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  A reasonable request, he decided as he slouched and put his head back.

  “I want you to picture what you saw that night.” Her voice was low and soothing, almost hypnotic. Maybe that was how she pulled off her trick in person, although he still wasn’t sure how she’d come up with the accurate sketches of the women.

  “Bring the image to life for me inside your mind.”

  A surge of emotion clobbered him from out of nowhere. He pulled in a deep breath as he tried to experience that night again, just the way he had as a terrified six-year-old.

  In the background he heard Adelaide’s pencil working on the paper. Her graphite strokes amplified in his eardrums. “It was dark, but we had a night-light plugged into the socket between our twin beds. I guess that’s how I saw his face when he bent down and covered my sister’s mouth with his hand. No hat, I can see his hair, or what there is of it. Dark. I don’t see his eyes, they’re shadowed.” He worked the fuzzy image in his brain, grasped for more detail, but got nothing.

  “What did his mouth look like? Were his lips thin, thick? Did they match, or was one fuller than the other?”

  “I’m not sure. Wait.” He tried to dial in a faint memory about the man’s mouth, but he couldn’t make it clear.

  “Nothing. I’m not even sure I saw his lips, but his chin was squared off, and—”

  “I’m finished,” she said, a note of excitement in her airy voice.

  His eyes flicked open, he rocked forward and sat up, satisfied he’d upheld his end of the bargain, but irritated by the fact that his guilt had been resurrected from the grave he’d buried it in and laid bare like an unprotected wound.

  “This is the man who took Kimberly.” She turned the drawing around and held it out to him.

  A numbing sensation started behind his eyes, soaking, saturating, until it found its way inside his chest. His heart squeezed.

  She’d captured the exact image, the clear twin to the fuzzy description he’d been carrying around in his head for twenty-nine years. He focused on the jagged scar descending from the right-hand corner of the man’s mouth. It was a fact he fully remembered now, but a fact that had always eluded him. Until now.

  Reaching out, he took the sketch pad, feeling its weight in his hands. It was real, solid, tangible.

  This was no trick.

  “His scar is an unusual physical characteristic. If he has a criminal record, you will probably be able to find him with an image search in the department database.”

  Royce felt the first solid breath of air immigrate into his lungs.

  Adelaide Charboneau was the real deal.

  Her claims were legitimate. She had a talent that defied logic. He let the definition merge into his vocabulary and his thinking. He stared at her, seeing her for the first time. Feeling how vulnerable and in danger she really was, based on the information he’d picked up today.

  “Tell me you believe me now,” she pleaded.

  “I believe you.” He put the sketch pad on the coffee table and reached for her.

  She moved into his arms, leaned into him and tucked her head up under his chin as he encircled her in his arms.

  The contact scorched him, burning through his body like lightning. He closed his eyes, letting the fire forge him while he held on to her.

  Outside, the storm intensified, shedding rain against the window in a torrent now, and pounding a drumbeat on the roof.

  Royce resisted the urge to tighten his grasp on her. To conceal her, hide her from whoever, or whatever wanted to harm her. Caution fleshed out the uneasy sensation in his bones. “Where is the gris-gris you got from your mother today?”

  “On the nightstand.”

  “You need to keep it with you at all times. Put it in your pocket, put it on a chain around your neck, just keep it close.”

  She sat forward and turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “How much do you know about the Materia and their Beholder?”

  “I know the parameters of what a Beholder is capable of doing. Shedding light on the criminal deeds of others. The proof is in my abilities.”

  “That’s it?” He resisted the urge to finger a dark curl lying against her shoulder. “That is as far as your understanding goes on the subject?”

  “What else is there?”

  Worried for her, he stood up and took her hand, pulling her to her feet before he let go. “The Materia sect may not have anything to do with voodoo. They first turned up in New Orleans in the mid-1800s. They were peaceful healers, taking care of people’s aliments with herbs and natural remedies, but word spread through voodoo lore about the uncanny abilities manifest in their Beholders.”

  “And you’ve read these legends?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know they’re true?”

  “I don’t, but it explains what’s going on. The sect was targeted and destroyed. Wiped out one by one through ritualistic murders, all preformed by voodoo practitioners to negate a Beholder’s magic. To keep the Beholder from exposing the criminals in society and their crimes.”

  “Stop.” Adelaide’s hand went to her heart. “You’re scaring me.”

  “Good. You need to be scared. If it helps protect you, then it’s worthwhile. Come over here, I want to show you something.” He headed for the bar and shuffled through the information, picking up the pertinent page he was looking for.

  “Your gris-gris isn’t a traditional voodoo blessing doll, it’s a Materia protection doll.”

  Adelaide took the paper from him and stared down at the information, combating a wave of unease. Things were beginning to make sense.

  The description of the crude doll matched the gris-gris on the nightstand in the bedroom. It had a faded blue ribbon tied around its waist to secure its muslin gown. The five-inch-long body was composed of heavy cloth, hand stitched together with thick thread.

  “This describes the doll that was found with me in the church.”

  “Yes. But the main reason to keep it close is for its protective qualities. Anyone who believes the doll has the power to protect will be less likely to harm you if you have the doll in your possession.”

  “My birth mother knew I was a Beholder. She was trying to protect me?”

  “And hide you. There’s one additional piece of information in the puzzle. Only the females in the Materia sect carried the gift. It didn’t make any sense to me, until now, but you were found dressed all in blue. You were thought to be a baby boy when the priest discovered you, and it wasn’t until after Children’s Services picked you up that they discovered you were a girl. My guess is, your mother wanted to delay the discovery of your gender for as long as possible. Even the newspaper reported a baby boy was abandoned. They printed a correction, but not until a week later, and buried on a back page in a couple of sentences.”

  “She was running for her life.” She put the paper back on the bar. “And for mine.”

  “Probably.”

  Stepping close to Royce, she moved into his open arms.

  “Get some rest. I’ll be on the couch, and I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll head over to Tulane to talk to your old professor about the Songe mask we found at Clay Franklin’s place.”

  She didn’t move. She wanted to stay in the safety of his arms indefinitely.

  Did he feel it, too? An unsatisfied longing growing between them?

  Her heart rate ticked up, and his arms tightened around her for an instant before he released her, setting her back at arm’s length.

  She looked up into his face, seeing the turmoil raging inside him through his dark eyes, through the catch in his breath as he returned her gaze and pulled her against him again with a growing intensity that threatened to drown them both. But it was a storm she couldn’t fight any longer.

  Royce caved in, staring at her mouth, then back up into her green eyes, eyes that seemed to convey her need to touch, to be touched.

  “Adelaide,” he whispered as he low
ered his mouth to hers and brushed her lips, encouraged by the willing way she kissed him back. He was hungry to taste her, entangle himself in the web of need binding him to her with uncontrollable urgency.

  He deepened the kiss, parting her lips with his tongue as he teased a responsive moan from deep in her throat. Heat fanned out over his body, drilling and tapping him for an explosion he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain. He wanted her. Moving his hand up, he cupped the back of her head, driving her against him. They were in the fast lane, headed for a crash. An instant of clarity rocked his senses, and he slammed on the brakes.

  She was his to protect, not seduce.

  He released her in a sudden jolt of physical control, even though his pulse was hammering inside his head, and he couldn’t suck in nearly enough oxygen to calm his body. “I have a sworn duty to protect you, not—”

  “Don’t.” She held up her hand, looking vulnerable with the soft glow of arousal manifest on her cheeks in rosy patches. “I know the drill, let’s leave it at that.”

  He nodded, swallowing hard as he watched her turn for the single bedroom in the small safe house, a room he wanted to follow her into.

  He took a step forward.

  The light over the bar went out, plunging the room into total darkness.

  Royce froze midstride and got his bearings in the unfamiliar room. He turned his attention to the plate-glass window, looking for confirmation that the power outage was widespread, but the flicker of house lights through the trees on the next block over sparked a warning deep in his brain.

  “I think I saw a couple of candles in the cupboard above the stove. Do you want me to get them?”

  “No lights. I want you to go into the bedroom and lock the door, steer clear of the window. The place is a fortress, it’s been reenforced, you’ll be safe inside. I’ll give you the all clear when I’m finished checking it out. Keep your cell phone handy.”

  Over the wind and rain, he listened for any sound of a full-on assault, but didn’t hear anything. Still, he had to assume the outage wasn’t caused by the storm.

  “Okay.” Her soft reply was followed by the sound of the bedroom door closing and the dead bolt sliding into place. It was a good sound. A safe sound. A sound that soothed his unease.

  Royce ran his hand along the back of the sofa until he reached the end.

  Turning to the left, he put a hand out in front of him, feeling for the bar. He found it, worked his way over the paperwork he had spread out and patted his gun where it lay at the end of the counter.

  He pulled the Glock out of its holster, turned and stood still, assessing the various access points in the room. The main front door was reinforced. All the windows, save one, were high up in the walls and made of bulletproof glass.

  That left the plate-glass window. It, too, was bulletproof, but it overlooked the backyard and a string of trees at the border that could easily conceal an intruder.

  He focused his attention there, studying the wave of dark and light shadow distorted through the rain-obscured window.

  Movement. He saw movement, a person darting across the lawn in the back of the house.

  Royce dropped to the floor out of sight and pulled his cell phone off his belt. Punching in 911, he notified dispatch of the situation and requested backup.

  A loud thump against the side of the house pulled his attention toward the kitchen. The windowless room seemed like the last place someone would try to gain access.

  He came to his feet and raised his gun, moving in slow, precise steps into the kitchen, where he listened to the sound morph into a raking noise that ended with a thud on the roof over his head.

  Tension took up the slack in the air and bunched the muscles between his shoulder blades.

  Did the intruder know the house was impenetrable? What about the roof? No one had ever come in through the roof.

  Wham! The first blow rocked his reality. He stumbled back against the bar and stared up at the ceiling.

  Wham! Another punishing blow hammered into the roof, causing the pendant light over the bar to sway.

  “Damn.” They were hacking their way through the ceiling. He’d think it was brilliant, if it weren’t so off the wall and dangerous.

  “New Orleans Police,” Royce bellowed. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  Wham! Another chop followed the sound of wood succumbing to the force. They’d get inside if he didn’t take action.

  Royce raised his weapon and squeezed off two rounds.

  The slugs tore through the plaster overhead and rained debris down on him where he stood in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  He listened, feeling sweat erupt at the hairline on the back of his neck and tickle his skin.

  Nothing but the slightest flurry of movement over the sound of rain on the roof.

  Sucking in a breath, he backed out of the kitchen and headed for the bedroom, his eyes now fully adjusted in the darkness. He reached the door and rapped on it several times. Nothing.

  Caution ramped up his nerves. “Adelaide. Open the door.”

  The dead bolt turned, the door opened, and she stepped back. “I heard shots. What’s going on?”

  “Our location has been compromised. Someone tried to get in by chopping their way through the roof in the kitchen. I fired a couple of rounds, and it stopped.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  He reached for her, discontent until he felt her upper arm in his grasp. “We’re going to wait it out. Backup is en route. If we go outside, we could be ambushed. It’s hard to say how many of them there are. We’re safer in here.”

  Adelaide couldn’t keep from focusing on the fear that lodged inside her with an icy grip that wouldn’t relent.

  They were being hunted by desperate people. People bent on destroying them by any means.

  She pulled in a short breath and tried to relax, feeling the crude gris-gris doll she’d wrapped in a cloth handkerchief and tied around her ankle for safe keeping.

  It had to be her imagination, but she could almost believe she felt warmth emanating from it.

  “GOOD CALL, DETECTIVE.” Officer Brooks stood next to Royce in the small living room of the safe house. “There’s a hole that was dug through the first layer of the roof above the kitchen. Someone wanted in here pretty bad. But I didn’t find evidence of anyone outside now. We’ll stay posted outside until morning.”

  “Thanks, Brooks.”

  The officer left, and Royce stared up at the ring of rainwater beginning to drip from the saturated plaster of the kitchen ceiling, watching it fall and drop into the large pan he’d set on the floor to catch the water.

  He glanced over at Adelaide where she sat on the sofa with her legs tucked up underneath her and her eyelids closed. It was two in the morning and he knew she was exhausted. He was, too.

  “Hey,” Royce said, moving to the sofa and pressing his hand on her shoulder.

  Adelaide started, her eyes flicking open.

  “We’re staying until morning. Brooks and his partner are stationed outside. Get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, all right.” She stood up and walked a crooked line into the bedroom.

  Listening for the dead bolt to turn, he flopped onto the couch the instant he heard it engage.

  He was dog-tired.

  Royce pulled the sofa pillow under his head, adjusted it and closed his eyes, listening to the ping of rainwater on stainless steel.

  THREE HOURS LATER THE obnoxious ring of his cell phone dragged him awake.

  “Detective Beckett.”

  “What the hell happened there last night?” Danbury said, his gruff voice erasing the grogginess from Royce’s brain.

  Royce sat up. “Leaky roof.”

  “Are you both okay?”

  “Never better.” Royce stood up, heard the bedroom lock turn and watched Adelaide walk into the living room.

  “I need you on a scene. Another woman has been found murdered. The body was placed just off Highway 45 near Bayou Se
gnette. We’re congregating at the Segnette boat ramp.”

  Royce’s heart sank. “Wendy Davis?”

  “That’s what the I.D. in the open wallet says. We’re headed out there now. It’s a mess, thanks to the storm. Gina and her team are en route.”

  Adelaide reached out and touched Royce’s back. “Did they find her?” she whispered. “Is she alive?”

  Royce shook his head, sending her emotions on a roller-coaster ride.

  They were too late. Too late to save the young woman whose face she’d sketched only days ago.

  “We’ll get cleaned up and be on scene within the hour,” Royce said, glancing over at her.

  She swallowed hard, blinking back a blaze of tears that threatened to spill over.

  How were they ever going to get in front of this runaway train?

  Chapter Eight

  Dawn broke through the hazy rain, but Royce hardly noticed as he stood on the crowded patch of boggy earth dotted with inland salt grass, and listened to the rain pelt his slicker.

  The low-lying area served as overflow for Bayou Segnette, and it was now filling fast with the deluge from Tropical Storm Kandace, almost faster than the evidence team could work.

  Adelaide stood next to him looking tired, wet and expressionless in a hooded plastic poncho he carried as a spare under the front seat of his car.

  Refocusing his attention on the crime scene, he studied the path the killer would have had to take down the ultrasteep embankment from the highway above.

  He stared at the line of press vehicles parked like vultures at the guardrail, waiting for any scrap of information that might come their way.

  Turning back to the question of how the body had arrived at this spot, he realized it wasn’t impossible to bring her down from the highway, but it was highly unlikely she’d been dragged. There were no scuff marks on her shoes, no damage to her clothing.

  The killer, or killers, must have placed Wendy Davis’s body in the overflow using a boat to transport her to the location.

  The main Outer Millaudon Canal was less than five hundred feet to the north, and intersected a narrow tributary that was fifty feet away and flooding to the east.