by Lisa Jackson
Once again she thought of the creatures of the night.
As frightening as snakes and gators were, they were nothing compared to the psycho who’d abducted her and planned her torturous demise.
Setting her jaw, she pushed herself upright and ignored the headache pounding behind her eyes and the pain splintering up her leg from an ankle that felt as big as a cantaloupe. Her stomach grumbled, but that was to be expected. Slowly, painfully, she pushed her way up the bank and felt the ground. She thought she’d seen a stick she could use as a crutch, something to lean on, but her progress would be slow. Her plan, if she had one, was to walk as far as she could into the forest and then, come first light, head farther downriver.
She had searched for signs of civilization, a light shining on either side of the river, but here, in the middle of nowhere, the darkness offered no beacon of hope. Even if she caught sight of a flashlight’s beam, she would have to hold her tongue for fear that is was the freak on her trail. Although there were night fishermen and poachers and alligator hunters—all of whom would use a flashlight to find and kill prey—she wouldn’t know whether the light was generated by an outdoorsman or the douchebag himself.
Slowly she inched her way up the bank, her skin raw and muddy, her thoughts returning to Chloe. God, where was her twin? Hopefully, Zoe prayed, at a police station telling the cops what had happened, or somewhere using a telephone and calling Dad. He would know what to do. Not Mom. Not first. She would just fall apart or scold before she pulled herself together and called the authorities.
Zoe’s heart grew heavier when she thought of her mother. No doubt Selma was going out of her mind with worry, having no idea of the terrifying circumstances her daughters had fallen into. She might even be pissed, thinking Zoe and Chloe were hungover somewhere and sleeping it off.
If only.
Her hand slid along a sharp blade of some kind of grass, which sliced into her skin.
“Crap!” Zoe whispered, jerking her arm back. “Shit!”
Craaack!
A twig snapped nearby.
Zoe froze.
Heart beating a wild tattoo, she strained to determine the source of the noise. All the while she braced herself, certain that the monster would leap out of the darkness, a machete raised, his eyes and teeth gleaming hideously in the barest light from the weak crescent moon.
Her skin crawled and she slid her fingers through the darkness, across weeds and grime, searching for a rock or stick, any kind of weapon.
Ssssh.
A rustle in the brush. Movement in the cattails and nettles.
God, have mercy.
Her fingertips scraped across a stone buried deep in the mud. She dug around the edges, forcing her nails and fingers to clutch the golf ball–sized rock and jerk it upward. A sucking sound ensued.
Okay, Freak, I’m ready for you—
The grass beside her shifted.
Zoe jumped backward and pain streaked up her leg. Her pulse pounded like crazy.
Hoisting the rock into the air, she spied two shiny objects in the scant moonlight. A pair of eyes, small and beady, poised only a few inches from the ground. The creature glared at her.
Hiissss.
A jagged smile of white teeth glistened.
Her heart nearly stopped.
She raised her hand. Aimed.
The creature uttered another sibilant hiss just as Zoe recognized it as a possum.
Letting out her breath, she watched as the shaggy marsupial bared its needle-sharp teeth again, then waddled away into the darkness, leaving Zoe, arm still raised to hurl the rock, gasping and inwardly calling herself a fool.
A possum?
All that panic for a possum?
“Grow some balls,” she whispered to herself. Rather than take the encounter as a warning, she decided instead to think of the meeting with the possum as impetus to find her way to the nearest farmhouse or cabin.
If the damned possum could wander safely around in the dark, she decided, her chances weren’t as bad as she’d imagined.
You could take to the water again, float downstream, save your ankle from bearing weight.
But she was too exhausted to consider swimming right now. Too easily she could get caught in the current and drown. Besides, she’d rather take her chances with the creatures on land than find herself wrestling with an alligator or water snake.
There are plenty of snakes in the wetlands. Alligators, too. Maybe even a bear or boar as well.
“Awesome,” she said under her breath. Still, she was determined to get as far from the river as possible. It would be easy for her hunter to spot her on the open water. She was certain of it.
Time to move on.
Regardless of how excruciating the pain.
“How’s she doing?” Jase notched his chin toward the street where Selma’s car was rounding the corner. He’d obviously guessed that the fragile woman Brianna had walked to her car was the mother of the Denning twins.
“I’d like to say ‘hanging in there,’ but it would be a lie.” Brianna only hoped that her friend would get some rest and take the time to make that list. It might provide crucial information to track the girls down. Keys in hand, she hit the button on her remote. The car made a sharp noise and the locks clicked in response. “But I can’t blame Selma for being frantic. How would any mom hold up under these circumstances?”
“Point taken.”
“I assume you’re waiting for me.”
“See? You do have detective skills.” A hint of a smile slashed across his beard-shadowed jaw.
She wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Nor would she allow herself to be charmed by this old high-school crush, even if he was damned handsome in the warm summer night. She stepped into the watery glow of the street lamp and tried to tamp down her awareness of him: his shoulders wide, his lips blade thin, his eyes deep-set and intense. And then there was that scar. He appeared as rugged and sexy as she remembered from high school. Maybe even a little dangerous.
Ridiculous!
Years ago she would have killed to have him stare at her as intently as he was now, but tonight she wasn’t about to get lost in his gaze. “How’d you find me?”
“I’m a wiz on the Internet.”
“Humble.”
“Hey, it’s what I do.” He flashed a self-deprecating grin. “And it wasn’t that tough. You were written up a few months back, in the Observer no less, about the twinless twin thing.”
She remembered. It had been a small, obscure human interest story, a few column inches, the interview done over the phone by a female reporter.
“I put two and two together,” he said. Again the barest of smiles, almost self-deprecating.
Was it possible? Jase Bridges could actually not take himself seriously?
No way.
“So, okay. You must want something.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Direct, aren’t you?”
“I’m not big on beating around the bush. Besides, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” And it had been. She felt as if she’d been spinning her wheels for hours, getting nowhere, slamming her head against a brick wall, making zero progress. And all the while there was so much at stake; the twins were missing. “Last night wasn’t much better,” she admitted, thinking of her dream and Tanisha’s phone call. Trouble sleeping. Again. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
“I’ve been doing some checking. I think you might be on to something.”
Finally, someone who believed her. Someone with intense hazel eyes that, she suspected, didn’t miss much.
“But I’m not sure you’ve got it all right,” he said as a horse-drawn carriage rounded the corner. “I don’t see that the twins who are missing in Phoenix and Dallas play into it.”
“You did eavesdrop.”
He didn’t deny it. “Yeah, and then I checked into the missing persons cases you described. Tell ya what, why don’t you let me buy you a drink and we’ll discuss?”
She wa
s about to argue, but he said, “I know. I get it. You’re tired. Been through an emotional wringer with your friend, whom, I assume, is close to you.”
“Pretty close.” The carriage rolled by, the clop of steel hooves ringing as the dappled horse plodded past.
“So, this won’t take long,” he said, his eyes following the carriage’s progress. He turned his gaze to her again. “Promise. One drink. Let’s just go over your theory that Donovan Caldwell was wrongly convicted and that 21 has started up again.”
She shouldn’t. She knew it was a mistake. But, in truth, a drink sounded like heaven. And she still had a fascination with Jase Bridges, stupid as that was. Besides, she could use an ally, any ally, and one in the press, especially one with ties to the police department. Deciding to hear what he had to say, she gave a quick nod. “Fine.” She remotely locked her car again and heard it chirp a response. “You’re on, Bridges. But you’re buying.”
His lips found that same irreverent smile she’d remembered from high school. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He hitched his chin to indicate the other side of the street where a pub with a wide, paned window and glowing neon lights was wedged between a retro boutique and a sandwich shop offering tarot readings along with a soup of the day. “We can talk in there.”
CHAPTER 13
A slice of moon was barely visible from the clouds scudding across the night sky. Inside the Mustang, Bentz stared at the stream of northbound traffic, headlights bright, while Montoya drove steadily back toward New Orleans. Bentz undid the top button of his shirt. He was sweating, the interior of the car muggy, despite the efforts of the Mustang’s air-conditioning system.
Regardless of the heat and humidity, Montoya was still wearing his leather jacket, the diamond stud winking in the half-light. Montoya was always as cool, it seemed, as the proverbial cucumber. He had, though, ditched his shades. Sometimes one had to be practical.
“So, we’re battin’ a thousand,” Montoya said sarcastically as he pressed on the accelerator to pass a white Buick LeSabre whose driver, wearing a driving cap, kept his vehicle five miles under the speed limit.
“I guess.”
The trip to Baton Rouge had proved uneventful and brought back a slew of memories, not many of them good, to a time when Bentz’s daughter Kristi had attended school at All Saints. As the sun had lowered and shadows lengthened over the campus, Bentz had walked across the quad, past the library, and in front of Wagner House with its elegant façade and dark, hidden tunnels below. A feeling of déjà vu had chilled his soul and fear had slid down his spine when he’d remembered the terror of nearly losing his daughter a few years back, here at the small school still run by the Catholic Church.
At the time Kristi had left for college, Bentz had thought All Saints would be a haven for her. With its fine academic reputation, purported easy access to one-on-ones with teachers, and a small student body, the school had seemed perfect. The campus itself was bucolic in appearance. Red brick buildings, stately trees, lush grass and winding paths seemed serene, and in the brochures that Bentz had poured over, he’d seen pictures of students and teachers in state-of-the-art classrooms, kids in lounges with guitars or in the library studying or in the quad gathered on blankets. Some of the photos had shown off the stately and dominant cathedral, the center of the complex, or a chemistry lab with a serious student studying the contents of a test tube. Later he’d found out that the studious serenity had been a façade for a growing evil that had pulsed beneath the academic surface. But none of that had surfaced until after Kristi had enrolled.
His jaw tightened at the memory, and he absently rubbed his hip, where he still bore a scar from the horrifying experience. While desperately trying to save his daughter from a killer terrorizing the college, he’d almost lost his own life. The pain lingering in his leg reminded him how much he despised All Saints. It hadn’t helped that today the dean of students had been less than cooperative. Not that Father Crispin wasn’t concerned; he just appeared to be more interested in protocol and the reputation of the campus than in finding the Denning twins. Oh, his brow had furrowed and he’d taken a few notes, but his interest had seemed polite. The dean obviously thought Bentz was jumping the gun.
Then again, hadn’t Bentz believed the same of Brianna Hayward when she’d pled her case in his office earlier in the day?
Drumming his fingers on the passenger door, he replayed the scene with the missing persons officer at the Baton Rouge Police Department. Bentz had certainly held more sway there than he had with Father Crispin, but really, things hadn’t been all that much better. The officer had pointed out that so far no known crime had been committed, which, of course, Bentz already knew. But the officer had insisted the wheels were in motion. Baton Rouge detectives had gained access to the dorm where the girls lived and, it seemed, from the state of things, had intended to return. No cell phones were found, nor iPads or other electronic tablets. No purses or keys.
Still, he was bothered. Big-time.
“You think it’s 21?” Montoya eased up on the speed a bit.
“Hope not.”
“You and me both. What’re the chances that 21 would show up around the same time Father John reappears?”
“Coincidence.”
Montoya sent him a look. “Thought you were the dude who didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“Yeah, I know. This time . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck and thought about a beer, then quickly shut his mind to the idea. Booze and he had separated years ago, and except for an occasional slippage, he kept it that way. Last night had been a mistake; one he wasn’t going to make again. At least not today. He cracked his window, let the warm summer air rush into the Mustang’s interior.
Truth to tell, Bentz was worried. At least about the Denning twins. The others who Brianna Hayward had mentioned were indeed missing, but the fact that they weren’t twin females wasn’t consistent with 21’s MO. His phone buzzed, and he saw that the caller was Jonas Hayes.
“Hey,” he said, putting his cell on speaker so that Montoya could hear. “How are ya?”
“Okay,” Hayes said, “I got your message about the woman who thinks Caldwell isn’t 21. She was in LA and I did talk to her on the phone, but never met with her. I figure she’s another nut, a relative no less, who thinks justice wasn’t served. But the killings stopped.”
“I know, but we got a new situation,” Bentz said as Montoya closed in on a pair of red taillights. “A couple of college girls. Twins who disappeared.”
His ex-partner waited.
“On the night before they were about to turn twenty-one. Last night, as a matter of fact.”
“Where?”
“New Orleans.”
“What? New Orleans?” Jonas said, and Bentz pictured him, a tall black man with serious eyes and perpetual lines of worry etching his forehead. “You think this is 21? Nah, that’s impossible. Donovan Caldwell’s still locked up, and 21 stayed in LA.”
“Still claiming to be innocent,” Bentz pointed out. “Not to ruffle any feathers there, but this case has all the earmarks of 21.”
Hayes gave a frustrated growl. “Okay. So why don’t you tell me what you’ve got and . . . hell, I’ll pull the case file and see if there’s anything that we missed.”
“Send it to me. You’ve got my e-mail,” Bentz suggested as the lights of New Orleans appeared on the horizon. And then he brought Hayes up to speed.
The interior of the pub was ten degrees cooler than it had been on the street. The walls were exposed brick, with a glossy wood bar that looked as if it was over a hundred years old. It stretched in front of a mirror that rose to high ceilings, where paddle fans churned lazily. Most of the stools at the bar were occupied. While conversation buzzed over the clink of glasses, two bartenders were busily mixing drinks in front of a display of bottles backlit by hidden lights.
Brianna slid onto the bench of a booth near the back of the establishment, a quieter spot. On the table, menus were p
ropped between salt and pepper shakers and a small candle burned near a dish of peanuts. Here, the distinctive click of billiard balls could be heard. Bridges took the seat opposite her just as a waitress in a short skirt, white shirt, tennis shoes, and bow tie appeared.
“Something to drink?” asked the young woman whose name tag read TAMI. She wore her red hair pulled to the top of her head in a tight band that allowed a spray of curls to escape. Her skin was clear, her smile infectious. Brianna pegged her for twenty-two or twenty-three, not much older than the Denning twins. Her heart twisted a bit.
Bridges ordered a beer and Brianna, forcing her thoughts from the missing girls, opted for a glass of merlot.
“You got it!” Tami said, and hurried off, nearly bouncing. She was so full of life.
As it should be for Zoe and Chloe.
Dragging her gaze away from the waitress, Brianna found Bridges staring at her.
“You okay?”
“Yeah . . . no. God, I don’t know. What’s ‘okay’ when a friend’s kids are missing?” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, but that didn’t help. Zoe and Chloe’s images kept coming to mind. What had happened to them? Where were they? Dear God, she hoped beyond hope that she was wrong about the 21 Killer.
When she opened her eyes again, Jase was still watching her intently. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s a nightmare. Sometimes . . . sometimes I lose focus.”
“I get it.”
For a second she believed he did. There was a sudden tenderness to him, a concern in his hazel eyes that she’d never expected to witness, and that glimpse of compassion touched her far too deeply.
“So the deal is I’ve spent the last couple hours going over the case against Caldwell. It was thin, but enough to convict him.” He squinted at the small candle, suddenly cautious. “I know he’s your cousin, but the murdered girls were your cousins, too.”
“All the more reason to make sure that their real killer is behind bars. Look, I didn’t really know Delta and Diana. But when the news of their murders broke, it was horrible. We were all beside ourselves even though Mom and her sister, Cathy, were never all that tight. I only met the twins a couple of times. We didn’t live close and were caught up in our own lives. In the beginning, I read about the case in the newspapers and online, just like everyone else. I didn’t have an inside connection.”
