Leopard's Prey

harvesters.”
    “I thought you found human bones in their camp in the swamp.”
    He turned and swept her under his arm, needing the feel of her close to him. She was warm and soft and all his. She leaned into him without hesitation, nuzzling his neck with her lips, her breath teasing his skin.
    “They killed those women, I know they did, but they didn’t take their bones. Those bones were old. They robbed graves, they had to have. Look at what they do. They intimidate using voodoo. They prey on the elderly. Most of the dancers have no one looking out for them, so they make easy targets. Tom has a mean streak in him. He was always a bit of a follower and liked to hang with the bullies. Ryan was the same. Naturally they’d gravitate toward the Rousseau brothers. Robert and Brent are weak and self-indulgent.”
    “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