Don't Say a Word (19 page)

Shadows from the swamp rose in the mist, hovering and moving like ghosts through the night, searching for lost souls and innocents, the war between good and evil, a battle that would never end. Someone was out there. The same person who had come for the woman.

He wanted
Esmeralda
now.

But he didn't understand the power of the cats.

Midnight suddenly darted off the porch and ran into the woods. He had zoned in on the predator and would keep her safe tonight.

She bent low to pet Gorgon. “You must go to Dubois house, call for the others, guard him and the woman.”

Gorgon meowed, licked her palm in understanding, then leaped from the porch to do as she bid. She heard a scream erupt in the swamp and knew that Midnight had found the evil one and sunk his claws into the man's flesh.

* * *

H
E BELLOWED IN PAIN
at the cat's attack, furious that the vile creature had caught him off guard. He was a trained sniper, able to get in and out of situations and places that no normal man could, yet the black thing had sneaked up on him, then leaped at his chest like a fucking panther.

Dammit. He beat at the cat, prying its sharp claws and teeth from his chest and arms, plucked it away and tossed it toward a tree. The cat's head snapped backward and a bloodcurdling screech rent the air, but it landed on all fours, green eyes glittering as if it were the devil's own. A vulture soared above, and gators hissed behind him, his feet marring into the quicksand soil as he slowly stepped backward. He had to find a way out.

Reaching inside his pocket, he removed a pack of matches he'd picked up at a strip club on Bourbon Street, struck a few matches and tossed them into the dry grass. They landed at the edge of the woods, between him and the cat. The brittle blades caught immediately, flames catching the twigs and moss, spreading. The cat crept backward, hair on end, and he took advantage and escaped.

Blood trickled down his chest, dotting his shirt, and he wiped his sticky hands on his jeans as he climbed in his Jeep. Rage exploded inside him as he stared at the old woman's shanty through the fog. Lex had babbled that his grandmother was a witch, and he was beginning to believe it. What if the cat's claws were treated with some kind of poison?

His hands ached, and the wounds on his chest stung like fire. Still, the sight of blood, even his own, stirred his hunger for more.

For a woman's—the one with Dubois. He could cut her up just as he had Kendra.

Suddenly thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning pierced the dark sky, sending rain pouring to drown out the fire he had set, as if God or magic indeed guarded the witch.

Leave no witnesses behind
.

Fury raged inside him at his failed mission.

Failure was not tolerated. Just as Dubois leaving the E-team couldn't be.

Time to escalate his plan. Send another photo to the Dubois family. The one Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Dubois would recognize.

The one that would tear the happy little family apart forever.

J
ACQUELINE COULD BARELY
look at Damon as they drove to the rest home housing her mother. Questions about her past involvement with Diego and Kendra's death nagged at her, along with guilt and grief as she remembered her father's funeral. Her mother had been despondent then, had pushed her away….

Was her father's death related to Kendra's, and to the fact that she'd ended up in a hospital herself? Was it all connected to Diego? Were both their deaths her fault?

“Do you know where Diego is now?” she asked.

Damon cleared his throat. “He's dead.”

“You're sure?”

Damon nodded, a grim look in his eyes.

“How did he die?”

He shifted, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “I can't really discuss it,” he said. “All you need to know is that he's gone and can't hurt you, not ever again.”

She wondered at his secrecy. “Then it's not him, but someone else who wants to kill me,” she said quietly.

Damon's dark gaze locked with hers. “I won't let that happen.”

His quiet authoritarian voice soothed her anxiety, slightly, and she studied the storm clouds outside, noting the gray and black shadows streaking the deserted road, the fingerlike claws of the Spanish moss as it waved in the wind. Any minute she expected ghosts to rise from the ground and shimmy through the bayou searching for their lost souls, or perhaps their salvation.

Lex…Esmeralda said he was gone. Had Jacqueline really seen a spirit caught in limbo?

How about Kendra? Was she hovering in between worlds, faceless and horrified at her fate, waiting for justice?

More images from her past returned in small snippets—she and her cousin jumping rope in the backyard. A birthday party with pony rides and squirt-gun battles. The two of them spying on the boys down the street when they were eleven. Kendra telling her that she was in love for the first time when she was twelve.

And then again…just before she died.

Jacqueline gripped the door handle and glanced at Damon. Kendra had been in love with Antwaun. And now he was accused of killing her….

But it was becoming pretty clear he was innocent; Kendra wouldn't want him to go to jail. Jacqueline touched her face—her cousin's skin—and shivered. She had to be strong and help Damon. She owed Kendra that and so much more, even if she was still disconnected from her old life.

Damon pulled up to a black iron gate with a security stand, spoke to the guard to gain entrance, then they wound down a long secluded drive lined by towering trees. He parked in a guest spot beneath a covered entrance. The stately white building resembled a hotel more than her image of a mental facility, the professional landscaping highlighting dozens of flower beds, a garden area to the side and acres of plush green grass with cobblestone pathways for the residents to stroll. Grateful her mother hadn't been confined to a shabby nursing home and mistreated, she climbed out and walked to the entrance.

A few minutes later, the director of the facility, a stout woman named Geneva Curtis, met them in her office.

“Miss Braudaway, I wondered if you were going to visit.”

“I would have come much sooner, but I had an accident and have been hospitalized for months,” she explained, feeling chastised by the woman's remark.

The woman jerked her head backward. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

“How is my mother?”

Miss Curtis smiled sadly. “She has good days and bad, but her depression continues to plague her. It's almost as if she's grieving her life away.”

“Can I see her now? Please.”

“Certainly.” She and Damon followed the woman to a suite, but the director hesitated at the doorway. “If she becomes agitated though, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

Jacqueline nodded, then braced herself. She hoped her mother would recognize her and be happy to see her.

But the harshness of her mother's cry at the funeral taunted her, and told her that she wouldn't.

* * *

D
AMON WATCHED
J
ACQUELINE AS
she approached her mother, hoping to glean some new information from their interaction.

Her mother sat in a wicker rocking chair beside the window, dressed in white slacks and a pale blue blouse, her look glassy, as if she was in a catatonic state or heavily medicated. He'd never met the woman but had seen photos of her and the ambassador. Her once blond hair had tinges of gray in it now, and she had lost weight over the past year, along with any semblance of a smile.

The room smelled like lavender and was simply decorated with a burgundy sofa, coffee table, television and the rocking chair. Magazines about home decorating and antiques were stacked neatly on the table, and several photos of the woman and her husband lined the built-in bookshelf against the wall. Only one photo captured the entire family. Odd.

His own mother had countless pictures of him and his siblings on the walls, tables and bookcases.

“Mom?” Jacqueline's tentative voice jerked him from his thoughts.

A frown marred Mrs. Braudaway's forehead as she glanced at her daughter. “Who are you?”

Jacqueline stooped down to take her mother's hands in her own. “It's me, Mom. Jacqueline.”

Shock and anger tightened the woman's mouth. “You aren't my daughter. I'm not blind. I can see, young lady.”

Jacqueline winced and bit down on her lower lip. “It is me, Mom. I had a terrible accident, and was burned badly. I had to have plastic surgery.”

Her mother reached up and tilted Jacqueline's face sideways. “No. You're Kendra.”

“No, Mom—”

“Yes, you are. Why are you lying to me now?” Her mother stood abruptly, letting the afghan in her lap fall to the floor as she gripped the rocking chair arms. “What do you want?”

Jacqueline glanced at Damon, her eyes misting, then turned back to her mother. “I'm not lying. I had surgery and was in the hospital for months. I would have come to see you sooner if I had been able to.”

“Where's Jacqueline?” Mrs. Braudaway cried in an agitated voice. “What have you done with her?”

“Listen to me, Mother. I am Jacqueline.”

“She ran off with that awful man, didn't she?” Her mother's eyes darted toward him, fear sparking in the glassy depths. “You told me about him, Kendra.”

“Mrs. Braudaway.” Damon stepped forward and reached inside his jacket for his identification.

Jacqueline's mother panicked and shouted, “He's got a gun! Don't kill me, please don't!”

Jacqueline ached for a hug, to calm her mother, to know that she still loved her. “Mother, please, it's okay. He's with the FBI.”

A nurse appeared at the door with a scowl. “What's going on in here?”

Mrs. Braudaway twisted the ends of her hair nervously. “He's got a gun.”

Damon held up his hands to indicate he posed no threat. “Yes, I do. But I'm a federal agent. I'm going to show her my identification. My name is Special Agent Damon Dubois.”

Jacqueline stroked her mother's arm. “He's helping me figure out what happened to me, Mother, and who killed Kendra.”

“Kendra?” her mother screeched. “Oh, God, where is she?”

Jacqueline gave Damon a helpless look, and he flashed his badge. “Mrs. Braudaway, this is your daughter, Jacqueline. I'm afraid Kendra is dead. I'm investigating her murder.”

“Murder?” Mrs. Braudaway clapped her hands over her heart and staggered back. “Oh, God, no! Murdered just like Eduardo.”

“Mom,” Jacqueline said softly, “I need to know what happened.”

She turned toward Jacqueline, eyes flaring with emotions. “You know what happened. You killed your father.”

* * *

J
ACQUELINE'S HEART CLENCHED
in pain.

She closed her eyes, fighting waves of anguish and guilt, trying desperately to see the past, but images blurred and ran together.

“Mrs. Braudaway, that's not true,” Damon said.

Dizzy, Jacqueline staggered to the sofa and collapsed onto it, then leaned her elbows on her knees and dropped her face into her splayed hands. She couldn't breathe, although somehow it registered in her muddled mind that Damon was defending her. But why? How did he know she was innocent when she couldn't remember herself?

“Maybe you folks should leave,” the nurse suggested, still hovering at the door like an armed guard.

Damon held up a warning hand. “Just give us a few minutes. Please. Jacqueline needs to talk to her mother. This is important.”

The nurse eyed him skeptically, then gave Jacqueline a more sympathetic look. “All right, but if you upset her again, you two have to leave.”

She left with a hefty sigh, and Jacqueline remembered her resolve to find Kendra's killer, and gathered her breath. “Mother, I…The accident caused me to have amnesia. All I remember is seeing Dad's car exploding. Then Kendra came to me at the funeral and told me that I knew the killer.” She gulped back emotions that threatened to destroy her.

Tears filled her mother's eyes and she sank back into the rocking chair, looking lost. Damon moved forward, knelt and replaced the afghan over her lap. “Please, Mrs. Braudaway. I understand this is difficult. But Jacqueline needs you now. She needs to know what happened to her father. She might be in danger, too.”

Jacqueline gave him a silent look of thanks, stunned at his quiet empathy. But her mother stiffened her back and turned to her, a fierce anger in her expression. “I tried to tell you, Jacqueline, not to get involved with that man. Diego Bolton. He was using you to get to your father.”

“What made you think that?” Damon asked.

“Eduardo's security team, they had information suggesting Diego was involved with illegal matters, that he was dangerous.” She pointed an accusing finger at Jacqueline. “I told you, but you wouldn't listen. And when your father tried to send you away, you two argued so fiercely he feared he'd lose you if he pressed further.”

Jacqueline winced, but Damon forged on. “Where did Jacqueline and Diego Bolton meet?”

“At a charity function. Jacqueline…she liked to work with her father. She and Kendra…they always wanted to grow up and travel, and Kendra wanted to be a journalist, and Jacqueline said she wanted to produce photo essays.” Mrs. Braudaway knotted the edges of the afghan in her hands again. “Later Jacqueline decided to teach English in Mexico, but she continued her photo essays. She was obsessed with the children and portraying their needs.”

“I do like children,” Jacqueline said, a slide show of several shots of the starving kids in Africa playing through her mind. “Like Father, I was interested in social issues. I photographed the hungry kids, the ones in need of medication, the poor conditions.” Diego had told her he'd admired her work. That he had contacts to help her raise money.

But he hadn't been what he'd seemed….

“You organized several charity events with your shows, and those photos raked in thousands to raise awareness,” Mrs. Braudaway added, softening.

“That's where Diego met Jacqueline,” Damon filled in. “At one of those charity functions. He posed as an entrepreneur?”

“Yes, he was charming. Generous. At least he appeared to be.” Tears glittered in Mrs. Braudaway's eyes, and she directed her comments to Damon as if Jacqueline were invisible. “If only Jacqueline had listened. Such a smart girl with such a good heart. Yet she was always a fool with men. Always choosing the bad boys, the losers.” Her brittle tone cut Jacqueline to the bone.

“And this time, her father died because of it. For that, I can never forgive her.”

* * *

D
AMON BIT BACK A CAUSTIC
remark at Mrs. Braudaway's callous condemnation of her daughter. The finality of her unforgiving statement disturbed him, but the raw pain etched on Jacqueline's face bothered him more.

“Mother…I'm sorry. So sorry,” Jacqueline whispered. “I wish I could bring Dad back…”

“I'm tired now, please leave.” Mrs. Braudaway turned toward the window and stared outside, the glassy, distant look returning to her eyes.

Damon placed a hand along Jacqueline's waist as she stood. He felt the fine tremors in her body and ached to assuage her pain, though only her mother could do that. But she'd cloaked herself in bitterness and grief, and exiled her own child.

Damon thought of his parents and how much they loved each of their children, how they'd never abandon one of their own, how they were sticking by Antwaun now.

But if they knew what Damon had done in the past, what he'd been through, would they still stand beside him? Or would he see the same type of pain and disappointment in their eyes that he saw in Mrs. Braudaway's?

Sweat beaded on his neck as he led Jacqueline outside to the car. She sank into the leather seat, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. A tear seeped down her cheek, and he itched to reach out and wipe it away, but his cell phone rang.