by Lisa Jackson
“Oh, no,” she whispered, her heart nearly stopping.
Not again.
She caught a glimpse of a large wooden wheel, like an oversized wagon wheel with spikes. It turned slowly then disappeared in the mirror’s foggy surface. Olivia’s stomach clenched. “No … no …” A woman’s tortured face came into view. Olivia jumped back so far she hit the towel bar on the wall behind her. The woman in the vision was screaming, her eyes bulging in fear and pain. Blood matted her dark hair.
Olivia was shaking.
The wheel spun, dancing in and out behind the curtain of condensation on the glass. Olivia’s skin prickled. She could barely breathe. Her headache thundered, roaring through her brain. Transfixed in horror, she stared at the mirror.
As some of the condensation evaporated, Olivia caught a better view of a dark place, a cavernous area. She heard tortured screams and water dripping over the creak of ancient gears, then saw the horrendous implement of torture. The woman, stripped naked, was splayed upon the wheel and strapped down. Sharp spikes drove into her body as she struggled and the hideous wheel slowly rotated.
“Don’t, please don’t!” she shrieked. “Let me go … Please … Have mercy …”
Olivia’s headache hammered.
“Help me … someone, for the love of God, please, help me …” Her voice shook, reverberating in Olivia’s brain, pounding with the pain.
“Let her go, you bastard!” Olivia cried.
Then she saw it. Glinting in the damp reflection. A curved sword, its wicked blade catching in some weak, flickering light.
“No! No!” The woman shrieked. “How can you do this to me? I trusted you. Please, please, I’ll do anything.”
The blade sliced down.
“Stop!!” Olivia snagged a towel from the rack and rubbed frantically at the condensation, swiping away the fog, staring into her own horrified eyes. If she could see more, find out where this was happening … but the image had changed, the woman’s tortured face fading into the shadows to be replaced by a clearer image, lying just beneath her own reflection. Her heart froze for she was certain she was staring into the face of pure evil. Shrouded in a tight black mask, ice blue eyes found hers and held …
Then she heard her name. As clearly as if he’d spoken it. Olivia.
“Jesus.” She took a step backward again.
Saint Olivia.
“No!” She flung herself at the mirror. “Who are you, you bastard?” she cried, smashing her fist against his masked face. Glass splintered. Shards rained into the sink and onto the floor. Her own image was distorted and fragmented in the remaining pieces still mounted upon the mirror’s frame. “You sick, sick son of a bitch.” Pain screamed through her hand. “Who the hell are you?” she cried, sobs welling up from deep inside. “Who, damn it?”
Outside the bathroom door Hairy S was barking wildly, clawing at the panels.
Blood dripped and splattered against the glittering slivers in the sink.
Her head raged. The dog howled miserably. Through it all Olivia was left with the tortured image of a woman strapped to a revolving wheel of pain.
“God help us,” Olivia whispered, tears running down her face. “God help us all.” She stepped back against the wall and somehow opened the door. Sliding down the wall, she let her tears flow freely.
Hairy S whined. She picked him up and buried her face in his unruly fur. What was she going to do? How could she stop this? How? “Damn it all to hell.” She ran a hand over her face, swiping at the tears, smearing blood over her cheeks and onto the dog.
Something had to be done … and soon.
The bastard had killed tonight.
And there would be more.
Saint Olivia. She’d heard her name as surely as if he’d said it. He meant to kill her. She was sure of it. In some hideously painful manner, he was going to murder her.
Unless … oh, God … unless she found a way to stop him.
Chapter Twenty-three
Bentz was on the road again and talking on his cell phone. He’d caught up with Norm Stowell. So far the conversation wasn’t settling well.
“You’ve got yourself a problem,” the profiler said from somewhere in Arizona. He, too, was on a cell phone and at times the connection sputtered. “Most serial killers start off at a slower pace, they relive the crime for weeks, maybe months before they feel the need to hunt again,” Norm told him as Bentz accelerated around a flatbed with only one taillight. “Then as time goes on, the reliving isn’t enough of a rush and the killer starts shortening the time between the kills. Escalating. But you’ve got something different at play here. If you’re right about the connection to the saints’ feasts days, your killer has a green light. Any female saint’s day will do; he’ll work it into his plan.”
Bentz didn’t want to believe it. “But the killings take planning. There are props involved, the scene is staged. And he’s got to lure the girls to come with him or convince them to let him in. He takes incredible risks. Take the fire off of Esplanade. It could have been seen earlier by a neighbor out walking his dog. Bingo, the suspect would have been nabbed. Then there was dumping the Jane Doe at the foot of the statue on a main street in the middle of town, for Christ’s sake. That was pretty damned cocky.”
“He’s taunting you. ‘Look what I can do. See what I can get away with.’ He wants you to search for him. He likes the publicity, the feeling of being smarter than you. He could be close to someone on the force. Look for a guy with some kind of security or police background.”
“The witness says he’s a priest.”
“Not one of the usual kind,” Stowell reminded him. “See if you can find any priest with a link to the police. And don’t forget that this guy thinks he’s on some kind of mission from God. He’s empowered. He thinks God is in his corner, so he feels invulnerable, which means there’s a better chance that he’ll slip up.”
“Let’s hope.” Bentz maneuvered past an eighteen-wheeler that was throwing up road scum. He flipped on his wipers.
“I have a feeling this guy gets to know his victims. That’s part of his game, his thrill. Somehow he gets them to trust him. There wasn’t any evidence of forced entry with the girl in the Garden District, was there? My guess is that he’s charming, they trust him, they allow him to get close, and he starts thinking of them in terms of a saint, or making them a saint. You said the two victims you’ve identified are part-time students? That’s the link. These aren’t random women he happens to see. He interacts with them before the kill. Gets them to trust him. All the while he’s literally charming their socks off when he’s really setting them up. No sign of sexual contact?”
“Not so far.”
There was a long silence when he heard only the wheels of his Jeep turning and the rumble of the other traffic.
“That’s odd. Probably has to do with the priest-celibacy thing. Or he’s impotent. But usually the kill will get the killer off. I assume you’ve checked with the local universities.”
Bentz’s fingers clutched the steering wheel in a death grip. His stomach burned at the thought of college coeds being hunted and tortured. An image of Kristi shot through his mind and his gut ached even more. “We’re trying to find out if the two victims knew each other, took any classes together, ever met. They went to schools that are right next to each other, so the population mixes quite a bit.”
“What about the boyfriends?”
“One skipped town months ago, the other has an alibi.”
“Air-tight?”
“We’re lookin’ for a leak. So far he seems on the up and up.”
“Double-check him. Especially if he’s a white male probably between twenty-five and thirty-five, someone who has a history of violence, maybe trouble in grade school and high school, possibly arrests for cruelty to animals and arson, trouble with women … there should be something on him.”
“We’ve got it covered.”
“Good. I’ll fax you what I’ve got.”
Within minutes, as he worked the Jeep onto the exit ramp only a few miles from Olivia Benchet’s house, the phone rang sharply. “This is Bentz.”
“It’s Olivia. I need to see you,” she said, her voice frantic and breathless. “He’s doing it again.”
Bentz felt cold as death. He’d expected the call, had even been heading to her house because he’d known the killer would strike on the feast day of Saint Catherine of Alexandria. Or any other saint’s day. “I’m already on my way,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thank God.”
“Hang in.” He clicked off and punched the accelerator. “God damn it!”
The streets were empty in this desolated part of the parish. He blew through one stop sign, then took a sharp corner to the country road that wandered through the bayou. It was dark, the moon shrouded, a damp wind whipping through the stands of oak and cypress that rose like ghosts from the land and water. His Jeep sped across a long, low bridge but it wasn’t fast enough. The terror in Olivia’s voice spurred him on. He nearly missed the turnoff, but cranked hard on the wheel. The four-by-four shuddered, slowing as he took the corner too fast and cut through the trees of the Benchet tract. Leaves scattered as the Jeep flew across the small bridge near Olivia’s cottage.
He stood on the brakes.
The front door of the house flew open.
He sucked in his breath.
Backlit by the lamps of the cabin, she stood in the doorway, a fluffy white robe wrapped around her body, her hair as wild as ever. His heart jolted. He knew then that in a few short days he’d started to fall for this fruitcake of a woman with her bizarre claims of visions and some kind of weird ESP. He experienced the unlikely feeling of coming home. Hell, he’d hadn’t had a real home in years.
Bentz was out of the truck in a heartbeat, running. Her stupid dog charged out of the house.
“Hairy!” Olivia raced toward him and seemed oblivious to the mud and wet leaves. “Thank God you’re here,” she cried, hurtling into his open arms. He caught a glimpse of tear tracks glistening on her cheeks the second before she buried her face in his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck. Instinctively he held her close, smelling the scents of jasmine and lilac over the rush of the wind and the dank smell of the swamp. Her breasts crushed against him. Her hair was damp. No makeup on her face. She clung to him, shaking. He suspected she wore nothing beneath the chenille housecoat, but he didn’t let his brain wrap around that image for but a second.
“I saw him. Again. And he was killing a woman … on a wheel with horrible nails in it… Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” she cried, her fingers clutching his collar as if she’d never let go. She was breathing with difficulty, fighting sobs, hiccupping with fear. “And then, and then, I think he had a sword … he …”
“Shh.“ Bentz held her awkwardly at first, his hands seeming too big to cradle her small body. What was he doing? This was all wrong.
But as she molded to him and the wind sighed through the trees, he loosened up. One hand went to the back of her neck, the other the small of her back. For an instant he wondered what it would be like to make love to her and he remembered kissing her not all that long ago. It seemed only natural to touch his lips to her crown, to feel her soft breath against his bare neck. She turned her face up to stare at him, and it was all he could do not to kiss that sexy, provocative, and definitely frightened mouth. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
“I—I’m sorry,” she said, as if suddenly realizing what she’d done.
“It’s all right. Really.” He managed a bit of a smile then whistled to the dog, who found a new interest in the hem of his pants. Bentz draped a steadying arm across her shoulders as they climbed the steps.
“God, I hate that.”
“What?”
“Everything.” She shot a look up at him as they walked through the open door. “But you know, playing the role of the wimpy, weak female.”
“You were scared.”
“I was terrified out of my wits. Still am,” she said, but the tears had subsided and the hiccups had disappeared.
“I think you’d better tell me about it.”
Hairy S, snuffling and snorting, trotted into the house. Bentz closed the door and locked it. He followed Olivia into the kitchen and noticed a thick bandage on her right hand, the drops of blood staining her robe. “What happened?”
“I wish I could say I cut myself shaving,” she said, her lips trembling into a smile. The joke fell flat. She blinked hard, still fighting tears. “But I smashed my fist into the bathroom mirror.”
“On purpose?” He couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. It’s stupid but I wanted to strike out, to hit that son of a bitch and I …” She stopped and dropped into a chair at the table. The robe gaped open, but she seemed unaware that Bentz could catch more than a glimpse of her breasts. He forced his eyes back to hers. “I guess I should start at the beginning,” she was saying as she stared through the windows into the gloomy night.
“That would be good.”
“It was about an hour ago, I guess. I was taking a bath. It had been a helluva day … Well, you know, you and I had our fight and then my father called—”
“Reggie Benchet phoned you?” he repeated, warning bells going off in his mind. Father or no, the guy was an ex-con. A felon.
“Yeah and … well, I had to deal with it. It was weird. I hadn’t said one word to him since I was in grade school. It was a short conversation and then I tried to spend some time studying, get my mind off of him. It didn’t work, so I was planning to take a bath and crash early, but just as I was stepping out of the tub, I glanced in the mirror and I saw her and that … that hideous wheel.” Rubbing her arms, she launched into her story of the vision, a chilling reinactment of the death of St. Catherine of Alexandria. Olivia rubbed one temple with her good hand. Her face was drawn and her eyes seemed unfocused, as if she were seeing the vision being replayed in her mind. “… and there was nothing I could do,” she finally said, again the tears beginning to flow. “I feel so useless.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder and she lifted one of hers to touch his fingers. “If it’s any consolation, I want you to know that I believe you. I understand about the killings.” Her fingers tensed as he explained about the pattern that was developing, how the killer was murdering the victims in accordance with the deaths of venerated, martyred saints on the days of their feast. “So we’ve now got St. Joan of Arc, St. Mary Magdalene, St. Cecilia, all of whose bodies we’ve recovered.”
“You mean there could be more?” She paled.
“I don’t know. But you mentioned the woman who was left in a crypt. I think she was playing the role of St. Philomena. Now, we’ve got a new one, the one tonight.”
“Catherine of Alexandria.”
He frowned. “We don’t know how many others are involved or how long he’s been on his killing spree.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “How many saints are there?”
“Too many.” He snorted. “I never thought I’d say that.”
She glanced up at him, her eyes troubled, her eyelashes still damp with tears. “What kind of perverted bastard would do this?”
“That’s what we have to find out.” He tightened his grip on her hand. Attempted to be reassuring. “We’ll find him, but I’m going to need your help.”
“I’ll do anything.”
He managed a smile. “I know. Let me make some phone calls.” He checked his watch. It was late, after ele
ven, but he rang up Montoya and the precinct, leaving messages, then walked upstairs to the bathroom. Bits of glass were everywhere—counter, sink, and floor. Blood splattered the basin and tiles. “Looks like a war zone,” he joked.
“I was angry,” she admitted. “And scared. He was looking at me—straight at me in the mirror—and he could see me, I think, as surely as I could see him.” She located a broom and dustpan. Together they cleaned up the mess.
When they were downstairs again, Olivia made tea … some kind of ginger-smelling stuff that tasted like flowers. He didn’t complain, just sipped it and wished it were a beer. They sat at the small table in her kitchen, the bird making soft noises, the dog settled onto a rag rug as she told her story, over and over again. Bentz asked a dozen questions. She didn’t always have answers but he was certain she’d seen another murder. Four days ago he would have scoffed at the idea, but today he took her word as gospel. It was after one when he scraped back his chair. “I’d better get going. Can you think of anything else?”
“Just that his eyes are blue. Icy, intense blue,” she said, suddenly remembering.
“You would recognize him?”
“No, as I said, he was wearing the ski mask again.”
“The eye color is something.” Of course he could wear contacts.
“And he knows my name.”
“What?”
“I heard him … you know, in the vision, he looked straight at me and it was as if I heard his voice or his thoughts, but he called me Olivia. Saint Olivia.”
“Christ,” Bentz swore, then glanced through the windows to the darkness of the bayou. Gloomy. Isolated. Murky. If the murderer showed up here, no one would see him. And he knew who Olivia was. “You know, If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick around here until it gets light.”
She hesitated. “Of course … I mean that would be fine … but I didn’t mean to give you the impression because I was upset that I’m some kind of frightened helpless female all alone—”
