Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (41 page)

She slitted her eye open just a bit and caught a glimpse of the bleached boards of a dock.

“Maybe it’s better you sleep,” he said, as if to himself. “Because we’re going to have a party later.” He dropped her into a small boat tied to the dock. She crumpled into a boneless heap, though she was scared to death. “Kinda like the party I had with Melanie…only this time we won’t be listening to you on the radio. No, we’ll have to play a tape. And I’ve got them, all your shows. I’ve brought one along.”

She thought she might be sick. This monster actually planned to kill her while they were listening to her voice as she took calls on the airwaves.
No way in hell,
she thought as he began untying the small boat from its moorings. She needed a weapon, any kind of weapon. As his back was turned she let her eyes open just a hair and began to search the sides of the tiny craft for something…anything. Through the slits she noticed a fishing creel tucked under the bench but that wouldn’t do…then she saw the oar. If she moved quickly, she could reach it, whack him on the back and slide into the swamp.

In that split-second she thought of the creatures of the bayou—alligators, snakes, bats…but which was worse? Nature or this unnatural monster? Her mind was still fuzzy. Sluggish.

He began to shove off.

Now!

She sprang, stumbled, grabbed the oar and swung hard.

Crack!

The oar smacked the back of his head.

He roared in pain, stumbled forward. She whacked him again, but he turned on the third attempt.

“You bitch.” Grabbing her makeshift club, he ripped it from her hands. “You stupid, stupid cunt!” He lunged at her and she dived over the side. Thick water submerged her and she tried to swim, but she was caught. He’d snagged the hem of her robe, dragging her back. She tried to loosed the knot of the tie, but it was cinched tight. Wet.

Swearing loudly he yanked her backward to certain death. She kicked, tried to hold her breath, worked the damned knot, but she was losing ground. His fingers scraped against her ankle.

No! No! NO!

Her lungs were aching, her head cloudy, her fingers fumbling with the damned tie.

He pulled hard. Again reached for her leg. She kicked. The knot came free. Driven by terror she slid out of the robe’s arms and dived fast. Deep. Swimming naked through the thick water far under the surface. Her lungs burned but she ignored the fire, kicking hard, sliding farther from the dock until she thought she would explode.

In a splash, she broke surface, barely twenty feet from him. Gasping for air, she dived again, but not before he cast the beam of a spotlight upon her and spun the damned boat in her direction.

How could she outmaneuver him? How could she save herself? She dived into the sluggish, murky water again, kicking hard, swimming blindly away from the light.
Faster, Sam, go faster. Get away!
Her lungs were about to burst when she scraped her fingers on the roots of a cypress tree and pulled herself to the far side. Slowly she surfaced and took in long, deep breaths while trying to remain silent and get her bearings.
God help me,
she thought desperately, then knew she had to help herself. No one was out here. This was pure, raw, Louisiana wilderness.

She had to escape somehow or kill him.

Either way would do.

Naked and shivering, her head finally clearing, she could barely hear over the drumming of her heart and had trouble tamping down the sheer panic sending adrenalin through her blood. She felt something slippery brush against her leg, but she didn’t move, didn’t cry out, didn’t dare. The smell of the swamp was heavy in her nostrils, the feel of the sultry air cool against her skin. She heard the sound of his oars slicing through the water, watched as the spotlight flickered on, then quickly off again, teasing her, causing her pupils to dilate and narrow, making it more difficult to see.

“You’re not going to get away, you know,” he drawled, his voice low and sexy and far too close. Where was he?
Where?

Then the light flared again barely five feet away. Silently she slid under the water, swam stealthily beneath the lily pads and surfaced in a grove of tall, skeletal trees and flattened against one bleached cypress.

“You can’t last long. The gators will get you. Or somethin’ else. Come on out, Samantha,” his voice was coaxing, meant to be seductive over the drone of insects, but she heard the edge of frustration in his words, the hint of his psychosis. “You started this, you know. You told Annie to confide in someone and she told Mother.” He clicked his tongue. “Mother didn’t believe her, though. No, she didn’t think I would actually fuck my little sister.” He laughed. “And Annie…she liked it, whether she admitted it or not. She got wet for me…just like you’re going to.”

Terror struck deep in her heart. She had to get out of here. Now. Before he found her. Before exhaustion overtook her. Before her luck ran out. She managed a peek around the bole of the tree and caught a glimpse of the outline of his truck, the metal shining in the moonlight. It was her only chance.

Noiselessly Sam slipped beneath the surface again. She swam silently away from his voice, toward the dock. Had he left his keys in the truck’s ignition? Or had he pocketed them? Had he locked the doors?

She needed some means of escape, some kind of transportation. How far could she get, naked and barefoot?

Just swim. Get to the shore. Get away.

Her lungs were burning, threatening to burst as she propelled herself through the slimy duckweed. Finally, she surfaced, silently dragging in air.

The spotlight flashed on.

The beam caught her square in its hideous brilliance. Somehow he’d been tracking her and realized she’d double back to the dock!

Quickly she slid underneath the water again, swimming frantically, seeking cover beneath the dock, and surfacing on the far side. Peering over the edge of the rotted wood, she saw the spotlight glowing eerily through the rising mist. The boat hadn’t moved. Was it possible that she’d lost him? Would he give up so easily? Not unless she’d hurt him when she’d hit him with the oars.

Carefully she edged toward the shore and saw a flash through the trees—headlights? Her heart leapt. Was it possible? Oh, God, could someone be traveling down these deserted roads? Could she be somewhere near a main road? She moved more quickly, her toes searching for purchase in the muddy bottom. Again she felt something brush against her. Fish? Alligator? Snake?

She stepped forward.

Steely fingers clamped around her ankle.

No!

Oh, God, he’d found her. She kicked but it was no use.

He was on her then. His hard body bent on dragging her under. He’d left the spotlight turned on and let the boat drift as he’d slipped under the surface and swum unerringly to her.

The hand was a manacle, pulling her under, into deeper water. She thrashed and kicked, gasping for air. Her heel connected with something solid. He burst to the surface and dragged her with him. “You fucking bitch,” he swore, naked from the waist up, his skin white in the dark night, the dark glasses gone and wide eyes with pale irises glowering down at her. “You’re gonna pay,” he said, water dripping from his dark hair and down his face. He was standing, his head above water, she, shorter, couldn’t touch ground. Angrily, he yanked her down, jerked her under the surface. She gasped, caught a mouthful of stagnant water and came up coughing and spitting.

Kicking and slapping, she aimed for his testicles, but he pulled her under again. Again she gulped water. She bobbed up. Gasped. Coughing, sputtering, choking. He grabbed her hair with his free hand. “Now Dr. Sam, repent,”

“Wh—what?”

“Repent for your sins.”

He dunked her again, holding her down in the sluggish water, robbing her of air until she couldn’t breathe, saw images in the darkness, murky shapes moving near his legs.

With a hard pull, he yanked her up and she could barely move. “Go ahead play dead. See what good it does you,” he said, and dragged her closer to the shore. Her toes touched now, and she tried to run, but he held her fast and fumbled beneath the water, reaching into his pocket, withdrawing his wicked weapon. In the darkness she saw the beads—his rosary.

She struggled, but it was no use. He was so much stronger. So much bigger. Knew the swamp. If only she had a weapon, a stick, a rock, anything! In the distance she saw headlights, growing nearer, flashing through the trees.

“Say your prayers, Dr. Sam,” Kent ordered as he slipped the noose over her head. The beads were cold as death. Sharp. Hard. Brittle. He twisted the garrote, and she gasped. Pain seared through her neck. He leaned forward. “Repent and kiss me, you miserable bitch,” he ordered, and she lunged forward, teeth bared, and bit hard into his cheek.

He yowled, let go for just a second and she swam under the dock, tore the wicked rosary from her neck and came up on the other side. She heard him splashing behind her, but she swam to the boat, grabbed the spotlight and moved it frantically toward the headlights cutting through the darkness. She heard a car’s engine, the grind of tires spinning on gravel.

Her feet touched and she started for the shore, hoping that whoever was coming could reach her in time. “Here!” she screamed. “Help!” But Kent was behind her and lunged forward just as the car ground to a stop.

Doors opened. Two men and a dog flew out of the car.

“Police, Seger! Give it up!” a voice boomed.

Kent’s hand clamped over her shoulder. She dived into the shallow water.

Crack!

A rifle report echoed through the bayou.

Kent squealed and fell back into the water. Splashing. Flailing. His blood flowing into the dark ripples. “God damn it,” he cried, but his voice was fading, gurgling.

Gasping and shaking, Sam lunged toward the shore, frantically slogging through the water lilies and vines, sobbing and shaking, certain he would reappear and drag her under again.

“Samantha!” Ty’s voice rang across the swamp, through the trees.

Sam nearly crumbled into a thousand pieces.

“Here!” she tried to scream, but her words were only a whisper. She pushed herself forward, feeling as if she was running in slow motion.

She saw him silhouetted by the headlights, racing toward her, the dog at his heels. She started sobbing wildly and couldn’t stop when he wrapped his arms around her and held her body to his. “Sam…Sam…oh, God, are you all right?”

“Yes…no…yes…” She was holding him, trying to regain some kind of composure and falling into a million pieces.

“Over here,” Ty yelled, turning his head toward the sniper. “Bring a blanket.” He turned back to her. “Jesus, Samantha, I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…what the hell have you got?”

Only then did she realize she was still holding the damned rosary. As if it were truly evil, she let it slide through her fingers to drop onto the soggy ground. She was trembling and shivering and on the verge of passing out. Through her fog, she felt someone throw a blanket over her nakedness and realized it was Detective Bentz.

“I’ll need some kind of statement,” he said, averting his eyes as she wrapped the thin blanket around her.

“Later,” Ty said.

In the distance she saw other headlights.

“The cavalry,” Bentz explained, as an owl hooted from a nearby branch. “I figured we could use some backup.” He looked at the swamp and reached into the pocket of his jacket, retrieving an unopened pack of cigarettes. “I suppose I should go retrieve the son of a bitch,” he said. “Right after I have a smoke. If I’m lucky, maybe the gators will do my work for me.” Then he lit up and, gun still in hand, slowly walked onto the dock, searching the dark water while the tip of his cigarette glowed red in the misty darkness.

“How—how did you find me?” Sam asked, her mind still foggy.

“Navarrone knew that Kent had a place here—the only thing his mother had given him when she cut him off. Basically we got lucky.”

“Lucky? I was hoping you would say it was all because of brilliant police work.”

“There was a little of that, but luck played a major part.”

“That’s so reassuring,” she said, shaking her head and holding the blanket tight around her shivering body.

“It’s meant to be.”

“God help us.” She felt the streaks of mud on her skin and saw, in the headlights, drips of red. Blood. Not hers but Kent’s. Diluted with swamp water, but still running down her legs. Shuddering, she wiped the vile fluid from her skin. “Can we get out of here?” she asked.

“You bet.” Ty whistled to the dog and kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go home.”

Epilogue

“So it’s ‘case closed,’” Montoya said as he walked into Bentz’s office and sat on the corner of his desk. Ever cool, Montoya was in his signature leather coat, some dark slacks and a white T-shirt. He’d traded in the goatee for a moustache and instead of one earring, he sported two.

Through the open window, the sounds of the night seeped into the building—a solitary riff from a saxophonist, the hum of traffic, the buzz of laughter. It was night in the city of New Orleans.

“The case is closed except for the fact that we never found Kent Seger’s body.”

“You figure he got out alive?”

“With all those gators? Nope.” Bentz leaned back in his desk chair and found a piece of gum in his desk. “I think he got what he deserved.”

“You give up smokin’ again?”

“For the time being.”

“Probably a mistake.”

“Probably.”

“So what’s happening with Dr. Sam?”

“All good things,” Bentz said with a grin. He’d talked to Dr. Sam and was surprised at how well she’d survived her ordeal. She was one tough cookie and now she was calling the shots. “The way I hear it she’s got a new assistant and refused to expand the program to seven days a week. George Hannah’s going along with it, because he’s afraid to lose her. And he would. There are other bigger stations who would hire her in an instant. One as far away as Chicago.”

“So why’s she stayin’?”

“One reason is Ty Wheeler.” Reaching behind him, he flipped on the fan and the hot air blew from one end of the tiny office to the other.

“Thought you didn’t like him?”

“I don’t. Anyone who gives up being a cop to write books is a candy-ass.”

“Or smart. You let him and that dog ride with you,” Montoya reminded him.

“The dog, I like.”

“So Kent Seger was just one messed-up mother.” “Yeah, I’ve seen some hospital records. Depression, drug use, violence.”

“And what about Ryan Zimmerman?” Montoya asked. Bentz frowned. “He’ll probably try to patch things up with his wife if he ever gets out of the hospital. The story is that he ran into Kent one night in the bars—he’d just lost his job and been kicked out of the house. Kent was an old friend, or so he thought and Kent was connected, had a virtual candy store of drugs. They hooked up and once Ryan was out of it, Kent took him hostage. Held him prisoner.

Tortured him in that lair of his.” “The one Navarrone discovered.”

“Yeah. Where we found the trophies.” Bentz chewed hard on his gum. Seeing the jewelry had gotten to him—everything from earring studs to ankle bracelets and a locket with Kent and Annie’s picture inside—probably taken off his sister on the night she’d died, though no one had mentioned it. The way Bentz figured it, Kent had swapped Ryan’s picture for his own. The world was no worse without Kent Seger.

“So Zimmerman’s sworn off drugs, for good, or so he claims. You can’t trust junkies,” Bentz said. “The combination of drugs Kent gave him the night Melanie was killed messed him up bad enough that Kent had no problem setting him up. Kent made the call to the station the night Melanie was killed, then pushed Zimmerman into the street. He just happened to get hit by the car. That wasn’t necessarily planned. If the hospital hadn’t pumped his stomach, he would have died.”

“As would have Samantha Leeds.”

Bentz scowled. “She nearly did anyway.” He glanced out the open window to the city lights and remembered how Kent Seger had gotten past her security, with the one key she didn’t duplicate when she changed the locks, a small key she’d rarely used, the one to the trap door under her stairs. All Kent had to do was slip under the verandah, make his way to the trap door and let himself into the house. Easy as pie. What a bastard. And his body had never been recovered from the swamp, as if the dark vile water had claimed one of its own.

Montoya leaned against the file cabinet and crossed his booted feet in front of him. “So what happened to that brother of hers. Pete or Peter or whatever he went by? I thought he might have been involved.”

“From all I know he’s as elusive as ever. Hasn’t surfaced. He worked for a cell phone company for a while, but quit his job. No one’s heard from him. Not Sam, not her father, not even the damned IRS.”

“What’s up with that?”

“Maybe he’s just a private person.”

“Or a junkie.”

“A lot of those out there.” Bentz glanced into the night. “My guess is that Samantha and her father won’t hear from him until the coroner comes knocking—if then.”

“So that’s it,” Montoya said.

“The case is closed.” “There’re a few loose ends,” Bentz allowed. “I still want to talk to some people who conveniently dropped out of sight when the bodies started piling up. Roommates, exes, pimps and the like, but I think they’re all clean, probably just had other issues with the law that they didn’t want to go into and decided it was time to disappear.” He thought of Marc Duvall, the pimp and Sweet Cindy AKA Sweet Sin, to name a couple persons of interest who had conveniently turned up missing. Sooner or later he’d track them down. Especially Duvall. “But yeah, for all intents and purposes it’s over.”

“Good.” Reuben snapped to attention. “Then we’re done. Right? Maybe you should celebrate with one of those near-beers.”

“We still have a couple of murders that haven’t been solved,” Bentz reminded him, and glanced at the computer screen where images of two dead women, one Jane Doe burned and left in front of the statue of Joan of Arc, the other, Cathy Adams, the stripper/student/prostitute who had been found with her head shaved in her apartment.

So close in age to his own daughter. The only kid he’d ever raise. That thought bothered him, but, hell, it was working out. She was a great kid. A great kid.

“We’ll figure the other murders out,” Montoya said, never doubting himself for a minute.

“I hope so.” But Bentz wasn’t convinced. In his gut he knew another serial killer was stalking the streets of his city. Another sick bastard with strange rituals. A signature? God,he hoped not. Maybe the two cases on his desk weren’t related. And yet…he sensed they were.

Damn it all to hell.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely celebrating tonight. Definitely.”

“Probably a good idea,” Montoya agreed.

“A damned good one. Hey—what time is it?” He looked at his watch, a knock off of a Rolex, then walked over to the file cabinet and switched on the radio just as the first few strains of “A Hard Day’s Night” faded away and Samantha Leeds’s sultry voice floated from the speakers.

“Good evening New Orleans, this is Dr. Sam at WSLJ. You’re listening to
Midnight Confessions,
and tonight we’re going to be talking about luck…”