by Lisa Jackson
Bentz thumped a finger onto the grainy photo and leaned over the desk. “Look again,” he ordered. “This has got to be our guy!”
She studied the picture again. It was no use.
“I’m sorry, Rick. It’s not him. I’m sure,” she insisted, enduring Bentz’s furious glare. She recognized the fear congealing in his expression, knew that he was dying inside, desperate to save his daughter. Olivia ached for him. For Kristi. Even now the girl could be dead … or suffering some horrible torture. Olivia’s blood was cold as ice water. “I wish I could help, but—”
“Then, try, damn it. Give me a name. You said your mother thought a couple named Thomas adopted the bastard, so this is the guy!” He pounded a fist on his desk and forgotten coffee jumped out of a cup on the desk. “Shit!” He mopped up the spreading dark stain with his handkerchief.
“Get a grip, man,” Montoya said, slipping through the doorway.
“Go to hell!” Bentz pointed a damning finger at his partner, then something snapped in his face. He crammed the handkerchief into his pocket.
“You go first.”
“I’m already there.”
Montoya snapped back, “That makes two of us.”
“Damn.” Sleeves rolled up, Bentz plowed his fingers through hair that hadn’t seen a comb in hours. “Take her downstairs,” he said, motioning toward Olivia. Their gazes touched and she saw more than fear, a deeper distrust in his eyes. “Work with the damned artist. Get me a sketch, a computer composite, anything, and get it fast!” He glance down at the photo of Kristi on his desk. His throat worked and his shoulders slumped, but only for a second. In the next breath he was angry all over again, the cords of his neck standing out, his lips flat against his teeth. “One way or another, if we have to tear that school apart, we’ve got to find that son of a bitch!” He motioned to Montoya. “Get pictures of every male over twenty who has stepped foot on All Saints in the last year or two.” Bentz trapped Olivia in his determined stare. “Maybe you’ll recognize one of them,” he said coldly, as if he didn’t trust her again. Just like before when she’d first entered this very office a few weeks earlier. As he if he couldn’t stand gazing at her, he turned to Montoya. “Take her to the artist!”
The phone shrilled and Bentz rotated a muscular shoulder, effectively ostracizing Olivia as he snatched up the receiver. She got the message: he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her.
“Come on, let’s check with the artist,” Montoya said and she stood on wooden legs, managing to put some starch in her shoulders as she followed him downstairs.
Three hours later after the artist and computer had come up with a reasonable sketch, she walked into the bright New Orleans night. Christmas lights glittered throughout the city, businesses were festooned with greenery, and even the police department was decorated for the holidays, but she couldn’t conjure up a bit of Christmas spirit. Not a solitary drop. She climbed into her truck, thought about going back inside and facing Bentz again, but knew she’d only get in the way. She had no more information to give him.
Hopefully he could save his daughter and locate the monster. The monster who could be your brother.
Damn it all.
Her cell phone beeped as she started the engine. She picked up and said, “Hello?” as she checked traffic.
“Olivia?” Sarah said, her voice tremulous.
“Sarah!” Olivia felt a second’s relief. “Where are you? I’ve been calling and calling. I keep getting your machine.”
“I didn’t go back to Tucson.”
“What?” Sarah sounded strange. Maybe tired? Or so Olivia thought as she strained to hear her friend’s voice over the rumble of the engine, the buzz of traffic and the crackle of a bad connection. “You didn’t go back? But it’s been over a week.”
“I know. I … I thought I could work things out with Leo.”
“Wait a minute.” Olivia switched off the fan for the defrost, hoping she could hear more clearly. “You said you were going through with the divorce.”
“I was … I am … I … uh, I’m confused …” That explained the weird tone to her voice. “I hoped that you would meet me at St. Luke’s that we could talk to Father James.”
Olivia bit her lip as she thought of the priest. “Father James might not be available,” she said, cringing at the thought of the slain altar boy. “There was trouble at the church last week.”
“I know, I heard about it, but… but I’ve already spoken with Father James. He wants you to be there.”
“Does he?” Olivia was surprised. Since the night of Mickey Gains’s death they hadn’t seen each other, hadn’t so much as spoken. And wouldn’t James rather speak to Sarah alone—to counsel her one-on-one? Or was there a chance he wanted to see Olivia again?
“Please,” Sarah said, sounding desperate.
That did it. Her friend needed her. “When do you want me to meet you?” she asked.
“Soon. As … as soon as possible.” Sarah’s voice wavered, as if she were on the verge of tears. “Father James is going to the church now.”
Olivia glanced at the clock in the car. It was nearly nine and she was dead tired. But Sarah needed her; Olivia assumed the strain in her friend’s voice was because she felt foolish, that she’d hated to make the call and admit that she’d lied. “I can meet you in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, Livvie.”
“I’m on my way.” Olivia hung up and put her car in gear. What the devil had gotten into Sarah? Olivia had known her friend hadn’t wanted the divorce but when she’d left after Thanksgiving, Sarah had sounded so confident and sure of her decision. Maybe something else was going on. Olivia had the eerie sensation that something deeper was bothering Sarah. Or was Olivia just getting paranoid? All the murders were making her overly suspicious. Nonetheless as she turned on the fan and the window cleared well enough that she could pull into traffic, Olivia, picked up her cell phone again and punched a button. The last caller was displayed. Olivia recognized Sarah’s cell number. So now you’re second guessing your best friend—bad karma, Olivia.
She nosed her truck through traffic and tried to shake the bad feeling that clung to her as surely as if it had claws. What was it? Why did she keep thinking something wasn’t on the up and up. The trouble was Olivia had a bad feeling about everything these days. Her head still ached from the vision and she was worried sick about Kristi. She was just on edge. Jittery. That was it.
“Thanks, Livvie,” Sarah had said. Which was odd. Sarah always called her Olivia except when she was teasing her … but then Sarah obviously hadn’t been herself tonight.
She stopped at a red light and tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Where had Sarah been staying this past week? With Leo? Were they back together? Then why the hesitation and … fear, that was it, fear, in her voice. Jesus, surely Leo hadn’t beaten her … That son of a bitch!
The light turned green and Olivia tromped on the accelerator, spraying water from the puddles that shimmered on the street. Her teeth gritted at the thought of her friend’s loser of a husband. She ran the next yellow light and rounded the corner to spy St. Luke’s three blocks down. Security lamps splashed against the whitewashed bell tower and a small creche was illuminated beneath the spreading magnolia tree. Wise men, angels, shepherds, Mary, Joseph and a manger with Baby Jesus lying swaddled in the straw. The church itself was dark except for a few exterior lights and a warm glow from the stained glass windows near the altar.
Despite the nativity scene, the block was desolate, the street empty, most of the surrounding houses dark. Olivia turned into the rutted parking lot and scanned the area for Sarah’s rental. No luck. Maybe she hadn’t arrived yet.
Odd. Sarah had sounded as if she was near the church or in the church … maybe she’d already turned in the car.
Climbing out of her pickup, feeling the night close in on her, Olivia pocketed her keys and avoided the puddles that collected on the uneven asphalt. She tried not to thi
nk of the last time she’d been here, of poor little Mickey Gains being ruthlessly slaughtered within the sacred walls of the church.
Cinching her jacket more tightly, she headed for the main doors. A wind, dank with the scent of the river, moaned as it cut through the surrounding trees and the iridescence from the street lamps cast the street an eerie, watery blue. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she strode along the sidewalk, but she dismissed any sense of premonition, blaming her case of nerves on her intricate knowledge of the murders and the fact that Kristi Bentz was missing. Still, the night felt creepy and out of sync.
She was near the church doors when she heard a car on the next block. It’s engine was racing, tires humming. Sarah!
Turning, she spied a black European car fishtail around the corner, then scream to a stop in front of St. Luke’s. Goose bumps rose on Olivia’s flesh. This was wrong. All wrong. She reached for the handle of the church door when she spied Sarah seated on the passenger side, through the window facing Olivia.
“Thank God!” Olivia whispered and started for the car … but something was still wrong with Sarah. She wasn’t getting out of the Mercedes. She was leaning against the window, barely moving. Pale and thin, she looked at Olivia with haunted, dark eyes. Slowly she shook her head.
“Sarah? What’s wrong?” Olivia took two steps toward the sedan before she slid her gaze toward the driver. He had to be Father James, didn’t he? But the car—the driver shoved open the door and swung onto the street. His alb shined pure white in the dark night.
Instantly, Olivia recognized her mistake. This wasn’t James, he wouldn’t be wearing vestments. Damn.
Her blood turned to ice. She stared straight into the cruel blue eyes of the killer.
“Oh, God … no …” What was Sarah doing with him? What the hell was happening? “Drive away!” Olivia screamed, suddenly propelled into motion. She broke into a dead run. He rounded the Mercedes.
“Sarah! Drive!” Damn it, why wasn’t Sarah moving?
Olivia sprinted hard. Toward the parking lot. “Help me! Please! Someone, help us!” she screamed and heard him behind her. Lightning fast footsteps, closing in, slapping the pavement. Terror spurred her forward. Faster! Faster! Run faster! She reached into her purse, her fingers scrabbling for her cell phone. Her pickup was only ten yards away. Five. Shit, he was closing in! She heard the sound of his breathing! Hard. Fast.
Run! “Help! Someone! HELP!” Not one porch light snapped on.
Her truck was so close! If she could just get inside! She glanced down at the phone in her hand. Managed to punch out 9-1-1.
“Ahhh!” Pain rocketed through her body. Gasping, she bounced against the fender, then fell to the ground. Her chin bounced on the asphalt, her purse and cell phone skated away. Lipstick, pens and wallet flew into the shadows.
She’d been shot, she thought dully, aching everywhere, unable to move. The killer had shot her… at least her death would be quick … no wheel of torture or burning at the stake or beheading…. Through blurry eyes, she saw him approaching and noticed his weapon, then went weak inside as she recognized the stun gun. No bullets. Just shock. She wasn’t going to die quickly after all. She tried to scream. Couldn’t muster a sound.
“Come along,” he said in a calm, steady voice. “We have work to do, Bibiana.”
“No …” she whispered, shaking her head weakly as he snapped a collar around her neck and dragged her back to his car. “No, no … no …” Her fingers scraped along the uneven pavement; blood dripped from her chin and the world was spinning crazily as she tried vainly to focus on a face that was similar to her own. Her brother … So evil and vile in his white vestments. “Bastard,” she muttered. He cuffed her with the back of his hand, then yanked open the back door of his car.
In the front seat, Sarah didn’t so much as flinch.
“Help—” Olivia tried to cry out. If Sarah would help, there was a chance they could overpower him, but her friend was propped listlessly against the glass of the passenger window.
She tried to kick. Missed. He clucked his tongue and shoved her into the backseat. “Bitch.” Olivia fought and was rewarded with a jolt that singed her neck and caused her body to arch. She screamed.
“Be calm!” he insisted, roughly pushing her into the backseat. As she fell inside, she thought she saw something in the shadows, a movement.
Help me, she tried to yell, but no words came and pain screamed down her body.
The door slammed shut.
Her murdering bastard of a brother climbed behind the wheel and accelerated away from the church. Lying on her back on a smooth leather seat, Olivia looked through the back window of the Mercedes and through the glass to the Stygian black heavens. She knew that if she didn’t do something and soon, the monster would kill her, kill Sarah and kill Kristi.
Give me strength, she silently prayed to the dark sky. She hoped to hell that God was listening.
“I’m telling you he’s got Olivia!” James screamed to the dispatch officer. Adrenalin shot through his veins and fear clutched his heart as he drove crazily through the thick traffic on the freeway. “Patch me in or get me Rick Bentz. The killer’s got Olivia Benchet. I’m following them now … but I’m afraid he’s losing me. I’m on the freeway heading north, toward Baton Rouge!” The taillights of the Mercedes were visible in the darkness, three cars up and James lagged back though he knew nothing about tailing a vehicle … only what he’d watched on some of those police shows on television. Who knew how accurate they were?
“Sir, if you would—”
“Call Rick Bentz!” James repeated into his cell phone. “Do it now. Tell him his brother, James McClaren called and the killer’s got Olivia! He grabbed her at St. Luke’s. Her truck is still there. I’m on the 10 heading North. For God’s sake, woman, send help!”
“Sir—”
“He’s in a black Mercedes … an older model, Louisiana plates but I don’t have the number. I can’t get close enough to see.” James had walked out the side door of the church only to witness a priest dressed in a white alb stuffing a groggy woman into the car. In a split second James had recognized Olivia, then spotted her pickup in the empty lot. His own car had been parked around the corner. James had sprinted to his Chevy as he’d heard the Mercedes roar away. Muttering every prayer he could think of, James had climbed inside his car and ignored the speed limit as he’d taken off in the direction the black car had taken. By luck he’d seen the sleek car stuck at a traffic light. From there, he’d followed, his head pounding with fear, his hands sweaty over the steering wheel. “You’ve got to send someone,” he screamed at the dispatcher. “I could lose them, and whatever else you do, call Detective Rick Bentz,” he ordered as his cell phone began to bleep and sputter as the battery died. “Damn it all… Father, if you’re listening, please, help me save them. I beg of you.” He ended his prayer and slammed the phone down, then concentrated on the traffic, ribbons of red taillights in front of him, the Mercedes moving easily up the freeway.
His fingers clenched around the steering wheel in a death grip. Not Olivia, he thought frantically. Oh, God, not Olivia. Could this be his punishment? For all his sins? No … oh, God no. He made a quick sign of the cross and fought tears that burned hard against the back of his eyes. “Please, Father, take me … spare her, I beg of you … take my life first.”
She should recognize him, Olivia thought as the car turned off the smooth road to bounce through the darkness. Dried weeds brushed the sides of the Mercedes and the tires spun against gravel. Sarah hadn’t moved. The driver had been quiet and when she’d tried to open the back door several times, she’d found it locked. So who was he and where were they? She’d seen enough to know that they’d headed north toward Baton Rouge, but when he’d taken an unfamiliar exit off the freeway, she’d become disoriented in the darkness. They’d left the city lights long behind them to this desolate stretch of land … He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She froze. Every time he cau
ght her moving, he did something and stinging, burning pain shot through her body, an electrical shock that made her cry out and brought tears to her eyes. She tugged at the collar, but it was locked and he was watching her in the rearview mirror, somehow able to discern any movement and shoot a jolt of electricity through her. Or perhaps he was playing with her, trying to scare her or beat her into a near-catatonic state. Like Sarah.
That was it! Mind games… learned behavior… psychology … She closed her eyes for a minute but her mind was racing in circles. She called up the names of the newly christened babies from the sheet that Father James had given her. She’d gone over them dozens of times . . . Thomas . . . Brian Thomas was the only baby listed with the last name of Thomas.
“Who are you?” she cried, her toe inching toward the door again.
Zap! Pain sizzled through her throat. She squealed.
“Ask nothing,” he commanded. “Don’t speak.”
As the car turned sharply and bounced upon a rutted road, Sarah began to mewl.
“You, too, shut up!” he growled
Thomas … she went through the list again, remembering the names. Bill and Monica Trent, Seth and Rosemary Bailey, Ralph and Primrose Stafford … but … but wasn’t there a … then it hit her … Tom and Frieda Sutter had christened a baby boy. Tom as in Thomas and the baby’s name had been … William, no, Warren … Warren Sutter … the name rang a distant bell. She’d heard it somewhere. Hadn’t she? Or was she imagining it? Her head pounded, her muscles were weak and she was vaguely aware that the car was slowing. Warren Sutter… Oh, God … She’d heard the name at Tulane! Hadn’t Dr. Leeds mentioned him by name when Leeds had been late for his appointment with Olivia? He’d said something about getting caught in a conversation with Dr. Sutter … her brother … a sadistic murderer. Not a priest but a professor.
Brittle grass scraped the underbelly of the car as it twisted and turned along a long, dark lane. Olivia’s heart pounded crazily. He was taking them to some remote, isolated spot—just like he did with the women found butchered in the mill. Dear God … how could she save herself? Sarah? Kristi… where was Bentz’s daughter? A dozen horrifying scenarios scorched her mind. Was she alive?
