Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (71 page)

She backed up and told herself that she was letting her imagination run wild, that she was allowing the dog’s weird behavior to put her on edge. But the hairs on the back of her arms had lifted and her heart was jack-hammering.
Get a grip, Olivia! You saw nothing
, NOTHING.
You ‘re letting your imagination run away with you.

Taking several deep breaths, she hurried to the phone, found her address book in the top drawer, and ran her finger down a page where numbers had been erased and crossed out. Finally, she located Bernadette’s number.

She dialed quickly, tried to fight the rising tide of panic that was overtaking her. Bentz had said there had to be a connection between her and the killer. Something in her genes … could it be? Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

The phone rang. Once, twice, three times.

“Answer, damn it!”

After the fourth ring, voice mail picked up and she was instructed to leave a message.

What could she say? “Bernadette … this is Olivia. Would you please call me when you—”

“Livvie?” her mother’s voice cut in and Olivia’s knees threatened to give way. She braced herself against the counter. “What a surprise.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“As long as it’s not a lecture about my husband. I was considering leaving him, but Jeb and I we’re trying to work things out.”

“Are you era—” Olivia bit her tongue and slowly counted to ten. “You know how I feel about that,” she said, “but it’s not why I called.”

There was a long, strained pause and Olivia wondered how she could ask the next question, how she could accuse her mother of harboring a lie for over thirty years.

“I was going through the Bible,” she said, “you know the one. It belonged to Grannie.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s the weirdest thing. I never knew there was a page dedicated to all the births and marriages and deaths in the family.” Was it her imagination or had she heard Bernadette’s swift intake of breath?

“Is there?”

There was just no way to sugar-coat her question. “I noticed that Chandra and I were listed as your children, but we weren’t the only ones. There was a mention of another child. A boy. Not named and born about a year before I was. My older brother.”

No response.

“Mom?”

A pause and then a long sigh. “Livvie, this is none of your business.”

“I had a brother and no one told me and it’s none of my business?” she repeated, aghast. “Of course it’s my business.”

“What does it matter now?”

“Bernadette … he’s my brother. Is he still alive?”

Nothing.

“Is he?” Olivia demanded again, blood thundering in her head, her fingers clenched over the receiver so tightly they ached.

“I … I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“For the love of God, Bernadette! Where is he? What the hell happened? Who is he?”

“I said I don’t know,” Bernadette snapped, then lowered her voice. “I was young, barely out of high school. Not married … back then it was not so accepted to have a child out of wedlock. Not like today. I had to tell my mother and she … she arranged a private adoption. I don’t know his name, what happened to him. Nothing.”

“But—” Olivia leaned against the wall. Her head was spinning with the lie. How many more were there?

“As far as I’m concerned, that baby never existed,” Bernadette insisted but her voice shook with emotion. “I don’t expect you to understand, Livvie, but I damn well expect you not to judge.”

Olivia gasped. “I didn’t mean … I just want to know the truth.”

“The truth’s very simple and pretty common. I got pregnant while I was still in high school and your father was … Well, he’d shipped out and I wasn’t married, so I gave my baby up and I really haven’t looked back. I didn’t want to. I suppose these days you would call it denial, but there it is.”

And it explained so much.

“The only people who knew were your grandmother and me. It was a private adoption. I don’t even know the attorney who handled it or the name of the family who adopted him. I didn’t want to know then and I don’t want to know now. I didn’t tell your father.”

“He’s
not
my father.”

“Now who’s in denial?” Bernadette threw out. “Leave it be, Olivia. So you have a brother somewhere, what do you care?”

“Aren’t you even curious about your son?”

“No, Livvie, I’m not. Now leave it alone.”

Olivia couldn’t. One way or another, she thought, hanging up, she’d find out who the hell her brother was. Even if he turned out to be a vicious killer.

Seated at his desk in the station, Bentz glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. He had just enough time to get to Baton Rouge and pick up Kristi. Aside from the suggestion that “Saint Bernadette” had adopted out a son sired by Reggie Benchet, Bentz had learned nothing from Oscar Cantrell. Whatever love the man had once felt for his ex-wife had been killed when Bernadette had started “fucking around” on him. “She was a real slut. Couldn’t keep a zipper up to save her life. ‘Course that’s what had attracted me to her in the first place, but I expect a wife to save it for her husband.
Sheeiiit,
she’s a piece of work, Bernadette is,” Cantrell had concluded.

Bentz figured there was more to the story, but so far hadn’t sorted it out. And now he was late. He threw on his jacket, slid his Glock into its holster, and wended his way through the desks scattered throughout the department.

“Bentz!” Penny, one of the receptionists yelled. “I’ve got Montoya on the line. He says its important.”

“Tell him to call me on the cell.” Bentz was already halfway down the stairs. By the time he’d reached his Jeep, his cell was ringing like crazy. “Bentz,” he said into the headset as he strapped on his seat belt.

“We found her.” Montoya’s voice was cold as death.

“Who?”

“St. Catherine of Alexandria.”

“What?” Hand over the steering wheel, Bentz froze. “What do you mean? Where?”

“That’s just the half of it,” Montoya said solemnly. “She isn’t alone.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Talk about a bad day #x0021;

This had to be the worst, Kristi thought as she came up with some bullshit answer for the last question on her essay test. This was supposed to be English 101. It was supposed to be a snap. But Dr. Northrup was rumored to be the hardest professor in the English Department, a real perfectionist, and in Kristi’s estimation, a prick. He was too precise, too wound-tight. He even dressed the part in his natty suits and perfect hair. She doubted he was more than thirty-five but he seemed older. Harder. Jaded.

Deciding she’d done the best she could, she carried her test paper to the front of the room and dropped it into the half-filled basket on his desk. He was putting on his coat and glanced up at her as she passed. “Going home for Thanksgiving?” he asked.

Kristi was dumbfounded. The entire term he hadn’t so much as called on her. Nor had he uttered one word to the kids who had dropped off their exams before she had.

“Yeah.” She nodded and hitched her backpack onto her shoulder. “Today.”

He flashed a bit of a smile, though it seemed pasted on, as if he did it because it was expected. It wasn’t real. But then, the guy was as phony as a three-dollar bill. “Have a nice holiday, Ms. Bentz.” He turned to give his T.A. some instructions.

“You, too,” she muttered, starting for the door. She didn’t even think he knew her name. Wasn’t thrilled that he did. The guy was more than a little weird, kind of stuck on himself. It was as if his Ph.D. made him something special, something that should be revered.

It was stupid, in her opinion, and way beyond odd, but then all her professors were a little off. As she pushed the door open and stepped into the cold November day, Kristi wondered if all the teachers at All Saints were weirdos. Or had she just lucked out this term and gotten all the eccentrics?

Rain was pouring from the dark sky. Drops peppered the ground, hitting hard enough to splash and puddle. As she had for three days running, Kristi had forgotten her umbrella. Silently calling herself an idiot, she turned the collar of her jacket up and started cutting across campus, ducking her head against the sheets of cold drops and running through the gloom. Only a few other kids were making their way down the narrow paths that rimmed the tall brick buildings and bisected the lawns of the University. Nightfall was supposed to be several hours off, but the afternoon was dark as twilight.

She jumped over a puddle on the path, began jogging, and thought about her professors. Dr. Zaroster in Philosophy was a nervous, demanding man who barked orders at Brian and looked upon his undergraduate students with an air of superiority—not unlike Northrup.

Perhaps that better-than-thou attitude came with the territory of succeeding in academia.

Kristi’s professor in bonehead math, Ms. Wilder, wore tons of makeup and too-tight sweaters, but other than that seemed okay. Dr. Sutter in Psychology tried to appear laid back, but there was something about him that made her think he wasn’t quite as relaxed as he tried to appear. He seemed edgy at times. And he’d pulled her aside once to tell her that her paper hadn’t been up to what he knew she could do. “I’m certain if you spent a little more time doing research, you would surprise yourself.” Oh, yeah, like how did
he
know? Just because he had a doctorate in psychology … could he psychoanalyze a person on the spot? Then there was Miss Pratt, the PE teacher. A dyke. No two ways about it. Pratt kept trying to convince Kristi to try out for the swim team, but Kristi couldn’t shake the feeling that the PE teacher was hitting on her. Sometimes Kristi even thought Miss Pratt was a guy. It was just kind of creepy the way she was always hanging out at the pool or in the locker room, making herself appear busy but actually watching everyone and everything that went on around the physical education facilities.

Kristi had never been self-conscious about her body, had stripped and showered for her gym classes without any hang-ups, but Miss Roberta Pratt changed all that. The dyke made her nervous.

Crap. Everyone did these days.

And now Dad was gonna be late. He’d called her on her cell phone and made some excuse about a major break in a case, even offered to have someone pick her up.

As if!

The guy her father had in mind was probably a cop friend and would have rolled up in a department-issued cruiser. Oh, yeah,
that’s
the image she wanted to portray around campus! Sure, announce to the world that she was a cop’s daughter!

She died a billion deaths just thinking about it. She’d told Bentz she’d wait. He’d promised he’d be only “a couple of hours” late. Whatever that meant. She’d lived with him too long to believe it.

She’d already decided she wasn’t going to wait around forever. If her dad didn’t show up in a reasonable time period, she’d give Brian another call. That thought made her smile. Taking a sharp left at the statue of St. Mary in the middle of the quad, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Someone else was running to get out of the rain. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no one. The campus was practically deserted.

Kind of creepy in the gloom.

Oh, get over it.

She took a shortcut through the library, taking the steps two at a time and shoving open the old glass doors. Normally packed, the library was now a ghost town with only a handful of students sitting at the old oaken tables or perusing the stacks. The lights were dimmed, it seemed, the entire building desolate.

She hurried outside and crossed the wet lawn to Cramer Hall. Again, she thought she heard someone behind her, another set of footsteps making a mad dash in the rain. Once more, she looked over her shoulder. This time she saw someone in the shadows, a tall man lagging behind. He seemed familiar, someone she should know, but it was too dark to make out his features and he disappeared through the dense curtain of rain—turning his face away as she looked in his direction.

For a heartbeat Kristi wondered if he’d been following her on purpose. But that was ridiculous. Who would be chasing her in this downpour?

You’re as paranoid as your old man! For God’s sake, the guy behind you was just running like mad to get out of this miserable weather. There’s nothing scary about that. Get over yourself!

For a second she thought the guy might have been Brian—his build was about right—but then why wouldn’t Brian try to catch up with her? Why would he turn away and head into the shadows? No, that didn’t make any sense.

And where was Brian anyway, she wondered, more than a little irritated. Pushing open the door, she tried not to be angry. There was probably a perfectly good reason why he hadn’t returned her phone calls.

“Jerk,” she muttered under her breath.

Running up two flights of steps, she swabbed the rain from her face, then yanked her cell phone from her pocket. She flipped it open. Nope. No one had called, not since her dad had phoned to tell her he was running late.

Great.

The door to her room was open and Lucretia was lying on her bottom bunk, flipping through a new copy of
Modern Bride.
Kristi recognized the magazine and wanted to puke. All Lucretia ever did was study and dream of graduating so she could get married. Rather than make a nasty comment, Kristi bit her tongue and began peeling off her wet jacket and jeans. “Anyone call?” she asked, squeezing the water from her ponytail as she searched her microcloset for something dry to put on.

“Yeah. Jay.” Lucretia was sipping a Diet Coke and munching on Cheetos as she eyed a page displaying several different elaborately decorated cakes.

Kristi cringed.

“He wants to know when you’re getting home.”

“You talked to him?” Kristi asked, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was red from the cold, her hair starting to frizz. “Why didn’t you let him leave a message?

“I didn’t think, just picked up the phone without checking caller ID.” At Kristi’s sour expression, Lucretia rolled her eyes. “Sorry. But he still thinks he’s your boyfriend, you know. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.” She lifted a dismissive shoulder as she crunched another Cheeto. “He wants you to call him back.”

“I think I’ll wait until I get home.”

“Whatever.” Disinterested, Lucretia licked the cheese from her lips.

“Anyone else?”

“Nope.” Lucretia looked up with that smug expression that really got under Kristi’s skin. “No one. Not even Brian.”

Kristi didn’t comment, but she couldn’t wait to go home and get away from her holier-than-thou roommate. Lucretia didn’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or even listen to any music other than some Christian station. Just dreamed of being a wife and mother. BO-ring. Checking her watch Kristi wondered when the hell her dad would show up.

Bentz parked on the outside of the gate. As he climbed out of his Jeep, he flashed his badge at a deputy from the Sheriff’s Department who was standing guard. Beyond the sagging old fence was an abandoned grist mill.

Montoya had been talking to other officers. He “broke away from the cluster standing in the rain, and waved Bentz in.

“What’ve we got?” Bentz asked.

“Two Jane Does. Both dead.” Montoya was sucking hard on a cigarette. His jacket was shiny with rainwater, his features stretched taut in the gathering darkness. Twilight had descended rapidly in this farming community an hour out of the city. The rain didn’t let up, just kept pummeling the ground and running off the bill of Bentz’s Saints’ cap. “I got a call from a friend of mine in the Sheriff’s Department and drove over,” Montoya said, “A couple of kids found the bodies.” He motioned to two boys huddled with an officer and an older woman.

“What were they doin’ here?”

“Huntin', though that was behind their mother’s back.” Montoya blew out a stream of smoke. “They got more than they bargained for.”

Bentz glared at the mill. The building looked like something straight out of an old horror flick. The windows were boarded over, the cement walls blacked with age. Vines and brambles crawled toward the roof while moss dripped over what remained of the eaves. Part of an old mill wheel sat unmoving in a stream that angled into the darkness.

“Who’s the owner?” Bentz asked.

“We’re still digging, but the sheriff thinks the mill’s owner lives out of state.”

“He got a name?”

“We’re still checking. Locals refer to this place as ‘The Old Kay1er Place.’ Someone named Kayler with roots in the Civil War owned the land a hundred and fifty years ago. The name stuck. The mill came along later but hasn’t been operational for a generation or two, probably closed up around World War II sometime. The nearest neighbors are half a mile away.”

“Convenient.”

“And not as dangerous as the shotgun house off of Esplanade.”

“Or an apartment in the Garden District.”

Bentz swept his gaze over the exterior again. The place was already crawling with law enforcement personnel. Klieg lights trained bluish illumination on the crumbling walls. Beams from hand-held flashlights bobbed and cut through the shadows as officers, searching every inch of wet, soggy ground, moved slowly through the tall grass, scrub oaks, and brush.

“Did you question the kids?” Bentz asked, sending a glance at the boys.

“Yeah. They don’t know much.”

“I’ll want to talk to them once I’ve gone inside.” Bentz looked back at the mill. Yellow tape surrounded the building. “The scene’s been preserved?”

“Best as they could.”

“No ID on the victims.” It wasn’t a question.

“Never that easy,” Montoya said. “At least not with this killer. We’ll take prints and pictures, blood, and we’ve always got dental records.”

Bentz hiked his collar against the rain. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

“It ain’t pretty.” Montoya ground out his smoke, picked up the butt, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Bentz braced himself as he walked past two detectives who were searching the muddy lane for tire tracks. Another was sweeping the area with a harsh, intense light.

“You’re pretty sure it’s our guy?” Bentz asked.

“No doubt.” They walked through a sagging doorway and the stench of death hit Bentz as hard as a fist to the gut. Fetid and rank, the smell was overlaid by another strong odor, the metallic scent of fresh blood.

Inside, rats scurried out of their path and Bentz clenched his teeth as he got his first view of the scene. His stomach tried to revolt, just as it always did. He fought the urge to vomit and forced himself to study the area.

In the center of a large room the murder had taken place. A woman’s nude, decapitated body was still strapped to a grotesque, spiked wheel. Blood covered the dirty floor and atop a long workbench, posed upon an overturned, rusted bucket, was her head. Her eyes were closed, a piece of bloody hair missing. “Jesus,” Bentz whispered as he spied a chain encircling the stump that had once been her neck. The thin chain draped over the pail. A medal dangled from the fragile links.