Don't Say a Word

A year later, New Orleans DAMON DUBOIS WAS A DEAD MAN. As dead as the soldiers who'd fallen and given their lives for the country. As dead as the ones who'd lost their lives during the terrible hurricane that nearly destroyed New Orleans. As dead as the woman he had killed. His own heart did still beat and blood still flowed through his veins, forcing him to go through the motions of life. A punishment issued by the gods, he was certain. He could still see the flames licking at her skin, see the smoke swirling above her face, hear the crackle of the house as wood splintered and crumFor although his head hadn't yet touched the pillow this dreary evening, nightmares already haunted him with the cries of that anguished woman screaming in pain. And thebÉbÉ's ghostlike cry..."Tite ange,"he whispered. "Little angel, you did not deserve to die." Perspiration beaded on his neck and trickled down into the collar of his shirt as he opened the French doors to the hundred-year-old bayou house and breathed in the sultry summer air. The end of May was nearing and already the summer heat was oppressive. Sticky. The air hung thick with the scent of blood and swamp water. Eerie sounds cut through the endless night. The muddy Mississippi slapping at the embankment. A faint breeze stirring the tupelo trees. The gators'shrill attack cry in the night. Insects buzzing for their next feed. A Louis Armstrong blues tune floated from the stereo, the soul-wrenching words echoing his mood. Though a thick fog of blessed darkness clouded the waning daylight, forming morbid images to bombard him. A hand outstretched, begging for help. The fingers curled around the tinybÉbÉ's rattle. The accusing, horror-stricken eyes. He blinked to stop the damning images, but they flickered in his mind like flashes of lightning splintering the sky. The scream tore the air again, and he swallowed back bile. Its tormenting sound refused to stop, pounding against his conscience with a will he couldn't defy. Reminding him of his past. His sins. His vow of silence. So many secrets...Tell and you die. Inside his pocket, his cell phone vibrated, jarring him back to the present. Hauling him away from the pain and self-recriminations clawing at his mind. He connected the call with sweaty fingers. "Special Agent Damon Dubois." "Damon, thank God you answered." His little brother Antwaun's strained voice rattled unevenly over the line. Something was wrong. What kind of mess had his youngest sibling gotten into this time? Hell, not that he had a right to judge anyone. But the family knew nothing of his secrets. Or his lies... "You have to come meet me. We found a woman...at least part of one." Holy Christ. "I'll be right there. Where are you?" Antwaun relayed the GPS coordinates and Damon snapped the phone closed, grabbed his badge and weapon and strapped it onto his shoulder holster. Fifteen minutes later, he parked and headed through a dense stretch of the swamp. The scent of murk floated from the marshy water as the mud sucked at his feet. The voices and faint beams of flashlights ahead served as his guide through the knot of trees, and when he reached the crime-scene tape, he identified himself to the officer in charge. Through the shadows, he spotted Antwaun and strode toward him. His brother's forehead was furrowed with worry, the intense anger in his dark eyes warning Damon that this was not an everyday crime scene. Something personal had entered into it. "What's going on, Antwaun?" he asked quietly. Two uniforms frowned and muttered curses at his arrival, already the thread of territorial rights adding tension to an anxiety-ridden situation. Antwaun leaned in close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Hell, Damon. I think I know the victim." Damon's gaze shot to his brother's, his pulseHerron, Rita is the author of 'Don't Say a Word ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373772179 and ISBN 0373772173.