by Lisa Jackson
If she were even going to stay in the house she’d thought of as home ever since she was a child.
Which was a pretty big if, all things considered. At the thought of her bloodied bed, the doll, and the damned scrawled message, she considered moving. Nana’s house or not, she couldn’t imagine ever sleeping in the turret room again. Whoever was behind this nightmare, he was winning. She was a wreck. She didn’t know up from sideways or what she was going to do for the next five minutes, let alone the rest of her life.
Cole stirred.
Her heart softened a little at the sight of him, but then she steadfastly shut down any vague romantic or sexual notions she might still possess. That part of her life, she was certain, was over.
He made some kind of growling noise that did strange things to her then rolled over and opened one eye. “Mornin’,” he drawled, all west Texas again.
Oh sure.
He stretched, his arms reaching far over his head, lengthening him out, making his abdomen appear even flatter, almost concave. “So…where’s the coffee?”
“Very funny.”
“Still mad?”
She was aghast at his audacity. “What do you think?”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Too bad. I thought maybe you and I could have a quickie this morning before—”
“Stop!” She threw a hand up, instantly incensed. “Do you remember what we’re in the middle of?”
“Of course I do. I just thought we could lighten up a little. You know, they say it’s not good to go to bed angry, and I figured once you’d had time to think about everything, sleep on it, come to—”
“If you were going to say, ‘Come to my senses,’ don’t.”
“Yesterday you—” he started to say.
“Yesterday I was a blind woman who didn’t know the truth.”
He didn’t bother finishing what he’d been about to say. Instead, he stated flatly, “And today we don’t have time for recriminations. Save ’em. We’ve got to figure this out. Fast.”
She wanted to argue, to keep at it, but she knew he was right. Festering fury didn’t get anyone anywhere. She still could not trust him, but she did need to deal with him.
“There must be some kind of method to this guy’s madness,” Cole said. “So, let’s take the number that was written on the wall of Roy’s cabin. 212, right?”
She nodded.
“And your father, 101?”
“Yes.”
“And where the nun, Vivian, was found, up in the hospital…323, while the doll was 444.”
“I know what the numbers are,” she said, still irritated. “So what?”
“And if you read them backward?” He held up his notes for her to see.
She looked the numbers over. “Okay…so…they’re the same. Left to right or right to left.”
“Now look at the message that was written last night. Dennis sinned. Read it backward.”
“Dennis sinned….” She looked at him in surprise. “I still don’t get it.”
“It can’t be a coincidence, Eve. And there’s more. The drug that your father was given?”
“Xanax.” A pause. “Weird.” She didn’t understand this, not at all, but she was certain Cole was on to something.
“And your father’s last name? Renner. A palindrome. A word that reads the same way backward or forward.”
“Like Viv,” she said. “But…Sister Rebecca…Becca…Renault or…”
“Let’s go with ‘nun.’”
“Okay. Nun.” And then her eyes met his, and she felt a cold thrill rush down her spine as she realized where he was going with this. “Or,” she said, drawing in a shaky breath, “like Kajak.”
“Yeah, Kajak works, but that’s just for starters.” Cole was suddenly stone-cold sober, and before the words were out of his mouth, she understood what he was going to say.
“I hate to bring this up, darlin’, but we can’t ignore your first name. E-v-e. Same both ways. Eve and Renner both. I’d say whoever is behind this is definitely fixated on you.”
CHAPTER 29
Bentz stared at the fresh grave, red brown earth turned and moist, a small cross marking its location between other, larger, engraved headstones. Cut into the grass and weeds, the earthy patch was impossible to miss.
“I don’t understand it,” Sister Odine said, worrying her hands as she walked with Bentz and Montoya around the machinery standing ready to chow into the ground. A driver was in the cab, another two workers standing by, the big backhoe idling noisily, smelling of diesel. “We’ve not had a burial here in six months.” She blinked up at Bentz and shook her head. “I walked through here just three days ago, and this”—she pointed to the gravesite with its mound of fresh earth—“wasn’t that way. There was a grave here, yes. The marker has been here for as long as I have, I think. But I swear, the grass was undisturbed.”
“I believe you,” Bentz said, then nodded to the excavation crew. He handed Sister Odine the necessary paperwork, though she wasn’t the least bit concerned with legalities. Bentz assured her the Archdiocese might be. He motioned to the backhoe driver, and, with a grind of gears, the machine got to work, tearing through the soft soil, making short work of the grave.
“I don’t like this.” Montoya reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes then glanced at Sister Odine and thought better of it. “Digging up graves is…well, it’s just creepy. I don’t like messin’ with the dead. Once in the ground, stay there, I say.”
“Part of the job.”
“Huh.” He folded his arms over his chest, his leather jacket creaking as he did, then waited impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, glancing up at the heavens, where a jet cut across the sky, leaving a white plume in its wake before disappearing into the approaching clouds.
Noisily the backhoe kept working, extracting scoops of dark, earthy-smelling dirt, dropping each bucketful into an ever-growing pile.
It didn’t take long for the backhoe to expose the coffin.
“Hey! Hold it!” one of the men on the ground said, raising a hand to keep the driver from lowering his scoop onto the coffin. “Detective?”
Steeling himself, Bentz walked to the gravesite’s edge, and there, a few feet within the hole, still partially covered with dirt, was a small casket. A sense of sadness seeped through him. Unlike his partner, he wasn’t creeped out by this part of his job, though he agreed that he never liked disturbing the dead or exhuming bodies.
“Jesus,” Montoya said, edging nearer to the pit and glancing down at the small coffin. “Jesus.”
“I assume that was a prayer,” the sister said.
“Absolutely!” Montoya was emphatic.
Bentz actually believed his partner. He nodded at the graveside workers. “Bring it up,” Bentz instructed, then stepped back as the men retrieved the box that was scarcely larger than the body of an infant.
Montoya’s face tightened as the coffin was hoisted upward. Lips flat, skin drawn over his cheekbones, eyes glittering darkly, he waited while it was placed on the ground and, at a nod from Bentz, the lid pried open.
Bentz forced his eyes to the interior. In the simple wooden box lined with sheeting there was a body.
A fresh body.
Blood still lined the sheets.
But it wasn’t a child. It was a baby pig, its throat slit.
“For the love of God!” Montoya said, repulsed, his skin almost visibly crawling. “What the hell is that?” He looked up at the nun and said, “Sorry, Sister” then turned his attention to the coffin again. “But man, what is that? A pig? A damned fresh pig?”
He stepped away from the coffin. No longer concerned about any kind of protocol or respect for the dead, he scrabbled for his pack of Marlboros and hastily lit up. “Jesus,” he said under his breath again, and even the construction workers stopped their conversation.
The little nun frowned into the open casket and hastily made the sign of the cross over her chest. She too wa
s obviously shaken, her skin blanched, her eyes wide behind her glasses. “Why would anyone do this?”
“I don’t know,” Bentz said, “but we’ll find out. I have to take this coffin back to the lab.” Bending on one knee, he got a closer look. The pig was bloated, no sign of maggots but already starting to smell rank. Bentz pulled on a pair of gloves and gingerly lifted the carcass, then the sheet, so that he could peer beneath. “You got the flashlight?” he asked Montoya, who was already fishing it out of his pocket. He handed it to him, and Bentz clicked on the light, shining a beam along the inside of the box.
Partially hidden by the sheet, scrawled across the side of the coffin, was another message. He read aloud.
“Live not on evil.”
“What?” Montoya stepped closer and read the words. “‘Live not on evil’? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bentz twisted his neck and squinted up at his partner. “Our guy wanted us to read it. He left the earth freshly turned, didn’t try to hide it. He wanted us to find this grave and dig it up.”
“So that we could find a dead pig?”
“So that we could find the message.” Bentz dropped the sheet so that the pig rested as it had. Straightening, he yanked off his gloves. “Our boy is talking to us,” he said. “What’s he trying to tell us?”
God was angry with him.
The Reviver knew it. He’d lain awake all night, waiting for the Voice, hoping to hear that he was pardoned. But all that came to him were the scratchy voices making white noise in his head, and he’d fallen to his knees and prayed, begging absolution, tears streaming down his face, his pleas going unanswered in God’s deathly cold silence.
“Please, forgive me. Father, I beg Thee, speak with me again and I will do Your bidding.”
When there was no response, he took solace in his rosary and then laid out his tarp and candles and stripped bare. After carefully showering, protecting his new flesh engravings, cleansing his body and soul, he retrieved his tattoo machine, lit the candles, and checked the vials of ink. Soon he would have to buy more, but for now, all was as it should be.
Except that God was no longer speaking to him.
No longer instructing him.
No longer calling him the Reviver and hinting that he would soon be deified.
He needed to repent, to do a long penance to find favor with the Lord again.
Standing in front of the mirror, he turned on his machine then placed his hand on the inside of his leg, where the flesh was tight from all his exercise. He closed his eyes, said a prayer, and pushed the needle into his skin, deep, feeling the hot little bite, the sting of the first prick. He would write his name here, where he could see it easily without the aid of a mirror. Though it might rub, and he would have to be careful with it for the next few days, it would be a reminder.
Concentrating, revived by the pain, he started to ink the word “Reviver” onto his flesh. And as he did, he turned his mind to God, away from Eve, where it often strayed whenever he touched himself. To want her was a sin. He knew it, and yet he hoped that the Voice would speak to him again and tell him that his patience, his waiting, his obedience had bought him a little time with her.
Just enough…Not much…but enough that he could do all the things he’d dreamed about. Touch her. Taste her. Nip her flesh.
The needle cut deep, and he quickly banished Eve from his thoughts.
For now, he would concentrate on God.
Cole had gone to the store for donuts, juice, and coffee, and the remains were strewn around the sleeping bags that had become their bedroom, kitchen, and den. The air conditioner wheezed but brought some kind of movement to the stale air. They’d cracked the blinds, and pale morning light striated the dirty floor as it passed through the slats.
Eve felt a little sick with the rush of sugar and caffeine, but she’d managed to concentrate on the pages of notes they’d taken. She was certain he was on to something with this pattern of palindromes.
And it scared her.
Not just for herself.
But what about Anna Maria? Her first name was the same backward and forward. She knew no one close named Bob or Lil or Ava or Gig, or any other name that could be construed as reading both backward and forward. But what about someone called dad or mom? Cole and she had worked on a list of potential victims, and Cole had even thought that Sam Deeds—if you used just his first initial, as ‘S. Deeds’—could be another person in the killer’s sights.
It was twisted. Made no sense. But it must mean something, and it was somehow connected to Our Lady of Virtues and Faith Chastain.
Eve had called Anna’s cell phone, but her message had been instantly sent to voice mail. Desperately wanting to know that her sister-in-law was alive and well, she’d next phoned Kyle, only to get a terse greetings, “Leave a message.”
Great.
She was already sick with tension. Not being able to reach Anna Maria only ratcheted up her level of anxiety.
Cole sat cross-legged on his sleeping bag, leaning over his papers, T-shirt stretched tight over his shoulders, the waistband of his jeans pulling low enough to show a slice of his bare back. He glanced up and caught her eye on him. “Quit ogling me and get back to work.”
“I’m not ogling.”
He smiled infuriatingly. Eve looked away. She found herself shocked to realize her anger was dissipating. Damn it. She was way, way too susceptible to this man. And she was infuriated with herself for caring.
“Look at all these numbers and words backward and forward,” he said, bringing her back from her self-flagellation. “I put the numbers by the names, the way I think the killer has them…see?
“I’ve seen this before,” she said but sat down beside him, careful not to let her and his skin touch anywhere. She stared at the sheet again. Samson wandered over to her and settled into her lap. Idly, she petted his head and back, stroking his long fur as she read Cole’s bold block letters.
“Just look more closely. I think the doll represents you. It was found up in the attic, in a place that hadn’t been disturbed since you were a child, and then again in your bed.”
“Oh great,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said, the muscles in the back of his neck tightening. “But he didn’t go after you. Just did things to scare the hell out of you.”
“Mission accomplished,” she whispered.
“Sick son of a bitch,” Cole muttered harshly as he pointed at the numbers. “Do these mean anything to you?”
She stared at the list and shook her head. Samson rolled onto his back, purring. “I’ve thought about this a hundred times over, and the only thing that comes to me is the floors of the hospital.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, both my dad and Sister Rebecca had offices on the first floor, and then, I think, when Roy was back at the hospital as a patient, he was on the second floor. The attic would be the fourth floor.”
“What about Sister Vivian?”
Eve lifted her palms. “But she could have been a patient at one time.”
He ran a finger down the numbers. “Okay…let’s take it a step further. Did your father’s office have a room number?”
“Yes. Number one. He liked that. I remember because he’d whisper to me, ‘I’m number one.’ You know, like every football team heading for a bowl game.”
“And Sister Rebecca?”
“Not sure. Her office was down the hall from Dad’s.”
“Could it be room eleven?” he asked, reopening the cap of a half-drunk bottle of cranberry juice and talking a long swallow.
“Yesss…” Samson batted at her hands, as, lost in thought, she’d quit petting him. She absently began to stroke him again.
“Do you think it’s possible that these are room numbers of the hospital?”
“Maybe. But what about the attic? There were no numbers up there.”
He screwed on the cap and dropped the bottle onto the floor next to the open box of donuts. “Maybe
I’m all wet…but, okay, think about it. If the attic were sectioned off into rooms like the floors below, what numbers would they be?”
“You’re taxing my brain.” Examining this so closely brought her fear bubbling to the surface.
“Come on, Eve,” he urged. “The rooms on the second and third floor were stacked directly above each other, the composition the same, so imagine the floor beneath the spot where you made your little fort or whatever you want to call it. What room was that? Three forty-four?”
“Could be…” She fought back her urge to push this away and tried to remember the configuration of the halls.
“Maybe your little attic nest would be where room four forty-four would be if there were a set of rooms up there.”
“That’s a pretty big leap, isn’t it?”
Cole inclined his head in agreement. “But it’s something. The only thing we’ve really got.”
“Which isn’t much,” she said, disheartened, then reached for her phone to call Anna Maria again. “Please answer,” she whispered, but once again the call was sent directly to voice mail.
It was nearly five when the call came in from the lab. “I think it would be best if you all come on down here,” Bonita Washington told Bentz. “See for yourself what we’ve got.”
“I’m on my way.” He turned to Montoya, who was cradling a phone to his ear while scribbling notes.
“Yeah…yeah…Okay…Got it!” He hung up and explained. “Another case…The knifing down at the waterfront. Got a snitch who’s coming in later to say what went down. What’s up?”
“Washington called. Wants us to come down to the lab ASAP.”
Montoya grabbed his jacket. “Serious stuff.”
“Sounds like it.”
On their way past Lynn Zaroster’s desk, Montoya dropped off his jotted notes. “I’ll be gone for a while. If this guy calls in”—he tapped the note—“get the info, and I’ll call him back. I’m not sure he knows anything, but he’s making noise like he knows what went down the other night near the park.”
“Got it,” she nodded and placed his note near her phone. “I think I’ve got a lead on the priest, Father Paul, who used to work at Our Lady. Paul Swanson. He’s retired. Might be in a nursing home or assisted-care facility. I’ll let you know if and when I locate him.”
