by Lisa Jackson
“You’re right. I did. Okay … Well … Where to begin? Let’s start with last summer, that was the most recent. I remember it because it happened around the time my grandmother died. I was flying back and forth from Tucson in those weeks and each time I got to Louisiana I’d have these nightmares, more fragmented than this last one, but intense.” She studied his reaction. There was none. He ate, listened, sipped from his bottle, and didn’t reach for a notepad or pen. Maybe he thought she was making it up. Maybe he was actually starting to believe her.
“Go on,” he urged. “What was the dream about?”
“It was different in that it recurred. Very faint when I was in Tucson but extremely vivid when I was back here. It wasn’t a vision of someone being violently murdered like last night … but rather short images, every other day or so, of a victim being left to starve to death. She … she was trapped somewhere like a crypt of some kind and she was screaming and crying. There were symbols on the walls, pictures of blurry images and writing … some kind of inscription that I couldn’t make out. She was getting weaker every day, I could sense it. And I felt him. His presence.” Olivia held Bentz’s stare. He’d quit eating, was just watching her intently, as if looking for a crack in her story, a lie.
“The killer?”
“Yes. Whoever abducted her and left her to die would come and visit her, shine a flashlight into her terrified eyes, then leave. So I only got glimpses of where she was being held, only quick images of the surroundings. He … he left a vial there … I think, probably to taunt her. It could have been water, or maybe something she could take to end her life quickly, but it was just out of reach. She, too, was chained.” Inside, Olivia shivered. “Last night the woman died violently, but this one was just the opposite, at least in the beginning … In some ways it seemed worse … a horrid waiting game where the victim was left in the dark to starve to death or die of thirst.”
“Which she did.”
“Yes … but … and this image is vague, but I think there was more. It was around the end of July or first of August. I know because Grannie was getting really sick. I flew to Tucson, closed up my apartment, and drove back here all in the span of five days. In that time things shifted. I had images of something more hideous.”
“What?”
She drew in a deep breath. “I think the girl was eventually … beheaded.”
Bentz’s lips flattened. “Like the one last night.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Like the one last night.”
Bentz didn’t know what to think. Was the woman completely off her rocker? Seriously mental? Or was there something to all this voodoo/psychic mumbo jumbo. She looked so damned normal as she sat across the table from him, her damp hair curling tighter as it dried, her fingers greasy from the food, her eyebrows knitted, her lips pulled into a tight little knot. But it was her eyes that got to him, her steady gaze that defied him to believe her, the haunted shadows just beneath the surface. “Could you draw the symbols for me?” he asked.
“Not from memory, no, but I wrote them down. Any night that I had that particular nightmare, I scribbled down what I remembered. They’re at home. I could drop them by Monday, on my way to work.”
“How about I get them from you tomorrow?”
“It’s a long drive.”
He offered her a smile and motioned for the waiter, indicating he wanted the check. “I’m a bachelor. The only thing I was going to do was watch football and do laundry.”
“Fine,” she said. “Whatever.” She picked up a prawn and he watched as she peeled it and plopped it into her mouth. “Anything else?” she asked, licking the butter from her lips and it almost seemed like a come-on. Ridiculous. But there was something about her, something a little bit naughty, that fascinated him. Just like Jennifer.
“Yeah, a couple of things. I’ll want a list of everyone you know. Family, friends, anyone you work with or see at school.”
“You think my friends are involved.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know who is, but if I take what you’re telling me at face value, then somehow you’re connected with the killer … right? There’s something between the two of you … I mean, I assume that’s the way it works. It’s not a lightning bolt from heaven, and you don’t see random murders being committed. You think what you view is the work of one man.”
She nodded. “Sometimes …” She let her voice fade away and didn’t go on. The sounds of the restaurant seemed more intense. Waitresses calling out orders, conversation, the faint sound of Dixieland playing from concealed speakers, the rattle of trays of dishes.
“Sometimes what?”
“It sounds so crazy, but sometimes I get this feeling … it’s like crystals of ice drizzled over the back of my neck, and I feel that he’s close … that somehow I’ve trod in his footsteps …” She must’ve read the doubt in his eyes, because she reached for her beer and took a long swallow. “I told you it sounded whacked out.”
“But it could help. Think about it. Who would be the connection? How the hell does this telepathy or whatever it is work?”
“All I know is that it’s more intense since I came to New Orleans and the murders are happening here, so it has to be someone close by.”
“Agreed,” he said, and though it took a lot to scare Bentz, he felt a frisson of dread; whoever the killer was, there was an element of the intangible at work and that made him all the more dangerous.
Bentz paid the check and gave her a ride to her car parked near the charred ruins. The rain had stopped, but the crime scene was gloomy and dark. “You said you stopped by here in the hopes that you could sense what had happened, right?”
She nodded as she climbed out of his Jeep. Bentz pocketed his keys and leaned a hip against the fender.
“So … are you getting anything?”
“It’s not quite the same as a radar signal,” she said, but walked closer to the tape, staring at what had been a cozy little duplex. “No … nothing.” She shook her head and frowned. “But if I ‘get anything,’ I’ll let you know. Thanks for dinner.”
“My pleasure,” he said automatically and she looked up at him sharply, silently accusing him of the lie.
“It was business for you, Detective Bentz, and I have a feeling that it always is with you.” She climbed into her truck, fired the engine, and tore off down the narrow streets, the taillights of her pickup winking bright red in the night.
Bentz eased behind the wheel of his Jeep and switched on the ignition. He could follow her. Make sure she was going home. He thought he might just do that. Why not? Jaskiel had authorized it, and even though he was off duty, he could spare a few hours.
He wheeled away from the curb. What bothered him about the tail wasn’t that he was following her, but that he was more than curious. More than interested because of the case. She was sexy as hell. And an oddball. A kook. A whacko.
But she knew more than anyone else about the killing. Like it or not, he had to believe her.
Chapter Eleven
The phone rang. Once, twice, three times. Jangling through Kristi’s groggy brain. From beneath the covers of the bed in her dorm room she groaned; she didn’t want to wake up. She glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. On a Saturday. What kind of idiot would be calling now. Dad, she thought, burrowing under the covers and letting the answering machine pick up. “Hi, this is Kristi. You know what to do,” her recorded voice intoned.
After a beep, she heard a moment’s hesitation, then a deep voice. “Hi, I hope I’ve got Kristi Bentz. This is Brian Thomas. You might not remember me, but I’m T.A. for Dr. Zaroster and—”
Kristi shot out of bed. Grabbed the phone. “Hi,” she said breathlessly. “I know who you are.” God, who on campus didn’t? Don’t get your hopes up, he’s probably calling to tell you that you flunked the quiz on the Buddha yesterday. “So you were screening your calls.” “No, um, I was … well, if you want to know the truth, I wasn’t up yet, but I am now.”
“Out late?” he asked and she kicked herself.
“Of course, but I was studying in the library.” She giggled and fell back on the bed. They both knew it was a lie, but she didn’t want to admit that she’d been to a frat party and had drunk more than she should have. As it was, her head ached and her mouth was cotton-dry. “What’s up?” Around the headache she tried to sound cheery.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go out.”
Her mouth fell open. She sat bolt upright. He wanted a date? A date? Her heart was about to leap out of her chest, but she told herself to sound cool. If that was possible. She’d told herself he’d call, but she hadn’t expected it so soon. Her silly heart began to pound wildly.
“Look, I really shouldn’t because you’re a student in Zaroster’s class, but I figure what could it hurt?”
Exactly!
“But if this makes you uncomfortable, you know, because I’m the T.A.—”
“No! I mean that’s not it. I’d love to go out with you.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved.
“So where? When?”
“Tonight. Around seven. Dinner and a late movie. Whatever you want. If you’re not busy.”
She couldn’t believe her good luck. A date with Brian Thomas! She’d had a major crush on him since the beginning of the term. “That would be great.”
“I’ll pick you up … You’re at Cramer Hall, right?”
“How did you know—?”
“We at the Theology Department are all-knowing,” he said, joking. “It comes with the whole God-like territory.”
“Right,” she mocked.
“Actually I have authority. I looked it up in your records. You’re a DG.”
“Yeah, I pledged Delta Gamma,” she admitted, but he knew more than he should and it bugged her. Maybe she should have been flattered by him nosing around in her records, but she wasn’t. “I, um, thought all that stuff was pretty secure.”
“It is, but some of us, the privileged, know the codes.”
“Oh, yeah?” He wasn’t even a professor. It didn’t seem right somehow. “You’re one of the privileged?” Man, he sounded kinda stuck on himself. And she thought he was shy. It occurred to her that it might not even be Brian on the other end of the phone, but some creep who’d figured out that she had a crush on him. Brian had always seemed cooler than this.
So who would it be and why would he have access to your student records?
“I’ll see you at seven.” He was so sure of himself.
“Okay—”
He clicked off and she fell back onto the bed with a huge smile on her face. She couldn’t believe that he’d actually called. He’d seemed so reserved in class. Serious. And yet on the phone …
She glanced over to the bulletin board tacked onto the wall above her desk. In one corner was a picture of Jay and her, just last year, at their high school senior prom. She was wearing a long black dress, he was dressed in a tuxedo. He was bending her backward, one of her legs was kicked out and a long-stemmed rose was clutched between her teeth as they mugged for the camera. She’d sworn that night that she loved him. And she did. Or she had … but he’d stayed in New Orleans where he planned to eventually take over his father’s roofing business. For now, he was on the crew, tarring roofs, nailing asphalt shingles, starting at the bottom. He wanted her to quit college and marry him, but she’d begged off, knew she was too young for that kind of commitment.
Since then, their relationship wasn’t what it had been.
She’d considered breaking up with him, just hadn’t gotten around to it, wasn’t sure it was the right move.
But this morning’s phone call changed everything.
She threw off the bedclothes and noticed that her roommate Lucretia was already gone, the top bunk evacuated. As usual. Lucretia was a bookworm of the highest order, always freaked out about this test or that. The hours she wasn’t in the library studying, she was here, cracking the books. She never went out. Never. It was like she was in jail or something.
Stretching, Kristi considered working out in the pool before she had to do her duties at the sorority house, then she really did have to hit the books; she had a paper due in Sutter’s class, and she didn’t dare turn it in late—that guy was way too intense; sometimes she caught him staring at her as if she were a puzzle, a psychological enigma. It was almost as bad as Dr. Northrup. Now that guy was just plain weird. He watched her, too. As if he expected to catch her cheating or something. It made her skin crawl. She groaned because there was probably going to be a quiz in Northrup’s class today. But after that… She glanced at the clock again and grinned. Nine hours from now she’d be in heaven.
True to his word, Bentz showed up around two in the afternoon. Olivia was trying to sweep up bird feathers and seed, when she heard Hairy S suddenly going berserk and yapping his fool head off. Leaving the broom and dustpan propped against the back door, she walked through the kitchen and peered through the windows. Bentz’s Jeep rolled down the lane. Leaves scattered in the afternoon sunlight and clouds shifted above the trees. The dog wouldn’t let up for a second.
“Hush!” she ordered, but Hairy S jumped at the front door and barked wildly as Bentz cut the engine and unfolded himself from the rig. Olivia barely recognized him. Gone were the slacks, crisp white shirt, tie and jacket. Instead he wore beat-up jeans, a sweater and athletic shoes. His hair ruffled in the wind and he looked more like a dad going to his kid’s soccer game than a world-weary cop.
As Bentz climbed the two steps to the front porch, Olivia scooped up a yapping and snarling Hairy S, then opened the door.
“Doesn’t he ever calm down?” Bentz asked.
“Not until he gets to know you.” Hairy’s eyes were trained on Bentz and he was wiggling like crazy, yapping and growling as if he were about to tear the detective limb from limb.
“And how long does that take?”
“Longer than a couple of days. Same with Chia, so I wouldn’t be putting your nose too close to her cage.” Hairy S was still barking. “Knock it off!” she ordered, and the dog, chastised a bit, satisfied himself with a growl of disapproval. Olivia put him on the floor and he started sniffing the hem of Bentz’s jeans. “He’s all bark and no bite.”
“But not the bird.”
Olivia smiled. “You can test her if you want.”
“I think I’ll take your word for it.”
“That’s probably a wise choice. So, is your laundry all done?” she asked, unable not to needle him.
“Yep.” He flashed a smile—one of those rare, genuine ones that lit up his eyes. “I even managed to unload the dishwasher, too. But damn, I just didn’t have time for the vacuum.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
She couldn’t help but return his grin. “I’m surprised you didn’t bag out, that you didn’t find something better to do.”
“I think I just ran through my list of options.”
“What about fishing or hunting or golfing … You said you were going to watch football—”
“I listened to the game on the way over. LSU needs help.”
“Don’t they always?”
“Uh-uh-uh. You’re talkin’ to a die-hard fan here.”
“I’ll remember that. Come on in.” They walked to the kitchen and she felt a little more at ease with him in her house. Maybe it was because he was dressed-down, or because the visit wasn’t official, or maybe she was just getting used to him. It was hard to imagine that less than forty-eight hours ago, he was just a name on a piece of newsprint. Now he was this … presence in her life.
Oh, get over yourself. He’s a cop. Doing his job. End of subject.
“So—the inscription?” he asked, leaning a jean-clad hip against the counter.
“Oh, right. Up in my room. Just a sec.” She sprinted up the stairs to her bedroom. Hairy S, ever faithful, galloped ahead. In the drawer of her night table she withdrew two sheets of paper, one with a list she�
��d compiled last night of everyone she knew who lived within fifty miles and the other she’d taken from her computer’s printer the last night of the dreams when she awoke to find Grannie Gin had died. On another page, she’d written the strange markings that she’d seen in the vision. Now, her good mood evaporated as she glanced down at the meaningless symbols and letters and she felt that same chill she always did upon reliving the vision.
“Don’t even go there,” she told herself as she hastened out of the room and down the stairs with an excited mutt leading the way.
“Loyal, isn’t he?” Bentz observed.
“Very.” Unlike the men I’ve known. “Here’s the symbols and a list of my friends and family.” She handed him the sheets and he was instantly absorbed, scrutinizing the hieroglyphics as he dropped into a chair at the table.
“So this is what was written in the crypt when you had the dreams?” he asked.
“What I could remember when I woke up, yes.” She walked to a spot behind him where she could look over his shoulder, and as she stared at the symbols and letters, she shivered, remembering all too clearly the victim’s plight. “Go over it again, would you?”
“Sure. What I can remember. But those dreams, if you want to call them that, weren’t as vivid, at least not at first.” Yet she recalled them clearly. With the same bone-chilling intensity as the last. “It was basically the same dream over and over, with just slightly different variations.” She rubbed her arms and glanced through the window. Winter sunlight pierced through the filigree of naked branches, to spangle the dark water, but the day seemed suddenly frigid and lifeless, filled with shadows that shifted and distorted, always changing. How many times had she thought of the terrified woman trapped in a living tomb? How many nights had the image become a nightmare that she saw over and over again? “The most awful dream was when I think he actually killed her. It was the same night my grandmother died. August eleventh.
“I reported this all to Detective Brinkman for all the good it did.” Her eyes held his for an instant, then she glanced away. “Same old story. No body, no missing persons, no witnesses … just me. The lunatic.”
