Don't Say a Word
A scream tore from her throat as the outer skin of her new forehead begin to peel away. One by one like the layers of an onion, the layers slid down her cheek, cracking and breaking into a thousand black pieces that scattered over the white bedsheet like charred ashes of a fire. The muscle of the right side of her face drooped, causing her lip to sag downward, and the bones in her face shifted, cracked and turned jagged, splinters of bone jutting out as if toothpicks had been jammed into her cheeks. Her right eye settled over the place where her cheekbone lay, while the left one inched upward, the eye milky-white.
Nausea gripped her stomach as her eye sockets curled, and her eyelids fell away. Her eyebrows disappeared into the folds of dead skin on the bed, and she felt her lips swelling, then bursting open. Blood dripped down her chin and trickled into a red river, the scarlet droplets splashing against her scarred breastbone.
No…
Her sob wrenched the air, and she balled her hand into a fist and slammed it into the mirror. Glass shattered and slivers pelted her, yet she hit the glass again and again. Blood cascaded down her wrist and fingers, and she picked up a fragment of jagged glass and held it to her wrist. Slice the main artery and she could end the pain and suffering. Never have to face the monster again.
It was so tempting.
She lifted the shard, jammed the point to the curve of her wrist, but suddenly a scream ripped through the air.
No…Don’t die. Please don’t die.
She whipped her head around. Was someone there? Calling to her? Someone who wanted her to live? Someone who cared…
Maybe a family, a man, husband, lover, child who wanted her.
And more children…the ones who needed her.
SHE JERKED AWAKE, HER breathing heavy and labored, her body sweating as she twisted and clenched the sheets. Memories of the nightmare and the past few months crashed like a tidal wave through her mind. The agony of the burn marks that had scalded the layers of skin and turned her face into a monster. The baths she’d been forced to endure had helped, but even then, mind-numbing pain had thrummed through her every cell. Endless surgeries and bandages to repair her disfigurement had added to the agony.
And now…
She lifted her hand to the bandages and felt them still covering her face.
“It’s all right, Crystal.”
Lex. His low voice soothed her in the darkness.
He pressed his scaly hand over hers, then brought their joined hands down to his chest. She felt the strong beating of his heart, and knew he’d heard her cries from his room.
Or had he already slipped in to watch her sleep like a ghost in the night, as he did sometimes?
At first that realization had frightened her. But he’d assured her he’d only come to protect her while she slept. To chase away the demons taunting her.
And she’d felt a small measure of relief that she hadn’t been totally alone.
“You’re nervous about having your bandages removed tomorrow?” he asked quietly.
She nodded as a tear escaped and shimmied down her cheek to dampen her bandage. “What if…”
“Shh, go back to sleep now.” He stroked her hand with his thumb, gentle, comforting. “I will care for you and watch over you no matter how you look.”
Blessed words to hear. Yet she didn’t want to have to remain in the shadows. Or frighten the children who needed her.
That voice that had called her back from the nightmare echoed in her head. The sense that there was someone out there who loved her, who wanted her to fight for her survival, a reason why her sanity had kept her alive all these months. She wouldn’t give up that hope now.
She closed her eyes, and tried to doze back to sleep. Tomorrow her face would be unveiled.
She prayed she would recognize the image in the mirror, that it wouldn’t resemble the creature she’d seen in her dreams.
DAMON STEERED THE federal-issued sedan down the drive to his parents’ house and parked. Both he and Jean-Paul took a long breath, then climbed out. Damon felt as if he were facing the firing squad, and he imagined Jean-Paul felt the same way.
A blustery wind rattled the leaves on the trees, making the spidery Spanish moss shiver, creating snakelike shadows along the ground. Dry grass crunched beneath his feet, the sound like brittle shells breaking in the quiet. The scent of the swamp grew bolder, more pungent, mingling with the hint of impending rain.
He pushed open the front door and paused as the ominous feeling of doom pervading his family home settled over him. It was almost as if someone had died.
As Damon expected, his entire family, except for his niece, was waiting up, all collected in the den, holding hands, comforting one another, praying and telling themselves that the evening had been a nightmare that would soon fade.
Jean-Paul assured them that Antwaun was all right, although his father insisted they be brutally honest and share the details of the charges and the investigation.
Damon relayed the facts that he knew so far. His mother’s face paled, and she turned to stare at the family photos on the hearth as if the mere act could draw their family back together.
Stephanie stood beside her, rubbing slow circles on their mother’s back to soothe her, while their father paced to the window and looked out into the dark sky. Storm clouds hung heavy and low with the certainty of bad weather. Thunder rumbled and shook the trees outside. More dry leaves scattered across the edges of the swamp. The woods beyond looked murky and ominous, filled with night crawlers and secrets of the bayou. Maybe another swamp devil lurked nearby.
The family drew together for a prayer, then parted, each hugging and promising to call soon.
After everyone left, Damon joined his parents in the kitchen and sipped a cup of coffee, waiting to see if they fell apart, but they insisted he leave and get some rest.
He promised them he’d be there for Antwaun’s bail hearing and let himself out.
As he climbed inside the sedan, he automatically reached for his cell phone to call his partner from the bureau, but he’d left it inside the house. Going back he found it on the sofa, but his parents’ voices echoed from the kitchen and caught his attention.
“Maybe we should tell them,” Daniella screeched.
“Shh, no,” his father said. “We promised each other a long time ago that we’d keep things to ourselves, and we have to stick to that vow.”
“But, Pierre, what if we failed?” his mother cried. “What if Antwaun really did hurt that woman? We know his history…”
“Shh, don’t say that,” his father said quietly. “Our Antwaun is not a killer. We raised him the same as we did the other boys. Jean-Paul and Damon will prove his innocence. We have to trust them, and pray.”
“I hope you’re right,” his mother murmured. “Because if our secret comes out, it will only make Antwaun look guilty.”
Damon’s chest tightened. As he barged into the kitchen, he wondered what his parents could possibly know about Antwaun that would damn him to his fellow officers….
MORNING SUNLIGHT SHOT THROUGH the dark clouds and streamed through the blinds, sending slivers of light across the hospital room. Crystal blinked, searching the corners for Lex, eyes still sensitive and adjusting to bright lights.
But Lex was gone, the room empty.
She was alone again. She understood his need to stay in the darkness. She’d been hiding for months as well.
Would she be able to show her face after today?
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and the door squeaked open. She braced herself for the doctor, forcing a smile past her stiff lips although she had no idea if he could see it with the bandages covering her face.
“Good morning, Crystal,” Dr. Pace said.
She greeted him, but her voice quivered, giving away her nervous energy.
The nurse behind him offered her a warm but sympathetic smile, then took her vitals. “It’s always scary when the bandages come off,” she said softly. “But don’t worry. Dr. Pace is the best.”
Dr. Pace assembled supplies on the tray beside her, then motioned for her to lean back. “Just relax, Crystal. This part is painless.”
She sucked in a sharp breath as he snipped at the bandages, then began to slowly peel them away. The nurse bustled out the door, leaving her alone with the doctor.
Another layer fell away, and she inhaled sharply. Cool air brushed bare skin, the whisper of hope causing goose bumps to cascade up her arms.
His lab coat glided against her elbow as he bent over her. She opened her eyes and stared into his. The gray orbs probed her face as his fingers gently assessed each area, from her eyelids to her nose and her cheeks to her chin.
Her throat clogged with emotions. “Well?”
“It looks good so far. There aren’t any signs that you’re rejecting the new skin. Of course, you still need to continue the antirejection meds.”
She nodded. “Can I see now?”
He gave her a grave expression, one she remembered too well from the unsuccessful skin grafts.
“What’s wrong?”
He released a long sigh. “You’re going to look beautiful,” he said in a husky voice. “Right now you still have a lot of redness, some slight swelling and bruising. I want you to get the full picture when you finally look in the mirror.”
She didn’t believe him. Had to touch her face herself, feel the scars, see if the skin was smooth. She lifted a hand to check, but Dr. Pace caught her.
“It would be better if you don’t touch your face yet. Any germs could cause an infection.”
Tears of fear choked her throat as she knotted her hands in her lap. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He folded his arms. “We might need to make a few adjustments. But, like I said, things are progressing.” He patted her arm. “Trust me, Crystal. When you see yourself, I want you to love your new face. Just be patient. I’ll tell you when the time is right.”
Unwanted tears filled her eyes, but she nodded. Compassion underscored his tone as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her into his arms and hugged her.
“Shh, don’t cry. I promised you that I would make you beautiful again and that’s what I’m doing. Just trust me, hold on a little longer.”
She nodded against him, although inside she died a little, and the hope she’d felt dissipated. Something was wrong. Something he wasn’t telling her.
She needed more surgeries. More skin grafts. More months of healing.
She was still a monster.
As much as she wanted to leave this place, what kind of life could she have if she couldn’t stand to look at herself in the mirror?
DR. PACE SMILED TO HIMSELF as he left Crystal’s room. Pride mushroomed inside him regarding the beautiful woman he had created.
She was exquisite now. Her bone structure, strong and restored, lifted her cheekbones to a model’s perfection. Tissues had repaired and skin almost healed from the face transplant.
Yet he wasn’t ready to tell her.
No, she might not be able to accept where the new skin that covered her face had come from.
She looked so much like the dead woman that it sent a chill up his neck.
A seed of guilt gnawed at him for his deception, but he cast it aside. He needed to keep her dependent on him a little longer.
Soon she would realize that she couldn’t leave, either. That she needed him in every way. Then she would be his forever.
And none of the lies would matter.
But if she thought she was healed before he could completely win her, she might ask to be dismissed from the hospital.
And it was too soon for her to leave him.
If people recognized her, it would cause problems for him. And danger for her.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MORNING, DAMON was still stewing over the conversation with his parents while he drove to the courthouse for Antwaun’s hearing.
Dammit. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have secrets from them. But he’d kept them to protect them. And some of them he’d been sworn to by the government, by his job, his duty. Others’ lives might be endangered if he broke his vows.
This situation, their silence, was different. This had to do with his own damn brother.
Although they claimed they were protecting him. But, if he knew the secret, he might be able to better help Antwaun…. Had something happened to his brother in the military?
A half hour later, he, Jean-Paul, Antwaun’s lawyer, Dryer, the D.A. and judge convened for the bond hearing. Antwaun shuffled in, handcuffed and shackled like a common criminal, his expression dark and hooded, his mouth set in a grim line. Damon knew it had been a rough night for his brother and tried to offer him a look of encouragement. But Antwaun’s eyes seemed as empty this morning as if he’d already been tried and convicted.
The proceedings moved forward quickly. Antwaun pleaded not guilty. The D.A. muttered rhetoric about the blemishes on Antwaun’s career, his ability to easily access phony ID and passports, his connection to the underbelly of crime in the city, then produced photos of Kendra Yates’s mauled hand and emphasized the viciousness of the crime, using every punch he could think of in his request that Antwaun be remanded into custody until the grand jury reviewed the evidence. The police had searched Kendra Yates’s apartment. The inside had been ransacked before they arrived, and blood had been smeared on the walls. They hadn’t found a computer. The only fingerprints they’d discovered were Antwaun’s.
Dryer argued the fact that only a hand was found, not a body, that all the evidence was circumstantial, and then cited Antwaun’s work and the sacrifices he made daily for the city, his family background, and planting doubt about allowing the press to try the case instead of Antwaun receiving due process.
“The family has deep roots in the community, Your Honor, has donated time and money to rebuilding the city. Antwaun Dubois is not a flight risk. He is not wealthy, nor does he have a current passport. His parents are even willing to put up their home and business to cover the bail.”
“Our resources show us that Mr. Dubois may not be wealthy, but that a sizable amount of money has recently been deposited in his account,” the D.A. argued. “In fact, a deposit of one million dollars was placed into an offshore account for Mr. Dubois two days after Kendra Yates went missing.”
Shock registered on Antwaun’s face. He turned to his lawyer, leaned forward and hissed a denial. Dryer held up his hand in warning, then spoke. “Judge, Mr. Dubois has no idea where that money came from and denies receiving it.”
But Damon studied the judge, read his body language, sensed that the D.A. had even more evidence that hadn’t been shared with Antwaun’s attorney. Evidence that threw a red flag up to the judge and went against Antwaun’s favor.
Having picked up on the same vibe, Jean-Paul shot Damon an anxious glance.
Judge Mattehorn rolled his shoulders and pinned Antwaun in his seat with his gaze. “Due to the circumstances of the case, evidence before me, the recent change in Mr. Dubois’s financial status, and the viciousness of the crime, along with the D.A.’s words, I’m denying bail. Antwaun Dubois, you will remain in custody until such time that the grand jury has reviewed and ruled whether or not to move forward with a trial.”
Dryer cleared his throat. “Your Honor, we are seriously worried about Mr. Dubois’s safety—”
Judge Mattehorn cut him off. “I will order administrative segregation until the next court appearance.”
Judge Mattehorn pounded his gavel then stood, dismissing the proceedings and leaving Antwaun in shock. Even with administrative segregation, he faced the gruesome reality of spending more nights in jail, quartered near some of the very perps he had arrested.
The anger of injustice rolled through Damon. The judge’s ruling only cemented in his mind the fact that Kendra Yates might have been right about a dirty cop on the force. Someone who could have accessed Antwaun’s accounts and planted money to make it appear as if he’d accepted a bribe.
Or maybe someone who also had a judge in his pocket….
ALL NIGHT, CRYSTAL HAD struggled with nightmares about her face. She spent the morning with Maria, reading to her until her nana arrived.
Finally, she crawled back into bed and fell asleep, but images of another life taunted her. A beautiful family. A mother who loved her and was worried sick about her. A man who’d cared for her. No, she’d been wrong. He was bad. He didn’t love her. She was surrounded by small children, yet they were starving. They needed her.
She jerked awake, bathed in sweat. Dark storm clouds obliterated the sunlight outside and cast a threatening, dreary gray hue on the room that mirrored her mood.
“Crystal, you had a bad dream again.”
Lex. His husky voice reverberated through the shadows.
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. The scaly skin should have made her withdraw, but she barely noticed. Oddly though, his hand felt colder. Almost icy to the touch. And he didn’t seem to react to her face at all. Maybe she wasn’t so hideous…
“I dreamt I had a child somewhere.” Her voice caught. “A baby crying for me.”
He squeezed her hand, brushed her hair from her cheek. “You will find your way, my sweetness.”
Tears clogged her throat. “But I’ve been gone for months. What if I have a child and he or she has forgotten me?” Panic seized her chest and turned her voice into a whimper.
“You will find your answers,” Lex said calmly.
“Dr. Pace says I need to heal more. I hear what he’s not telling me—I need more surgery. This latest treatment didn’t work.”
“Do not believe everything he tells you.” Lex’s brittle tone sent goose bumps down her spine. Footsteps sounded outside the door, then suddenly a cold wind blew through the room, rattling the windowpanes. “He has his own agenda.”
“What do you mean?” He had been everything to her these last few months: doctor, friend, savior.
“Don’t trust anyone, Crystal. Even Dr. Pace.”
Crystal shivered and turned to face Lex, but he was gone, and, once again, the room was empty.
THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON was a virtual nightmare. Damon and Jean-Paul met briefly with Antwaun and Dryer, but Antwaun was so volatile that they spent their short time together attempting to calm him. Jean-Paul gave him a good dressing-down about behaving inside, keeping a low profile and putting his ear to the wall. Sometimes, insiders talked, and Antwaun might possibly learn something helpful from one of the inmates.
Such as who had set him up. Which cops the prisoners liked to work with.
Antwaun finally agreed, and adopted his game face. The Chameleon—if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to play a part. Lie.
Surely he wasn’t lying to them about his innocence.
Jean-Paul went to the station to look into the offshore account and see if he could find out who had planted the bribe money, while Damon drove to his parents’ to give them the bad news.
His heart wrenched at the pain on their faces. Even as he assured them he and Jean-Paul would clear Antwaun, the anguish of his family made him feel raw inside. Antwaun was innocent.
But he was not. If they knew what he had done, about the E-team and the missions they’d pulled off, about the woman who’d gotten caught in the middle and lost her life, it would kill them.
So many secrets…Tell and you die.
He wasn’t worried about dying himself, but he knew repercussions would spread to his family. Not just the pain of the truth about his last mission—their lives would also be endangered.
When he left, he drove straight to Kendra Yates’s apartment to meet Jean-Paul’s partner, Detective Carson Graves. Kendra lived in a modest older unit on the fringes of Bourbon Street. The place had already been thoroughly searched and, as the police had reported, they found no computer or files. Damn. He wanted her research on the dirty cops. The furniture was a hodgepodge of antiques and crafty items that she had obviously picked up in the market. A few photos adorned the built-in bookshelf; one of her receiving some kind of journalism award drew Damon’s eye. He stared at the face in the photo, trying to reconcile the beautiful brunette with a heart-shaped face and deep-set eyes with the mutilated hand they had found, and his stomach revolted.
“I can see why Antwaun was enthralled,” Jean-Paul commented.
Damon nodded. He took a newspaper photo from the desk to have a reference when he asked around. Carson searched her bedroom, and Jean-Paul the den, finding a book planner the police and the people who’d ransacked the place had missed.
“There are a couple of names of contacts in here that I want to check out,” Jean-Paul said. “They may be informants, may have talked to her before she disappeared.”
“The police confiscated a toothbrush and hairbrush for DNA,” Damon said. “Jean-Paul, can you access the results of the trace evidence the police found?”
Jean-Paul agreed and Damon thumbed through past issues of the papers stacked in the corner, searching for Kendra’s byline, hoping to find another story she’d written that might have landed her in trouble. But nothing jumped out at him. “I’m going to the newspaper office and pushing the publisher to tell us what he knows.”
They agreed to check in and left Carson to finish searching her apartment.
At the newspaper office where Kendra Yates had worked, Damon asked to speak with the head of the paper. Warren Allan, a middle-aged man with a bad comb-over, yellowed teeth from smoking and a jacket two sizes too small, gestured toward an orange vinyl chair. His desk overflowed with newspapers, clippings of various articles, bulging file folders, coffee cups, chewing-gum wrappers and an ashtray that looked as if it hadn’t been emptied in days.
“I’ve been expecting you, Special Agent Dubois.” A small smile stretched his thick lips into a rubbery line. “In fact, I expected an entire fort of you by now.”
Damon narrowed his eyes to slits. “Then I’ll cut to the chase, Mr. Allan. My brother is innocent. Someone is setting him up and I’m going to find out who it is.”
Allan’s chair squeaked as he leaned back and steepled his hands. “Are you sure about that? Maybe you don’t know your brother as well as you thought.”
“And you don’t know him at all.” Damon gritted his teeth. “Tell me what Kendra Yates had on Karl Swafford, and any tips she had on the possibility of corruption in the NOPD.”
“You really think I’m going to divulge that information?” His cheeks swelled with his chuckle. “I’m sitting on the hottest story to hit New Orleans since the Swamp Devil murders last Mardi Gras. And the murdered victim happened to be one of my own reporters.” He leaned forward, a menacing glint to his eyes. “I want the bastard who killed her to pay.”
“So do I,” Damon stated matter-of-factly. “And I can assure you that your cooperation will help us find the person responsible for her death.”
A long, tension-filled pause stretched between the two men.
“Just give me something,” Damon finally conceded. “Some hint as to where she was on the investigation. And I’ll be certain that you get the exclusive on anything I find out, when the time is right, of course.”
Allan hesitated, then nodded. He didn’t believe that Kendra had run off with Swafford and thought the man had faked his own death and might have killed her. “She traced him to a plastic surgeon who works for the government.”
Damon’s blood heated. “His name?”
“Dr. Reginald Pace.”
Damon gripped the edge of the chair with white knuckles. Reginald Pace…had assisted the E-team in secretive projects. He’d been known to alter appearances for the witness protection program. And he would also do the same for any criminal for the right price.
Unfortunately, extracting information from him was going to be nearly impossible.