Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (169 page)

God would never have blessed so base a union.

Because of Dennis, Eve was a jezebel. A whore. A slut. There was no love in their sex act, only lust.

With the Reviver, the lovemaking would be pure. Ordained by God. A way of salvation for Eve before she paid the ultimate price for her sins and faced the Father herself.

Give her to me
, he thought wildly, for the moment forgetting that he was close to the crime scene, that he was taking a chance by lingering.
Please, please, please, give her to me. Tonight. Oh, it had to be soon!
The Reviver ached for her so badly. His cock was rock hard as he just stared down the road and fantasized about her body…. If God would only talk to him now!

But the Voice only reached him when he was in his cabin, lying upon his bed, thinking of Eve. No other time did any of the voices fill his mind. Even the little nasty voices; they came to him only at night, interrupting his sleep, gnawing at his brain. So God wouldn’t answer him now. And yet he prayed.
Please, Father,
he silently begged, making a quick sign of the cross over his chest.
Speak to me, tell me what You want. I am Your servant, and I want to do Your bidding, but I need to know what it is You want of me—

“Hey, ya got a light?” a voice boomed beside him, and he jumped, looking up sharply to find a man standing next to him. So caught up in his fantasy and prayers, he hadn’t heard anyone approach.

His heart pounded and instant sweat soaked his body as he tried to find his voice. He willed his cock to relax. The man, a Latino who looked to be in his midthirties, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, didn’t appear to notice as he waited for a response.

The blood! This idiot of a neighbor will notice the blood! Leave, now!

Shaking his head, the Reviver backed away. He could not be seen. Did not want to use his voice.

“I wonder what went on down there?” the guy said, then turned to another man who was walking quickly toward them.

The Reviver nearly pissed his pants as he realized the person approaching was a cop. In full uniform. Staring straight at him and the Latino neighbor. Big, black, and bold, the policeman approached.

“Hey, gotta light, man?” the stupid neighbor asked the uniform.

Quick as lightning, before the cop could get a good look at his face, the Reviver ducked through a hedge then moved swiftly across a shadowed lawn. He didn’t check to see if either man was following him, the cop or the would-be smoker. He just moved rapidly and quietly, circumventing the Renner house, cutting through yards and alleys, winding his way to the parking lot of a restaurant where he’d left his truck.

He was breathing hard as he reached the edge of the lot, nervous sweat nearly drowning him. He smelled the metallic odor of blood on his clothes and mentally chided himself for being so reckless.

He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw a movement in the shrubbery skirting the lot. The cop, athletic as hell, was on his tail.

No!
He hadn’t come this far to lose it all.

He sprinted to his truck and heard a sharp “Hey!” as he climbed behind the wheel and reached under the seat for his Glock.

It was too late to bluff his way out of this one; the cop would probably get his license plate if he tried. He rolled down the window, and, as the cop approached, he looked outside, his hand on his gun. Easily he clicked off the safety. “Is there a problem, Officer?” he said through the open window.

“Just get out of the truck. Real slow.” The cop’s sidearm was drawn, barrel aimed at the open window. He had a microphone strapped to his shoulder, and his nametag read Officer L. J. Tiggs. It was only a matter of seconds before Tiggs would call for backup, if he hadn’t already. “And show me your hands,” the policeman ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “Keep ’em up. High.”

The Reviver moved as if he planned to do as he was ordered. In a millisecond he raised his left hand then jerked up his right arm and fired point-blank at Tiggs.

Blam!

The cop went down in a heap.

CHAPTER 27

“E
xcuse me, you must be Eve Renner. I’m Abby Chastain.” Eve, standing next to Cole, turned her head to spy an athletic-looking woman somewhere in her thirties approaching, hand extended.

So this is the woman who might be my sister, the woman who’s engaged to Detective Montoya,
Eve thought, trying to shake off the absolute terror that wanted to keep her in its sharp talons.

“Nice to meet you,” she said lamely, as nothing else came to mind. They shook hands, and the movement reminded her that her arm was still in a sling.

The woman, Abby, was beautiful, and yes, Eve thought, there might be a resemblance. She couldn’t help staring then quickly dropped her hand and forced her gaze back to Montoya, who was glaring at his fiancée as if he wanted to wring her neck.

“This is a crime scene,” he said to her.

“I know, but I wanted to meet Eve.” Abby managed a cool smile for Montoya. Then her gaze returned to Eve. “I know there’s a chance that we might be related…sisters. I knew it would be awkward, so I wanted to break the ice.”

“In the middle of an investigation,” Montoya reminded her through lips that barely moved.

“I got it,” she said. “You want me to leave.” To Eve, she added, “I’ve got to go, but if you ever want to talk to me, have coffee or a glass of wine, just give me a call.” She reached into her purse, grabbed her wallet, and slid out a card. “This has my business and cell number on it.”

“Thanks,” Eve said.

Montoya was seething, his jaw rigid as steel.

Abby blew him a kiss. “See ya later, honey.” And then she was gone, walking swiftly up the street.

Muttering oaths about hardheaded women under his breath, Montoya watched her leave, his gaze lingering for half a beat on her butt. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess we were about done anyway.”

“So we can go now?” Cole, too, was watching Abby leave. But he drew his gaze back to Montoya. “Eve’s not staying here another night. Not until the locks are changed.”

“Good idea,” Montoya said grudgingly. “Let me know if you can think of anyone who might have written that note, someone who’s out to get you.”

Cole didn’t flinch.

Montoya guessed the jerk was thinking his biggest enemies were on the force. Well, truth to tell, Cole Dennis probably wasn’t too far off base.

“I’ll call if I think of anything.”

Yeah, right, Montoya thought, checking his watch. Where the hell was Bentz? When the call to the Renner place came in, Montoya phoned him first, and Bentz said he was on his way. If that son of a bitch was taking time to get himself laid as Montoya had suggested, he’d wring the guy’s thick neck himself. But then, that wasn’t like Bentz. Reaching for his cell phone again—

Pop!

Montoya stiffened. He motioned to another officer standing by the porch. “Was that a gunshot?”

“I think so.”

Cole, walking toward his Jeep, whipped around, facing the direction from which the sharp report had come.

Pop!

“Shit!” Montoya grabbed for his weapon, knowing that something bad had just gone down. He met the prick lawyer’s gaze. “Yeah, go. You can leave. For now.” And then he was on the move, reaching for his radio, talking in short bursts. “Detective Reuben Montoya,” he said, giving his badge number. “Gunshots. Somewhere off St. Charles.” He rattled off Eve’s address. “I don’t know…checking now. Send backup!”

“Where’s Tiggs?” one of the uniformed cops asked.

“He was going to talk to the neighbors….” Montoya’s eyes moved up the street, where he’d seen Tiggs heading less than ten minutes earlier. All of the neighbors were looking toward the sound of the gunshots, but there was no evidence of a uniform among them.

Fuck!

He jogged to his car. His radio crackled, and the dispatcher’s voice confirmed what he’d already feared. “Officer down!”

Yelling at a patrolman to secure the scene, Montoya listened as the dispatcher spat out the address of the shooting.

Less than three blocks away in a restaurant parking lot.

Jesus Christ, this was getting worse by the second.

He was shaking inside.

Worried.

His guts twisting, mind in a panic, he drove out of the city limits, always checking his rearview mirror, never completely certain he wasn’t being followed. He charged out in the wrong direction, doubled back, then did the same thing again, crossing the river four times before he finally headed in the right direction and the lights of New Orleans faded. On the outskirts of the city, the traffic thinned. But only when he was on the two-lane road, winding through the woods and swamps with no bright headlights glaring in his mirrors, did he draw a relieved breath. Twice he encountered the red glimmers of taillights ahead of him when the road straightened, but he slowed until they vanished from sight.

By the time he reached the lane to his private retreat, he was alone, his heart rate having slowed to normal. But the smell of blood reached his nostrils. He’d disobeyed.

Never had God told him to kill a cop.

Never.

He blinked rapidly, hoping all was not lost. Surely the Voice would come to him tonight, to reassure him he’d only done what was necessary; that still he would be deified.

I will do anything. ANYthing.

As he parked his truck, the series of pitfalls, of mistakes, came back in quicksilver images: Eve at the house with Cole Dennis; his own private fantasy that had clouded his judgment; the cop approaching and the ensuing chase through the neighborhood.

He’d had no choice. He’d had to shoot. Even though it was not part of the mission, even though the Voice had not told him to take the cop’s life.

But it hadn’t ended with that one shot.

As he’d gone down, somehow Tiggs had fired.

The Reviver had flinched.

The bullet had gone wild, ricocheting off the hood of his truck.

Adrenaline fueling him, the Reviver had rammed his pickup into gear and tromped on the accelerator. Burning rubber, his truck had screamed out of the lot.

Heart hammering, blood pumping, fear shooting through his veins, the Reviver had hazarded a quick glance in his rearview mirror.

Tiggs had lain still, not moving, bleeding onto the asphalt. Dying. People began streaming from the restaurant into the lot. Shouting. Pointing fingers. One son of a bitch had even run for his car to give chase. Someone else had fallen to Tiggs’s side in a vain attempt to save him.

Too late, the Reviver had thought, driving out of sight, losing the would-be hero and knowing the cop’s fate.

Tiggs was one victim who would never be revived.

Now he walked briskly through the surrounding woods, ignoring the taunt of an owl hooting from a nearby tree, taking no heed of the whir of bats’ wings as he unlocked the cabin’s door and entered the dark, welcoming interior.

He would shower.

Wash away the blood.

And then he would fall to his knees in front of the cold grate, and he would pray.

For guidance.

For strength.

And ultimately, for forgiveness.

Bentz stared at the woman sitting across from him in his office. Her name was Ellen Chaney. She was black, slightly plump, pushing fifty, and she’d come in because of what she’d heard on the news.

Dispatch had called him, ruining his dinner date with Olivia. He’d hated to cut the evening short, but fortunately his wife, who had been through her own share of terror, had understood.

So he’d met with Chaney at the station, where a few detectives were working at their desks. Compared to the noise of the day shift, the place was quiet.

“So you came in because of the press conference?”

“Yes.” She nodded, her dark eyes troubled. “I was a nurse at Our Lady of Virtues,” she said, twisting her wedding ring nervously. “For a while. It…well, it depressed me.” She looked away from him into the middle distance. “Some of what went on was just plain wrong and…I should have reported it to someone. The medical board, the state, even the Archdiocese, but I didn’t. I just did my job, and when an opportunity to move on came along, I was all over it.”

Bentz listened, his small recorder taping the conversation.

“I thought it was all behind me. Especially during your investigation last fall, when that other serial killer was on the loose. So much came out, and I read about it, feeling as if I was finally free, but then”—she was working the ring so hard, it was nearly cutting into her flesh—“then all this started up again, and there’s talk about Faith Chastain. I figured that when her body was exhumed, someone would notice that she’d had a C-section.”

Bentz hid his sharpened interest, let the woman run with her story. The information about Faith Chastain’s surgery had been kept away from the press for a reason. Only those close to her or to the hospital would know of another baby.

“And…”

“And she had a baby. I was there. The attending nurse. Dr. Renner delivered the baby himself.”

“He was a surgeon?” Bentz asked, surprised.

“A psychiatrist. A medical doctor. He’d done surgical rounds in med school. At least that’s what they told us.”

“Why not call in an ob-gyn?”

Chaney looked at her hands. “They were worried about a scandal.”

“Who was?”

“Hospital administration and the Reverend Mother. The baby, it wasn’t Faith’s husband’s.”

“How did they know?”

“Because there was over a year where they didn’t see each other at all.”

Bentz wasn’t sure how much to buy, but the woman had enough facts to make her story believable. He just couldn’t separate fact from fiction. She seemed truly rueful, her face tortured, the cross dangling from her neck testament to her faith. And yet…

“So, who was the father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Renner?”

“What?” She’d been staring at her ring finger, but her gaze swept up quickly, offense evident on her face. “The doctor? No.”

“What about Dr. Simon Heller?”

“Oh, no…I mean, I don’t know. There was talk that he, um, was caught with a patient, but nothing ever bore out. But I really don’t know whom it could have been. All I know is that the baby was stillborn. A boy. Faith named him Adam.”

“Dead?” Bentz said, surprised.

“Yes.”

“You saw him? This male child?”

She nodded gravely. “He wasn’t breathing, and…and Faith was beside herself. The doctor sedated her, and then they shuffled me out of the room.”

Bentz eyed the woman, watching as she avoided his eyes. Telling the truth? Maybe…just not all of it. And if what she was saying was true, then Eve Renner was not Faith Chastain’s missing child. The acid in his stomach started to roil. He’d chosen to meet with her instead of joining Montoya at Eve Renner’s house because he’d thought maybe they were going to catch a break with Ellen Chaney. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“What happened to the baby?”

“I told you. He died.”

“I mean the body.”

“Buried in the cemetery. A grave with a blank headstone, as if he hadn’t even existed. The only reason they marked it at all was for Faith, so she would have a place to go to visit. We were all sworn to secrecy.”

“You and the doctor?” he surmised.

“As well as Faith, Sister Rebecca, and Father Paul.”

“Sister Rebecca Renault?” he asked, noting the connection. “The Reverend Mother at Our Lady of Virtues?”

Ellen nodded and bit her lower lip. “I read about what happened to her. I wonder if she might still be alive if only I’d come forward earlier.”

“What about this Father Paul? Is he still alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“How old is he?”

“Um, he was in his late fifties, I’d guess, at that time.”

“What was his last name?”

“Oh…Gosh…I…can’t remember…. A simple name, I think. There were a lot of priests who passed through, you know, and stayed for a few months or a year before they were assigned somewhere else, but Father Paul, he was there a long while.” She massaged her temple, trying to think, like someone rubbing a lamp and hoping for a genie to appear. “It was a common name, I think. Like Smith or Johnson or Brown.…I really can’t remember.” She paused, lost in thought.

Bentz was trying to add her information into the total puzzle. Face grim, he didn’t immediately ask another question, and after a silent stretch, Ellen reached for her purse.

“Well, I hope that helps you. I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you,” she said.

“Just a minute, Mrs. Chaney.” He looked through the pages of notes he’d taken over the course of the past few days. He’d seen the name Paul somewhere. Running a finger down one page, he located one of the names he’d found in Faith Chastain’s file. “How about Father Paul Swanson?”

She hesitated, her hand in midair over her purse. “That’s it, I think.”

He made a mental note to find the priest with all the secrets. “Can you think back to the people who were employed by the hospital at the time of the birth of Faith’s child? Anyone who was a patient? It could help.”

“It’s been nearly thirty years.”

“I know,” he said, offering a tight smile. He felt the clock ticking. He was running extremely late. Montoya was going to be really pissed. “Here’s a partial list. Maybe these names will help jog your memory.” He slid three pages across the desk. On it were the names of the patients whose files Eve claimed to have seen in the attic cabinet. Bentz had added a few more himself, names taken from the notes in Faith Chastain’s folder, including Dr. Terrence Renner and Simon Heller, as well as others he hadn’t recognized, such as Father Paul Swanson.

Ellen Chaney dutifully picked up the papers and skimmed the first page. “Oh. Enid Walcott. She was a sweet little woman, such a sad case, too nervous to sit and eat or do anything, and she was allergic to so many of the meds. Oh, and Neva. She was so lost, in her own world. A severely autistic child.” She flipped over to the second page and stopped short, her expression turning to shock. “Oh no…Dear Lord…” She looked up sharply and dropped the paper onto his desk.

“What?”

She shivered and ran her hand through her hair. “I probably shouldn’t say anything, but this person…” She pointed a long finger at the name of Ronnie Le Mars. “I’ve never in all my life met anyone I thought was born evil. I mean, I believe in Christ our Savior and redemption through prayer and that everyone can be saved, but…but that one, Ronnie, he’d sooner take a knife to your throat than look you in the eye.”