and turned away. “No, you don't understand. I…think it was my fault that the man was dead.” Her voice warbled and when she spun back to face him, tears glittered in her eyes. “What if I killed him? What if I caused the accident and the fire? What if I don't remember because I'm a
murderer?
”

* * *

C
RYSTAL WAS SHAKING
all over. Ever since she'd had the brief flash of memory, her guilt had mounted inside. She knew she was responsible, that she had hurt someone she'd loved, that they were dead because of her.

“Crystal, shh.” Damon gripped her arms. “You are not a murderer,” he said, stroking her arms up and down. “Trust me, I've seen killers, I know how they think, how they act, how they behave. And I've been with you long enough to know that you have never and could never hurt anyone.”

“But I
did
,” Crystal cried. “I saw this man's eyes looking at me with accusations as he died.”

He traced a finger along her jaw, then pressed it over her lips. “You're remembering something completely out of context, maybe even jumbling different memories that may or may not be related.”

A sob caught in her throat. “I'm scared, Damon.”

He pulled her into his arms and held her. “I know,
chère
, but it's going to be all right. I promise.”

She wanted to believe him, wanted him to keep holding her and comforting her, to make her believe that her nightmares weren't real.

“Trust me,” he murmured as he stroked her hair from her cheek.

She lifted her hand to his face and pressed it to his jaw. “I do. I trust you. But what if I'm a killer, or I've done something horrible and I deserve to go to jail?”

“Then I wouldn't feel like this toward you,” he said. “I wouldn't want you so damn much.”

His admission sparked a fire in her belly and she clung to his arms. His brown eyes searched hers, filled with promises, but also with hints of the darkness and pain he'd seen in his job, the criminals he had dealt with. Like the one that had killed the woman whose face she now wore.

A shudder rippled through her, and he hugged her again, their bodies pressed tightly together, heat thrumming through hers, her heart racing.

Then he pulled away abruptly, breathing deeply as if he, too, had too keenly felt the burning need and wanted to act upon it.

She felt instantly bereft as he released her. He shut down his computer, packed it up with his phone, then turned back to her. “Come on, you've been through enough today. I'm taking you home.”

“Home?” If only she knew where that was.

He nodded. “To my house. You'll be safe and can rest there.”

She didn't want rest. And she didn't want safe if it meant he was pulling away from her again. She wanted all the things she couldn't have. More moments in his arms. Him kissing her and holding her all night.

Him naked and making love to her while he whispered her real, unknown name.

* * *

D
AMON FELT OUT OF CONTROL
. Never in his life had he been so driven to protect a woman, to soothe her pain and make love to her. Images of taking Crystal to his bed drove him to press the speed limit as he headed to his house. He imagined stripping off her clothes, unveiling the lush body he knew waited beneath.

In his mind, he felt her mouth beneath his lips, saw her nipples stiffening as he twisted them in his fingers, felt her foot glide up to tease his calf, felt the soft skin of her inner thigh as he parted her legs and slid his fingers into her wetness there, felt her body quiver as he thrust inside her and drove her mad with his cock.

Bon Dieu!
What was wrong with him? He should be focusing on this case. Lust was making him insane.

So insane that he hadn't been paying attention, and a car suddenly darted from the side road, nearly blinding him with his lights. It roared toward him and slammed into the passenger side. Crystal screamed; his car skidded into a tailspin as a shot pierced his front window and cracked the glass.

A
NOTHER SHOT HIT THE
side of the car. Crystal screamed again, and Damon reached out to shield her, pushing her head to her knees. “Holy hell! Get down!”

Damon swerved and tires squealed as he spun the car around and headed away from the shooter, but the car raced up behind him, lights bright. Night had fallen and with it the shadows of the woods along the deserted road. He sped up, but the car rammed into him—metal skimmed along the guardrail, sending sparks flying. Damon grappled for control, but they were hit again and his sedan skidded toward the river.

“Hold on!” he yelled to Crystal.

Another shot pinged off the driver's side, and he fumbled for his gun, praying that he could hold the car on the road and fire in retaliation.

But the car rammed them again, he lost control and the sedan screeched and rolled. The air bags deployed, slamming him back into the seat and jerking his neck so hard he thought it had broken. He couldn't do anything, much less see if Crystal was all right.

Glass shattered; brakes squealed; metal screeched and buckled; and car parts splintered off, flying across the asphalt as they skated into the swampland. Mud and water gurgled and sucked at the car, pulling them under.

Damon dug his knife from his pocket, flipped it open and cut away the air bag. He unfastened his seat belt and ripped at the air bag blocking Crystal. “Crystal?”

Her eyes were closed, her mouth slack. He couldn't tell if she was breathing and terror streaked through him.

“Don't die on me, Crystal,” he pleaded as he patted her cheek. “Please, dear God, don't die.”

She moaned and slowly opened her eyes, although they appeared glassy and disoriented. “Crystal,” he said gruffly. “Are you all right? Can you move your arms and legs?”

A whimper tore from her throat, but she nodded. “I think so.”

Blood trickled down her arm, but he couldn't see the source. “We have to get out of here.”

She nodded, then her eyes widened as a water moccasin slithered across the broken window.

“Damon! It's coming inside…”

“Be still and hold on.” Rage swelled inside him as he jiggled the seat belt, but the damn thing was stuck.

She struggled as well, her breathing ragged as the muddy Mississippi rose and churned around them. The snake slithered across the splintered front window, and she recoiled against Damon.

“Shh, we'll make it,” he said softly as he began sawing away her seat belt.

“I h-hate snakes,” she whispered. “Please, Damon…”

“I've got you.”

With one deft movement, he flipped his wrist and sliced the snake in two, then threw it away from the car toward the embankment.

“Come on.” He used the butt of his gun to push out the front glass pane, which barely clung to the frame. Muddy water and debris seeped in, rising fast. He crawled through it then turned and pulled Crystal through the opening. Shoving at a tree branch, he helped her slog through the murky knee-high grass, weeds and muck-filled water. Somewhere in the distance, a gator slid into the river with a splash; another snake hissed from a tree, his tongue darting in and out as he wound down the limbs overhanging their crossing. Bugs nipped at Damon's face and arms, and he refused to think about what was chewing at his legs beneath the water. Crystal trembled as he dragged her up the embankment to the woods bordering the highway. He searched the dark, but the car had disappeared.

“Who ran us off the road?” Crystal said as she sank onto the grass and began to frantically flail off the grime, bugs and nasty leeches.

Damon kicked them off his boots with a curse.

“Damon?”

“I don't know,” he growled, hating the tiny sound of her voice. “But when I find him, I'm going to kill the motherfucker with my bare hands.”

* * *

T
HE NEXT HOUR RUSHED BY
in a blur. Damon dragged Crystal behind a cluster of trees to hide in case the shooter returned. Amazingly, he'd kept his phone dry, so he called his brother for help. Still furious, he removed his handkerchief and wiped the blood dotting her arm where a shard of glass had pricked it, but she insisted that she was fine and didn't need stitches. She only wanted a shower and a safe place to hide.

It seemed she'd been hiding the last few months. Hiding from others. From herself.

And now from a killer.

Was he after her because of her own past, or because she had Kendra Yates's face? Or maybe the shooter wanted to kill Damon to scare him off the investigation which might save his brother?

Damon kept a vigil watch in case the car that had hit them returned, while Crystal huddled beside him, holding her breath each time a vehicle passed.

Finally a black sedan slowed and pulled to the side of the road, and Damon clutched her hand. “Come on, it's Jean-Paul.”

She nodded and raced toward the vehicle, clinging to Damon. He ushered her inside the backseat, grabbed a blanket from his brother and wrapped it around her before climbing into the front with Jean-Paul.

Minutes later, two more police cars arrived, along with a crime scene unit and tow truck.

“What the hell happened?” Jean-Paul asked.

“Some son of a bitch shot at us and ran me off the road.”

“Did you get a license? Make of the car? Anything?”

Damon shook his head, his face a mask of anger. “No, dammit, he came out of nowhere. Pushed us into the river, then left us for dead.”

Jean-Paul glanced at Crystal over his shoulder. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No,” she said. “Just a place to get cleaned up. And maybe some clothes.”

“Damon?” Jean-Paul asked. “Are you all right, man?”

Emotion hardened Jean-Paul's voice, and her heart clenched. The brothers obviously loved one another dearly. She ached for that kind of love from family.

From anybody.

From Damon.

No, she couldn't allow herself to fantasize or dream about his love when she had no idea if she'd done something to bring this danger on him.

For all she knew, she might be the reason he'd almost been killed.

The realization sobered her and renewed her resolve to uncover her identity. If she were to blame, she'd pay the consequences. She wouldn't allow this strong, wonderful man or his family to be hurt because of her.

* * *

D
AMON GLANCED BACK
at Crystal to make sure she was okay, his heart clenching at the fear still darkening her pale green eyes. Anger at the person who'd nearly killed them surged through him again, and he balled his hands into knots.

“Stay here, Crystal. I have to talk to the police.”

She nodded while he and Jean-Paul got out, then he explained to Jean-Paul's partner, Carson, and the other officers what had happened.

“I want the car impounded,” Jean-Paul said. “And we need that bullet casing.”

“I'll make sure it gets to forensics myself,” Carson assured him.

For a moment, Damon wondered if he should trust Carson, but, remembering that his brother trusted him put him at ease.

The crime-scene unit began to photograph the highway, skid marks and place where Damon's vehicle had slid into the river, while the tow truck team hooked up equipment to extricate his car from the swamp.

Jean-Paul conferred with his partner again, then offered to drive Damon and Crystal home. Crystal remained quiet, huddled inside the blanket as they drove along the deserted bayou road, and Damon kept scanning the highway in the wild hope he'd see the shooter return.

“I questioned that teller, Damon,” Jean-Paul said. “She didn't want to talk, but I pushed her, and she admitted that she'd set up the phony account with Antwaun's name on it. She claims she was being blackmailed.”

“By who?” Damon asked.

“She doesn't know. Says she got an anonymous call saying her father was embezzling from his construction company and that the police were about to come down on him, but this guy could make it go away if she did him this one favor.”

“Can you trace the person who called her?”

“I'm working on it now.”

Damon brushed at wet leaves clinging to his shirt. “If you need help from my guys, just let me know.”

“Thanks. Maybe forensics will turn up something,” Jean-Paul said.

He wove down the long clamshelled drive to Damon's house and parked. “I'll ask Britta to put together some clothes and things for Crystal,” Jean-Paul said.

“Thanks, man.” Damon climbed out, then opened the door and extended his hand to help Crystal. She clutched the blanket around her shoulders and their gazes locked, a moment of tension traveling between them that nearly sucked the air from his lungs. His adrenaline was churning, making him want a physical release by pounding somebody.

The look she gave him screamed with the same need.

Jean-Paul cleared his throat. “I'll drop that bag off in the morning.”

“Good.” Damon jerked his gaze back to his brother to find a half smile splitting his face. What was he grinning about? Had he guessed Damon's thoughts?

Probably. Hell, he hadn't exactly been subtle.

“I'll have some new wheels sent over in the morning, too,” Jean-Paul said.

That reminded Damon to ask him to get Crystal a new cell phone, too. Then, he hugged his brother and led Crystal into his house. Darkness bathed the interior, the night sounds of the swamp playing their symphony in the background accompanied by the soft lull of the Mississippi lapping against the bank. He left the curtains closed and simply flipped on a lamp as they entered the mudroom. He kicked off his boots, and she did the same with her sandals.

“I'll show you to the guest room so you can shower,” he said, while his hands itched to touch her.

“Thank you, Damon.”

He nodded, although she might not thank him if she knew the dangerous train of thought racing through his head. Still, while she showered, he'd be fantasizing about her naked body and washing her off himself.

* * *

C
RYSTAL SENSED A DEEP
anger radiating from Damon, but the strong chemistry between them overrode any questions in her mind. She wanted to be with him tonight, wanted him to hold her and kiss her and make her forget that a killer had just tried to take their lives.

He showed her up the spiral hardwood staircase to a guest room furnished with a Jenny Lind–style bed draped in an old-fashioned white chenille bedspread; it looked like something his mother must have given him. She wondered what his room was like and pictured it in masculine shades of deep reds and blues or greens. And the room would smell of him, all masculine energy and strength, power and control. Sex appeal and utter desire.

Her body quivered with need as she closed the bathroom door behind her and turned on the shower water.

Soft fluffy towels of yellow and green were draped over pewter rods, and a plush white terry cloth bathrobe hung from a hook on the door. Probably also compliments of his mother or sisters.

Or maybe Damon had a lover or girlfriend?

The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Then again, if he did, he'd certainly made no mention or effort to call her.

No, the man was a loner. Obsessed with his job.

Which she had to remember. Once he helped her discover her identity, he'd leave her and go on with his life. And she'd be…where? Alone again?

Maybe in jail if the guilt weighing on her proved to be correct.

The hot water sluicing over her bare skin felt heavenly, and she closed her eyes, imagined Damon stepping inside, his strong, blunt fingers tracing a path of fire along her body where the hot water now pulsed. Her nipples beaded and a pool of moisture welled between her thighs. She almost gave into temptation, rolled her hips and let the water do the rest, but the satisfaction of an arousal being quenched so quickly was not what she wanted. It would make her feel even emptier.

She wanted Damon Dubois's hands and mouth on her. Wanted to feel him inside her making her whole again.

Tortured by the fantasies and driven by the need to see him again, she quickly scrubbed the grime from her body, banishing the memory of the bugs and leeches that had assaulted her earlier as the bubbles beaded on her skin. She shampooed her hair and conditioned it, wondering if Damon had chosen the sweet scent himself. Maybe with a woman in mind.

A thrill shot through her, and she rinsed off, dried her body and pulled on the robe. After towel-drying her hair, she left it loose around her shoulders, then found a pair of white bedroom slippers still inside a package beside the bed and put them on.

When she opened the door, the sultry sound of a saxophone echoed from below. The music was so beautiful that at first she thought it was a CD, but as she descended the stairs, she spotted Damon on the balcony through the French doors that stood open letting in the night air. Moonlight spilled across his handsome features, and his thick dark hair was still damp. So was his bare chest. Her mouth literally watered at the sight. Then her gaze dipped lower to the waistband of his jeans where they hung low on his lean hips, jeans that showcased muscular thighs and a washboard stomach that stirred heat in her belly.