by Lisa Jackson
Now, maybe, he had a second chance.
Then again, odds were against it.
What was it their grandmother used to say? “You make your own luck, Cruz. Don’t you forget it.”
Grabbing the bar of soap, he decided it was long past time to take his abuela’s advice.
The station was a madhouse. The Feds had shown up, two agents Bentz had known in L.A., but so far they weren’t taking charge, just going over the case to date. The newspeople were camped outside, hoping for more information. Tips were coming into a hotline at a phenomenal rate, and then there was Clifton Sharkey, one of the new front-runners in the suspect race.
Montoya was pumped, going over the information at his desk, talking to other detectives in the lunchroom or task force area. He barely paused for lunch as he double-checked information, read his e-mails, finished reports, and all the while hoped to hell that they could nail Clifton Sharkey as the killer and get him off the streets.
He wouldn’t lie to himself. He’d love it if somehow O’Toole was proven innocent of anything but breaking his vow of celibacy. It was just too damned hard to imagine the boy he’d known in high school, the athlete who had taken him under his wing, to be a killer.
As much as he wanted to be objective, he was hoping someone else would be proven to be the monster.
It was afternoon before he walked into Bentz’s office and saw the information on Sharkey spread upon his partner’s desk. The guy had already been hauled in, and they wanted to discuss how they were going to handle the interrogation.
“The charge is ten years old,” Bentz reminded him, as they’d spoken briefly earlier on the phone. “Assault charge. But dropped. A domestic violence case. The wife.” Seated at his desk, his eyebrows slammed together, his shirt already unbuttoned at the neck, tie askew, reading glasses on the end of his nose, Bentz was looking through copies of old reports. “Looks like he broke her wrist. She went to the hospital, but when it came time to press charges, she refused to testify against him.”
“Typical.” Montoya had seen it over and over again, the cycle of abuse that kept rolling through the generations.
Bentz looked up over the tops of his reading glasses. “So he and the wife have six kids, a couple of grandkids, and they’re still married but separated. Have been since this.” He pointed to the report on Henrietta Sharkey’s injuries. “They’ve had separate residences.”
“No divorce?”
“Catholic to the bone.” Bentz scratched the side of his face as he thought. “No other incidents. And ever since, he’s been sending her the lion’s share of his paychecks.”
“Atonement,” Montoya said.
“Could be.” But Bentz didn’t seem convinced. “Hard to say.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, his alibi didn’t hold up. For the night of Camille Renard’s murder. He claimed he was with son number two, watching the game, but when I called the son this morning, pressed him a little, he admitted that old Cliffie Boy was at home that night, watching the Astros getting their clock cleaned.”
“Let’s bring him in.”
“Brinkman’s already giving him the good news.”
“But you don’t like it.” Bentz shook his head. “The other alibis, for the night of Asteria McClellan’s murder and Grace Blanc’s, stand.” Again he met Montoya’s stare. “That doesn’t make sense, does it? Unless we’ve got another killer running around, drugging nuns and forcing them into bridal gowns before killing them with what seems to be a rosary and painting their necklines in the same pattern as the rosary beads.” He was shaking his head. “I can buy that we might have a second killer for the prostitute. But the nuns?” His eyebrows elevated to his hairline. “No effin’ way.”
“Effin’?” Montoya repeated, and Bentz threw him a sheepish smile, then nodded to the recent picture of his baby, framed in silver and positioned on the credenza behind him.
“Yeah, Livvie said the swearing’s gotta stop, that Ginny will pick up the bad language.” He nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”
Page three?
The story about the murdered prostitute was buried on page three?
“Idiots!”
I can’t believe the ineptitude as I read the evening paper, the kerosene lantern giving off an uneasy glow, the wind blowing hot over the bayou. The story of that whore Grace Blanc’s death should be splashed all over the front page.
What kind of imbeciles decide where to place an article?
Ridiculous!
My blood is on fire at the disgrace, and I toss the paper aside, will burn it later.
Crickets and bullfrogs are again making their evening racket, and somewhere far away, a train chugs along, its whistle lonely and sharp, rolling through the forest of spindly, white-barked cypress.
Realizing how late it’s become, I turn on the radio, listen to the program, her insidious radio show committed to helping all the restless souls worried about their current conditions. I hear “Jo”—or is it “Joe?”—in Aberdeen, Washington, complain about her husband’s lack of attention, how he spends more time on the computer in a simulated, inorganic life on the Internet than he does with his family. Then there’s Karen from some unpronounceable town in Ohio complaining that her teenage daughter is sneaking out at night, possibly to meet her boyfriend, who is definitely part of the “wrong crowd.” And there’s Ozzie from Birmingham whose wife wanted that third kid and threatened to divorce him if he didn’t agree. He saw no reason to add to the brood; two sons were enough for him—she could live without a little girl.
Through it all, Samantha, Dr. Sam, is cool and clear, as if she knows what she is talking about.
Fools.
They are all fools.
I glance up at the alligator staring down at me with its glassy, knowing eyes, and as I listen to Dr. Sam, I know my job is not yet finished.
I pick up the crumpled pages and spread them on the old, scarred wooden table, once a door, now propped on sawhorses. I read the story for a fourth time, noting the mistakes, wondering where the joke of a reporter got his “facts.” Had the police intentionally duped him? Or was it a case of sloppy journalism, not even decent sensationalism? Where the hell was the editor, demanding more information, forcing the story of the prostitute’s death onto page one?
No one is professional anymore.
That’s the problem with this country! A pervasive lack of integrity to one’s job.
Page three isn’t acceptable.
Things will have to change.
I’m so irritated I actually see red in the eyes of Ipana, his toothy smile seeming to mock me from his position high on the wall. “They’re morons,” I tell him. “Cretins!” My skin itching with disgust, I flip through the pages and notice the moon riding high in the sky, shining a glimmer of silver light through the tiny window. I close my eyes and listen to the soft, sure cadence of her voice.
“This is Dr. Sam,” she says easily. “Take care of yourself, New Orleans. Good night to you all and God bless. Remember, no matter what your troubles are today, there is always tomorrow.”
A pause.
I wait, hearing the sound of water lapping at the poles supporting this cabin. A fish jumps.
Then: “Sweet dreams,” she says, her voice vibrant and soulful over the radio waves as the music swells behind her in her signature signoff.
I feel the corners of my lips twitch into a grin.
Sweet dreams?
Unlikely.
Is there “always tomorrow”?
I really don’t think so.
In fact, I’m going to prove it.
CHAPTER 44
The nightmare came again.
Late at night, as determined as Satan’s henchmen, it returned.
On silent footsteps, slipping into Val’s subconscious, the looming, malicious beast appeared, black and tall, a silvery snake coiling through its hands.
The serpent’s forked tongue flicked in and out, vibrating as it tested the
air, its reptilian eyes sheathed with opaque lenses, the pits in its arrow-shaped head seeming to pulse with the cold blood that slid through its veins.
“You’re on the lisssst,” the viper hissed evilly, eyes unblinking. “There is no esssscape!” And it hung closer, slithering through its master’s talonlike hands, coiling in the air, hanging so close to Val’s face that she could feel its hot breath.
Frozen, she couldn’t move, couldn’t bat the evil head away. It seemed to smile, showing a near-white mouth and fangs that dripped with pearly drops of venom.
“Val, no—watch out!” Camille warned her, and Val caught a glimpse of something black, a wraith, rushing past, a cold breath of air in its wake.
Wait! Camille wait for me! she mouthed, but the words remained unformed over her tongue.
“Too late,” the creature holding the snake croaked, its voice having the raspy timbre of an ancient crone. “She’s gone.”
“No!”
“She only got what she deserved,” the demon-monster said. “And you know it.”
“No! Cammie! Come back!” Val was searching everywhere, her heart pounding wildly, Camille’s doom reverberating through her soul. “Don’t leave me.” She was crying now, sobbing. “Please, Cammie, come back. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to send you away . . . Cammie!” Hot tears flowed from her eyes.
“Too late. Sssshee’s gone! Dead!” This time it was the snake who spoke again, vile, horrid reptile.
Val tried to scream, and the creature holding the snake threw back its head and laughed, a shrill, shrieking sound like claws on a blackboard.
Val’s skin crawled, and when she looked down, she saw it, too, had become shiny, her flesh turning to gunmetal-gray scales.
Again the hideous laughter and the looming beast showed its tiny teeth, no larger than those of a rat, in black gums that dripped poison.
“You’re on the lisssst!”
With glittering, hungry eyes, the snake struck.
Val screamed, bracing for the sting of the bite.
“Valerie! Valerie!” Slade’s voice sounded far off and echoed, as if he were on the far side of a long tunnel and was yelling at the top of his lungs. “Val! For God’s sake, wake up!”
She blinked.
The darkness was gone, and in its stead was the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Slade was leaning over the bed, his strong hands on her shoulders as he shook her, forcing her to the surface of consciousness, pushing the horrifying nightmare back to the shadows of her mind. “Oh . . . God.”
“You’re okay. It was only a dream,” he whispered.
“No . . . it was too real.” But even as the words passed her lips, she knew she was lying. Already, in her tiny bedroom where rational thought wrestled with implausible fears and won, she was beginning to calm, her tense muscles relaxing, the fragments of her dream scurrying away.
“Shhh.” Slade’s arms enfolded her then, and he slid onto the bed beside her, on top of the covers while she lay beneath. “It’s okay,” he said into her hair, and kissed the top of her head.
Her face was damp with the tears still streaming from her eyes.
Thankful for his strength, for his calm while her emotions were a tempest, she clung to him and cried. For the sister she’d lost years before; for the woman Camille had become, the nun with her tainted vows; for the niece or nephew she would never meet, never know; and for the marriage she was hell-bent on destroying.
Long, soul-wrenching sobs broke from her throat. She’d denied it for so long, but the truth was that she would never see Camille again. They would never laugh together until they gasped, unable to catch their breaths and cry joyous tears, never fight tooth and nail, each so stubborn she wouldn’t break down.
“Oh, Cammie,” she wept aloud. “Oh, God.”
Throughout the storm, Slade held her. Never saying a word, his arms strong, the beat of his heart steady, his breath ruffling her hair.
“I–I’m so sorry,” she forced out.
“Shhh.”
“No, Slade, I’m so damned sorry,” she said when most of the rage that propelled her grief had slipped away. “For us and the way I treated you, for blaming you when I should have known . . .”
“It’s over,” he said, still attempting to calm her.
“Is it? For us? Is it too late?”
He paused and then whispered, “I don’t know.”
Neither did she. Be careful what you wish for. Hadn’t she heard the saying a thousand times in her life? And hadn’t she wished that she and Slade could divorce quickly? Hadn’t she rued the day she’d met him? Hadn’t she regretted getting married so quickly?
And now . . .
In bed, with only the ashes of the nightmare and Slade’s strength, his resolute iron will, his once-vibrant love, she knew she’d been mistaken.
“I . . . I love you,” she admitted brokenly.
“I know.”
She waited a bit, sniffing. “You do?”
“I’ve always known. I was waiting for you to catch up.”
“What?” She pulled her head back and looked up at him. “You’re kidding, right? When someone bares their soul and says they love you, the normal response is, ‘I love you, too.’ ”
“But you already know that. I’ve told you over and over.”
She took in a long, shuddering breath. “Wait a second. Something’s wrong here—why not now? Why can’t you say it now?”
“Because it would be just the normal, expected response.” His eyes darkened just slightly. “And I don’t ever want us to get into that rut. To do what’s expected. The common. When I tell you I love you, I want it to be heartfelt.”
“Every damned time.”
“Yep,” he said. “At least.” And then he kissed her. Long. Hard. With the passion that she remembered so vividly. She closed her eyes and didn’t know how he managed to kick off his jeans and T-shirt, or how the bedside light was turned off, but all those things happened.
And she was with him again.
His hands sculpting down her rib cage, his mouth tasting as she remembered. His lips pressed urgently to hers—warm, demanding, and she responded, opening her mouth and feeling his tongue slip familiarly against her teeth.
Warmth rushed through her veins, and more, that special tingle that started at the base of her spine, grew upward and blossomed at the back of her neck.
He kissed the side of her face, then the curve of her neck, and she lolled back her head, the room fading into her subconscious, all sensation centered on him, this man who was her husband.
He slipped lower, tracing the hallow of her throat, laving the thin stretch of skin across the bones, concentrating on the pulse she knew was pounding there. She closed her eyes, lost herself to him as his hands found her breasts, strong fingers kneading gently at first and then more urgently as she began to breathe hard, short, and fast breaths that matched his.
“Slade,” she whispered into the darkness as he found one nipple with his mouth and lazily rimmed it.
She wriggled in anticipation, warmth beginning to throb deep inside. Sweat breaking out across her skin. Desire throbbed through her brain, and she was filled with the scent and feel of him.
He breathed across the wet areola, and she thought she might scream with the want of him. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she pulled his head tight to her and he began to suckle.
Oh, God!
Desire, undulating through her, coursing in white-hot waves through her blood, caused her to move with a gentle but heated rhythm. She dug her fingers deep into his shoulders as he continued his quest, sliding ever lower, parting her, touching her and tasting her.
Hot, arcing thrills spasmed through her veins. Hotter and faster as his fingers and tongue explored her. Her mind was filled with the want of him, her body demanding more as he slid upward, keeping her legs parted with his body, kissing the perspiration from her skin.
With a moan, she touched the strident muscles of his shoulders and a
rms, her fingertips brushing his skin, causing the flesh to tighten.
“Careful,” he warned as she skimmed her hands lower, across the washboard of his abdomen and along his hips.
“Never.” She kissed him with wild abandon, savoring the salty taste of him on her tongue, drinking in the fresh scent of him, rediscovering the planes and angles of his body. The corded, long muscles of his arms, the thick strength of his shoulders and chest, the tight bunch of his buttocks, and the hard flesh of his thighs.
She touched him everywhere, kissed him where she could, pleasured him as long as she dared before he pulled her upward into his arms. Then, holding her fast beneath him, he levered himself upon his elbows and, looking into her eyes, slid her knees farther apart with his own.
She gasped as he hovered over her.
Then she waited.
Licked her lips in anticipation.
But he didn’t move.
Just stared down at her.
“Slade?” she finally said.
“Yeah?”
“What is it? Why aren’t you . . . ?”
His smile stretched wide then, a white slash caught in the moonlight streaming through the open window.
“I am. In time.”
“In time?”
“Uh-huh.” He smoothed the hair away from her face, and she felt his hands tremble. “I love you, Valerie,” he said, his voice gruff with sincerity as he thrust deep into her. “Goddamn it all to hell, I love you!”
Could she do it?
Really?
Leave St. Marguerite’s forever?
Lucia swallowed hard and skimmed down the darkened hallways of the convent on her tiptoes, making certain she didn’t create any sound whatsoever. Her hastily conceived plan that harkened back to the waywardness of her youth, rather than to her time at St. Marguerite’s, had been forming in her brain for the past twenty-four hours, gelling. Perhaps if she left now, before the voice became louder, more insistent, she could save the life of another nun.
