by Lisa Jackson
“All different?”
“Yes. Nothing as clear.”
“Done by the same guy?”
“I … I don’t know … But it seems that way as I obviously don’t visualize every murder committed, not even some that happen in my town, but I see some, Detective Bentz, and they’re so clear they literally make my skin crawl.”
Nodding, he flipped to the second page and scanned it quickly. “Names, addresses, and phone numbers.” He glanced up. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m determined to catch this bastard.” She leaned back in the chair. “So … are you going to keep following me? Like last night.” She’d seen his Jeep in her rearview mirror as she’d driven home last night.
“Maybe I just wanted to see that you got home safely.”
“And maybe that’s a cop-out. Literally.”
His jaw slid to one side. “Okay, I’ll level with you.”
“That would be a plus.”
“I did want to see where you went and there’s something else. I’m starting to believe you and I’m starting to get worried. I wasn’t kidding about an alarm system and a Rottweiler.”
“So now you’re going to be my own private bodyguard?” she asked, tilting her head and trying to figure him out.
“I think my boss might have some issues with that although you’re pretty damned valuable—with this gift and all.”
“And all, Detective Bentz?”
He folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. “You can drop the ‘detective,’ “ he said.
“And call you what?”
“I go by Rick but most people refer to me as Bentz.”
She realized this was an olive branch of some kind and figured she could use all that was offered. “Okay, Bentz, only if you call me Livvie or Olivia. I answer to both.”
“It’s a deal.”
“So you finally believe me?” she asked and he slanted her half a smile.
Something flickered in his gaze. “Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind.”
“And it’s killing you.”
His grin stretched wider. “It’s not what I’m known for.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Thanks for your help,” he said as they walked through the house and onto the front porch. Hairy S streaked off, whining, hot on the trail of some invisible creature. “I’ll let you know if we find anyone trapped in a crypt somewhere.”
“I hope to God you don’t,” she said, “but I know someone will. Someday.”
“Maybe by then we will have caught the guy.” He hesitated and for a second she wondered if he was going to shake her hand, give her a hug, or kiss her. Instead he just inclined his head. “I’ll let you know.”
Olivia watched as he strode to his Jeep and got in. He backed the four-by-four into the turnaround by her truck, then waved and drove off, his rig bouncing down the rutted lane and out of sight behind the thick stands of cypress and oak. Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, she wondered how long he’d last, if indeed he would keep that open mind, then told herself it didn’t matter.
The visions came to her.
She was the one who had to figure out where they came from. Otherwise she’d never convince anyone to take her seriously. She wrapped her arms around her middle and wondered why it was so damned important that Rick Bentz trust her. After all, he was just another cop who’d seen it all. So what if she saw something deeper than the crusty, no-nonsense exterior he put forth? What did it matter that she noticed how wide his shoulders were and the way his jeans hugged his hips? Who cared that there was a deeper, more complicated side to the man than first met the eye? She couldn’t afford to find him attractive. Getting involved with him would be a major mistake. Major.
Nor could she sit around and wait for Rick Bentz or anyone else from the police department to take her seriously. She’d have to find some more proof or a link or something. Before the killer, whoever the bastard was, struck again. She decided to start with St. Luke’s.
Chapter Twelve
Olivia pulled on the parking brake and looked through her windshield at the church. It was larger than she’d expected, a whitewashed building with arched stained-glass windows, a single spire, and a bell tower separated from the rest of the church as it rose toward the gray cloud-covered sky. She’d chosen St. Luke’s because of its proximity to the French Quarter. A few blocks off Esplanade, the two-hundred-year-old bastion of Catholic faith was the closest church to the crime scene. It seemed the logical place to start when one was looking for a murdering priest.
“A fool’s mission,” she told herself as she got out of her pickup and cinched the belt of her coat more tightly around her middle. She hoped that somewhere in St. Luke’s offices, or the vestibule, there might be information, pamphlets about the church, its priests and staff and hopefully something about the other churches in the city.
It was Saturday. No one was hanging around in the vestibule. She tested the main doors and they opened easily. Inside, the building was vast but inviting. The ceiling was two full stories above the tiled floor and decorated with painted inlays framed in gold. The nave was lit by dim lights and dozens of candles, their flames flickering against the rough masonry walls. Most of the dark pews were empty, only a few devout individuals inside.
Olivia paused to stare at the altar and felt something. A need. An ache to believe. She’d never been particularly religious, but had tagged along to mass at her grandmother’s prodding. “When your troubles are too much,” Grannie had said, clutching Olivia’s hand, “it’s time to talk to God. To visit His house.”
Yet she was here not to pray, but to pry.
She made a quick sign of the cross and began her search, looking for the church office or a rack containing information about when the services would be held. If she didn’t find what she wanted here, then she’d visit St. Louis Cathedral by Jackson Square. It was the oldest and most famous in the city, and it was half a block from the store where she worked. If all else failed, there was the Internet.
Father McClaren watched the woman hurry into the vestibule and felt a forbidden emotion he quickly tamped down. She was windblown, her curly hair unruly and damp, her face flushed, her perfect lips turned into a pout. She crossed herself as if anxious or troubled and she seemed out of place with the regulars, the parishioners who made their daily pilgrimage to the church. Even in the half-light he noticed that her eyes were a unique gold color, that her teeth worried a pouty lower lip. She seemed as if she were searching for something. Or someone.
Another lost soul who stopped long enough to sign the guest register he and Father O’Hara had placed near the front doors.
“Can I help you?” he asked, approaching.
“I think I’d like to speak to a priest.” She was slightly breathless and he noticed a few sparse freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“You think?”
“Yes. No. I mean I’m sure I want to.” She seemed a little rattled, but he was used to that.
“I’m a priest,” he said, and she looked at him as if he had claimed he was from outer space or that she thought he was trying to pick her up in a bar. “Really. Father James McClaren.”
Obviously she wasn’t one of the flock.
“Oh.” Her eyebrows knit, and she still hesitated, almost as if what he’d told her was somehow a bit frightening. Strange. “I didn’t think you were allowed to wear jeans in church,” she clarified, still eyeing him with what? Suspicion?
“It’s probably not a great idea,” he admitted, indicating the faded Levi’s, “but I was just cutting through on my way to the cloister. I didn’t think anyone would catch me and I’m pretty sure God won’t mind.”
She lifted an eyebrow. Obviously he wasn’t what she’d expected. But then he never was.
“Are you here for reconciliation?” he asked, motioning to the confessionals positioned near the altar. “Father O’ Hara is officially on duty and I’ll round him up for you.”
“No,” sh
e said suddenly. “I’m not here to confess anything, I just need to talk… to someone.” She stared steadily at him with those whiskey-colored eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes and mounted over cheekbones that didn’t quit. She was, all in all, a gorgeous woman.
Women were the bane of his existence. Especially beautiful ones.
“Could I talk with you?” she asked, seeming to overcome her reticence a bit. “I mean, when you’ve got a minute.”
“How about now?” He wanted to think that it was his sense of purpose, his calling, his pact with God and Church that made him accept her offer, though at the back of his mind he knew there was another reason, not quite as honorable, at play. “I’m not in that much of a hurry.” He touched her lightly on the arm and pointed her in the direction of the courtyard. “We can talk now if you’ll put up with me playing handyman. There’s a clog in one of the downspouts in the cloister and the regular guy is laid up with the flu. Just give me a minute.”
Olivia decided to trust him even though she felt a little nervous. Hadn’t she just witnessed a physically fit priest killing that poor woman?
You can’t distrust every athletic-looking minister you run into. What would be the chances that this priest was the ogre of your vision?
Besides, she just wanted to talk to someone about her gift and the burden that came with it. She had no intention of telling the priest about the murders or that she’d seen another man of the cloth killing an innocent woman, but she wanted to touch the Church in some way, to speak to a man of God, to make a connection.
Father James guided her past the last row of pews and through a door to the cloister, where the covered porch surrounded a square of marble and a center fountain and marble sculpture of the Virgin and baby Jesus. Cold wind swept across the open area and dark clouds hovered above the city.
“This’ll just take a minute,” he said as he unlocked a door and retrieved a broom, pair of gloves, bucket, and ladder from the closet. As she watched, holding her hair from her eyes, he positioned the ladder near a corner of the roof where a downspout spilled into a gutter. Donning the gloves, he climbed onto the ladder and pulled soggy leaves and debris from the gutter. “Messy business,” he said, and shoved the handle of the broom into the downspout. “But then God’s work is never done.” He looked down at her and smiled. It was a great smile. White teeth against late-afternoon beard-shadow in a square jaw that could have been taken from the Marlboro man. The guy was way too handsome to be a priest.
She had a twinge of déjà vu, as if she’d met him somewhere before. A silly idea. This guy, she would have remembered.
He finished with the gutter and she tried not to notice how the fabric of his jeans tightened over his butt as he climbed down and folded the ladder. What was wrong with her? Her libido, so long dormant, was suddenly all too alive. For all the wrong men.
“If you’re too cold, we can go inside, but I like it here. Outside, but sheltered. Something closer to God about it.” He snapped the ladder closed and placed it, bucket, and gloves into the closet.
“If the priest business ever slows down, you can always get a job as a maintenance guy,” she observed as he locked the door.
He laughed and rammed a stiff set of fingers through his near-black hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Not exactly a higher calling. So, tell me what’s on your mind?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.” Again the smile. “I’ve heard it all.”
“Okay,” she said as they walked the perimeter of the courtyard, under the overhang. The smell of the Mississippi wafted over the two-hundred-year-old walls of the church. “My name is Olivia,” she said. “Benchet. I moved here a few months ago to be with my grandmother before she died. I inherited her house and something else. It’s a gift, they say, kind of like ESP.”
“Kind of?”
“I see things, Father. Sometimes ugly things.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets and wondered how much she should confide. Dry leaves danced across the stone floor of the cloister. “Sometimes things that make me doubt my faith.” She slanted him a glance, but he was looking straight ahead, his brows knit, his nose a little red from the cold.
“We all have doubts now and again,” he said. “Even priests.”
“Do priests sin?” she asked.
“What do you think?” he asked and his lips tightened a fraction. “Unfortunately we are human.”
She wondered. The man she saw in her visions wasn’t human at all. He was hideous. A beast. The embodiment of evil. All dressed up in fine vestments. The clouds opened up and poured rain from the sky and the thick drops tumbled down the sloping roof to gurgle in the eaves.
“So you believe that I have this ‘sight'?”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
“Come on, that’s not an answer.”
“No, I guess it’s not. Kind of an overused cliché.” He stopped at the door to the chapel. “How about this? I think there are gifts God bestows upon all of us. Some we can see, or touch, or prove, if you will. Others are intangible, but gifts nonetheless. We’re lucky if we recognize what we’ve got.”
“What if I consider my particular gift a curse?”
“Then you should try to look at it another way. Turn it around. God wants us to use whatever gifts he bestows upon us to benefit mankind and to glorify Him. I bet if you look hard enough you can find something positive in your sight.”
“That’ll be tough.”
“I’m sure you can do it,” he said with an encouraging smile that touched his eyes.
If you only knew. She was tempted to confide in him, to tell him what she’d seen, but thought better of it. “I’ll give it a shot,” she promised, wondering if she was lying to a man of God. “So, are you and Father O’Hara the only priests here, at Saint Luke’s?”
“For the moment. Sometimes we have visiting priests who conduct the service. And for the record, it’s Monsignor O’Hara. Sometimes he’s a little fussy about that.”
“Oh. I’ll try to remember. So do you know other priests in New Orleans, the ones who work in different parishes?”
“Of course.” He smiled as if amused. “Why?”
“Just curious,” she said, and that really wasn’t a lie. As much as she wanted to trust this man of God, she knew that if she confided the horrid truth to him, she was bound to alienate him. Right now, she just needed a friend in the Church. Someone she could talk to. “Thanks for your time.” She offered her hand.
He wrapped chilled fingers around her palm. “Come back anytime you have questions, Olivia. And… you might want to attend mass once in a while. Talking with me is fine, but maybe you need to speak to the Father directly.”
“I can do that from home, can’t I?”
“Of course, but God’s house is a welcome home.” He smiled and she felt better. “Here.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. From inside he pulled out a business card. “You’re welcome to come, to call me anytime and the door to St. Luke’s is always open.” He pressed the card into her outstretched hand. “I’ll look for you.”
Don’t hold your breath, she thought, turning the card over.
“Don’t tell me … you didn’t know priests carried business cards. Or use e-mail, right? Well, not all do. I find it just makes things easier. And making business cards with a computer is a snap.”
She laughed, feeling more at ease, then tucked the card into her purse. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. There’s a higher power at work here.” Father James held the door for her and watched her cross the parking lot to a red truck. She was an interesting woman. Troubled. Beautiful. And she’d lied to him. Well, if not lied at least hedged: he saw it in her eyes. He wondered why, but he tried not to judge. Never. For there was no man who should judge another.
He’d learned long ago that judgment should be left to God.
Didn’t he know himself what it was to sin?
What it was to feel the pul
l of evil?
How hard it was not to transgress?
He’d have to be careful, he thought, remembering how easily sin had come knocking on his door, and how quickly, eagerly, he’d opened it. He’d promised God as well as himself that he’d never unlock it again. He hoped he hadn’t lied.
The Internet was a bust. Olivia clicked off her laptop and rubbed the kinks from the back of her neck. Seated on her grandmother’s old couch in the living room, she picked up her now-cold cup of tea, and frowned. Well, what had she expected? That all the priests in the state of Louisiana would have their pictures and personal bios on a website? WWW.WeAreSouthernPriests.com? And even if she had found photos and personal tidbits on the web, what would that prove? She couldn’t pick the guy out of the crowd anyway. And maybe he wasn’t even a priest. Maybe he’d just donned an alb that he usually saved for Mardi Gras. One that he let burn in the fire.
That made more sense.
“Give it up,” she told herself, and carried her cup into the kitchen to deposit it in the sink. It was late afternoon, the sun sinking fast, darkness shading the bayou. The rain had let up, but the clouds still rolled across the sky, making the day dreary and glum. Hairy S was curled on a rag rug near the back door. He looked up and thumped his tail on the floor before yawning broadly and resting his chin on his paws again. Chia whistled softly, then tossed water from her dish over her head.
Olivia glanced at the caned-back chair where Rick Bentz had sat only hours before. The big man with the world-weary expression until he smiled, and then, look out. He transformed into a handsome, if determined male with intelligent eyes and a cutting sense of humor. She liked that. He could take it as well as dish it out. An interesting man, but off-limits. He was a cop; his interest in her was purely professional and he thought she was a crackpot. She could read it in his eyes.
Then there was Father James McClaren. Hollywood handsome with intense blue eyes and just enough gray at his temples to make him interesting. Talk about off-limits! He was a priest, devoted to God and a life of celibacy. What a waste, she thought, remembering him climbing the ladder and the way her gaze had strayed to his buttocks and thighs …
