by Lisa Jackson
“They cut me off when I was eighteen. I got into some … trouble and they couldn’t deal with it.”
“What kind of trouble?” she asked warily. The noise from the kitchen, the rattling of trays and flatwear, and the hum of conversation from nearby tables seemed to be suddenly muffled and distant. Brian glanced down at the table, his fingers, anywhere but her eyes.
“Come on, give. I told you about Dad.”
“This is different.”
“All I have to do is call my dad and he can do a research number on you like you wouldn’t believe.”
He tensed. Blue eyes flashed and narrowed on her. “You’d do that?”
“Nah … but I could. Come on,” she said and reached across the table to link her fingers with him. “What happened?”
“It was a long time ago,” he admitted. “Ancient history.”
“I won’t hold it against you.”
One of his eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “You don’t know that.”
“Is it that bad?” she asked and the look in his eyes made her catch her breath.
“You tell me. A girl … a girl I dated for six months accused me of rape.”
“What?” She wished she’d never asked. Her heart sank. Rape? Jesus! She drew back her hand and his lips twisted as if he’d expected her to recoil.
“Statutory rape,” he clarified. “But still rape. I was eighteen, she wasn’t quite sixteen. It was bullshit and the charges were dropped. I was completely exonerated, completely, but my parents never believed in me or trusted me again. We had one too many fights about it and they threw me out of the house.”
“Just like that?”
“Why bother with me? They had five more to deal with. I was the proverbial black sheep. My old man and I never got along. Not even when I was a kid.” He rattled his glass and threw back what little drink was left.
Stunned, Kristi folded her arms around her middle. She’d suspected he had a wild side, a dangerous edge, but this was wilder and more dangerous than she’d expected, and for the first time since meeting Brian, she wondered if she was getting into something that was way over her head. “So, after they kicked you out, what did you do?”
“The Army for a couple of years, since I was never charged with a crime. But I couldn’t see myself as a lifer, so I got out and thought I’d go to the seminary.”
“As in becoming a priest?” she whispered, thinking of the times they’d made out, how passionate he was, the feeling of urgency she’d sensed in him as he’d touched her and kissed her and stroked her. A priest? “Aren’t they supposed to be celibate?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, lightening up a bit. “That was a problem. It was a short-lived ambition, believe me. So I went to college, spent a couple of years working at a job I hated, and ended up here in grad school.”
“How old are you? Forty?”
He laughed. “Nah. I work fast. I’m thirty-one.”
She gulped. Thirty-one? That was ancient. But that wasn’t the worst of it. She was stuck on the rape and his time in the seminary. “You don’t seem like someone who could buy into the whole married-to-God thing.”
“We all go through different phases, especially we old guys.” There was a bite to his words. A sting. As if she’d wounded him.
“I didn’t say you were old.”
“Except that you thought I was forty. Anyway, when I went to the seminary, I was just trying to sort things out. I think I was looking for a family. A place to belong … oh, who the hell knows? Or cares.” He wadded up his napkin and threw it on the table, but his black mood was returning. Storm clouds gathered in his icy eyes.
“I do,” she said suddenly. “I care.”
“And that’s what makes you special, Kristi.” He offered a tentative smile. “Are you sure you can’t get out of leaving today? I’m sure you and I could have a lot of fun.”
“No doubt about it,” she said and was tempted to call her dad and make some excuse about having to stay in Baton Rouge for the holiday, pretend she had to write a term paper or something. “But I really have to go home.”
“Isn’t there any way you could stay?” His hand was so warm.
“Welllll … I do have a test in Dr. Northrup’s class and a paper due for Dr. Sutter.”
“Pych?”
“101.”
“I had Sutter as an undergrad.” Brian frowned. “He didn’t like me much.”
“Really? Why wouldn’t he like you?”
Brian pulled his hand away. “He thought I stole some of my theories off the Internet. It was bullshit and I told him so.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. He couldn’t prove it. But he looked like an ass. I can still see him in front of the class, his face red, a tic near his eye. I think it bothers the shit out of him that I’m back.”
“And you like that?”
“He deserves to be knocked down a peg or two. Pompous ass!”
She hesitated, but saw the hint of pride in the set of his jaw. “Soooo … did you?”
“What? Steal? Plagiarize? No way.” He snorted as if the idea were absurd. “If I would have, it would have screwed up everything. My plans, my life, my chance of ever teaching.”
“But only if you got caught,” she said, unable to stop playing devil’s advocate as she shook her cup, rattling the ice before taking a big swallow. All the while she watched him.
“You think I’d cheat?”
“I don’t know. Would you?” she asked and noticed that her heart had started drumming and she was actually sweating a little, as if she were afraid of his answer. Why in the world did he affect her like this?
“No. If you ask me, Sutter was out to get me.” As soon as the words were out, he seemed to want to call them back. “I guess I sound paranoid, huh? First my parents, then Dr. Sutter. Watch out, the world has it out for Brian Thomas.”
“Is that what you really think?”
“Nah.” He lowered his voice as a busboy cleared a nearby table. “What I really think is that I wish you’d stay here for the weekend so we could get to know each other a little better.”
“We’ll have time later.”
“If you say so.” He leaned back in his chair and she felt all the intimacy they’d shared evaporate. He suddenly seemed so alone and aloof. The fact that he had no family, that he’d been rejected by his own folks, really got to her, but she couldn’t ditch out on her dad.
Or could she?
Maybe there was a way after all.
“I gotta go,” he said with a glance at the clock over the register, where a couple of kids were paying for sandwiches. “Damn. I’ve got five minutes to get across campus.” Kicking back his chair, he was on his feet.
She didn’t want him to leave, not when she felt that he was angry with her. Not that she’d done anything wrong. She knew he was trying to manipulate her by laying the blame for his misery, his aloneness, at her feet and she didn’t want to buy into it, but she really liked him. “So, I’ll see ya when I get back.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, distracted as he grabbed his backpack and started for the door. Then, as if realizing how he harsh he sounded, he backtracked the few steps, leaned down, and whispered in her ear, “And when you do get back, you’d better be ready.”
A tingle slid down her spine. “For what?” she asked. His grin was slow and decidedly sexy. “You tell me.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“Do I need an attorney?” Oscar Cantrell demanded. Face florid, unlit cigar clamped in his jaw, he strode out of the airport. He was mad as hell and belligerent as all get-out.
“You tell me,” Bentz suggested.
“You chargin’ me with something?” Cantrell, a short man with an oversized belly, straw hat, and narrow sideburns, sent Bentz a look guaranteed to wither a lesser man. Bentz didn’t give a damn. Let him stew. He’d met Cantrell at the gate, flashed his badge, and escorted the shorter man to his Jeep. “Nope. Just have some questions for you.”
&
nbsp; “Hey, I’ve got my own car here.” Cantrell shifted his carry-on bag from one hand to the other. “I don’t need a ride.”
“Humor me. I’ll bring you back.”
“Son of a bitch,” Cantrell muttered, shifting his canyon bag from one hand to the other. But he didn’t argue. The road map of veins discoloring Cantrell’s cheeks and nose turned a brighter red as he reluctantly climbed into the backseat of the rig.
Bentz fired the engine and glanced into the rearview mirror. “Tell me about your ex-wife.”
“Which one?”
“Bernadette Dubois.”
Cantrell snorted and moved his cigar to the corner of his mouth. “Saint Bernadette,” he said and Bentz stiffened.
Saint Bernadette? “Is that a special name you have for her?”
“Yeah, right. You ever meet her?” Cantrell asked, and when Bentz shook his head, added, “Well, she’s bad news. Big time. A beautiful woman. Downright gorgeous and a manipulator. Always wants more than a man can give. The kind of woman that is nothing but trouble.” He threw himself back against the seat. “Sheeeeit, is she in some kind of trouble with the law?” he asked. “Is that what this is all about?”
“I just want to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“The fire at the rental property you manage over at Bayou St. John.”
“I figured.” Cantrell was looking out the window, chewing on his cigar, watching the scenery as Bentz headed into the city. “I didn’t know nothin’ about that. Nothin'. Ask my secretary. I’ve been out of town. With … with a friend. You can call her.”
“I will,” Bentz said, but figured Cantrell was leveling with him. Probably another dead end. “You know her kid?”
“The girl? Olivia? Yeah, I met her a time or two.” He took off his hat and swabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “Her other daughter died, y’know. I don’t think she ever got over it. Felt some kind of guilt. She was nappin’ when the kid fell into the pool. Drowned. Bernadette, she blamed the older kid, Olivia, for the baby’s death, but deep down I think she felt guilty. Hell, with that woman there was lots of guilt goin’ on.”
“Is that right?” Bentz hadn’t expected Cantrell to be so candid. Cantrell stuffed his hanky into his pocket. “How so? Why all the guilt?”
“Hell if I know. Her dad was dead, her mother half-crazy with all that talk about voodoo and crap. No wonder she was messed up. It probably started with the baby.”
“Olivia?”
“No.”
“Then the girl who drowned? Chandra?”
“For Christ’s sake, no,” Cantrell was irritated. “I’m talkin’ about the first baby.”
Bentz felt something snap in his brain. He glanced in the rearview mirror again.
“The first one?”
“Yeah, her son … I think it was supposed to be some big secret, but one night we were drinkin’ and she got drunk—more wasted than I’ve ever seen her. All of a sudden she starts yammerin’ about her son. She wouldn’t stop bellyachin’ about how she got herself in a family way and had to give up her baby. The old lady, Virginia, Bernadette’s mother, she wouldn’t have it no other way. She insisted upon it.”
“Who was the father?”
“Benchet, of course. That’s what all the fuss was about. The old lady had Reggie Benchet pegged. Knew he was no-account.” Cantrell’s lazy gaze met Bentz’s in the mirror. “Helluva thing. After that one night, she never brought it up again. Neither did I. Didn’t figure it was any of my business, but the thing is, I don’t think she ever told Reggie.”
“But she confided in you?” Bentz wasn’t buying it.
“The demon rum loosened her tongue. Man, that woman was on a supersonic guilt trip. If you ask me, that’s when it all started. Giving up that baby.”
“When what started?”
“The craziness … it runs in the family, y’know.” He yanked his cigar from his mouth and punctuated the air with it. “The old woman had it and passed it right down the line. Virginia to Bernadette to Olivia … all beautiful women, all not quite right, a little off, sexy as hell, lookers, I tell you, and charming, in a way, but … Not your normal woman, if you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately Bentz did. He only had to think of last night to remind himself.
Olivia worked a few hours at the Third Eye in the morning, then met Ole Olsen and his crew back at her cabin.
Holed up in the second bedroom, she tried to study while the workmen traipsed through her house, running wire, barking orders, turning off the electricity for a while, and then testing alarm bells. She sat on the daybed flipping the pages of research books, occasionally being interrupted by someone tapping on the closed door, then sticking his head inside to ask a question or two. Her concentration was shot. Not that it wouldn’t have been anyway. The night with Bentz seemed now surreal, their fight this morning just another disjointed piece in the jigsaw puzzle that was her life.
Once the electricity was flowing again, she forgot her thesis for a while and logged on to the Internet, where she spent two or three hours researching the lives and deaths of some of the saints. She’d wanted to tell Bentz he was barking up the wrong tree, but as she read about the saints he’d mentioned and remembered the women who had been killed, she was certain there was a link.
But what? Why these saints and why was she involved?
By the time most of the work crew had left, it was nearly dark and she was equipped with a basic security system that would activate whenever it was engaged and a door or window was opened. “So you’re saying that I’ll never be able to sleep with the windows ajar?” she asked Olsen, a tall, Nordic-looking man with a broad face and a shock of short white hair.
“Oh, yeah, you can turn off certain areas of the house, but I wouldn’t recommend it. See here—” He showed her the control panel, and explained about motion detectors and alarms and lag time between setting the thing and activation starting.
“So … when the motion detector is on, the dog’s got to be locked in another room.”
“Unless you want this to happen.” With a press of the button, he activated the alarm and a series of ear-splitting shrieks began blasting through the house. Hairy S whined. Olivia learned very quickly how to shut it off.
“Sometimes I hate high-tech,” she grumbled.
“Me, too.” Olsen grinned and showed off one gold-capped tooth. “But then I remember it’s my bread and butter. I shouldn’t complain too much.” He left her with his business card, a thick instruction and warranty booklet, and a surprisingly small invoice, which he explained was compliments of Detective Bentz. “We go back a few years,” he explained. “Helped my kid when she was messed up with drugs. Now, you call me if anything goes wrong, y’hear?” he’d said as he’d ambled out to his truck. “Anything ?-tall. Bentz said to take care of you and I aim to please.”
“I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it,” she assured him and waved before walking into her newly protected house. She wondered what Grannie Gin would have thought.
Probably that she was foolish. She could almost feel Grannie Gin rolling over in her grave and muttering, “Lawsy-Moley, what’s got into you payin’ for all those fancy bells and whistles. Trust in the Lord, Livvie, and learn how to use a shotgun. That’s all the protection anyone needs.”
“Not true, Grannie,” Olivia whispered as she sat at the kitchen table and thumbed through the instruction booklet. “Not true ?-tall.” The dog whined and she scratched his ears, then, unable to get past page seven of the booklet, she left it on the table and started for the living room. From the corner of her eye she saw Hairy leap into the chair she’d recently vacated, steal the pamphlet, and hightail it into the laundry room.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she warned, chasing after the dog and wrestling the booklet away before he could bury it in his blankets with his other treasures. “I might need this.” She tucked the pamphlet into a kitchen cupboard and started through the archway to the living
room.
As she did. she felt it—a shifting in atmosphere.
Inside the house.
Like a cold, brittle wind.
“No,” she said, her heart drumming. He couldn’t be at it again. Not after last night. A cold needle of fear pierced her brain. Glancing in the mirror mounted over the bookcase, she half-expected to see the priest’s masked face again, to stare into his cruel blue eyes, but only her own reflection stared back at her, a pale, wild-haired woman who appeared as world-weary as she felt. It was a haunted look. Tortured.
Hairy S whined, but he didn’t run to the door or the window as he usually did if he heard something outside. Instead he cowered near her, shivering, as if he sensed some evil presence here, within the core of the house.
“Sssh. You’re all right,” she said, picking him up and holding him close. “We’re safe.” But he trembled in her arms and scrambled to get down. She set him on the floor and he ran, toenails clicking on the hardwood, to stand in the archway to the kitchen, turn around, and stare back at her. “Hairy, you’re fine.”
He whined plaintively.
“Oh, you can be such a goose sometimes,” she said, but couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong. And not just in her visions, but here in her home. She thought of Grannie Gin’s words, her faith in God. Grannie’s religion had been skewed a bit, a blend of healthy Roman Catholicism flavored with a sprinkling of voodoo. But harmless. Grannie had found solace in the Bible. This Bible that sat on the top shelf of the short bookcase. The thick, leather-bound volume that had been in the family for ages and rested beneath the antique oval mirror.
Hairy barked and backed up.
“Stop it.”
But he wouldn’t quit and was barking madly as she opened the Bible. It fell open to the Twenty-third Psalm. Grannie’s favorite. Olivia read the familiar passage, and remembered Grannie whispering it to her at night when she tucked her into bed:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”
Olivia blinked back tears as she thought of her grandmother and how the old woman had pushed Olivia’s hair out of her face as she’d whispered the words. Funny, she’d never read this Bible herself; it had been solely Grannie’s domain.
