At Chartres she stopped at her favorite coffeehouse and ordered a café au lait and a praline to go. She’d decided to stay up late and finish the chapter she’d started earlier in the week. She chatted with the clerk for a few minutes while the praline was wrapped and the coffee poured into a paper cup, then took both and left. A right on Royal and then it was just a few blocks to the shop.
She should have felt celebratory as she strode briskly down the cobblestone street, passing by the quaint antiques shops and eclectic mix of restaurants. But not for the first time that evening she felt the weight of an emotion she couldn’t quite identify pressing down on her. An emptiness she hadn’t been able to put her finger on. When the welcoming lights of the shop came into view, she caught herself looking for John’s Mustang, and with some surprise she finally realized the source of her emotion.
She missed John.
She knew it was silly. After all, they barely knew each other. He’d only stayed at the shop a few days. Not because he’d wanted to be with her, but because her father had hired him to find the man who’d been stalking her. It was stupid to make anything more of it.
But somewhere deep inside, Julia acknowledged the fact that she missed seeing him. She missed talking to him. Missed knowing he was there. It wasn’t like her. Independent to a fault, she was not the kind of woman to go off the deep end over a man. She’d always prided herself on being levelheaded and focused. She could count on a couple of fingers the number of men she’d been attracted to.
But she couldn’t deny there had been something powerful at work between her and the brooding ex-cop. Something edgy and uncomfortable and, as much as she didn’t want to admit it, damned exciting.
The image of him kissing her—bringing her to climax—in the storage room the night before came to her unbidden. Even alone and walking a dark street, she felt the heat of embarrassment creep into her cheeks. She’d never done anything so wildly inappropriate in her life. She’d never let a man touch her that way. Never been so swept away that she forgot where she was.
She almost couldn’t believe it had happened. But there was no way she could deny the memory of the intensity of the pleasure he’d given her. Nor could she deny that just the thought of doing it again brought a hot flush to her entire body.
“Oh, for God’s sake get a grip,” she muttered as she dug the keys from her purse and opened the door.
John might be an attractive man. He might appeal to her on so many levels she couldn’t begin to count them. Both of those things were tempered by the knowledge that he was not in a place in his life where he could partake in a healthy relationship. Not that Julia was looking for a relationship. She wasn’t. The shop and her writing kept her hopping seven days a week. She was happily unencumbered. She loved her independence. Loved the freedom of being able to come and go as she pleased. Of not having to answer to anyone but herself. She liked her life the way it was. Liked it too much to change it—or share it with anyone else. At least for the moment.
But when she stepped into the shop, the silence seemed as loud as a blaring horn. She breathed in the lingering scents of sandalwood and coffee like she always did, but the usual pleasure of coming home eluded her. Her celebratory mood dimmed. She didn’t want to admit it, but the place seemed empty. And for the first time in her adult life, Julia felt . . . lonely.
It was a ridiculous notion. She led a busy life filled with good friends and a family she adored. She wasn’t lonely. She didn’t need a man to be happy or fulfilled or satisfied. She was all of those things alone. But she couldn’t deny that for the few short days John had been here, he’d added something special and unexpected to her life.
“Do not go there,” she said aloud, locking the door behind her.
She hit the light switch next to the door, but the overhead lights didn’t come on. “Crap.” Shaking her head, she crossed to the register and set her coffee and purse on the counter. “Damn stupid fuses.”
She walked to her desk and switched on the lamp.
Nothing.
Muttering beneath her breath, she opened the bottom drawer and fumbled around for a fuse, then started toward the storage room at the rear of the shop. She was midway down the aisle when she stumbled over something on the floor. “What the—”
She looked down to see a copy of A Gentleman’s Touch at her feet. “How did you get there?” she said aloud as she stooped to pick it up.
In the dim light slanting in from the front window she could see just enough to discern that the book was not intact. The cover had been ripped. Some of the pages were stuck together with something sticky. She stared down at the book, her mind scrambling for a logical explanation.
But there was nothing logical about finding the damaged book on the floor. The only explanation that came to mind was like the scrape of a cold finger down her back.
Someone had been in the shop.
Alarm zinged through her with the force of an electrical shock. Straightening, she squinted into the semidarkness, her heart bucking hard against her ribs. On the floor ahead she noticed the dark silhouettes of other books that had been torn from the shelves. To her right the coffeemaker lay on the floor, wet grounds scattered about like dirt. The carafe had shattered and the glass glittered like ice. Beyond, she could see that files and papers had been strewn about the floor.
Someone had ransacked the place. But who would do such a thing? What had they been looking for? Had they been after cash?
Slowly, she backed away from the mess. At the end of the aisle, she turned and crossed to her desk. Black dread rose inside her when she spotted the petty cash drawer open, the money inside untouched. Whoever had done this hadn’t come in to steal. They’d broken into her shop to destroy.
Her temper flared at the thought of some mindless goon destroying her property. Her shop. Things that had taken her years of hard work to accumulate. Many of the books she carried were one of a kind. Priceless. Irreplaceable. What gave someone the right to destroy? To take something valuable from the world?
“You son of a bitch.” Putting her hands on her hips, she shook her head and tried not to be frightened.
But the fear was like a fist clutching her gut. She looked down at the book in her hand. Something cold and unsettling went through her when she spotted the slip of paper sticking out from between the pages.
Her hand shook when she slid the paper from its nest.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves.
She read the words twice before their meaning penetrated the veil of denial. It was from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” by Oscar Wilde. A poem about a man who killed the woman he loved . . .
Realization came like a punch. She tried reminding herself the police had caught the stalker. Nicholas Vester was sitting in a jail cell. But if that was the case, who had done this? Had Vester made bail and returned to exact revenge?
For the first time it struck her that the intruder could still be in the shop, watching her, and her blood ran cold. Julia spun and bolted for the front door. She was midway there when the scrape of leather soles against ancient wood planks sounded directly behind her. Alarm ratcheted into terror. She picked up speed. Four strides and she reached the door. Her fist slammed against the bolt lock, clicked it open. Her hand twisted the knob.
The next thing she knew two clawlike hands slammed down on her shoulders. Pain radiated down both arms when he squeezed. She screamed, but the sound was cut short when a smothering hand slapped over her mouth.
“Princess of Darkness,” came a guttural male voice.
Julia tried to get the door open, but he was incredibly strong and yanked her backward so violently she lost her footing. His hand was so tight against her nose and mouth that she couldn’t breathe. She tried to pry his hand from her face, but couldn’t.
“Father, forgive her,” he said in that terrible, whispered voice, “for she knows not what she does.”
Julia clawed at the hand, gouging his flesh with her nails. Gasping,
he jerked his hand away.
“Help me!” she screamed.
The blow came out of nowhere, so hard the impact buckled her knees. Pain exploded the left side of her face. The room spun sickeningly. The next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, the wood planks hard against her cheek. Lifting her head, she blinked, shook her head to clear it. Vaguely, she was aware of the taste of blood in her mouth. Throbbing pain in her left cheekbone.
A lightning burst of adrenaline sent her upright. She caught a glimpse of her attacker above her. Black jacket. Black pants. The Mardi Gras mask gleamed like some macabre demon. She lashed out with her feet, made contact. Heard a grunt. The second blow snapped her head back. The floor rushed up and crashed into her back. Around her the room spun in a slow circle. The light slanting through the window from the street went dark.
The next thing she knew he was on top of her. She tried to twist, writhe out from beneath him. But he was heavy. At some point he had captured her wrists, and he was using something to bind them together. She tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth he stuffed something into it. She tried to bite his fingers, but he withdrew them too quickly.
She raised her head, tried to spit out the gag, but he stopped her with a hard, openhanded slap on the face. “Don’t fight me,” he whispered. “Let me save you.”
Julia fought dizziness that was partly from the blows, partly from the surge of adrenaline. A terrible sense of vulnerability engulfed her when he shoved her hands above her head.
“Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see God,” he whispered.
Julia tried to scream, but the gag muffled her voice and she ended up choking.
“Unto the pure all things are pure.”
The words snapped her back. She was lying on her back. He was sitting on top of her, looking down at her through the eye holes of the hideous mask. All she could think was that she was at the mercy of a madman.
Never taking his eyes from hers, he reached down and jerked her skirt up her thighs. She screamed into the gag. Twisted and kicked, but she could not dislodge him.
“And He said that holy water will reveal Satan’s followers by blistering the skin.”
She lifted her head to see the glint of something in his hand. He lifted the object above her, turned his hand as if to pour. Liquid splashed her throat. Her legs. At first she thought he’d doused her with water. Then she felt the sensation of heat on her skin. A heat that quickly exploded into a burning pain.
Renewed terror engulfed her. Julia twisted and lashed out with her feet. She caught his back with her knee hard enough to knock him off balance. He fell sideways, let go of her hands. She twisted out from beneath him, lashed out with both feet. Her left boot caught him squarely on the shoulder, sent him reeling back.
She scrambled to her knees. Fighting to free her hands, she spat the gag. Screamed as loud as she could. “Help me!”
Before she could get to her feet, his fist slammed into the side of her head. White light exploded behind her lids. The force of the impact knocked her to the floor. Darkness crowded her vision, and for an instant she was terrified she would lose consciousness. She lay still, unable to move, trying to gather her senses. Vaguely, she was aware of the pain in her head. The searing pain of whatever he’d splashed on her.
Rough hands fumbled with her shirt. She heard the sound of fabric ripping. Fighting dizziness, she opened her eyes, tried to focus. The man in the mask was on his knees beside her. He’d ripped open her shirt. He snapped the elastic of her bra. “No!” She raised her bound hands to fight him.
He snarled something unintelligible and slapped her hard in the face. Dazed, Julia fell back, her head snapping against the floor.
Dear God, he’s going to rape me, she thought with a horrifying sense of clarity.
But instead of touching her, he thrust a small vial at her, splashing more of the burning liquid onto her bare abdomen.
“God be merciful to me, a sinner,” he said in a fervent voice.
The burn came instantly and with a ferocity that took her breath. Julia screamed, terrified that he was dousing her with some kind of acid.
“Shut up!” Roughly, he yanked up her skirt.
She caught a glimpse of something in his hand. The glitter of a crucifix covered in gold leaf. Then his fingers were tugging at her panties, tearing the fabric.
Panic clawed at her, a wild animal trapped and fighting for its life. Screaming, she twisted, kicked out with her legs. “Get away from me!”
“Whore!” He caught her around the waist, pulled her back, slammed her against the floor. “Succubus!”
Screaming, Julia went wild, hammering him with her bound hands. She raised her knees, caught him beneath the chin, sent him reeling back. But before she could scramble away, he lunged at her.
A fresh wave of terror descended when she felt the crucifix being rammed against her inner thigh, her groin, her pubis. Oh, dear God, he was trying to put the crucifix inside her.
Outrage and adrenaline sent her bolt upright. She twisted, tried to scramble away. He came after her. Only this time she saw the blow coming and rolled.
Bone crunched when his fist smashed into the floor. His scream came out as a roar. “You bitch!”
Before he could recover, she clasped her bound hands together, formed a double fist and swung as hard as she could. Her fist connected with his left ear. He yelped, raised his hands to protect himself. But his eyes were murderous within the mask.
Knowing he was going to react with extreme violence, Julia leaned back on her elbows and pummeled him with both feet. No time to aim. Just kick. Wherever she could get him. Chest. Shoulder. Throat. Kick. Kick. Kick!
“Bastard!” she choked out, all the while working frantically to free her hands.
An animal sound tore from his mouth when the heel of her boot caught him squarely in the solar plexus. He faltered. She heard the breath whoosh from his lungs. But she didn’t stop kicking. The toe of her boot caught his neck. Making a strangled sound, he clutched his throat. A final kick to the chest sent him reeling back.
She scrambled to her feet and looked around wildly for an escape route. He stood between her and the front door. Between her and escape. Spinning, she used both hands to grab a row of books from the shelf to her right and fling them at him. By the time they hit the floor, she was sprinting down the aisle toward the rear door. Her boots barely touched the floor as she ran down the aisle, past the last shelf. She used the edge of the bookcase to fly around the corner.
“Help me!” she screamed. “Please!”
The twine binding her hands was loose. Working frantically to free them, she glanced over her shoulder. He’d already risen and started down the aisle. The Mardi Gras mask looked macabre in the semidarkness. A monster from hell bent on killing her. Her terror escalated, took her breath, threatened to paralyze her.
She reached the back door. Tried the knob. Locked. Breaths rushing between her clenched teeth, she brought her fist down on the bolt lock. “Help me!”
A heavy hand bit into her shoulder, squeezed.
Spinning, Julia lashed out with both fists. She used her nails, her body weight, her fury to drive him back. He swung at her, his fist coming within an inch of her face, but she lunged backward just in time to avoid being knocked unconscious.
She turned back to the door, twisted the knob. The door flew open. Hope made her giddy as she burst into the alley. No time to think. Just run.
She went left where the narrow courtyard teed. She ran as she had never run before. Every breath was a scream. Every beat of her heart a surge of adrenaline. She heard him behind her. Hard shoes against asphalt. Insane rantings. The whimpering of a predator that had lost its prey and would go hungry one more night.
“Succubus bitch.”
She ran blindly, stumbling over clay pots and past Dumpsters ripe with garbage. She’d taken this route a hundred times in the last two years, but the fear had jumbled her thoughts so badly she couldn
’t remember where the alleyway led. She needed a phone. A public place. Somewhere the monster in the mask would not follow.
When the lights of Bourbon Street came into view, she risked a look behind her. The alley was empty, but Julia didn’t stop running.
TWENTY-THREE
John had just packed the last lure into his tackle box and snapped the lid closed when his phone rang.
A number he didn’t recognize. “Yeah.”
“Is this John Merrick?”
“Who wants to know?”
“This is Doug Lay, the bouncer over at Tequila Joe’s on Bourbon in the Quarter. I got a lady here who’s been roughed up pretty bad. Says her name is Julia. She needs someone to pick her up. Wants to talk to you.”
Julia.
The muscles at the back of his neck went taut at the thought of someone hurting her. “Put her on.”
“John.”
He barely recognized her voice and knew immediately something was terribly wrong. She wasn’t crying or hysterical, but there was a sharp edge to her voice he’d heard before from other crime victims. “What happened?”
“I need you to come get me.”
“Julia, are you hurt?”
“I’m . . . okay.”
He could tell from the sound of her voice that she wasn’t. Worry swept through him. “I’m on my way.” All thoughts of the cabin and a week of fishing forgotten, he dug into his jeans pocket for his keys.
There was rustling on the other end of the line, then the bouncer came back on. “She wants you to come pick her up here at Tequila Joe’s. You know the place?”
But John had already disconnected and run out the door.
It took John four minutes to drive across the Quarter to Tequila Joe’s. He parked illegally in front of the place and hit the ground running. The bar and dance club was packed with pre-Mardi Gras revelers. He strode purposefully to the bar, where a scantily clad woman the size of a tank toweled shot glasses.
“Where’s Doug?” he asked.
Raising a puffy arm, she pointed toward the back. “You can’t go back there, though.”