Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (126 page)

They all wanted a show.

Passion.

Wrath.

Power.

And above all else, a deep-seeded love of the Lord.

Billy Ray had them all.

So this had to be a great sermon, about the wrath and love of an all-powerful God, about the compassion of Jesus and about . . . He looked up. Had he heard something? A footstep? He waited, his ears straining, and there was no other sound. Nothing but the wind outside, rustling through the dry leaves of autumn. He hadn’t heard anything. He was just tired, his body reacting to a week of strain, of being “on” for the cameras, of showing his own sympathizing nature for the families of the victims, his own rage at the murdering maniac let loose on the streets of his city. Yes, yes, that was it. Picking up his pen, he began writing in swift sure strokes, his sermon spewing forth faster and faster. He would edit the text on the computer in the morning, clean up any mistakes. By writing his thoughts on paper, he let loose some of his anger, the pen nearly ripping through the top page as he scrawled on and on and . . .

Creak.

Again he looked up.

This time he was nearly certain he’d heard the squeak of floorboards. He leaned back and listened. “Anyone there?” he called, feeling a fool. His bodyguard and personal trainer had left hours ago and he’d heard the gates close behind Kyle’s Chevy Blazer, seen the wink of the SUV’s taillights through the open window.

Again there was nothing but silence.

He was just agitated tonight.

Perhaps he needed to pray. Dropping his pen onto the desk, he took in a deep breath. Then swiping his face with his hands, he leaned back in his chair, squeezed his eyes shut, and asked the Lord for inspiration, for clarity, for God’s will to be spread through his sermon. For that’s how it happened, the reverend believed. He was inspired by God, touched by Him as if the Father actually reached down from glorious heaven and placed His fingertips onto Billy Ray’s crown. In that moment, God’s thoughts entered Billy Ray’s brain, sizzled through synapses down his nerves to his fingers, where the words—right from the Lord’s mouth!—flowed onto the pages of this legal pad.

“Lord help me,” he said aloud. “Let me see the light, let me feel Your presence, let me be Your mouthpiece . . .”

Again the noise.

Billy Ray opened his eyes.

He gasped and leapt to his feet.

There, standing before him, holding a Taser pointed right at the preacher’s heart, was Satan.

Before Billy Ray could utter a word, Lucifer pulled the trigger.

Sister Maria sensed something in her sleep.

She rolled over.

A gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

Panic shot through her and she was instantly awake. Her room was pitch dark; it was long before morning prayers. She couldn’t see her attacker, but he was strong.

Determined.

Angry.

She felt his fury, smelled his sweat.

A sickeningly sweet smell filled her nostrils.

Ether!

She recognized it from her days at the hospital.

No!
she thought.
No, no, no!

Sister Maria struggled. Tried to scream. Fought with all the strength in her body, but as she writhed and flung her useless arms upward, she breathed rapidly. Deeply.

The thick chemical wound its way into her lungs, dulling her mind, weakening her limbs, causing her eyelids to droop. She gasped, struggling for breath, but more of the noxious sleep-inducer was dragged into her airways.

Her movements turned sluggish.

She knew what was happening but was unable to fight the inevitable.

In the end, she gave up, her body going limp, the blackness oozing through her brain.

Forgive me, Father,
she prayed dreamily,
for I have sinned . . .

CHAPTER 22

B
illy Ray Furlough wasn’t going down without a fight. Blindfolded, gagged, strapped to a chair, he’d been left by his abductor somewhere that smelled of rot and dirt and dampness. He guessed he was near the swamp as he smelled thick, stagnant water, heard bullfrogs croaking and ominous splashes. He imagined alligators slipping through inky depths, only their eyes visible over the water’s smooth surface, and he thought of cottonmouths or copperheads slithering down cypress trunks and roots to glide into the swamp water.

A chill ran down his spine, but as dangerous as the creatures of the swamp were, they were nothing in comparison with the man who had captured him. A tall, broad-shouldered son of a bitch dressed in a black neoprene suit and ski mask. He was deadly, swift, and determined to kill. Billy Ray knew it. He’d read enough about the recent local murders to understand that the man who had kidnapped him was the killer.

There would be no ransom demand of Aldora.

No negotiating for his release.

Not even the slicing off of an ear or finger to prove that he was abducted. No, there was only certain death. Unless he did something to save himself.

The Lord helps those who help themselves.

How many times had he blithely handed out that piece of advice? So now he had to take it. He had to help himself. He’d been left alone, so he had time to plan, time to get ready, time to figure out a way to save himself.

He wondered who the psycho was. Why had Billy Ray been chosen as a victim?

It made no sense. No one wanted him dead. He was adored by his parishioners and the news media alike. There was even a movement within his church pushing him toward local politics. But someone hated him. Someone with the balls to scale his fence and walk straight into his inner sanctum.

Yet bad as this was, at least Aldora and the kids were safe . . . right? The psycho wouldn’t have gone back for any of his family, surely not.

But didn’t this guy kill in pairs?

A man and a woman?

Assuming this was the same killer . . . maybe this nut job was a copycat, but whoever he was, he was strong and determined. Deadly silent. Without a word he’d walked into the study, stunned Billy Ray, and easily and efficiently trussed him up like a tom turkey before Thanksgiving supper. The only way Billy Ray could possibly get the drop on him was to pretend compliance, even fear, act as if he didn’t yet have control of his body. Then he might just have a chance to overpower the man.

Maybe . . . but he’d have to be quick, surprise the creep. Even in as good a shape as Billy Ray was, this larger man was stronger, tougher. As soon as the Taser gun had sent Billy reeling backward and flopping on the floor like a landed catfish, his attacker had been on him, pinning him down, forcing his hands behind him, wrapping them in duct tape and doing the same with his ankles. A blindfold had been forced over his eyes, tape slapped over his mouth.

It had been over in a matter of minutes and then the brute had carried him fireman style into the garage, where he shot Billy Ray with the stun gun again. Hundreds of thousands of volts had shrieked through the preacher’s body and he’d been tossed into the backseat of
his
Mercedes SL600.

The bastard had fired up the sleek car and breezed down the lane using Billy Ray’s own electronic gate opener to leave the estate. And all the while Billy could do nothing.
Nothing
. Never had he felt so powerless.

Lying on the smooth backseat, smelling new leather, Billy Ray had prayed, oh, how he’d prayed, for salvation. He’d had no idea where they were going. He’d lost track after the driver had turned west onto the main highway then north . . . probably on Gatlin Road, but after that, with all the twists and turns, Billy Ray had lost all sense of direction. Nor did he know why he’d been kidnapped. But he had a dark fear that this psychopath was the same one responsible for the deaths of four other people.

About a half an hour from the time he’d been abducted, he’d felt the car shimmy as it was turned too quickly onto a rough road. The Mercedes had bounced and lunged over potholes.

Within minutes, the car had stopped suddenly and the driver had climbed out. He’d opened the back door and given Billy Ray another shot for good measure. The rest of the abduction was blurry. Billy Ray was briefly unbound, stripped, then forced into a chair, his naked butt feeling a crack in the plastic seat. His hands had been tied behind him with tape, and his legs were strapped to the legs of the chair.

Then the assailant had said the first and only words he’d uttered since walking into Billy Ray’s study.

Leaning close, his breath hot against the reverend’s ear, he’d uttered, “The power of God be with you, Brother.”

Billy Ray had felt a chill like no other.

Then his abductor had left. Billy Ray, shaking in his shackles, had heard the smooth sound of the Mercedes’s engine purr off into the night.

At that point, he’d known he had to work fast. Either the bastard planned to return to torment, torture, then finish the job, or Billy Ray had been left here indefinitely to die of dehydration while the creatures who called this place home waited patiently.

He’d tried everything. Throwing himself forward in the chair, knocking it over, struggling to slide to whatever doorway there was, yanking at the tape at his wrists until his arms ached, kicking his feet so hard that pain screamed up his legs to his lower back.

With all his strength, he’d shoved and scooted the chair over the dirty floor. Dust and filth pushed into his nostrils. His left ear was scratched raw as he inched toward what he hoped was the door. Slowly the chair scraped over the smelly linoleum, past pieces of cloth, over tiny hard pellets that he assumed were rat feces. There had to be something . . . anything he could use as a weapon.

Minutes ticked by. He was sweating, his naked skin rubbed to bleeding where his shoulder pushed over the floor. Suddenly his nose ran into something soft . . . cloth of some kind? He explored with his face and felt metal, cool, smooth, attached to a thin, long . . . snake!
Sweet Jesus!
He scooted back rapidly, waiting for the sleeping serpent to coil and strike.

But he heard no warning hiss.

Sensed no movement.

Was it dead? Caught in a mousetrap? Lying on a pile of forgotten clothes? Why else the metal . . . ? But smooth metal. Polished metal. Expensive metal? Out of place here . . . and the cloth hadn’t been dusty or rotting. No foul odor had assailed his nostrils; if anything, he’d smelled a gentle musky scent.

His heart leapt.

Not a snake!

Not a damned serpent!

His belt. Right?
His
clothes? He’d found the spot where his abductor had tossed his pants and shirt after stripping them from his body. And the psycho had been in a hurry. Billy Ray had sensed that. As if the lunatic were running out of time. So the clothes had been left, along with anything in his pockets. Along with his Pomeroy Ultra pocket tool, the one his son had given him for Christmas last year. From needle-nosed pliers to a tiny saw to toenail clippers, the Ultra was a handyman’s dream and boasted fifteen blades. Billy Ray needed only one. Any would do.

The other selling feature had been that the Ultra was easily accessible, meaning that with the push of a small lever, two of the most commonly used blades would flip out. He remembered his son, eyes shining, back-dropped by the eighteen-foot Christmas tree. Garlands of greenery, lush poinsettias, tissue paper, and ribbons littered Aldora’s gleaming hardwood floor, while his son proudly told Billy about the flip lever that made the Ultra “kind of like a switchblade of tools.”

At the time Billy Ray had just smiled and thought,
Darn it, son, who needs that?
Now he was grateful for the function.

He worked feverishly, scooting the chair into position in front of his pants. Quickly his fingers searched through the pockets while his shoulders screamed in pain.

Breathing deeply, praying minute by minute, he remembered all of the pain he’d endured as an athlete: broken fingers, a crushed nose, bruised elbows, torqued knees in addition to his ankle. He could endure this. He would! Anger started to burn bright in his chest as he set his jaw and found one pocket. Good! He pressed onward, his fingers searching and coming up with . . . his lighter. Perfect. Carefully, he set it aside. It could come in handy. Now, the other front pocket. His fingers brushed over his fly, feeling the metal teeth of his zipper, then discovered the pocket. Straining, he pushed his hands downward into the lining. It had to be there! He always carried it with him! Sweat burned his eyes. Panic started to surge through him.

Then he felt it . . . the Pomeroy Ultra! It was hard to grab hold of, his fingers slick as they were with sweat, but with sheer guts and determination, Billy Ray grabbed the tool and, inch by inch, slid it from his pants. Eventually it was free . . .
Now, God help me,
he thought, his fingers trembling as he tried to open the spring mechanism.

The Ultra fell out of his hands. He nearly swore, but caught himself. He wasn’t alone. God was with him. And yet he was angry at his clumsiness. “Give me strength,” he muttered behind his gag and found the tool again. Closing his eyes behind the blindfold, he used a technique he’d learned long ago when trying to deal with his rage. He pictured the Ultra in his hand and, breathing slowly and calmly, rotated it until it felt comfortable. In his mind’s eye he saw himself flipping the lever—where was the damned thing? There! He felt the nub and pushed.

Click! A blade swung free.

Hallelujah!

Thank you, Jesus!

God be with me,
he silently prayed,
and give me the strength to kill the son of a bitch.

In the last few hours of his darkness, Billy Ray had come to understand his mission. God was presenting him the opportunity to rid the earth of the monster who had abducted him. This was not only a test, but his opportunity to prove himself to the Lord. In so doing, he would not only save his life, and the life of whoever else the killer planned to murder, but also become more of a local hero. The press would eat it up. His parish would flourish. There would be a book deal. Even a television movie.

But he was getting ahead of himself. For now, all he had to concentrate on was somehow getting the upper hand, and he counted on his old buddy, rage, to help him through.

Because he was angry.

Furious and ready for revenge.

He began working with the Ultra, using the tool on the tape binding his wrists.

Come on, you sick bastard
, he thought, fury searing through his veins,
I’m going to bring you down
.

*  *  *

Sister Maria was hauled roughly to her feet.

Her hands were bound behind her, but her assailant had cut away the tape that held her ankles together and untied her blindfold. He’d also draped her rosary over her neck.

“Move,” he muttered from behind his mask.

Woozy and weak, she could barely walk. The muzzle of the gun in her back, and the urging of the brute of a man in black, kept her stumbling forward, through the darkness toward what? Torture, probably. Rape likely. And death certain.

As he pushed her forward, he swept the weak beam of a flashlight over the damp ground. Dead leaves formed a carpet over the soggy marshland. Cypress grew tall, bleached like ghosts, their roots buckling the earth and delving into the standing water. She had no idea where in the swamps of Louisiana he’d brought her, but she was certain she was going to die.

Our Father who art in heaven . . .

He trained the flashlight onto a building, a single-wide mobile home that seemed as if it had been abandoned long ago, the siding had rusted, the windows broken out, the lean-to that had once been attached to it was now crumpled into a heap of grayed boards.

She thought of the vile acts he would commit against her, of the pain she would endure, and she accepted her fate, prayed for strength, for fortitude, so that she wouldn’t break. She remembered Jesus and what he had endured upon the cross and only hoped that she would be able to handle what was to come with dignity, with piety, and be able to forgive this poor, tortured soul.

Up two uneven steps he pushed her, and she entered the dark interior, where she sagged against the wall. With the gun still pressed against her spine, he lit a lamp.

Her heart withered at the sight of the tiny space that had once been a living room. The interior was filthy from years of weather, vermin, and neglect. The smell of rot was everywhere and seated in a chair on the far wall, his legs bound to the rusted metal legs, his hands pulled behind him, was Billy Ray Furlough. He was naked, a blindfold over his eyes, a gag over his mouth. “No!” she cried, her voice muffled because of the tape over her mouth. Despite the weapon’s muzzle hard against her back, she bent over and started to wretch.

“Fuck!” Her assailant reached around her and tore the tape from her mouth just as her stomach emptied.