A Whisper in the Dark Read online

  Around her the night was so cold she could see her breath. In the distance, thunder joined the low rumble of the bass drums of a nearby club. A light rain had begun to fall—just enough to turn her hair into an unruly mop, and she was glad the shop was closed and she had nothing else planned for the evening.

  At Toulouse, her cell phone rang. Seeing the shop number come up on the display, Julia winced and hoped her sister wasn’t angry. “Hi, Claudia.”

  “Don’t ‘Hi Claudia’ me. You’re late and now I’m late.”

  “I’m sorry. I got tied up at the convention.”

  “Julia, you turned off your phone.”

  “Well . . . I turned it off right before I walked up to the podium, and forgot to turn it back on.”

  Claudia made a sound of frustration.

  “I’m glad you’re not mad.”

  “I am mad.”

  “What time are you supposed to meet Rory?”

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m sorry, sis. What about Phantom?”

  “Curtain time is in an hour.”

  Picking up her pace, Julia glanced at her watch, relieved that her sister would not miss her favorite musical. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “I’ll call Rory and let him know I can’t make dinner.”

  Part Goth, part rock star, Rory was a guide for one of the local cemetery tours. Somehow he’d managed to snag two coveted tickets to the opening night of Phantom of the Opera at the historic Saenger Theatre. He and Claudia had been going out for about two months now, and she seemed to be crazy about him. He seemed nice enough, but Julia had always thought he took his job a little too seriously.

  “Where are you, anyway?” Claudia asked.

  “Just past Toulouse.”

  “Please tell me you took a cab.”

  “I tried to grab one at Canal, but the convention had just let out.”

  “Julia! That’s not a very good excuse when there’s some wacko sending you bizarre letters.”

  Julia knew her sister was right. It wasn’t exactly wise for her to be walking the French Quarter after dark. But having lived and worked in Vieux Carre for the last two years, she’d learned to be cautious.

  Sensing that she was about to get a lecture, Julia ended the conversation. “See you in two minutes.”

  “Be careful. And hurry up, will you?”

  Julia disconnected and turned the corner onto St. Peter. She smiled at the sight of the old-fashioned street lamp outside the Book Merchant at the end of the block. She was wondering if there would be any beignets left from this morning when a man wearing a Mardi Gras mask stepped out of a narrow courtyard and blocked her path.

  Julia started to smile, but something about him gave her the creeps. Never breaking stride, she veered right in an attempt to maintain a safe distance between them. But before she could get out of arm’s reach, his hand snaked out. His fingers clamped around her arm like a vise. A scream tore from her throat when he yanked her into the narrow courtyard.

  For an instant the swift violence of the act stunned her. Terror and adrenaline tangled and spread inside her. She had the presence of mind to reach for the can of mace in her bag. But before she could grasp it, he shoved her hard against the brick wall.

  Julia’s back struck the wall hard. Her head snapped against the brick. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She raised her hands to shove him away, but he grasped her upper arms, yanked her toward him and then slammed her a second time against the wall.

  “Bitch.”

  The force of the attack dazed her. A moment of dizziness swirled in her head. The Mardi Gras mask looked macabre in the semidarkness. She caught a glimpse of a dark jacket. Blue jeans. He was taller than she was, but not by much.

  Before she could get her wits about her, he yanked her arm and pulled her more deeply into the courtyard. All she could think was that if she didn’t get away he was going to hurt her. Maybe even kill her.

  “Help me!”

  She dug in her heels and tried to yank her arm from his grasp, but lost her footing and went down to her knees. He dragged her several feet, but she barely felt the rough cobblestone cutting her.

  “Let go of me!” she screamed.

  A jagged spear of terror swept through her when he turned to her. She could hear his breaths rushing through the tiny hole in the mask. She imagined his face contorted in rage beneath it. She could feel the fury coming off him in terrible, black waves. Oh, dear God, she thought, he’s going to hurt me.

  She lashed out with both fists, but he blocked her efforts. She tried to tear off the mask, but before she could his hand shot out, his fingers clamping around her throat, cutting off her oxygen. Keeping his arm straight, he backed her toward the wall, slammed her into it.

  “You’ve got the devil in you, don’t you?” he hissed.

  The words barely registered. Julia couldn’t breathe. She clawed at his hands, scratching herself in the process, and for the first time she noticed the leather gloves he wore. She lashed out with her boots, tried to kick him, but he danced aside.

  “Don’t fight me.” His grip on her throat tightened.

  Panic tore through her when she realized she couldn’t get away. That he could choke the life from her here and now and no one would notice until it was too late.

  He squeezed brutally. She opened her mouth to draw a breath, but her windpipe was crushed. Her tongue felt huge, and it bulged from her mouth. Her vision blurred. Her head began to spin. Darkness edged into her sight. She could feel her hands beginning to tingle. She stared at the hideous mask, wondering why he was doing this to her.

  An instant before she passed out, he loosened his grip. Julia sucked in a ragged breath. He leaned close, so that the mask was only a few inches from her face. “You knew I was watching you tonight, didn’t you? That’s why you wore that dress. You whore.”

  For an instant it was as if he’d spoken in a foreign language she didn’t understand. Then the meaning of the words registered. She opened her mouth to scream, but he tightened his grip on her throat and she managed only a hoarse sound.

  “Succubus.”

  Julia gripped his forearm with both of her hands in an effort to force him to release her throat. Her vision swam. She could feel the blood pounding in her head. If she passed out, she would be at his mercy . . .

  “Cheap harlot,” he whispered.

  Something wet splashed onto her face. In her peripheral vision she saw something in his hand. He shook it at her, spewing more liquid on her face and throat. She didn’t know what it was, but all sorts of unpleasant scenarios converged on her mind. Acid. Blood. Dear God . . .

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. A minute ago all she’d been worried about was getting to the shop so her sister could go to the opera with her boyfriend. Now she was in an alley a scant fifty yards from the shop and fighting for her life . . .

  Vaguely, she was aware of one of his hands fumbling with her jacket. At first she thought he was trying to get to her purse, which was slung over her shoulder. Dread enveloped her when she realized he was trying to get his hands beneath her jacket.

  Julia had one hand jammed against his chest. The other was wrapped around his wrist, trying to break his grip on her throat, but he was too strong. She could reach her cell phone, but she knew there was no way she could dial 911 without his stopping her. Her best hope was the canister of pepper spray in her purse.

  “Let go,” she croaked.

  He snarled something indecipherable through the mask. His fingers tightened, cutting off her oxygen once again. “Tell me you want me to save you.”

  Confusion swirled. The words made no sense. She tried to speak, hoping he would release his grip on her throat. When he did, she sucked in a breath. The sound was animalistic, but she didn’t care. “Why are you doing this?” she croaked.

  “I’m going to save your soul,” he whispered. “But you have to want it. Say it!”

  She let her right
hand drop from his chest, dipped her fingers into her purse. She felt her wallet. Her hairbrush. Where was the pepper spray? Hope burst through her when her fingers closed around the canister. She wondered if the mask would protect him. If she could aim well enough to get the spray into the eye cutouts . . .

  His fingers dug into her throat. Out of time, Julia thought. She gripped the canister. Brought it up with a numb hand. Somehow her finger found the trigger. Aiming for the eye cutouts, she sprayed.

  A sound that was part roar, part scream tore from his throat. He released her immediately, his hands flying to his face. Julia fell against the brick wall, gulping air. He reeled backward. Vaguely, she was aware of the spray arcing toward him and realized she was still holding down the trigger.

  He made a terrible sound as he stumbled back. His foot caught on the edge of a broken pallet and he went down on his butt. “Fucking whore!” he screamed as he scrambled to his feet. “Succubus bitch!”

  She didn’t wait to hear more. Throwing the canister at him as hard as she could, she spun and flung herself into a dead run for the street.

  SEVEN

  The pre-Mardi Gras revelers were in full swing when John crossed Esplanade and entered the Quarter. He could have driven, but driving during Mardi Gras week was for tourists who didn’t know any better. He was in no mood for a fender bender with some drunken idiot from Iowa. Besides, he needed the walk to clear his head. Not only did he have the mother of all hangovers, but he wasn’t looking forward to telling Julia and her father that he was ditching the assignment.

  He fingered the business card in his pocket. He and Earl Milkowski had worked the mean streets of South Chicago a lifetime ago. After some research, he’d found out Earl had retired and moved to New Orleans. Bored with retirement, he’d gotten his private detective license and opened an office near the warehouse district. John knew Earl would take good care of Julia. John sure as hell couldn’t.

  A phone call would have been easier, but a damnable sense of responsibility—of pride—forced him to relay the news in person. Besides, John had never been one to take the easy way out.

  Normally he loved the Quarter, but tonight he barely noticed the tourists lined up at Café du Monde or the clop! of the carriage horses’ steel shoes against concrete. A cold front had pushed down from the north, giving the evening air a bite. The streets glistened beneath the antique street lamps. The exotic rhythm of zydeco from one of the tourist shops blended with the bass drumbeat drifting from the open door of a bar down the street.

  Head down against the cold wind coming off of Lake Pontchartrain, John headed north on St. Peter. He stopped outside the Book Merchant and took a moment to get his lines straight. He had business to take care of back in Chicago. He’d already contacted Earl Milkowski. Earl had been a good cop. John could vouch for him.

  Right.

  Scrubbing his hand over his face, John pushed open the door. The bell jingled as he stepped inside. Warmth and the sweet scent of candles greeted him. Some pseudo-classical music flowed in a slow current from tiny speakers mounted high on the wall. Unexpectedly, he was struck by the warm hominess of the place. And he suddenly found himself looking forward to seeing the woman who owned it.

  “Hi, John.”

  For an instant he thought the voice was Julia’s, and his heart skipped a beat. But when he spun, he found himself looking at her sister, Claudia. She was standing behind the counter, looking at him as if he were a moose and had wandered out of the Alaskan woods and into the shop.

  “Is Julia here?” he asked.

  “No, but I expect her any moment.” Claudia came around the counter. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No. I’ll just wait if that’s all right.”

  “Of course it is.” She looked at him quizzically. “Did you find out something about the stalker?”

  “Not yet.” He shifted his weight, glanced toward the door, wishing Julia had been in so he could get this done and get the hell out of there.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is everything okay?”

  “I had something come up,” he heard himself say. “In Chicago. I’ve got to fly up there.”

  Liar. Coward!

  Claudia was several years younger than her sister, but her youth didn’t make her any less astute. She cut him a sharp look. “You mean you’re bailing?”

  “I’m not bailing,” he said, hating the defensive ring in his voice. “I’ve already called a private detective friend of mine.”

  He reached for the business card in his pocket and handed it to her. “He’s ex-Chicago PD. He’s good. Reliable.”

  She accepted the card and gave him a kind look. “I hope your leaving doesn’t have anything to do with . . . what happened. I mean with the . . . incident in Chicago.”

  The incident.

  “It doesn’t,” he said quickly. But he hated the fact that no one could seem to say it. He’d killed an innocent man. A fellow cop with a wife and two kids. Four lives destroyed, not to mention his own . . .

  “I briefed my friend on Julia’s stalker,” he said. “He’s expecting a call from her. He’ll take good care of—”

  The door to the shop swung open. John looked up to see Julia burst in. He knew instantly someone had hurt her. She was disheveled. Her face was ghastly pale, her eyes wild with terror. She was wearing a skirt, and he could see that at least one of her knees was bloody.

  “Julia!” came Claudia’s frightened voice. “Oh, my God. What happened?”

  Every cop’s instinct John had ever possessed jumped to attention. “Call 911,” he snapped.

  Julia stood just inside the front door. Even from ten feet away he could see that she was trembling violently. A dark emotion he didn’t want to identify rose inside him at the sight of the red marks on her neck.

  He crossed to her, aware of the wild look in her eyes. “Are you all right? Did someone hurt you?”

  Her hand went to the marks on her throat, and she rubbed at them with trembling fingers. “A man. He . . . jumped me. In the alley.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “I’m . . . okay. Just . . . shaken up.” Fury swept through him at the thought of some son of a bitch roughing her up. Gently, he put his arm around her. “Come over to your desk and sit down for a moment so I can have a look at you, okay?”

  Vaguely he was aware of Claudia on the phone with the 911 dispatcher. He guided Julia to the desk. Even through her coat he could feel her shaking. So small, he thought, and another hard punch of rage made his heart pound.

  “Let me take your coat,” he said before she sat. Not because he was polite, but because he wanted to see for himself just how badly she’d been roughed up.

  She didn’t look at him as she worked the coat off her shoulders. He took the coat from her and, gingerly, she lowered herself to the chair.

  She was wearing an off-white sweater made of some fuzzy material. The neckline dipped low, and for the first time John got a good look at the deep red marks at her throat. Someone had put his hands around her neck, and he hadn’t been tentative about it. John could see each individual finger mark. Jesus Christ. The son of a bitch had tried to strangle her . . .

  “I need for you to tell me what happened,” he said.

  Claudia came up behind him. “The police are on the way.” She looked at her sister. “Honey, are you all right?”

  Julia lowered her face into her hands. “No.”

  “What happened?” John repeated, wanting the details while they were still fresh in her mind.

  She raised her eyes to his. Her eyes were dark against the pale cast of her complexion. At some point she’d been crying. He could see the tear streaks in her makeup.

  “I was walking home from the convention, heading toward the shop on St. Peter. There’s a courtyard near Mr. Goubeaux’s antique shop.” She drew a deep breath, shook her head. “He must have come out of the courtyard. I didn’t even see him coming.”

  Walking alone, he
thought, and made a mental note to rake her over the coals later. Right now, she looked too damn fragile.

  “Who?” John asked.

  Julia shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, Julia.” Claudia went to her and brushed her fingertips against the angry red marks on her throat. “Honey, you’re bruised. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Did you get a look at him?” John cut in.

  Julia shook her head. “He was wearing a Mardi Gras mask.”

  “What kind?”

  “A jester. An expensive one, I think.”

  Like a thousand other people walking the Quarter tonight. “What about his clothes?”

  “All I remember seeing is a dark jacket. It happened so fast.” Julia bit her lip. “That’s not much help, is it?”

  “You’re doing fine,” John said, but he wanted more. He suddenly wanted badly to get his hands on the sick fuck who’d put his hands on her and hurt her. He told himself it was more of a big brother kind of anger than anything more complicated. But he was keenly aware of the male need to protect that rose up inside him. “Did he say anything?”

  “Just . . . weird things.” A shudder moved through her. “He called me a . . .” Her voice broke. She closed her eyes briefly, then continued. “He called me a whore. A succubus.”

  A chill moved down John’s spine. “Succubus. That’s an odd term.”

  “Medieval Latin origin, I think,” Claudia said.

  John felt her gaze on him, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Julia. “What does it mean?”

  “Something like an evil female demon that descends on hapless sleeping men to have intercourse.”

  Julia shot her sister a withering look. “And you know that how?”

  Claudia shrugged. “I learned it in my humanities class last semester.”

  It was suddenly clear to John that this was no random attempted rape or mugging or assault.

  Absently, Julia used the back of her hand to rub the tears from her cheek. “It’s him, isn’t it? The guy sending the notes?”