Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (82 page)

Bentz whipped around a double-parked van. Had he been wrong? He’d assumed the killer was related to Olivia somehow, but he could have made a mistake … and now Olivia might be paying with her life! He blasted his horn when a middle-aged BMW driver cut him off.

His cell phone beeped and he picked it up, bracing himself for the worst. That there was another victim, that the son of a bitch had somehow gotten Olivia … “This is Bentz,” he snapped.

“Rick? It’s Olivia.” She sounded frightened. Scared out of her mind. Oh, God. No …

“Where are you?”

“At work … but something’s wrong … I can feel it,” she said. “He’s … he’s conflicted. Confused. The killer wants to talk to someone …”

“Who?” Relief washed over him. At least she was safe. Unharmed.

“I don’t know … but I have the feeling that he needs to unburden himself, that he will do something worse … he’s desperate.”

“Stay put. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He cranked on the wheel at the next light and nosed his Jeep toward the French Quarter.

The Chosen One slunk through the shadows of St. Luke’s. He’d walked these halls before and knew the hidden closets and doorways, the places to hide or flee if he needed to. He was familiar with the cloister and the gardens and had used the tiny clear panel in one stained glass window to view inside.

On silent footsteps, he made his way through the chancel, then, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, stopped short.

He wasn’t alone.

An altar boy, still dressed in cassock and surplice, had rummaged through the sacristy and was drinking the priests’ wine from a gold chalice. The hooligan had a nearly shaved head and an earring that winked in the dim light.

The Chosen One slid into a dark niche. His head was beginning to ache again.
Ignore the boy. He is not part of the plan.

Or was he? Perhaps …

Blatantly abusing his privilege, the thief of about fourteen was pouring more wine into the chalice—
the chalice
—and then as if he had every right, took the blessed cup to his lips and guzzled wine as if he were a street wino.

Sacrilegious!

Making a mockery of all that was holy.

From his position in the shadows, The Chosen One realized that he had been drawn here not for confession, but because he had work to do. God had sent him here to punish the heretic in altar boy vestments. And… for another reason, one more intimately entwined with his higher calling. Yes … the boy would provide a distraction for the police … Perfect.

Withdrawing the small knife from his pocket, The Chosen One moved noiselessly and swiftly. The heretic, caught up in his sinful deeds, didn’t notice. Nor did he hear the click of the blade switching into place. His lips were stained from the wine, his wicked smile surrounding the cup as he thought, no doubt, of how he’d brag to his peers at school.

He wouldn’t have the chance.

The Chosen One yanked back the pagan’s head, exposing his white throat. The boy cried out. But it was too late. The Chosen One clamped one gloved hand over the boy’s mouth and used the other to slash his throat. Blood spilled. The chalice fell to the floor, rolling and shimmering in the dim lights. The boy struggled as The Chosen One dragged him through the darkened ambulatory to the altar and left him there, not only as a sacrifice but as a warning.

Wiping his blade on the black skirt of the boy’s cassock, he smiled. This was his purpose. To rid the world of sinners. Adrenalin sang through his blood as he snapped his deadly weapon shut and slipped into the night again. Outside, breathing the heavy air scented by the Mississippi River, he realized that his headache had vanished.

“Nooo!”

Olivia’s knees buckled. She was polishing small pyramids in the Third Eye when she caught her reflection in the windowpane. But beneath her own image she noticed something darker, a distorted face, wide and evil. In her mind’s eye she saw a small, finely honed blade. It slashed down. Blood sprayed. She fell into the display, knocking over candlesticks and incense holders and picture frames.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Tawilda said, pushing aside the beaded curtain to find Olivia slinking to the floor, her head in her hands. “Olivia? Jesus Christ, are you okay? Do I need to call nine-one-one?” She’d already whipped her cell phone from her purse and was kneeling beside Olivia. “Honey—”

“No, I’ll be all right,” Olivia whispered, her head pounding, tears blurring her eyes. But she wouldn’t. Not as long as the monster was free.

“Well, you don’t look all right to me. You look like you’ve just seen a damned ghost. I’m callin'—”

The front door burst open, chimes tinkling. Rick Bentz took one look around, vaulted over a wagon displaying unique Christmas ornaments, and landed next to Olivia. “What happened?” he demanded.

“She collapsed!” Tawilda said. “And what the hell are you doin’ here? I thought she gave you the heave-ho.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, ignoring Olivia’s coworker.

“Yes, but he’s at it again,” she said, shaking and cold.

Bentz’s arms surrounded her and she clung to him, barely hearing Tawilda’s
“Tsk, tsk,
if that don’t beat all.”

“Tell me,” Rick insisted. “What did you see?”

“He killed someone. Quickly, with a knife, I don’t think it was planned.” She was breathing in gasps. “It wasn’t expected … and he … he wasn’t wearing a mask, I saw his face.” She shuddered and leaned into Bentz.

“He killed someone? What the devil are you talkin’ about?” Tawilda cut in.

Olivia hardly heard her. “But the image was distorted this time. As if he were looking into one of those fun-house mirrors … He … he had blue eyes and had dark hair and … I think.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I caught an image of a ring of some kind.”

“A wedding ring?”

“No … I mean, I don’t know … but it had a stone in it.” She was shaking. “Oh, God, I think … I think the victim was a child …” Tears ran down her face as she clung to him. “A girl in a long black dress with an apron … or …” Her eyebrows knit and she shook her head. “I … I’m not sure …”

“We’ll check it out,” he promised, wanting to reassure her. But he couldn’t. They were out of time. “Can you describe the scene?”

She nodded. “I have the feeling that it was in a church … He killed the child in a closet of some kind and then dragged her to an altar.” No, that wasn’t right, the victim didn’t have any hair. Swallowing hard, she looked over Bentz’s shoulder toward a rack of Mardi Gras beads, but he knew she wasn’t focusing on the display, that she was seeing inward, viewing the scene in her mind’s eye. “I don’t know why, but it seemed somehow familiar … but I only caught glimpses … It was violent. Brutal and the killer … the killer was enraged.” She shuddered in his arms, then, as if realizing how close they were, she seemed to gather herself and push gently away. She bit her lip. “I think this might have happened at St. Luke’s,” she said, her eyes darkened. “I caught a glimpse of bright colors, panels of color from a stained glass window I’d seen before at St. Luke’s. It was distorted, but … I’m nearly positive.”

His gut clenched. “Then I’d better go check it out.” He reached for his cell phone to call the station, but her fingers clamped around his wrist.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You heard the lady,” Tawilda interjected. “Seein’ what she’s goin’ through here, I think you’d best take her along.”

“If you don’t, I’ll just follow. No!” She said as if she finally understood. “It wasn’t a dress. But a robe. Like a choir person would wear … or an altar boy.” Her eyes met his and he read the fear in her gaze, the concern. Whether she admitted it or not, she, too, thought somehow James could be involved in all of this.

And it was tearing her up inside.

So are you going to give up the priesthood? Renounce your vows? Change the course of your life forever because of one woman?

Father James reached the church and found the back door ajar. Again. Monsignor O’Hara was oftentimes careless about locking up and when James pointed out the need for security, he’d snorted the same tired litany, “The doors to God’s house are always open.”
The very same quote you said to Olivia when you tried to lure her back to mass.

Olivia.
His heart twisted at the thought of her. Their one night together when they’d nearly made love had been heart-wrenching, and in the morning, she’d met him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, then, her fists plunged into the pockets of her robe, she’d apologized for making a horrid mistake, the guilt in her large gold eyes reflecting his own misery. He’d drunk the coffee, eaten the breakfast she’d made, cracked a couple of lame jokes that now caused him to wince and had walked out of the house into the wintry morning. Throughout the drive to the church he’d thought of her, never noticing the traffic nor the threat of rain.

Now, as he strode through the back door of St. Luke’s he noticed the lock hadn’t been forced. He’d have to speak to the monsignor. The “open door to God’s house” theory was a nice idea but impractical. There was always a chance for trouble, either thievery or vandalism or worse. Father James didn’t believe in inviting trouble.

Except when it involves women.

Cringing at the turn of his thoughts he walked through a back corridor and felt something amiss … a coolness to the air. He discovered that the chalice was on the floor of the sacristy, having rolled there and wine had spilled …
What in the world?
The hairs at the back of his nape lifted. He picked up the cup and then squatted down by the stains on the floor … wine, yes … but… the walls were splattered with purple-red drops … his heart began to pound. Not wine. Blood. Someone’s blood.

Leaping to his feet he sensed the evil still lurking in the house of God and, heart hammering, throat dry, he followed the trail of blood, red stains leading to the altar where …

“Dear Father!”

James stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes couldn’t believe the horrible sight of an altar boy lying upon the altar. Blood streaked from a crevice in the boy’s neck. James bounded down the ambulatory but as he reached the boy and saw his bloodless face, the stains over his white surplice he knew he was dead.

“Please, God, no,” he cried. The boy was Mickey Gains … a tough kid who never had much of a break in life.

James listened for the boy’s heartbeat and heard nothing. No breath came from his nostrils.

James had witnessed death before, had comforted the dying but never had he seen something so brutal or savage. Stumbling backward he ran to the church office and frantically punched out 9-1-1. Blood was on his hands, on his shirt, on the receiver as an operator answered.

“Help me,” he cried. “There’s a boy … he’s dead. Mickey Gains was murdered, here at St. Luke’s,” he yelled into the receiver. “Oh, God, send someone. Call Rick Bentz! Get Detective Bentz over here now!”

Chapter Thirty-four

Bentz’s cell phone rang when they were only five blocks from St. Luke’s.

“Detective Bentz,” he answered … then cursed vividly into the phone as he swerved in and out of traffic. “…Yeah, I’m almost there. Two minutes, tops. Call Montoya!” He hung up and swore again, his skin turning a lighter shade. With a flip of a switch, he snapped on his lights and siren. “Looks like you were right,” he admitted to Olivia though his eyes never strayed from the traffic as he barely braked for a corner. The Jeep shimmied, its tires squealing in protest when he slid around a double-parked delivery van.

“No …” She didn’t want to believe it even though she knew the truth.

“An altar boy.”

“At St. Luke’s?” Olivia slumped against the passenger door. She was numb inside. Empty. The image of the child being slaughtered burned through her mind and she felt some great responsibility, as if she could have prevented the tragedy. Tears filled her eyes.
A child.
The monster had killed a child!

“So what’s your connection to St. Luke’s?” he asked, hazarding a glance from the corner of his eye.

Her heart stopped. Guilt filled that hollow place in her soul. “I already told you that I know the priest. He’s the one who gave me the names of those boys who were christened about the time my brother was born.” She looked out the window where the streets shimmered under the glare of street lamps. St. Luke’s Church with its white-washed walls, spire, and bell tower loomed above the surrounding buildings.

Olivia had always looked to the Church for faith and comfort, a place of solace, but tonight it represented everything dark and evil in the world. Shuddering, she wrapped her arms around her middle as Bentz twisted the wheel into the parking lot, then stood on the brakes.

In the distance another siren wailed plaintively.

Bentz threw open the door, but looked back at her. “You’d better stay here.”

“Like hell.” She was already opening her door and stepping into the pockmarked lot. In three quick steps she’d caught Bentz and was jogging up the steps to the front doors.

Lights flashing, a police car roared into the lot and an ambulance was right on its tail. It screeched to a halt in front of the church. EMTs exploded out of the vehicle, joining officers as they ran inside.

A uniformed cop tried to stop her.

“It’s all right.” Bentz flipped open his badge.

“But—”

“She’s with me!” he insisted and the other cop backed down. From the side of his mouth, he ordered, “Just stay inside the door and don’t touch anything.” His hands clamped over her elbow as he shouldered open the door. Inside every light was on, flooding the nave. Bentz planted her near the rack of brochures. “Don’t move,” he ordered, both his hands gripping her upper arms. His hard expression allowed no argument. He was in charge.

“But—” Her gaze drifted over her shoulder to the altar, where the EMTs were already working over the victim. A boy. In a blood-soaked cassock. Father James, his own shirt smeared with blood, was staring at the victim, his expression dark as the night outside. Her heart twisted. What was this all about?

“Don’t argue.” Bentz’s fingers tightened and she was aware of the metallic scent of fresh blood. “If we’re gonna catch this son of a bitch, you have to help me. Okay? Don’t move. Otherwise you’re outside or in the Jeep.”

“He’s gone,” one of the EMTs said, shaking his bald head as he checked vital signs of the victim. Olivia swallowed back tears while Father James whispered something then made the sign of the cross. When he looked up, his eyes found hers. Shock registered across his handsome features, then there was a hint of an emotion akin to relief. He extricated himself from the altar and started down the aisle past the empty pews.

“What are you doing here?” James’s gaze, which had been focused on Olivia, shifted slightly to take in Bentz. He stopped dead in his tracks. As if he’d come upon an invisible barrier. Bentz’s hands released her. “You know each other?” James asked, bewildered.

Outside, more sirens tore through the night.

“I think that’s the question I should be asking you,” Bentz said.

James’s jaw turned to stone and Olivia sensed that something more, something deeper than priest and parishioner, bound them. “Wait a minute.”

“Jesus Christ, James, you have one helluva time with your vows, don’t you?” Bentz said, pushing his nose into the priest’s face.

Olivia saw it then, the faint resemblance, the same dark hair, strong jaw, and high cheekbones, but it wasn’t just the physical, no it was more. How they interacted. As if they were related … cousins, maybe, not brothers, oh, God, no … She felt sick inside. No way. They had different last names.

“I don’t have time for any of this shit. Who’s the victim?” Bentz asked, then sent Olivia another warning glance to stay put.

“Mickey … Mickey Gains. Please don’t use the Lord’s name in—”

“And you were the one who discovered him?”

“Yes.” James shoved his hair from his eyes and pulled his gaze from Olivia. “I found him here on the altar about ten … maybe fifteen minutes ago. He’s fourteen, lives a few blocks away, his family has been with the parish for years …” Again James’s eyes strayed to her. Olivia looked quickly away, afraid her guilt would be evident. “I came in to do some paperwork and talk with God. I’ve been … I’ve been having some issues I need to deal with. I wanted to seek His counsel,” Father James explained. “And then … then … I walked through the back door and found blood and spilled wine in the sacristy. I followed the trail and found Mickey … just as he is.”

“Let’s have a look,” Bentz said, but held a hand, palm outward, toward Olivia. “If you want, Officer Clarke would be glad to see that you get home.” He motioned to a red-haired female cop who’d just walked in. Officer Clarke, obviously used to taking orders from Bentz, nodded, her hand on a cell phone.

“I’ll think about it.” Olivia was left standing in the shadows of the upper balcony, watching the two men who had become close to her—the homicide detective and the priest—as they approached the altar, then made way for the crime scene team as policemen and women arrived to seal off the area and start collecting evidence.

This was a nightmare of the highest order. The dead boy. Bentz. Father James. Rather than fight the officers, Olivia walked outside to the night and rubbed her arms as the winter cold seeped through her jacket and sweater. News crews arrived, reporters and curious onlookers collected, kept at bay by the police. Olivia stood near Bentz’s Jeep and looked down the darkened streets. Somewhere out there in the darkness a killer lurked, one who was connected to her and to the two new men in her life, two men she’d let into her heart.

“I thought we could get together tonight,” Brian said and Kristi, lying on the lower bunk, her legs stretched toward the bottom of the upper bunk, grinned. She’d been bothered that he hadn’t called for the few days she’d been back at school, distant in class, and she couldn’t help wondering if she’d done something wrong, if, over the holiday, he’d become disinterested.

Obviously she’d been wrong.

“Sure. What time?” She couldn’t wait to see him again, and all her talk to her dad about reports and papers that were due immediately was quickly forgotten.

“How about ten-thirty?”

She glanced at the clock. Nine-fifteen. “That could work.” It was kinda late and she had an early class in the morning, but so what?

“Why don’t we meet at The Dive?”

“I’ll be there,” she promised and was already wondering what to wear. Something sexy. And just in case, she’d take a shower and put on a black bra and panties … She hung up and started to hum as she rolled off her bed. Wondering vaguely if this was what it was like to fall in love, she rummaged in her closet for her favorite black miniskirt and boots. She had the perfect maroon sweater—turtlenecked and sleeveless—which would look great with a short black jacket.

She planned to knock Brian Thomas’s socks off… well, his socks and maybe a few other articles of clothing as well.

“So that’s it. All you know.” Bentz wanted to twist his brother’s clerical collar until it choked the life out of him. What the devil was wrong with James? A priest who couldn’t keep his hands off women—Bentz’s women.

Not true, Bentz, you cut Olivia loose, his conscience reminded him.

The crime scene team was still collecting evidence while Montoya was outside dealing with the press and interviewing the neighbors, hoping to find someone who had seen something, Anything.

James had repeated his story to half a dozen officers. It hadn’t changed. Bentz almost believed him.
Almost.
Seated here in the church office, seeing the lines of strain on his brother’s face, the torture in his gaze, the way he nervously rubbed his hands together, James seemed genuinely distraught. Not a killer.

He’s a priest, his hair is dark, his eyes are blue, and he wears a ring with a dark stone … He knows Olivia, intimately it seems, so he doesn’t keep his vows; he discovered the body and he had blood, most likely the victim’s, all over him.

“So what about your parishioners? Any one of them seem as if they’re not dealing with a full deck?”

“Several. Some, the older ones, are suffering from dementia and we have a few who are mentally challenged, but do we have anyone who I might think is deranged and sadistic, someone who could slaughter someone? No … some are odd, of course and others I don’t really know, but no, I don’t think any of them …” His voice trailed off. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Sure you would. If they were good Catholics, wouldn’t they confess to you?”

James didn’t move for a second. His lips rolled over his teeth and he twisted his ring. Bentz had hit a nerve. He waited. James finally said, “Good Catholics wouldn’t commit murder.”

“What about bad ones?”

James’s throat worked. “All of God’s children are—”

Bentz threw himself across the desk and his fingers curled into his brother’s clean shirt. The bloody one had been already taken for evidence. “Don’t give me any of that premixed, parochial pablum, okay? Not all of God’s children are good people who’ve wandered astray. Some are bad. Sick. Demented. Their wires misfunction and short-circuit. They’re bad, James. Evil. So don’t give me any of this shit! Do you know of anyone who might have killed Mickey Gains or any of the other victims?”

“I—I have no proof of anything.”

“So what about insight? A gut feeling? Anything, James. We’re talking lives here; do you want to see what happened to that kid”—he used his free arm to flail it toward the door, taking in the church and the altar—“happen to someone else? You know what I think? You were the one who explained about the way the saints were martyred. I’m willing to bet my pension that it’s the same guy who was here tonight. So help me out, will ya?”

“I’m trying, but I don’t know who did this,” he said, his eyes tortured, his face suddenly a dozen years older than it had been.

“You know something!” Bentz charged, so angry spit sprayed from his mouth.

James, weighted down by some inner beast, shook his head. “I can tell you nothing.”

“You pious, hypocritical son of a bitch. People are being slaughtered! Hideously. Micky Gains out there is just the tip of the iceberg.” His fingers tightened in the smooth fabric of his brother’s shirt. “If you can, you’ve got to help me stop this!”

“I’ll do anything I can.”

“Like hell!” Bentz dropped his hand, but stayed close enough that his nose was nearly touching James’s. “You said you had some issues with God.”

“Yes.” James licked his lips.

“What issues?”

A muscle worked in James’s jaw.

“What issues?” Bentz repeated, his eyes narrowing.

“Celibacy,” he said in a low whisper.

Bingo.
Bentz felt as if he’d taken a sucker punch to the gut. “Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?” James’s blue eyes fastened on his.

“You’re involved with Olivia Benchet.” It wasn’t a question. The room was silent for a moment. So still that the sounds of the night seemed to seep in through the closed windows.

“How do you know her?” James finally asked.

“She didn’t tell you?” Bentz’s eyes narrowed.

James shook his head, then leaned back in his chair and rotated so that he could study the window, so that he wouldn’t have to face his half-brother. “No.”

“And you didn’t mention that we were half-brothers?” Bentz had backed off, away from the desk, put some distance between them so he wouldn’t lunge at his brother again and knock him senseless. He was running on raw energy tonight—adrenalin fired by rage.

“Why would I? All she knows is that I have a half-brother who’s estranged.” His lips twisted into a dark, self-deprecating grin. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“It never came up.”

James made a dismissive noise as the door to the office sprang open and banged against the wall with a thud.