Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (73 page)

“You’d better be.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t tell him to butt out of her life. “So are you gonna get this guy?”

“You bet.”

“Then you’ll be famous again.”

“Or infamous.” He flashed her a smile as he drove through the city, gunning it as he turned onto the freeway. He didn’t even complain when she tuned the radio to “her” station instead of that crappy WSLJ that he listened to. Oldies. Jazz. Obscure music you couldn’t find on CDs and, of course, the radio talk show that he found so fascinating,
Midnight Confessions
hosted by Dr. Sam. Ever since last summer when that Rosary Killer was on the loose, her dad had been tuning in. It was weird. Kristi had first introduced him to Dr. Sam and, unbeknownst to Bentz, had even called in a few times and gotten some advice from the radio shrink.

Well, who wouldn’t, after what she’d found out about herself, her mother, the man she’d thought was an uncle, and the man who had raised her. They’d all been living a lie. It was probably why her mom had died. Why else would Jennifer have lost control of her car and crashed into the tree? She hadn’t been legally drunk—no way. Jennifer Bentz had hated excessive alcohol almost as much as she’d hated her husband being a cop. It had been a clear day. No other car involved. But there had been some traces of Valium in her bloodstream … Damn it all.

Kristi was also starting to believe that her mother had hated herself. For all the mistakes she’d made in her life. The more Kristi learned about psychology from weird Dr. Sutter, the more she was convinced her mother had been consumed with self-loathing. Why? Because she’d messed up. Gotten it on with her brother-in-law, a priest no less, ended up pregnant and then lived a lie. Who wouldn’t go nuts? Worse yet, years later Jennifer had taken up with Father James again. Like he was some kind of irresistible force or forbidden fruit. No wonder she’d been seeing a shrink and her father had poured himself into a bottle. Then there was the incident when Bentz had killed a kid he thought was going to shoot his partner. That had happened in L.A. Just like everything else.

So they’d moved east. To New Orleans. The only place her dad could get another job as a detective. Yeah, that made a lot of sense. Sometimes Kristi just wished they lived somewhere in the middle of the country—somewhere like Kansas or Oklahoma—and her mom was still alive and really into gardening and her dad sold insurance or real estate, like normal people. They would have a nice two-story house with a picket fence and a dog and a cat, and she would have an older brother to watch over her and a younger sister to confide in and fight with. There would be a patio with a barbecue and maybe one of those old-fashioned swings on the front porch and … She snapped herself out of the daydream.

Get real!

She glanced over at the man who called himself her dad. Lines of worry fanned from the corners of his eyes as he squinted against the traffic. His lips were thin and she knew he was thinking about the case. Not that she could blame him.

All in all, he wasn’t such a bad guy.

For a paranoid, recovering alcoholic, homicide dick.

The Chosen One was frantic.

His head thundered, felt as if it was going to explode.

No amount of prayer, nor flogging, could calm him.

Alone in his sanctuary, he stood naked and shaking at the small table, flipping anxiously through the pages of his book. Then, in despair, he rocked back on his heels. His heart was pounding, his head on fire. St. Olivia’s feast day was in June … no, that would never do. He couldn’t wait that long for her sacrifice and Olivia wasn’t even canonized … no, no … He began to sweat. His heart rate accelerated to a fever pitch. Then there was Oliva … feast day March fifth, no, no … The storm in his head raged and he drew in deep breaths …

Calm down.

Think rationally.

The other ones he’d sacrificed had not answered to the names of the saints whom they’d become, had they?

No. He’d had to rename them.

He would have to stick to his original method and baptize Olivia into the proper name. That was all. He was becoming confused. His mission unfocused. Sometimes he doubted himself … if only he had someone in whom he could confide. He’d had his apprentice and there had been comfort in sharing … but that was over now and he had to resort to confession … when the doubts became unbearable, he could confess and not worry about detection.

He closed his eyes and sent up a short prayer for clarity. That’s what he needed now. Ever since the last sacrifice, he’d lacked clarity. The rite itself had buoyed him to the God-like state he experienced at each sacrifice but afterward, much too soon this time, he’d tumbled down so far into the black depths of despair, even questioning his mission.

He tried recalling the act, visualizing St. Catherine of Alexandria’s face as he’d lifted his sword, but even that did not bring him to euphoria, nor arousal. Because of the woman. Olivia. She was getting nearer. He could feel her. Watching. Wanting to stop him.

This is a test. God is always giving you a challenge and you must not waver on your mission.

“Maintain,” he told himself and then, drawing deep breaths, began again, slowly turning the pages of his book, his eyes scanning each thin page. There were many saints to choose from … he just had to find the perfect one—yes, that was it, God was speaking to him. It had to be soon. Yes … yes … Here!

St. Bibiana …
Vivian … not so far from Olivia, many of the same letters in her name, not that it mattered, but… oh, yes … the way she was martyred. He read hungrily, already thinking of his mission. St. Vivian had been jailed in a madhouse and routinely flogged. Eventually she’d been left for the dogs … who surprisingly weren’t interested in feasting upon her.

He tapped his fingers on the page.

Obviously, those pathetic curs weren’t the right kind of dogs, nor trained properly … nor hungry enough.

He would have to do some research. In the library. Rottweiler? Pit bull? Or a hybrid with a wolf … oh, that would be a nice touch and there were those lowlifes who bred such animals, all without papers, behind the authorities’ backs … and the place, well, that was already taken care of … He had a whip … he glanced to the wall where an ancient cat-o'-nine-tails hung next to a picture of the Madonna. Oh,
yesssss …

The Chosen One finally found peace. His headache abated to a dull, irritating throb. His mission was clear again. He smiled and made the sign of the cross at the altar, then he found his pinking shears and began cutting out the picture of St. Vivian … beautiful… pious … smooth skinned … just like Olivia Benchet …

Chapter Twenty-nine

“I can’t believe that you actually found this place!” Olivia exclaimed, throwing open the door. It was late Wednesday morning, and Sarah Restin, two bags sitting on the floorboards, was standing on Olivia’s front porch. “God, it’s so good to see you!” Olivia threw her arms around her friend and said, “Don’t pay any attention to the dog.” Hairy S was having his usual barking fit, running in crazy circles and setting off a chain reaction of cawing and scolding from the crows and squirrels hiding in the surrounding trees.

“I said I was coming, didn’t I?” Sarah said, holding tight and sidestepping Hairy. Olivia remembered that Sarah didn’t like animals, had a particular phobia of dogs, the result of having been bitten in the leg while riding her bike as a girl. “I just lucked out and got on an early flight… a very early flight,” Sarah said, eyeing Hairy S warily.

“But you were going to call first.”

“Well, I found directions on the Internet and thought I’d take a chance! This is great,” she added. She reached down for the handle of her roll bag. “It’s so …”

“Un-Tucson?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s it,” Sarah said, taking in everything. She’d lost weight since Olivia had seen her and her hair was shorter and a deeper shade of red, but her eyes said it all. Worry lines had sprouted near the corners and bluish circles made them appear haunted. “I was going to say it was so remote and isolated … in the middle of no-damned where.”

“Home sweet home,” Olivia teased as Sarah held her at arm’s length.

“You look great.”

“You, too.”

“Don’t lie.
I know
what I look like.” They each carried a bag inside, and as they passed the bookcase, Sarah glanced into the mirror mounted above. “Ugh. Look at that. I’ve aged twenty years in the last one.” She shook her head. “All this stuff with Leo is killing me. I can’t believe he wants a damned divorce.”

“Let’s not talk about it just yet. We’ve got plenty of time.” She started for the stairs. “Here, follow me, I’ll take you to your room.”

“Just like the bellman at the Ritz.”

“Exactly.”

Sarah managed a small laugh as she climbed the stairs and deposited her things in the second bedroom. But a few minutes later, when they were downstairs drinking coffee laced with Baileys, she slipped into her dark mood again. “If I can’t get hold of Leo, I’m going to have to get an attorney,” she admitted and looked out the window to the bayou. Sunlight battled through a thin mist rising between the skeletal branches of the scrub oak and cypress.

“You should anyway. Just to know your rights. You need someone in your corner.”

“I suppose,” Sarah said, not sounding convinced as she dropped a hand and scratched Hairy behind his ears. The dog stretched his neck, eager for the attention. “I never, never, never thought I’d be getting a divorce. It’s just not something I believe in.”

“I know, but Leo’s making it damned hard for you to stay married.” Olivia finished her coffee as Chia made deep-throated noises from her cage.

“You’ve got yourself a menagerie here, don’t you?”

“Inherited both pets. From Grannie. But you know, now I couldn’t live without ‘em.” As if he understood he was the subject of conversation, Hairy S thumped his tail against the floorboards.

“I’m … I’m not really into animals,” Sarah admitted.

“I know, but mine are harmless, believe me. Well, unless you get your nose too close to Chia’s cage.”

“No chance of that. And him?” She motioned with one finger to the dog.

“A pussycat, but don’t tell him,” Olivia stage-whispered. “It ruins his self-image and I can’t afford canine psychotherapy.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so. Oh, crap!” Olivia glanced at her watch. “Look, I hate to leave you, but I’ve got to work a few hours at the store, then stop by the University and drop off some books at the library. I’ll be back later, probably around six.”

“I should go into town anyway. I have a receipt for a motel where Leo was staying. I think I’ll see if I can find him.”

“Are you sure this is what you want to do? I’m getting bad vibes about it.”

“He’s my husband,” Sarah pointed out and drained her cup. She set it firmly on the table, as if she’d finally made a decision she’d been wrestling with. “I’ll try to track Leo down, find out if he can look me in the eye, and then attempt to talk to him, see if we can find any way to communicate. I should be back here in a few hours. If not, I’ll give you a call.”

Short of hog-tying Sarah, locking her in her room, and appointing Hairy S to keep her from leaving, there wasn’t much Olivia could do. “Okay,” she finally agreed, “but be careful. I mean it. We’ve got another serial killer on the loose.”

“I read that in the headlines as I walked through the airport,” Sarah said. “Creepy.” But she was obviously more interested in Leo than the killer haunting New Orleans.

“I mean it. Just don’t be careless.”

“Olivia, has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?”

“No, just the opposite, if you want to know the truth. But there’s a reason for it. Somehow I’m in tune with the killer. I actually ‘witness’ him killing the victims.”

“Witness it? Jesus!”

“Not like I’m there.”

“Oh, you mean those visions you have … come on, Olivia.”

“I mean it, I see these things.” Something in her expression must have convinced Sarah because she quit arguing. “So you see him kill people in those visions like you got back in Tucson when you had the horrible headaches.”

“Just more intense.”

Sarah threw her a skeptical glance. “So what have you done about it?’ ”

“Talked to the police and installed a security system.”

“No! Are you serious?”

“Yes, let me show you how it works.” She took the time to demonstrate the system and gave Sarah the code to disengage the sensors so she could get in and out of the house without setting off the alarms.

“All right. Got it,” Sarah said, though Olivia wasn’t certain. Her friend was far more interested in her husband’s infidelity than in self-preservation.

“Good. Promise me you’ll be careful. I’m dead serious. The police think I may be a target.”

“Because of some ESP thing? Oh, come on … Really, Olivia, you do worry way too much. And I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“Sarah—”

“Okay, okay, didn’t I say I’d be careful? Truly. Now, relax. We’re going to have a great Thanksgiving!” Sarah spent the next fifteen minutes “repairing the damage” to her makeup and hair while talking incessantly about how pissed off she was at Leo, then hauled her purse with her and tore off in her rental car.

Olivia was only a few minutes behind.

As she drove into the city, she wondered how much she should confide in her friend. She’d already told her about the visions, tried to warn her, but should she say more? Sarah was going off half-cocked.

And then there were other issues, Olivia thought as she melded into the traffic near the freeway. Sarah’s rental was already out of sight. Should Olivia tell her friend about her one-night with Bentz? That she had some weird kind of fascination not only with Bentz but with a parish priest? Or how about the fact that she had a full brother somewhere, one she’d never known existed?

Gripping the steering wheel more tightly and glancing at her own worried eyes in the rearview mirror, she decided to hold her tongue. Sarah wasn’t interested anyway. Olivia had warned her friend about the killer. Now all she could offer Sarah was some compassion because Olivia had a feeling that Leo Restin was going to break his wife’s heart.

Unless Olivia could stop it.

But how?

No … wait … Maybe what Sarah needed was some friendly advice, not from Olivia, but from someone she could pour out her heart to, someone she could trust, someone who could help her help herself. For the first time since getting into the car, Olivia felt better. She knew just the person Sarah should talk to. She was Catholic, wasn’t she? And there wasn’t a more engaging priest than Father James McClaren.

Tonight I have taken a life.
The confession had been with James ever since he’d heard it over the phone two nights earlier. He hadn’t slept a wink since. Had expected the phone to ring again and that cold whispery voice to seek reconciliation.

Tired to his bones, James walked into the nave. He was troubled, oh, so troubled. He wondered if the Father’s sense of humor was so twisted and dark that He would use James’s torment, this knowing that a murderer was on the loose and communicating with James, as his own atonement for the sins Father James had committed against his brother, against his vows, and ultimately against God Himself.

James had spent hours in prayer, more hours seeking Monsignor Roy’s counsel, and he’d always received the same advice. “Talk to God, James. This is your challenge. You must uphold the faith and trust. You cannot reveal any of the supplicant’s sins. This is part of your contract with God.” Monsignor Roy had smiled kindly, but beneath his beatific expression there had been something more. Something dark that lurked beneath the surface. An intangible shape that shifted.

James had studied enough human psychology and counseled enough couples and individuals to recognize guilt and fear when he saw them. Brothers they were, walking hand in hand. Had not James himself felt their bristly, uncomfortable presence within his own soul?

He paused at the altar and looked up at the large cross where a sculpted image of Jesus hung, His crown of thorns creating spots of red blood on His forehead, the slash in His side red and oozing blood, the nails in his hands painfully depicted. “Help me,” James whispered and genuflected. “Please.” He straightened and turned, surprised to find that there was someone near the door. Not just any woman, but the siren of his dreams.

Olivia Benchet.

His heart fluttered for an instant before he reminded himself that he would never allow himself the mistake he’d made once before. She was just another member of his scattered, disjointed flock. Forcing a warm smile that belied the torment in his soul, he walked briskly toward her. “Olivia,” he said, holding out a hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Father.” She blushed slightly and the stain of pink accented her wide gold eyes and frivolous curly hair.

“What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to someone,” she said and some of his resolve cracked a bit.

“You’ve come to the right place. As they say these days, we’re open twenty-four seven. The Boss likes it that way.”

She smiled, showing off white teeth that overlapped just slightly. “If you’re not busy …” She glanced toward the nave and noticed the empty pews.

“I think God’s reserved this time for you. Follow me.” He led her to his office and held the door for her. “Come in. Sit down.” As she breezed past him and took a chair, he noticed a provocative hint of jasmine lingering in her wake. His jaw clenched tight and he tried vainly to ignore the scent. He knew he should round the desk and use it as a barrier between them, that he should sit stiffly away from her, but he found it impossible. Instead he slung a leg over the corner of the desk and wrapped his arms around his abdomen. “What’s on your mind?”

“First, I was wondering … I mean are there any records within the church of private adoptions?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about a woman, not more than a girl, who gave up a baby around thirty years ago—actually I have the date. I got it out of the family Bible.” She rummaged in her purse and handed him a slip of paper on which she’d copied down a birth date and time. “I think it would have been handled through the Church rather than the courts. Maybe even a priest on his own. It might not have been entirely legal.”

He felt his eyebrows rise. “Not legal, but with a priest?”

“Yes. Because my grandmother was involved. The baby we’re talking about is my brother. It was before … before my mother and father were married and I don’t think my father even knew the baby existed, at least not at first. Later, I think, he found out.”

“And your mother?” James prodded, watching Olivia shake her head, her blond-streaked curls dancing in the soft light from the desk lamp.

“She doesn’t know.”

“Or she won’t say. It might be that she doesn’t want to revisit that particularly painful time.” He folded his hands over one knee and tried not to notice the way her eyebrows pulled together or the way she chewed her lower lip.

“I really don’t think Bernadette knows, and my grandmother is dead. The lawyer for my grandmother’s estate is too young and didn’t act as if he had a clue.” She looked into his eyes and he couldn’t help but stare back. There was something about her—ethereal, yet oh so earthy. Forbidden stirrings heated his blood. “I don’t know where the record would be, what parish, but I think there would be a christening around that time … I think the couple who adopted him would have been very religious. Very Catholic. My grandmother was a bit of a free spirit, you might say, but she had strong roots in her faith.” He felt himself being mesmerized, thinking thoughts he shouldn’t. “I need to find my brother, Father,” she whispered, pleading. “It’s important.”