Leopard's Prey by Christine Feehan Page B

end. The murderer had chosen the most popular brand of baby oil. A black candle was tied to each of the fingers of the hand and had been burned.
    Three inches directly behind the hand and in the exact center of the altar was a bowl of the victim’s blood. The bowl was plastic—again, untraceable, although of course they’d try. Unfortunately, anyone could buy that particular brand of picnic supply at any store. The bowl was always filled with precisely one pint of blood. How did the killer get the amount so exact? Another big question.
    Behind the bowl, again three inches exactly, was the victim’s heart, offered up like some damned sacrifice. Scattered around the altar were objects clearly taken from the swamp. Spanish moss, a leaf from the hanged man’s tree, a shell, three different types of feathers as well as leaves from various plants, all objects found right there at the crime scene. None of it had been carried in by the killer and not one thing on the altar held a print.
    But there was the length of the candles in Saria’s picture. They had burned an inch, if he judged it correctly, and there was only the bowl of blood. In the forensic photographer’s photograph, the candles appeared to have burned a little longer, not that precise inch, although it was difficult to tell. A knotted string lying half in, half out of the bowl of blood was not in Saria’s picture. Not in the ones of the entire altar and not in the ones of just the bowl of blood that she had taken. There were close-ups. Perfectly clear pictures. Nowhere was that small seven-knotted string until the forensic photographer took the pictures several hours after her.
    How long had it taken Saria and Bijou to make their way back to the Inn and tell Drake? Drake had brought a generator and lights to the crime scene. He’d had to retrieve those items and make his way back. Had the killer been there all along? Had he watched Saria taking pictures of the crime scene and then finished his ceremony? Bijou had been there as well. How close to both women had he been?
    Saria and Bijou had to have interrupted the ritual ceremony the killer was compelled to conduct after each murder. The compulsion was so strong that he’d stayed concealed in the swamp and then, after the women left, he’d finished his ritual. That was the only answer to the discrepancy between the photographs.
    His heart reacted to his conclusions, going a little crazy at the thought of either Saria or Bijou so close to a vicious serial killer. He wiped his hand over his suddenly dry mouth. He was going to have to try to talk to Saria whether she liked it or not and try to point out that not only had her life been in danger, but her friend had been in jeopardy as well.
    The killer had balls. He’d proved that enough times. He murdered his victim, taking his time harvesting the bones and then conducting his bizarre ritual where others could come up on him at any time. The fact that he could be discovered didn’t seem to faze the killer at all.
    Remy picked up Saria’s photograph of the entire altar, comparing it with the forensic photographer’s picture. The most interesting thing of all was the altar contained no blood spatter whatsoever. Not on any of the objects, so Remy was certain the altar was constructed after the murder and harvesting of bones took place. But . . . Remy studied the pictures. There wasn’t a single drop of blood on the ground inside the altar. The scene was messy, all around the altar and beyond it, but not the ground where the altar had been constructed.
    “He covered it,” he said aloud. “He had to have covered the ground where he was going to make his altar. He didn’t want any blood spatter on his precious altar.”
    Remy sighed again. He wasn’t getting any closer to understanding the killer. Even the photos and the files that the FBI had sent from the previous murders weren’t helping. He had no idea if anything on the altar was significant. It appeared