Leopard's Prey
Page 104
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“So you’re sayin’ the Rousseau brothers don’t have the personalities for the kind of murders the bone harvester committed. What about tryin’ to make the guides in the bayou pay protection money?”
His hands came up to fist in her hair. He loved the feel of her hair, soft and thick and as luxurious as a leopard’s pelt, moving against his skin like living silk. He brought the long strands, wrapped around his fist, to his mouth, inhaling the scent of lavender that seemed so much a part of her.
“I think they’re growin’ bolder, trying to expand their business, like old-time gangsters, but essentially, they’re cowards, preying on the weak. They’re usin’ a centuries-old religion to help them do it. They’re intelligent and bold, and they believe they’re able to outsmart everyone. With every success they’ve grown more confident, but they’re still evolvin’. The bone harvester has already evolved. He’s been killing for years.”
“I didn’t consider that,” Bijou said, leaning back into him. “You’re right. And you know, Remy, every single time you talk about this killer, you say he or him. It’s never them.”
The sheet slipped just enough to show the tops of her breasts and her nipples barely peeking at him. As always and in spite of everything, his body reacted with an urgent jolt.
“I guess I do,” Remy mused. “That doesn’t mean I’m not wrong. The Rousseau brothers are definitely sociopaths and they’ve killed three women, which already makes them serial killers. They’re certainly capable of the type of brutal crime, but if they have a ritual like harvestin’ bones from their victims, why did they beat the strippers to death? Why didn’t they just use their chosen ritual? Serial killers rarely deviate from a ritual. And the harvester’s victims have always been men.”
Bijou rubbed the back of her head against his chest, much like a cat. “Maybe they don’ kill women for the bones because they aren’t as dense or something. Maybe the significance is in the bones and not the victims. If the Rousseau brothers wanted the women dead, but they didn’t need their bones, would they kill them in a different way?”
Remy kissed the top of her head. She had intelligent feedback and he was grateful for it. He’d considered many different reasons why the harvester only went after men. Age or race didn’t seem to matter. He hadn’t found a tie between any of the victims until Bijou had pointed out the murders had all occurred in places she’d held a concert. Even then, the victims hadn’t necessarily attended her concerts. But maybe she was right and it was specific bones the killer wanted.
“He always takes a different set of bones from each of his four victims before he stops,” Remy said, hoping she would continue to talk to him. She had a good head for puzzles and patterns. “He repeats the same pattern in every city he hits, always in the same order.”
“Meaning he takes the exact bones from each victim in a certain order?” Bijou asked, sitting up.
“Yes, and he’s fairly quick about it. The murders happen in a two-week span. Four dead bodies is a lot in that time period. Twice he took longer, in New York and Chicago. Less time in Paris, just over a week. Otherwise, he’s on some sort of schedule only he knows. And why so long between the murders? He doesn’t bother to hide them. If there were others, why haven’t we heard about them?”
Bijou came up onto her knees behind him, her hands going to his shoulders, kneading the tension from his tight muscles. “You’ll find him—or them, Remy.” Confidence rang in her voice. “I know you will. You’re gettin’ closer all the time.”
“I’ve done everything I can to protect as many people as I could think of that the Rousseau brothers might try to go after, but I can’t protect random strangers.”
He felt the tips of her breasts brush against his back. She was a miracle in the middle of the violent world he lived in. He had asked her if she would be bored when their lives settled down. He should have asked her how long she could stay when he lived with murder every day. Few women could do it for very long, not when he was so obsessed and driven. He had always focused on his work, and he knew that wouldn’t change.
“You’ll catch them,” she assured him again.
She was like the calm in the middle of a storm. Her hair fell over his shoulder and he wrapped his fist in it. Love had grown when he was least expecting it. Love was strong and alive, driving out the shadows in his mind. She seemed to be able to light up his world even in his darkest hour.
Bijou kissed the top of his head, shuffled to the side of the bed and rose gracefully. Remy’s breath caught in his throat. She was truly a beautiful woman. He found it astonishing that she was here, with him, discussing murder when she looked as if she belonged in a fairy-tale castle. Her hair was tousled, long, hanging to the sweet curve of her butt. He enjoyed his hands in her hair, and every time she had it up, or in braids, he found he couldn’t wait to let it fall so he could indulge himself. He’d made love to her—how many times last night—yet he wanted her again. Right then. For comfort maybe—hell—he didn’t know. Maybe to make him feel like there was something worth fighting for.
He caught her hand. “Blue.” He just said her name. That was all.
She turned to face him, her eyes meeting his. He didn’t know if he expected rejection or a protest because of the subject matter they’d been discussing. He only knew his breath stayed caught in his lungs, and he waited silently. She had to be tired and sore. He’d ridden her hard and long over and over again, he reminded himself.
His hands came up to fist in her hair. He loved the feel of her hair, soft and thick and as luxurious as a leopard’s pelt, moving against his skin like living silk. He brought the long strands, wrapped around his fist, to his mouth, inhaling the scent of lavender that seemed so much a part of her.
“I think they’re growin’ bolder, trying to expand their business, like old-time gangsters, but essentially, they’re cowards, preying on the weak. They’re usin’ a centuries-old religion to help them do it. They’re intelligent and bold, and they believe they’re able to outsmart everyone. With every success they’ve grown more confident, but they’re still evolvin’. The bone harvester has already evolved. He’s been killing for years.”
“I didn’t consider that,” Bijou said, leaning back into him. “You’re right. And you know, Remy, every single time you talk about this killer, you say he or him. It’s never them.”
The sheet slipped just enough to show the tops of her breasts and her nipples barely peeking at him. As always and in spite of everything, his body reacted with an urgent jolt.
“I guess I do,” Remy mused. “That doesn’t mean I’m not wrong. The Rousseau brothers are definitely sociopaths and they’ve killed three women, which already makes them serial killers. They’re certainly capable of the type of brutal crime, but if they have a ritual like harvestin’ bones from their victims, why did they beat the strippers to death? Why didn’t they just use their chosen ritual? Serial killers rarely deviate from a ritual. And the harvester’s victims have always been men.”
Bijou rubbed the back of her head against his chest, much like a cat. “Maybe they don’ kill women for the bones because they aren’t as dense or something. Maybe the significance is in the bones and not the victims. If the Rousseau brothers wanted the women dead, but they didn’t need their bones, would they kill them in a different way?”
Remy kissed the top of her head. She had intelligent feedback and he was grateful for it. He’d considered many different reasons why the harvester only went after men. Age or race didn’t seem to matter. He hadn’t found a tie between any of the victims until Bijou had pointed out the murders had all occurred in places she’d held a concert. Even then, the victims hadn’t necessarily attended her concerts. But maybe she was right and it was specific bones the killer wanted.
“He always takes a different set of bones from each of his four victims before he stops,” Remy said, hoping she would continue to talk to him. She had a good head for puzzles and patterns. “He repeats the same pattern in every city he hits, always in the same order.”
“Meaning he takes the exact bones from each victim in a certain order?” Bijou asked, sitting up.
“Yes, and he’s fairly quick about it. The murders happen in a two-week span. Four dead bodies is a lot in that time period. Twice he took longer, in New York and Chicago. Less time in Paris, just over a week. Otherwise, he’s on some sort of schedule only he knows. And why so long between the murders? He doesn’t bother to hide them. If there were others, why haven’t we heard about them?”
Bijou came up onto her knees behind him, her hands going to his shoulders, kneading the tension from his tight muscles. “You’ll find him—or them, Remy.” Confidence rang in her voice. “I know you will. You’re gettin’ closer all the time.”
“I’ve done everything I can to protect as many people as I could think of that the Rousseau brothers might try to go after, but I can’t protect random strangers.”
He felt the tips of her breasts brush against his back. She was a miracle in the middle of the violent world he lived in. He had asked her if she would be bored when their lives settled down. He should have asked her how long she could stay when he lived with murder every day. Few women could do it for very long, not when he was so obsessed and driven. He had always focused on his work, and he knew that wouldn’t change.
“You’ll catch them,” she assured him again.
She was like the calm in the middle of a storm. Her hair fell over his shoulder and he wrapped his fist in it. Love had grown when he was least expecting it. Love was strong and alive, driving out the shadows in his mind. She seemed to be able to light up his world even in his darkest hour.
Bijou kissed the top of his head, shuffled to the side of the bed and rose gracefully. Remy’s breath caught in his throat. She was truly a beautiful woman. He found it astonishing that she was here, with him, discussing murder when she looked as if she belonged in a fairy-tale castle. Her hair was tousled, long, hanging to the sweet curve of her butt. He enjoyed his hands in her hair, and every time she had it up, or in braids, he found he couldn’t wait to let it fall so he could indulge himself. He’d made love to her—how many times last night—yet he wanted her again. Right then. For comfort maybe—hell—he didn’t know. Maybe to make him feel like there was something worth fighting for.
He caught her hand. “Blue.” He just said her name. That was all.
She turned to face him, her eyes meeting his. He didn’t know if he expected rejection or a protest because of the subject matter they’d been discussing. He only knew his breath stayed caught in his lungs, and he waited silently. She had to be tired and sore. He’d ridden her hard and long over and over again, he reminded himself.
