Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (33 page)

If Jacob was alive, he was going to meet him. If the son of a bitch was already dead, then he wanted confirmation that his twin had actually existed. Damn. How had he not known? Where the hell was all that twin karma and connection he’d heard about, that Brianna spouted, when he’d needed it. Anger fueled his strides and clenched his fists as he made his way along a patchy, weed-strewn lane. Determination drew him toward the shabby structure that was little more than a shack while lights bars on the parked vehicles flashed wildly against the surrounding fields and forest.

“Didn’t you hear me? Stop. There! Right now!” A cop, identified as Deputy Bill Morrison, was yelling and approaching fast.

From somewhere behind him Jase heard Brianna’s voice. “Jase! Don’t! Please.” As if she were actually frightened for him. The same woman who had tried to beat him to a pulp only minutes before, the same woman who had iced him out on the rest of their short journey to this God-forsaken scrap of land.
Now
she cared?

“It’s all right.” Another voice. Belonging to Rick Bentz. “Stand down,” he told the other cop as he walked from the direction of the cabin toward Jase.

“But—”

“I said, ‘It’s all right.’ Stand the fuck down!” Bentz glowered at the deputy and the younger cop, turning a bright red, holstered his weapon. To Jase, Bentz said, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I need to meet my brother.”

“Too late.” Bentz was shaking his head.

“Then to see him.” Jase met the reservation in Bentz’s eyes. “I have to.”

“I don’t think—”

“I
have
to.”

A muscle worked in Bentz’s jaw and he glanced over at his partner. Montoya hitched his goateed chin toward one of the two ambulances on the grounds. The other was taking off, wheels spinning, lights flashing, siren wailing. The second was in no hurry.

“This way,” Bentz said and headed toward the ambulance where the back doors were still open, a body bag within. With a look to one of the attendants, Bentz said, “We need to open it up.”

The EMT hesitated, then unzipped the bag, the sound a hiss that curled through Jase’s soul as he found himself staring into a face so like his own that if it weren’t for the unshaven jaw, mussed hair, and sightless, fixed eyes he might have been looking into a mirror. Blood was everywhere across a hairy torso and his neck, hell, it looked like it had been ripped apart by a wild animal.

Jase’s knees weakened.

This was his twin? The brother who had been conceived with him, who had grown with him in a bitter womb? A hundred thoughts flashed through Jase’s brain, pictures of a mother he didn’t remember, memories devoid of this person, so like him, so damned opposite.

All the breath left his lungs in a rush and he felt as if he’d been hit, a hard jab to the solar plexus. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, knowing the truth, feeling something stir deep inside him, a connection that was quickly severed with the reality of who this monster was.

His brother, the twin he’d never known, Jacob Bridges was, indeed, the 21 Killer, a psychopath who had killed at least three sets of twins and probably more, a soulless monster who bore his own face.

Bile rose up his throat and he took a step back. With a nod from Bentz, the attendant quickly zipped the bag and slid it into the back of the ambulance.

“No. Hell. No.” Jase shook his head, as if negating the truth could make it so. “Damn it!” His knees wobbled a bit but he somehow remained on his feet and a second later he felt slim fingers surround his.

“It . . . it’ll be all right,” Brianna said, squeezing his hand. He turned to look at her, felt a glaze of tears over his eyes and blinked it back to see that her gaze, too, was shimmering, a tiny drop rolling down her cheek. “It’ll be all right.”

His heart swelled for the briefest of instants and he saw her smile. Bravely, he thought and he couldn’t do the same.

Brianna was lying of course.

It would never be all right.

Never.

But at least it would be over.

E
PILOGUE

 

J
ase found a beer in the refrigerator and cracked it open, then took a deep swallow. As he stepped onto the back porch of the farmhouse, he stared across the rolling acres to the tree where for years he’d believed a body had been buried. He’d been wrong. As his father had pronounced all those months ago, and as Prescott had confirmed. The old man had taken off, cashed the check, and Jase hadn’t heard from him since, but Prescott had explained that the assailant who had raped Arianna had been an associate of Ed’s, someone to whom the old man owed money.

The guy hadn’t been dead, but had agreed to disappear; Ed’s debt was then forgiven, any rape charge unable to be pinned on a faceless man. Prescott didn’t know the rapist’s name, and Ed would take that bit of information with him to the grave.

Nonetheless, Jase had gone to the police and told his tale. Though the clock on the statute of limitations had run out on any charges that might have occurred during the fight, Jase had lost any chance he’d had of getting the job with the police department.

As well as any chance he’d had with Brianna. She hadn’t spoken to him since he’d stood over the dead body of his brother in the body bag, and he didn’t really blame her.

So he’d bought out Prescott and moved here, his only companion a red hound dog that had been found on the Tillman property, probably belonging to his brother. The dog warned him when visitors arrived and was content to curl up at his feet in the evening. Good company. As much as he wanted now.

At least Chloe Denning had survived. She’d been traumatized, of course, but she was going to live while his brother, Jacob, the 21 Killer had not. The police had finally closed the case on that one with the evidence collected at the cabin, including the red ribbon that matched ribbon found on previous victims in California. In searching the cabin, the police had also discovered the grave of a woman buried within the walls of the cell. DNA testing was back, the woman was the owner of the property, Milo’s sister, Myra, the woman Jacob had loved and murdered; though according to both Chloe and Zoe Denning, he’d acted as if Myra were alive and the brains behind his crimes. The police had located his cell phone, again in Myra’s name, but never charged or minutes purchased. The phone was little more than a prop.

His twin had been a bona-fide psychopath. Crazy and sadistic. Ritualistic. A killer who had taken the life of his lover, Myra, and maybe, just maybe their mother. Before he turned his attention to twins. The theory was that because he’d killed Myra when she was turning 21, he tried to replay the scenario with twins, all because he knew he, too, was a twin. Yeah, the Denning girls were right, Jacob Bridges was a freak. As well as his damned brother. Go figure.

Jase had finally come to terms with that sorry fact as well as resolved, in his mind, Arianna’s death. Had she committed suicide? No one would ever know, but his guilt was lessening. He doubted he could have saved her from herself or the accident. No one could have. Not even Brianna.

Now as he sat on the porch rail and drank his beer, Jase watched the dog chasing squirrels near the tree where he’d been certain his own victim had been buried.

He was still pissed at Prescott for that one. The old man? Well, he was who he was and Jase would never forgive him, but Prescott? Really? He wasn’t certain the fences between his only surviving brother and himself would ever be mended and it hurt a little when he considered his niece and nephews. Maybe someday . . . damn he hoped he could watch those two and the new baby, another boy, grow up. Somehow he’d have to find a way to forgive Prescott for his lies and secrets.

And he’d spent the past few months trying to purge those very demons, the secrets, from his life by burying himself into work. He’d thrown his back into repairing fences and cleaning out buildings during the day and worked on a book at night. He figured he had an intimate take on the 21 Killer and already had some publishers interested in the story. That is, if he had the guts to go through reporting all the ritualistic murders knowing full well that his own twin brother was the monster behind the bizarre homicides. If he needed help, Kristi Bentz, the detective’s daughter was already a true crime writer and she’d suggested a collaboration. He was considering it. Who knew?

As for his job at the
Observer
? He’d let it go. Let Meri-Jo have the crime beat. He didn’t need it any longer. Didn’t want it. Time for a fresh start.

He figured he needed some time to himself, to adjust to this new life, to figure out where he’d go from here. It would be a lie to say that he didn’t think of Brianna, but he tried to keep that at a minimum.

The dog was barking again and this time the hound’s attention was focused on the lane.

Jase pushed himself upright and walked around the wraparound porch to the side of the building where the late-afternoon sun was bouncing off the windshield of a small car driving toward the house. He squinted and told himself that he was hallucinating, because the compact sure looked like a Honda, and the woman behind the wheel was a dead ringer for Brianna Hayward.

No way.

He drained his beer and left the empty on the porch.

Barking and yipping, the hound bounded over the dry grass of the field before slithering under the bottom fence rail while Jase cut along the path leading to the parking area near the garage.

The Honda ground to a stop, and sure enough, Brianna climbed from behind the wheel.

His heart did a stupid little thump. God, he was an idiot.

“So,” she said, shielding her eyes with the flat of a hand as she approached. Wearing a T-shirt, skirt, and sandals, she was as gorgeous as he remembered. “You’re a cowboy now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He couldn’t help but grin. “Seems to me someone suggested I wasn’t cut out to be a buttoned-down type.”

“You aren’t.” She hesitated. Bit her lip. Seemed about to turn away from him and flee back the way she came before she squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Listen, Bridges, I don’t know how to say this, but . . . I’ve thought about everything that happened.” Her mouth turned down and she squinted a bit, still held his gaze. “It was bad. Really bad.”

“No argument there.”

“And I desperately wanted to blame you for not being straight with me, for everything that happened, for my sister’s death, for all of it. You know, just call you the bad guy and file it away forever. But . . .” She let out her breath. “I was wrong.” She hesitated, one thumb nervously rubbing her forefinger. “And I’ve done some major soul-searching and yeah, some counseling. Even shrinks have shrinks, you know, and I think . . . Dear Lord, I
hope
I’m getting past it.”

“Just like that?”

“No, not just like that.” She shook her head, her hair highlighted by the late-afternoon sun. “It took a while.” She sighed and nodded, agreeing with herself. “And I was pretty awful to you.”

“You were. But maybe I deserved it.”

“No one does. I was just lashing out. Stupidly and I’m sorry. Life’s too short, you know, for carrying around all that negative energy.” She shoved her hair from her face. Her eyes clouded for a second, and she closed them, as if she suddenly doubted her reasons for coming out here and needed to gather her strength.

“And?” he prodded.

“And—” Her eyes opened again. Clear once more. A smile toyed at the corners of her mouth and she seemed calmer. “Look, I’d really like to start over, get to know you.” She rolled those expressive eyes and sighed. “Sounds corny, I know, but I believe in saying what I think.”

“I remember. Direct.”

“Yeah, and so I have a confession.”

“You do?”

“Mmm. You might not believe this,” she said, her cheeks turning pink, “and I hate to admit it, but the truth is I had a major crush on you in high school.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Her smile fell away. “Are you kidding me, Bridges? I bare my soul, make this big proclamation, and you say you
know
?”

“Yep.” The breeze ruffled her hair and played with her skirt. He tried not to notice.

“Okay . . . so, with the whole Arianna thing, it was too much, that you knew how she died and you had an affair with her . . . and see how complicated it is? I don’t want to dwell on it anymore.” Her gaze was suddenly tentative. “And the thing is, as I said, I want to start this, thing between us, whatever it is,” she made a gesture from her to him and back, “over again.”

“Really?” He found it hard to believe. Damned hard after the way she’d reacted to him when he’d finally told her the truth.

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I’m just surprised.”

“So you don’t want to?”

“No, no. Of course I do,” he admitted and took a step closer to her. She didn’t back away and he figured that was a positive sign. “But I’ve got to warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“It might be dangerous.”

“How’s that?”

He felt his lips twitch. “I have a strong feeling you might want to pressure me into joining that twinless twin support group.”

Never,” she said, and laughed, shaking her head. “Trust me, you wouldn’t fit in.”

“Okay. Then it’s a deal.” He told himself he was making a huge mistake, but figured what the hell? She was right. Life was far too short to dwell on the past. “So, what do you say? How ’bout a beer?”

She grinned a little wider, her smile as sexy as ever and one of her eyebrows arched playfully “A beer? Sure.” Then she winked at him. “As long as you’re buying.”

 

 

Rick Bentz fingered his badge, turning it over and over as he sat at his desk in his office at the department. It was quiet now, twilight stealing through the slats of the window on the far wall. He still hadn’t quit his job, though he’d played out the scenarios of leaving and staying in his mind a dozen times over.

His quitting the department wasn’t Olivia’s choice, nor was it Montoya’s. It was his alone and, damn it, he was torn. Things had quieted down since their last major case. The 21 Killer, Jacob Bridges was dead. A good thing. Justice served. The one sour note in the case was Donovan Caldwell, who had been, as it turned out an innocent man, just as he’d protested to the very end when he’d written his last plea in blood on his cell wall as he’d bled out. Not that he’d been a great guy, but his end . . . not right. That bothered Bentz. A lot. The Caldwells had not only lost their twin daughters but their son as well, due to a mistake in the system.

Wasn’t fair.

Then again, what was in life?

The other sets of twins who Brianna Hayward had thought were his victims, the brothers in Phoenix and the sister and brother in Dallas had turned out not to have been in the psycho’s path, nor had 21 turned up in New Orleans because of Bentz. But he’d ended up here anyway and at least now he would harm no more innocents.

Thank God. Jacob Bridges had been a nutcase. According to the Denning twins he’d talked constantly to the already-dead Myra, acting as if she were calling the shots when he’d killed her years before. And his fascination with red and ribbons. Hard to believe he was the twin brother of Jason Bridges, who seemed grounded and normal despite his own not-so-great upbringing.

Twins, but diametrically opposed in personality.

“Hey!” Montoya poked his head into the office. “You goin’ home or what?”

“Yeah.”

Montoya’s gaze narrowed in on the badge. “Uh-oh. What’re you doin’? Oh, hell, don’t tell me you’re thinking of quitting again?”

“Always. But I can’t. Even if I wanted to.”

Montoya flashed his knowing smile. “Because of our boy Father John?”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it,” Montoya said, walking into the small office and hooking one knee over the corner of Bentz’s desk. “That bad-ass is under your skin.”

“The one that got away,” Bentz said, nodding. The thought still ate at him, but no longer to the point that he needed to down a beer as he stared at the arrogant bastard on the prison’s tape. So far Bentz hadn’t repeated his slipup with alcohol, didn’t intend to again.

Montoya pointed out, “The bastard’s been quiet for a few months now and it was years between his killings.”

That much was true. After the murder of the nun in the prison and the prostitute in her apartment, Father John had seemed to stop his bizarre murders. Inexplicably he’d ceased. Again. Why? Didn’t make sense. Also, though he’d once been an obsessed stalker of Dr. Sam and her radio show, he hadn’t called in, hadn’t taunted her. But of course, he could still be listening. From some dark lair.

This time, the killer was being coy. Careful. Why come back and flaunt the fact that he’d survived by killing the nun and prostitute only to disappear again?

Didn’t make sense.

“Maybe the son of a bitch is dead. You know the prostitute could have been killed by a copycat. That’s the way the department would like to spin it,” Montoya said. “To avoid another panic by the public if they thought Father John was stalking the streets of New Orleans again.”

Bentz reached over, clicked his mouse to his computer and the darkened screen illuminated, freeze-framed on the smiling, nearly gloating image of Father John looking up at the camera right after killing the nun. “The department’s spinning it in the wrong direction.” He pointed at the image. “You and I, we know, this guy, he’s the real deal.”

“Or maybe a twin.” Montoya’s dark eyes flashed.

“Don’t even joke about it.”

Montoya gave a quick nod. “A major bad dude.”

“One I have to catch.”

“We,” Montoya corrected, though they both knew it was Bentz whose shot had missed its mark in the bayou all those years before. “We.”