by Lisa Jackson
He was deluding himself.
James clutched the phone for several seconds after Kristi had hung up. He replayed their short conversation in his mind. Yes, it had been brief, but then he’d expected as much. Time he told himself, it will take time.
He lived in a small house one block from St. Luke’s and he considered going over to the church early and speaking with Monsignor O’Hara. He hung up the phone.
Father James, who so many turned to for counseling, needed someone in whom to confide. He had so many issues to deal with.
First and foremost there was Kristi. His child. How he’d once wanted to give up the priesthood, marry Jennifer, claim Kristi as his own. Failing that, at least he’d hoped for interaction with her. He could never be recognized as her father, he knew that much now, but he could still have the role of uncle … if she’d let him.
He didn’t want to take away anything from Rick. Bentz had done a fine job with Kristi. Better than fine. And raising a daughter alone was never easy.
Then there was the issue of Olivia. Dear Father, help him.
James walked to his desk and found his Bible. It had been his mother’s and he found solace in the thin pages. Where was the passage he wanted? He flipped to the Book of Proverbs just as the phone rang loud enough to startle him.
He picked up the receiver but his eyes were skimming the pages, searching for the passage that would give him peace.
“Forgive me, Father …”
James didn’t move a muscle. The midnight confessor was calling again. The clock ticked on the wall, counting off the seconds. He was sweating, his hand around the phone in a death grip. “What can I do for you, my child?” he forced out.
“I… I… must complete my mission … but sometimes I have doubts.”
“We all have doubts. What is your mission?”
“It is from God. To find the saints. To see that they make their way to heaven.”
No. This can’t be right. James sank back in his chair. Was he actually talking to the serial murderer? The killer Bentz was trying to stop? “It is not for you to decide who is to be venerated or canonized,” he said carefully.
“But God has chosen me to find them, to offer them to Him.”
The hairs on the back of Father James’s neck rose one by one. “You must’ve misinterpreted what He’s saying. It’s a sin to take a life. Remember that ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is one of the Ten Commandments. God would not ask you to sin.”
“He speaks to me, Father. He tells me who to choose. It’s His divine will. And this, my confession, is between you and me, Father. What shall be my penance?”
James’s heart was beating a fast tattoo, his mind spinning rapidly. He’d considered the question. “Your penance, my son, will be to pray the rosary and to turn yourself in to the authorities.”
There was a long pause. James would have thought that the penitent had hung up except he heard music in the background—soft choral chords. No … it was a Christmas carol, an instrumental version of “Silent Night.” His stomach turned over at the thought.
“The rosary,” the penitent finally repeated. “Pray the rosary?”
“Yes, and never kill again. Go to the police.”
“So that they can jail me for doing God’s will? So that you would not carry the burden of my confession?” There was a hint of anger in the voice.
“So that you would not sin again. This is your penitence. You must go to—”
Click. The line went dead. James closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. He’d failed. The killer was certain to murder again. In the name of God. And James could do nothing about it.
Montoya was waiting for him when Bentz arrived at his office Friday morning. His expression said it all. And it wasn’t good news. Montoya looked like hell. Though he was dressed in his standard leather jacket and black jeans, his hair was uncombed, his goatee untrimmed and ragged, and his usually cocky smile was nowhere to be found.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” he clipped out.
“But—”
“I said I’m fine.” His dark eyes flashed, the set of his jaw was rock-hard, and every muscle in his body was flexed, as if he were spoiling for a fight. As Bentz hung up his coat, Montoya leaned against the file cabinet. “Three women were called in missing Monday night. One came home—she’d just had it with her husband and teenaged sons and took herself a little unscheduled break. The second one’s still unaccounted for, but the third one, Leslie Franz, is probably the victim we found on the wheel. She’s married, no kids, teaches in a preschool, but get this, her husband is a professor at Loyola.”
“Let me guess—she was a part-time student.”
“Bingo.”
Bentz’s back teeth gnashed. He thought of Kristi at home in bed. “No positive ID yet?”
“Just a matter of time.” Montoya motioned to Bentz’s computer. “I scanned the photos over from missing persons. And she has two tattoos. One on her right ankle, the other on her left shoulder.”
“Does she?”
“Yep. A dolphin and a cross.”
As Bentz settled into his chair and clicked on the icons on the computer screen, Montoya walked to the window, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, his eyes fixed on the dismal day outside. Gray clouds hung over the tops of the buildings and rain spat against the window.
Bentz found the file and opened the picture. Sure enough, St. Catherine of Alexandria smiled up at him. She was clinging to the jib of a sailing ship, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, her smile as bright as the sunlight spangling the blue water. Bentz’s gut clenched. She was either the victim posed as St. Catherine of Alexandria or she was her twin.
“Once again everyone who knows her is locked tight in alibis, at least that’s the way it seems. The husband, Bertrand, is older, pushing fifty. Leslie is his second wife. The trophy, I guess. His first one is another professor, up at All Saints.”
Bentz stiffened. Damn!
“That’s where he met wife number two. Leslie Jones was an undergraduate. Big scandal. Bertrand divorced the first wife, married the second, and took a position in the Psych Department at Tulane.”
“With Dr. Leeds.” Bentz didn’t like it. Because Kristi attended classes there, because the Rosary Killer had attended school there, and because of the name “All Saints.” Coincidence? Not hardly. He reached into the top drawer and found a half-used package of Turns.
“When he married Leslie, Old Bert was forty-eight and she was half his age. Nasty. Nasty.”
Bentz popped two antacids and washed them down with a swallow of yesterday’s coffee. “We’ll have to check out the ex-wife, though I don’t know how she could be involved.”
“I’ve already started. Her name’s Nancoise and she’s got credentials up the ass. All kinds of awards for scholarship and philanthropic shit. She’s a long shot.”
“Remember the guy who wrote The Scarsdale Diet? He was shot by a scorned lover who was headmistress of some hoity-toity school. It’s happened before. What’s the old saying, something like ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'?”
“Close enough.” Montoya scratched at his goatee and continued to stare through the glass as noises from the outer office filtered in through the door, which was slightly ajar. Phones rang and conversation buzzed. Once in a while, someone shouted.
“What’s eating you?” Bentz asked, leaning back in his chair. “Bad turkey? Holiday depression? What?”
Montoya’s jaw clenched. “Woman trouble.”
“What? That I can’t believe, Diego.”
“Believe it,” Montoya said grimly. A muscle worked near his temple, and his eyes narrowed. “That second woman, I mentioned, the one still missing?”
“Yeah.” Bentz got a bad feeling.
“She’s my girlfriend. Marta Vasquez. I filed the report. We had a fight Monday night at my place. She never made it home. Took off in her car like a bat out of hell. No one’s seen her or her Camaro since.
” He glanced over his shoulder and his dark eyes had lost their spark. “I was the last one to see her and I’ve got no idea where she is, man, not one fuckin’ idea. The worst part of it is she was taking a couple of night classes at Loyola.”
Looking up from his desk chair, Bentz waved Olivia inside. But he didn’t so much as crack a smile, and what little spark of hope Olivia had experienced that he would be glad to see her was quickly extinguished.
“Hi,” she said just as the phone rang. He nodded at her as he grabbed the receiver. “Bentz.” His expression grew darker and he held up a finger indicating that he’d be a minute or two. Then he rotated the chair so that his back was to her, the phone cord stretched, and his end of the conversation was just quick answers. “No … not yet … waiting for the autopsy … Yeah, you’d hope, but so far we haven’t gotten lucky … ass-deep in this shit … I’ll see what I can do …”
His office looked about the same as it had the first time she’d visited him—had it been only a week ago? So much had happened. The clutter—files, mail, legal pads on which notes had been scribbled, still remained as did the pictures of his daughter on the desk. His window was cracked a bit, allowing in the noise of traffic below floating in on a cool November breeze.
“… I’ll call as soon as I hear anything. Yeah … you got it… You, too.” He spun around and hung up.
“How are you?” he asked without much inflection. She looked for warmth in his steely eyes. Saw not a drop.
“Fine.”
“Nice Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, it was. A couple of friends came over. You?”
“Just Kristi and me. It was good. Now, what Can I do for you?”
So much for pleasantries. “I thought I’d share something.” Reaching into her purse, she pulled out the sheet of paper James had given her. “I asked a priest I know for a favor.”
One of Bentz’s eyebrows lifted. “Didn’t know you were close to any priests. The last I heard, you were having nightmares about them.”
“About one,” she corrected as she handed him the list of names. “Anyway, Father McClaren was good enough to—”
“Father McClaren?” Bentz said and his eyes narrowed harshly. “Father James McClaren at St. Luke’s?”
“Yes. Do you know him?” She was surprised.
“Kristi and I attend mass there once in a while.”
“You never mentioned that—”
“It’s not very often. How do you know him?”
“I was looking for information after the fire. St. Luke’s is the closest church …”
“Go on, what did Father McClaren come up with?” Bentz asked and the skin over his face seemed to draw tighter. It ticked her off. So they’d slept together and he decided he couldn’t handle it. The least he could do is act decently.
“It’s a list of christenings,” she explained, “all of which happened within the three months after my brother was born. You seemed so convinced that a blood relative might be involved that I thought it was worth checking out.”
“It is.” He scanned the notes. There were sixty-three names. Olivia had counted them. “Any of these turn out to be priests?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask that.”
“Does he know you’re looking for a priest who might be a killer?”
“He doesn’t know anything about the murders. I only asked him about my brother,” she said. “And we talked a little. He gave me some advice.”
Bentz lifted an eyebrow.
“About how to deal with a hard-ass cop who shuts off emotionally anytime someone gets close.”
A ghost of a smile flickered over Bentz’s mouth. “And what was Father McClaren’s advice?”
“To tell the jerk to ‘go to hell.’ ”
“That was a direct quote?”
“No. That’s how I interpreted it,” she snapped and noticed the set of his jaw shift a bit.
“Maybe he knows what he’s talking about.” Bentz’s chair groaned as he leaned over the desk. Resting his elbows on an open file, he held her gaze. “Look, Olivia. I’m sorry.”
“Bull.”
“No, I am.” For a second the facade came down and she caught a glimpse of the man beneath the tough-as-nails, emotionally detached cop. “But it would be best if we—”
“Yeah, I know. I got it the last time,” she said, standing. “I’ll let you know if I have any more visions, okay?”
“That would be good.”
“No, Bentz, it would be hell,” she said, shifting the strap of her purse to her shoulder. “Find this guy and do it fast. Then you won’t have to keep explaining to me why you can’t see me anymore.”
She reached for the door, but he was out of his chair and around the desk in one swift motion. She was pulling on the knob, but he slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle panels. The flat of his hand held the door tight in its frame. His was so close she caught a whiff of his aftershave. “Don’t,” he warned, his eyes flashing. “Don’t play any woman-games with me. We made a mistake the other night, and that’s all there is to it. I didn’t mean to let it go so far and you didn’t mean to get involved, either. It just happens sometimes.”
“Not to me.”
“Well, it did the other night.”
She didn’t argue. Couldn’t.
“For that, I’m sorry. But you and I can’t let anything get started, at least not for a while. We have to be able to work together professionally. I thought I made that clear.”
“As glass,” she said.
“You’ll be able to handle it?”
“With no problem.” They both knew she was lying, but as he removed his hand and she opened the door, she added, “Call me if you ever need a psychic, okay? Because I can see into your future and it looks like it’s going to be lonely as hell.”
The dogs were howling again. Chained, muzzled, and hungry, they put up a clamor that would wake the dead. The Chosen One told himself to remain calm; no one other than himself could hear the beasts. The feast day of St. Vivian was fast approaching and then the dogs would be satisfied.
He’d bought the curs from a backwoods redneck who lived in a rusted shell of a trailer, spat tobacco juice between his front teeth, and bragged about outsmarting the law while he poached “gators,” distilled his own brand of moonshine, and sold half-breed dogs and “fightin’ cocks” to anyone who paid cash.
The deal had transpired in near darkness, the only illumination the smoky glow of the parking lights of a battered pickup and an SUV. Neither vehicle had plates. The Chosen One had unscrewed the license plates of his stolen Ford before he’d made the journey to this part of bayou country. The owner of the dogs probably just didn’t bother with legalities or the DMV. Both parties felt better not having a clear view of the face of the other, and after the cash was exchanged for “one quality male and the meanest bitch this side of Arkansas,” The Chosen One had driven the dogs here, then driven back to the college, parked the stolen car in a lot not far from where he’d found it, replaced the plates, and jogged to the spot where he’d tucked his own car. Then he’d driven back to his sanctuary.
He was proud of himself. Of his resourcefulness. He’d found the dogs through an ad in a local paper that was chock-full of cheap items for sale—everything from used mattress and springs to farm equipment and exotic pets. The animals had been described as “guard dogs—Doberman/Rottweiler mix.” They were perfect.
Except for their incessant howling from the basement. This, of course, was not where he lived; just where he spent most of his time. He lived in a cramped space only a few blocks from the college. His furnishings, books, and clothing were there. He’d left a few things strewn about to make it seem as if he entertained women in those quarters, and he found this the most exciting part for they were earrings, or necklaces, or even scarves of some of the women he’d immortalized.
Now, he untied his cincture and let his alb slide to the floor. He stood naked before the altar, but he couldn’t concentr
ate, the dogs were too loud. Music didn’t help and even the caress of the jeweled whip striking his flesh wasn’t enough to satisfy him. His prayers seemed empty and unanswered, and when he fondled his braid, rubbing the plait slowly between his fingers or upon his cock, he had only the hint of an erection. Closing his eyes, he conjured up the image of St. Catherine of Alexandria rotating on the wheel, her white body spinning and dripping blood, the horror upon her face as he withdrew his blade … but, no … he didn’t get hard, didn’t feel the presence of God … began to doubt.
The barking continued. If one of the beasts quieted, it seemed the other took up the call. He strode to the landing and screamed down, “Shut up!” Spawn of the devil, that’s what the curs were. His head began to pound harder and harder with each yowl.
Perhaps he should beat them again. Take the leather straps and whip them until they turned and snarled at him. They had water and a couple of bones with tattered pieces of meat but he’d offered them no solid food. He wanted them ravenous for St. Vivian.
As his head ached, he sensed, from somewhere in the back of his brain, that he should repent. It was so confusing at times. God meant him to do His will. Yes, of course, but … the priest had insisted that he stop; that his sacrifices were a sin… but then the priest didn’t understand. Couldn’t.
Pray the rosary and go to the police.
What kind of a priest was Father James?
At the altar The Chosen One slid to his knees and bowed his head. He prayed until his knees ached, until his neck hurt, but it was no good. He needed to confess and the phone wasn’t good enough. No … he needed to visit the confessional and hear Father McClaren’s breath, feel the heat from his body through the thin partition … yes … it would be dangerous, but necessary.
God would expect no less.
Chapter Thirty-two
“… a bar in Lafayette, one in Baton Rouge, two in New Orleans, and one in Cambrai,” the owner of Nick’s Neon Lighting said from his office in Montgomery. Seated at his desk with the phone receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder, Bentz was scribbling notes. “Those are the only places I’ve sold a neon sign like the one you described, with the pink martini glass. I’d be glad to fax you over the information.”
