Hot Blooded (39 page)

“Maybe,” he said, glancing at his rousing victim. Time for another dose. Sleeping pills that he’d stolen in Houston.

“There’s a new restaurant on Chartres. I read about it in the paper. Authentic French cuisine, but then that’s what they always say. Or we could eat in…I’d even cook.”

He thought about the hunt, about snuffing out Leanne’s life, and he grew hard again. This woman, too, though she didn’t know it, would feel the sweet torture of his glittering wreath surround her long neck.

“Let’s go out,” he said, wanting the feel of the night to close in on him, hoping to get lost in the crowd, to blend in to the heated throng pulsing down Bourbon Street. “I’m in the mood for jazz. I’ll meet you.” He glanced at his watch. “At ten o’clock. Corner of Bienville and Bourbon.”

“Can’t wait,” she said, and hung up.

Neither can I.
He looked around his cabin, the souvenirs he carried with him from a happier time oh, so, long ago. Pictures of Annie, pictures of Samantha, ribbons and athletic trophies—a tennis racquet, set of golf clubs, lacrosse stick, fishing rod and skis. Reminders of what his life was and could have been.

But you’re a sinner.

He knew that much. Didn’t need to remind himself.

Tonight he’d lose himself in the crowds. Drink. Do some coke if he was lucky enough to score. Blend in with the masses and later…later…he’d come back here, to this
dark place where no one could hear a scream, and make his prisoner beg for the mercy of death.

He had work to do. Tonight he would begin to set his plan into motion. He glanced at his moaning victim and grabbed the syringe from his shaving kit. The prisoner saw him coming, started making little choking, gasping sounds beneath the gag and scooted away. But there was no where to turn. His prisoner’s hands were tied behind the captive’s back and the legs were shackled. Terror rose from bulging eyes and his prisoner’s head whipped back and forth, spittle darkening the gag.

“It’s either this or the gators,” Father John said as he found his captive’s left arm and jabbed the needle deep.

“And the gators are too good for you.”

The prisoner started to weep.

Pathetic. It would be so much easier to kill his victim now…but that would ruin everything.

“Shut up,” he said and the prisoner mewled. Dr. John kicked hard, in the shins, landing a steel-toed boot against a bare leg. “Shut the fuck up.”

His captive became soundless, but the tears still streamed. John grabbed the prisoner’s hand, clamped his fingers around the prisoner’s finger and stripped off a ring. Unable to conceal his smile, he opened the cupboard where he stored his treasures, the trophies from his kill and added the band with its single winking stone. The prisoner started screaming behind the gag again, but one look ended the screams.

Good.

Father John forced his thoughts to his ultimate victim.

Dr. Sam.

But not through the airwaves.

In the flesh.

Such sweet vengeance…he had great plans for her. He’d bring her here, make her see the error of her ways, keep her alive until she begged his forgiveness.

And then, when he was tired of the game, he’d kill her with the rosary.

Deftly he made the sign of the cross, then reached for his Ray-Bans.

“You’re not staying here.” Ty was adamant as he strode through the open door, and Sam flung herself into his arms. “Come on, darlin’ let’s get you somewhere safe.” He kicked the door shut and it was all she could do not to fall into a thousand pieces as she clung to him.

“It’s just so awful. The same thing happening all over again,” she said brokenly. “Leanne…oh, God, she was pregnant. Just like Annie.”

“Shh. It’s going to be okay.”

“It’ll never be okay, Ty. Never.” His arms tightened. His lips pressed against her forehead, then her eyes. “Sure it will…you just give it time.”

“There is none. That—that monster is out there.”

“We’ll get him. I promise.” He kissed her tearstained cheek, then finally her lips. His lips were as strong as his words. “You just stick with me. Things will work out fine.” She wanted to believe him. Oh, God, she wanted to believe
him. But the nightmare wasn’t over yet and despite his platitudes, she doubted anything would ever be the same.

“Now, tell me what happened,” he said, pulling her into the den, one arm around her shoulders.

Sam drew in a ragged breath. “It was awful.” He guided her to her desk chair, and while she sat in front of the flickering computer screen, he rested a hip on the desk and listened.

She explained what she’d done while he was away, what she’d accomplished, how she’d failed. She’d tried to reach her friend who worked at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, but it was the weekend, so she had to leave a voice mail message. She’d also attempted to get in touch with Leanne, but, of course, that had been fruitless, the poor thing was already dead. Twiddling a pencil and feeling cold to the marrow of her bones, she explained about her call about her brother, then the horrid, mind-numbing phone conversation with “John” just as the police arrived with the news that Leanne Jaquillard had been murdered by a serial killer.

“Jesus,” Ty said. “I should have been here.”

“You couldn’t have stopped it. No one could have.” She dropped the pencil and slumped in her chair. “God, I’m exhausted.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” He walked into the kitchen where she heard him rummaging through the cupboards, then twist on the faucet. Water ran. A few seconds later he reappeared with a glass. “Here.”

“Thanks.” She took a sip, placed it to her head and she explained about the trip to New Orleans and the police station. “Ever since Detective Montoya dropped me off, I’ve been here, going through my textbooks and the paperbacks I’ve collected over the years on criminal psychology, psychosis, and dysfunctions of serial murderers.

“A lot of good that did.” She took another long swallow from the glass. “I was so stupid. So naive, no, so arrogant.
I thought I was beginning to understand it. I really believed this was all just a sick game to John. Oh, I knew he had a violent streak, that was evident in that first cut-up picture he sent me, but I had no idea, I mean, I didn’t think for a minute that…that he was a killer.” She closed her eyes for a second, trying to pull herself together, to push out the cacophony of guilt that blared in her brain.

“We’ll find him.”

“But who is he? I’ve been trying to figure it out. The police have semen samples and they’re comparing them to anyone associated with the women who were killed, with anyone associated with Annie and with anyone associated with me, but it’s going to take time.”

“I have some of that information. Remember? Because of Annie’s pregnancy.” Ty reached for the phone. “What’s the name of the detective?”

“Rick Bentz.”

“I’m going to call him and tell him everything I know, offer my files, tell them what I’ve found out and try and convince them that this all started with Annie Seger. Whoever killed her is the man they’re looking for.”

“They might believe that Annie committed suicide.”

“Then I’ll just have to convince them otherwise,” he said. “Do you have a direct line to Bentz’s desk?”

“His card’s on the refrigerator.”

Ty wasted no time. He walked into the kitchen and punched out the numbers to the New Orleans PD. A few minutes later he’d connected with Bentz and was explaining his theory about Annie’s death.

Meanwhile Sam made coffee. She had to keep busy, to keep going, to push back the demons in her mind that told her she was responsible for Leanne’s death.

Not just Leanne, but others. At least two more women.

“John,” whoever the hell he was, stalked women, hunted them, killed them.

Because of you, Sam. Because of some great injustice you inflicted upon him when you didn’t help Annie Seger.

NO WAY! Don’t buy into his sick, convoluted thinking. He’s twisted, Samantha, twisted. Now, get a grip on yourself and think. Use your brain, use your knowledge. Figure it out. Who is he?

Stiffening her back, she pulled herself together and, as the coffee perked, she half listened to Ty’s conversation, but found a pen in her purse and grabbed a tablet she kept by the phone for messages.

Who had been in Houston at the time of Annie Seger’s death?

She started with herself and just wrote the names as they came to her: George Hannah, Eleanor Cavalier, Jason Faraday, Estelle Faraday, Kent Seger, Prissy McQueen, Ryan Zimmerman, David Ross, and Ty Wheeler. And Peter Matheson…
Don’t forget that your dear, disappearing brother might have been in town.
Inwardly she winced.
Not Pete—please, not Pete.
She put a question mark by Peter’s name, then crossed out all the women—they could be accomplices, true, but not the actual murderer. From Ty’s notes she knew that Jason Faraday and Kent Seger had O positive blood. So did Pete. She didn’t know about Ty, or George Hannah, or David, but she crossed Ty’s name off the list. He wasn’t the killer. Nor was her brother. Pete had never met Annie Seger.

How do you know, Sam? You haven’t seen him in years. You didn’t know he was in Houston, did you?

She wasn’t even sure he’d been there…no, not Pete…memories of the dark-haired brother who had taken delight in besting her, outracing her on bicycles, out swimming her when they went to Lake Shasta, outskiing her when their parents had hauled them to the mountains…she remembered his easy smile, mischievous green eyes, so like hers, and the way he always enjoyed beating her at every game,
until he’d slid into a world dominated by cocaine and crack and any other drugs that offered a quick buzz, a new high.

Just like Ryan Zimmerman.

But Pete would never…

She left his name on the list just as she heard Ty hanging up.

“What did he say?” she asked, still staring at her notes.

“To keep my nose clean, basically. I don’t think he trusts me.”

“I don’t think he trusts anyone.”

“Comes with the territory.” Ty stared over her shoulder and read her notes. “Narrowing the field?”

“Trying.”

“Same thing the cops are doing.” Leaning over her back, so that his chest brushed her shoulders, he stretched his arm toward the table and pointed to his name. “Why did you strike me off the list?”

“Because you couldn’t…wouldn’t do it.” With a final sputter and the ding of a soft bell, the coffee announced it was ready. Sam ignored it.

“That’s true, but you’re basing your choice on emotion rather than fact,” Ty pointed out.

“You want me to put you back on the list?”

“I just want you to think clearly.” Straightening, he scrounged in her cupboard and eventually pulled out two mismatched mugs.

“What about “gut instinct’? Isn’t that what you cops call it?” She tossed down the pen. She didn’t have enough information on any of these people to make a stab in the dark, much less an educated guess as to their guilt or innocence.

“I’m not a cop, not anymore, and I consider gut instinct, the way I think about feminine intuition. It has its place,” he said, pouring them each a cup and placing a chipped mug she’d gotten from her mother years ago on the table in front of Sam.

“Thanks.” Staring at the list of possible suspects, she sipped the coffee, but found it didn’t start to warm the chill deep inside her. Nothing could. Not until the monster was caught.

She stared at the tablet’s lined page. One of the men on her list was the killer. She was sure of it. But who? George Hannah? Nah—killing would be too messy; he wouldn’t mess up one of his Armani suits.

Remember—the killer calls on line two; he must be associated with the station. You might not know George as well as you think.

She went to another name. Ryan Zimmerman? What did she know about Annie’s boyfriend—only that he was an athlete who had spiraled down into the drug scene and eventually pulled himself together?

Kent Seger? Another mystery, but a boy with a history of depression and mental problems after his sister’s death. She made a note to call Our Lady Of Mercy again.

What about Jason Faraday—the stepfather who left the family and remarried quickly? What was his story? She tapped her finger near his name.

“Mark him off,” Ty said, as if reading her mind. “The killer had to have left fingerprints behind. Jason Faraday was in the army, did a hitch in Vietnam. If he were the guy, the police and the FBI would already have arrested him.”

She crossed out Annie’s stepfather.

“I, too, was fingerprinted,” he added, “which is why you should have struck my name. Not because of any emotional attachment.”

“Details, details,” she said, but the joke fell flat. They were both too tired, too mentally exhausted for levity. She leaned back in her chair and wearily pushed her hair from her eyes, felt the drizzle of sweat on her scalp. How could she be so hot on the outside and cold as death deep in her soul?

“Come on, let’s go to my place,” Ty said. “You need to rest.”

“I can’t leave. John might call back again. I have to be here.”

“Or he might show up,” Ty reminded her. “I’d feel better if you packed a bag and stayed with me. He obviously got in once before. Maybe more often, you don’t know, but somehow the Jaquillard girl ended up in your lingerie. Someone took it from the house, Sam. He comes and goes at will.”

“We left the door unlocked,” she reminded him. “That’s when it happened, and it’s safe now. I’ve got the alarm system, the police are outside and the phone lines are tapped. Any calls will be traced. Besides, don’t you have your friend, that private investigator lurking around?”

“Andre, yes, but—”

“Don’t argue. I think John will call here again, Ty, and I hope he does. This time the police will trace his call, this time I’ll be ready.”

Ty’s eyebrows pulled together. He obviously wasn’t convinced. “What if John decides to pay you a personal visit?” “I thought I just said the place was staked out.” “That’s not a guarantee that he can’t slip by. You know, he’s literally gotten away with murder so far.”

“I know, but…” she said turning her head coyly and touching the buttons on his shirt. “I was hoping you and Sasquatch would stay with me. Bodyguard and alarm dog.”