by Lisa Jackson
In the few short months she’d been back in Louisiana, Olivia had come to recognize some of the local newscasters and deejays. The radio station she listened to more often than not was WSLJ, the same station where Samantha Leeds aka “Dr. Sam” dispensed her nightly advice to her callers, the same station she’d “heard” last night during the vision.
The damned vision.
She felt that same icy presence rush through her soul each time she thought about that horrifying murder. So don’t. Don’t think about it. But even as she was mentally reprimanding herself, a jagged memory of the victim begging for forgiveness skittered through Olivia’s brain. Distracted, she slid her knuckles along the side of the grater. “Ouch. Damn.” Blood oozed up from her skin and quickly she sucked on her fingers, then turned on the faucet and let cold water run over her hand. “I’m an idiot,” she muttered at Hairy S. “Truly an idiot.”
The truth of the matter was Olivia was troubled because she couldn’t put the nightmare behind her. She’d hoped talking to the police would help. But Bentz’s blatant doubts had stopped her cold. She’d thought, from reading the article in the paper, that he might be different, more receptive, but he’d been nearly as bad as Brinkman. “Jerk,” she muttered.
Maybe Bentz’s doubts are well founded. Maybe it was all just a dream, a really horrible, bad dream.
“Yeah, and maybe I’m the Queen of England,” she growled as she wrapped a paper towel around her fingers and managed to sprinkle a handful of mozzarella onto the eggs.
The toast popped.
Olivia slid the slices onto a plate and was reaching for the tub of margarine when she heard the newscast. “… a three-alarm fire last night took the life of one woman who has yet to be identified. The blaze broke out near three this morning near Bayou St. John …”
Olivia sank against the counter and listened to the short bit of information. The press had only the basics. A fire. A woman dead. Suspected arson. Nothing about homicide. Nothing about a murderer escaping into the night.
But Rick Bentz knew.
And he’d be calling.
She didn’t have to be a psychic to know that much.
Chapter Seven
The real estate management firm wasn’t much help. Bentz stopped by after grabbing his own car at the station only to learn that Oscar Cantrell, the owner of Benchmark Realty, was out. But the secretary, Marlene, a spacey brunette in red plastic-rimmed glasses, assured Bentz that the house where the fire had taken place had been vacant since September when some students at Tulane University had skipped out on several months’ rent.
“It’s always a crap shoot when you rent to college kids,” Marlene confided, and added that the five boys who had rented both sides of the building had turned out to be partiers. They’d done some damage to the house which the cleaning and security deposits hadn’t covered. Now the owners, a brother and sister who lived in separate states, were thinking about selling.
Marlene had talked a little breathlessly, all the while chewing gum and gesturing wildly with her hands. “We handle everything as the owners are out of state. Wes, that’s the brother, he lives in Montgomery, and Mandy—she’s married and her last name is Sieverson now—she’s in Houston. They can’t get along to save their souls.” She popped her gum. “Mandy, she wanted to upgrade the place—it was really two units, you know, but Wes didn’t want to put a dime into it.” Dark, heavily penciled eyebrows rose above the thin red rims, as if she were about to impart the wisdom of the ages. “His mother wasn’t even cold in her grave when he called up and asked about selling the place. He was pretty adamant, let me tell you, but Mandy wouldn’t go along with it. She’s married, as I said, and she wants to keep the house for an investment—you know, fix it up. But with Wes, now that’s a different story. He went ballistic when those last tenants skipped out, let me tell you. Had himself one tremendous hissy fit and wanted the boss to make up the difference.” She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue. “Oh, yeah, like that was gonna happen.”
“I’d like a list of anyone who’s been interested in the house since it’s been vacated as well as anyone you hired who did the work to repair the place.”
“No problem,” Marlene assured him as her fingers flew over the keyboard of her computer. “It’ll be just a sec. We keep a log on each property—kinda like a diary, you know.” An ancient printer chugged out a few pages in counterpoint to her rapid gum chewing, and within minutes, the secretary, far more efficient than she’d first seemed, handed him the printout.
She answered a few more questions, but aside from being a purveyor of all kinds of gossip, when push came to shove, Marlene wasn’t a helluva lot of help. Bentz made a note to check out the owners and their recent travel schedules, just to make sure they hadn’t blown into town and had decided to torch the place for the insurance money.
Except that an insurance fraud didn’t begin to explain why some woman had been tortured and killed in the house. Stan Pagliano’s words played over and over in his mind. “Her hands and feet were chained … but it’s her head … it was nearly severed.”
Later, Stan had asked him what kind of sick bastard would commit such a horrendous crime.
Bentz didn’t know.
But there was someone who might.
Olivia Benchet. The lady had called this one, right on the money.
“I’m tellin’ ya, she’s a nutcase pure and simple,” Brinkman said when Bentz caught up with him in the hallway near one of the interrogation rooms. “I talked to her twice and each time she came in with these cockamamie, bullshit stories about murders she’d seen, visions about someone being killed. But she couldn’t give me anything concrete. No body. No murder scene. No damned smokin’ gun. Nothin'. If ya ask me, and seein’ as you tracked me down, then yeah, you did, she doesn’t have all her wheels on the pavement … and she might just be ridin’ a unicycle.”
Bentz wasn’t in the mood for bad jokes. As they walked to the stairs, weaving their way past a group of uniformed cops, he said, “I just want to see the reports. This time there was a body and a murder scene, and if not a gun, a sword, for cryin’ out loud.”
“I heard about that one. Over off Esplanade, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“Christ. And she called it?” Brinkman shook his head. He was bald, a horseshoe of black hair surrounding a freckled bald spot, the lights over the staircase gleaming on his pate. They climbed the stairs, their shoes ringing on the steps as a couple other cops descended. “Brutal.”
“So why do you think she’s come in with bullshit before and then came through this time?”
“Dumb-ass luck? Hell if I know.” Brinkman walked through the doors to a reception area surrounded by offices. “But I have to admit, I was curious about her. She seemed so certain she was right. So I did some checkin', called around. Turns out she comes from a long line of crazies. Her grandma claimed she was a voodoo priestess or some such shit just because she was an octoroon, and her mother’s been married four or five times, and then there’s the father, who’s spent most of his life in the State Pen in Mississippi—
“Hang on. What’s that all about?” Bentz asked as they reached the doors on the second floor.
“You didn’t know? Old Reggie Benchet iced a man,” Brinkman said, shoving his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, a smile creeping across his lips as he realized he’d imparted new information. “It’s all in my report. Reginald Benchet got out earlier this year.”
“And?”
“Far as I know, he’s kept his nose clean.” Brinkman smiled. “A real model citizen. Found God, or somethin'. I’ll send the info to you and then you can decide how much of Olivia Benchet’s story you believe. If she knew what was happenin’ when the girl was offed, I’d bet she was in on it … nah, she doesn’t seem like the murderin’ type. Oh, I got it.” Brinkman snapped his thick fingers. “She saw it. In a dream.”
“That’s what she says.”
“And you buy that?
If so, I got some land in Florida—”
“Forget it, Brinkman. Just send me your notes,” Bentz said, irritated. He didn’t buy the vision theory either, but he couldn’t believe that the woman was in on the murder in any way, shape, or form. “Maybe we should give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Oh, Christ, now you’re soundin’ like one of them damned bleedin’ hearts.” He shook his head and snorted. “Just when I was beginning to think you might be a decent cop after all.”
“Just get me the report,” Bentz snapped.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The Chosen One knelt at the altar and saw his own distorted visage in the shiny surface of the chalice. Candles burned and flickered, and through the walls of his drafty sanctuary he smelled the river. Musty. Damp. The current moved restlessly and would not be deterred. They had a lot in common, he and the Mississippi. They both held secrets beneath their surfaces, secrets that would never be revealed.
“I am prideful, Father, and I …” He swallowed hard, knew he had to admit his horrid sin. “I … I’ve lusted after those women, and though I feel your power, Father, my … my flesh is weak. So weak. I pray for your strength and your forgiveness …”
He closed his eyes, listened, and through his straining ears he heard the voice of God meting out his penance.
After whispering a nearly inaudible “Amen,” and deftly making the sign of the cross, he stood and slowly walked to the closet where his albs hung … one less today. His favorite. Left to burn. Because of the whore.
Her picture was there as well. He took it from the closet and carefully taped it on the calendar he kept on the wall, carefully covering the space for the date, November twenty-second, the Feast Day of Saint Cecilia. Ah … she’d been so trusting … until it had been too late. He didn’t think of that now. Couldn’t. He had penance. He strode back to the closet.
With gentle fingers, he slid the vestments aside and turning the combination lock, opened his most private of places, the spot where he kept all that was valuable and worldly to him. He added a long lock of golden hair to his other treasures, other bits of hair and fingernails, then sifted through the medals and chains until his fingers encountered the weapon.
Ah.
A tiny, featherlight whip with sharp stones embedded in the ribbon-like lashes, sparkling gems that cut with razor-sharp slits, nice, neat little cuts that barely scraped the surface, not enough to cause much bleeding, just enough to create sufficient pain to remind him that he, like all mortals, was born in original sin.
The Chosen One slipped out of his clothes and, naked, knelt at the altar once again, bowing his head, murmuring a prayer of atonement.
Not for the killing. Now he understood. That had been necessary. As always. God’s will. Even the violence, had it not been preordained? Had he not followed the Holy Father’s commands to rid the earth of the vile sinners on the day God had selected?
Yes, but he’d felt lust, that vibrant raw hunger that even now stole through his bloodstream. Hot. Dark. Wanting.
He could not be weak. He drew in a deep breath. Readied himself. Held his weapon high, then cracked his wrist.
Slap!
The leather fingers bit into his shoulder and he stiffened.
Pain, glorious pain, swept through him. His blood rushed through his veins. Heat centered in his groin.
He drew back the whip and snapped his wrist again. Slap!
The sharp little stones stung. Like the bite of a hundred wasps. He sucked in his breath. Felt the ooze of a bit of blood. Enough to wash him of his sins.
Again. He flicked his hand. Hard.
Slap!
His erection began to throb. Painfully. Deliciously.
He thought of the woman. The way her pale curls fell upon her smooth white neck. Cecilia. Whore. Daughter of Satan. She was so fine … her body perfect … that smooth neck beckoning … for his blade, or his mouth? He imagined mounting her as she knelt, her body quivering, her lips begging forgiveness, his teeth catching hold of her nape as he thrust inside her. Hot. Moist. Slick. Even now he envisioned her heavy breasts hanging downward, rosy nipples nearly scraping the floor. How he would have liked to have stroked them, pinched those nipples, heard her cry out as he plunged deeper inside her.
Sinner! Defiler! You are weak with your want of her!
He cracked the whip harshly.
Slap!
Pain tore through his flesh. He sucked his breath through his teeth.
Again! The leather fingers sizzled in the air.
Slap!
His body jerked.
Yes! The whore deserved to die.
He drew back. Braced himself. Cocked his wrist.
Slap!
Tears ran from his eyes as he felt the holy light bathe him. He would fight his lust, his weakness, and he would kill again to rid the earth of Satan’s whores. It was God’s will.
Chapter Eight
Olivia heard the crunch of tires on the drive and glanced out the window facing the lane just as Rick Bentz stretched out of his cruiser. Even beneath the moss-bearded oaks, he appeared the big man that he was, muscular, nearly stocky, with deep-set eyes and an I’ve-seen-it-all expression. He was wearing a jacket that fit loosely around his waist but stretched over his shoulders, casual slacks, and a white shirt. And a shoulder holster. She caught a glimpse of smooth leather and the butt of a gun.
Some women might find him handsome, she thought grudgingly. He had a certain appeal with his square jaw and thick brown hair. His face was lined and craggy enough to be interesting, the bit of gray at his temples not unattractive. But besides the gun, it was the glint in his flinty eyes and the set of his jaw—all hard-edged determination—that reminded her he was a cop.
And off-limits.
Not that she was looking. But she’d noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring and she’d read somewhere that he was divorced, and that his ex-wife had died.
She’d sworn off men after the last near-miss at the altar. Besides, Bentz wasn’t her type.
She opened the door before he knocked, and Hairy S rounded the corner from the kitchen to start barking like crazy. “Stop it!” Olivia commanded, and the dog, for once, actually shut up. Olivia met Bentz’s eyes. “You found her, didn’t you?”
“We found someone.”
Oh, God. Deep inside she’d harbored the tiniest shred of hope that she’d been wrong. That, as this detective had thought, she’d just experienced a really bad nightmare. But of course, even that iota of hope had been misguided. “It’s the woman I told you about. The one in the fire.”
“I’d like to talk to you about her.”
About time. “Come in.” She pushed the door open further and the dog bolted through.
“Thanks.” Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he walked into her house, his gaze skimming over the bookcase, potted plants, lumpy couch, and scattered chairs. “We’ll have to backtrack some, go over some of the things you said earlier.”
“No problem. I’ve got most of the afternoon, then I’ve got to meet my professor around four.”
“That late on a Friday?” He seemed even bigger in the kitchen, taking up space in this little cabin with its low ceilings and yellowed pine walls. Pushing six-two or -three, he ducked around a hurricane lantern that hung from the ceiling, a fixture Grannie Gin had refused to replace just in case the electricity was ever cut off. From her cage, Chia shrieked as she moved from one end of her perch to the other, warily eyeing the intruder.
“Hush, Chia!” she ordered. “Another of my grandmother’s orphans. Chia doesn’t like to go unnoticed. Has to have her say.”
“Typical female.”
“What?” Olivia’s eyes narrowed.
“It was a joke,” he explained.
“A poor one.”
“Right. So, you have to meet with your professor later.”
“Yes. Dr. Leeds at Tulane.”
She felt it then, as surely as if she’d turned on the air-conditioning, the a
tmosphere in the room got suddenly colder. It was as if Bentz’s sense of humor evaporated.
Something glinted in his steely eyes.
“You know him?” she asked.
“We’ve met.” From his pocket he withdrew the same small recorder he’d used earlier. “This shouldn’t take too long.” He set the recorder on the kitchen table, where a Thanksgiving cactus was trying to bloom. Speaking into the small microphone, he said that he was continuing the interview, gave the date and time, and after spelling Olivia’s name, indicated that he was in her house with her. But he didn’t sit down at the table, instead stood resting his hips on the counter.
“You said you moved back to Louisiana recently. When was that? Last summer?”
“Yes. I came in late July when my grandmother got sick.” She pointed to one of the framed photographs she’d hung on the wall near the back porch.
“This is a picture of us. A long time ago.” In the shot, Grannie, gray hair braided in a single plait, was swinging a bare-footed Olivia off the ground. Olivia was dressed in ragged shorts and a T-shirt, had been around five at the time, and her head was thrown back in pure delight. Sunlight streamed through the trees and dappled the dry grass. In the background a hedge was in full bloom, showing off pink blooms, and the only dark spot in the photo was the hint of a shadow creeping from the bottom of the frame.
Bentz noted it as well. “Who took the picture?”
The muscles in the back of Olivia’s neck tightened. “My father. One of the few times he deigned to show up.”
“He didn’t raise you?” Bentz asked.
She took in a deep breath. “My father? He wasn’t exactly the Ward Cleaver type of model dad. He didn’t hang around much. For the most part, Grannie Gin raised me.” She didn’t like talking about her family. “Dysfunctional” didn’t begin to describe it. “Oh … I’m sorry … could I get you some coffee … or, God, I don’t think I have anything else.”
“Only if you want it.”
“Desperately,” she admitted. “This is … nerve-racking.”
