by Lisa Jackson
Sam punched the line. “This is Dr. Sam,” she said. “Who’s this?”
“Hi. I’m Arlene.”
“Welcome to the show, Arlene. I assume you called in because you have some personal experience with or an observation about sacrifice.”
“Yes, yes. That I do. I’m a mother of three children…” Arlene started expounding about giving everything for her kids and unconditional love while Sam read the other names leaping on the screen. Mandy was on two, Alan on three, Jennifer on four. The show was half over. So far John hadn’t taken the bait.
Sam hoped it was only a matter of time.
“You want me to pretend to be Dr. Sam?” Melanie asked and rolled her eyes at her boyfriend. Still angry over what had happened at the station, she’d already downed two glasses of wine in rapid succession and now was standing in the kitchen alcove of her studio apartment, slicing limes and mixing drinks. Her boyfriend, dressed in black jeans, matching T-shirt and bulky leather jacket was pacing from one end of the room to the other. He seemed nervous tonight and that same little tingle of excitement that she always experienced around him was heightened tonight. She didn’t know a lot about him but considered him the ultimate bad-boy, an irreverent man who didn’t give a damn about what people thought or social convention.
The Chardonnay was having some effect. She was less tense, her muscles melting a bit, the knife a little awkward in her usually deft fingers.
“I think it would be an interesting game,” he said, looking through her window and adjusting the shades for more privacy.
“Oh, I forgot you’re into games.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No…not really.” She squeezed some lime juice into a couple of old-fashioned glasses already swimming with gin and tonic water. “You know, you can ditch the shades. It’s night.”
“My eyes are giving me trouble again.” “Oh.” She kept forgetting that he had some condition that didn’t allow his pupils to dilate properly and he was always trying to filter out excessive light. But here, in the apartment, she’d turned down all the lamps and only a few candles burned. “Whatever you want.” She was in no mood to argue. In fact she was starting to mellow out and she thought what might really help was a long night of lovemaking. Sneaking a surreptitious glance at her daybed, she imagined him naked with her, driving into her in that same furious way he had in Sam’s bed weeks ago.
“‘Whatever you want,’” he repeated. “Now those are interesting words.” He grinned that killer smile of his. Her heart raced as he looked at her. Definitely a bad boy. Not the kind to bring home to Mom and Dad. Not suitable marriage material, but she didn’t care.
“As far as I’m concerned everyone at WSLJ including their resident radio shrink can go screw themselves. I’m done with them. There are plenty of jobs in this city. I don’t have to put up with the shit they shovel down there.”
“Of course you don’t.” He crossed to the stereo system where he flipped a switch and Samantha’s voice immediately came through the surround-sound theater system she’d installed herself.
“So is sacrifice a good thing? Is it necessary?” Dr. Sam was asking the audience.
Melanie thought she might puke. How had she put up with that self-righteous bitch for as long as she had?
“She’s still trying to lure John into calling,” Melanie said.
“I’ll bet he bites.” He flipped the blinds shut.
“Serve her right if he did. He freaks her out, you know?”
“I suppose.”
“Oh, yeah.” She carried the drinks across the small room. “Maybe I should call in—no, no, better yet, you call in. You do a wicked impersonation of John. Sometimes I think…I mean, I know this sounds crazy, but sometimes I wonder if you are him?”
“Wouldn’t you be scared if I was?” He was staring at her intently.
“Spitless. That guy’s weird and now…now they’re linking him to some murders. But it’s just kinda coincidental that he started calling about the same time that we started pranking Dr. Sam and dredging up all that stuff on Annie Seger.” She handed him one of the drinks. “It just makes me think.”
“Not bad thoughts I hope.” Sipping from his glass, he looked at her through those darned glasses, the same kind that were drawn on the composite drawing of the killer. Was it possible? No way.
“Sometimes I think you play head games with me,” she said, taking a big gulp of the gin and tonic. “You like to scare me. It turns you on. You want me to think you might be that nutcase that calls in.”
“Didn’t I just say we all play games?”
She giggled. Took another long swallow, started to feel a little more tipsy. Free. Unbound. Maybe leaving WSLJ was a good thing. She waggled a finger at his nose. “You always turn the tables on me.”
“And you like it.”
“Yes,” she said, wrapping one arm around his neck and staring up at him. “Yes, I do.”
“So do I.” His voice was so low and sexy, a soft Texan drawl she found titillating. “So, indulge me…just sit here and pretend that you’re Dr. Sam, doing the show.” He motioned toward her daybed.
“And who will you be?” she asked as she heard some whiny voiced woman through the speakers. The caller was complaining about taking care of her elderly parents. Oh, can it, Melanie thought.
“Who will I be? John, of course.” “Of course,” she said dryly, then muttered under her breath. “I guess I shoulda seen that one comin’.”
“So—is that what she’d be wearing?” he asked, pointing toward her shorts and halter top.
“This? The snooty-nosed doctor from LA? No way.”
“Then change.”
“What?”
“Complete the fantasy.”
“I don’t want—”
“Come on, Melanie. Indulge me. Indulge yourself.” She liked the thought of that and with only a few niggling doubts, she walked to the closet alcove and pulled out a khaki wrap-around skirt and white sleeveless blouse—it was sooo Dr. Sam. Stepping into the dressing area by the bathroom she tore off her clothes, hesitated at her underwear, then stripped it off. If she wanted to get laid tonight, she figured she’d better grab his attention. Fluffing her hair, she walked around the divider and found him holding both drinks.
“I freshened yours,” he explained handing her the glass, then clinking the rim of his to hers. “To leaving the past behind,” he said.
“Especially WSLJ.” She took a long swallow and wrinkled her nose. The drink tasted a little off.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
“It’s…it’s a little strong.”
“I thought you were in a party mood.”
“I am,” she said, her head spinning slightly, her lips mushy. She was getting drunk and fast, but then she hadn’t eaten much and she’d had two…or was it three glasses of wine before her first hard drink and now…“Maybe I should sit down.”
He smiled. “Whatever you want. Now…how about pretending you’re Dr. Sam.”
Boy, he just wouldn’t give up tonight. But what did she care. Melanie gave him a naughty look, then lifted the receiver of her cordless phone and lowered her voice to a deep, heavy, whisper, “Good evening, New Orleans, this is Midnight Confessions, and I’m your host, Dr. Sam. Tell me whatever you want to, pour your heart out, confess all your sins and—”
“Wait a minute,” he cut in.
“Why?” Boy, her head was spinning. “Isn’t…isn’t this wha…what you wanted?”
“Just about. But it could be better.”
“Better?” she said and her tongue was thick. Too thick. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t really think straight.
“You need this.”
“Wha—?” she said but saw him reach inside his jacket and pull out a long red wig. “Oh…” she thought of Samantha Leeds’s dark red hair. “Do I really need to…?”
“Yes, Samantha, you do.”
“But my n
ame’s Melanie…” He was reaching over, pulling her hair up to the top of her head and he was pushing a little too hard. “Ouch. Wait…I’ll do it…” she said but couldn’t get her hands to obey her mind. This was so weird. She was drunk…no beyond drunk…as if…as if she’d taken something…as if someone had slipped her a mickey…as if…
“There,” he said and she saw that his face was flushed, sweat was dripping down beneath the edges of his dark lenses. “That’s more like it.” He looked at her appraisingly with a cold leer that sent a shiver through her heart. “Now…listen…”
He’d turned his head toward the speakers as if mesmerized. “But I thought you wanted me to—”
“Shut up! What I want is for you to shut up!”
“Wait a minute.” Why was he being so mean to her? Unbidden, tears filled her eyes.
“Hey…shhh…” he said, more kindly and he leaned over her, kissed her. She felt better though her head was whirling. “Why don’t you strip, Sam.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s all a game.”
Oh yeah. Now she remembered. She fumbled with the buttons of the blouse and felt his hands take over.
“You have to repent.”
“Wha—?”
“For your sins.”
Her blouse was open, exposing her bare breasts.
“See…you’re a slut, Samantha.”
“But I’m not—”
She was vaguely aware of something being draped over her head, hard, cool stones—a necklace surrounding her throat. In the background over the buzz in her brain she heard Dr. Sam talking about sins and sacrifice and—
The necklace tightened, cut into her skin. “Hey!” Her mind was foggy but this seemed wrong. “You’re hurting me.”
He cinched the noose tighter and she couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream. This…this was going too far. Stop it! I can’t breathe! She tried to scream but no words came and her fingers scrabbled at her throat, trying to pull the horrid necklace away. This was no game, she realized. She caught a glimpse of John’s face, his teeth bared, his lips pulled back like a horrid beast, his eyes hidden by black glass.
Don’t! Please! Oh, God, all the fears that had been nagging at the back of her mind, all the worries that she’d steadfastly tamped down erupted. He’s John. The caller. The murderer. He’s going to kill you! He planned it all along.
But…but…her lungs ached, her flesh burned. She tried to gasp, came up with nothing. She kicked and clawed and fought, but he was strong, so damned strong.
“That’s it, New Orleans, come on, talk to me, tell me of the sacrifices you’ve made…” Dr. Sam was saying as if from a distance, her voice far away…
Father John twisted his nasty weapon, gritting his teeth, staring into gold eyes that had trusted him. Foolish, foolish girl, he thought as her struggling subsided and she lay limp, devoid of life, the sinner’s soul purged from her body. His hands ached, the knuckles white from the effort of snuffing out her life.
The blood was rushing through his head, the thrill of the kill making him hard, his ears attuned to the last rattle in her chest and the melodic voice of his next victim, the one woman yet alive he wanted…Your turn’s coming, Dr. Sam…so very soon and I’ve got something special planned for you.
He released the rosary and slowly began stripping the skirt from Melanie’s body. He was hard. Hot. Aching. Samantha’s voice warmed his blood, stirred his lust. As he mounted the dead woman, he closed his eyes. He was with Samantha. Body and soul. They were in her bed, that fabulous canopied bed, just like with Melanie when she’d gone down on him, placing her lips around him, there, in Samantha’s private room with the smell of her everywhere…he’d been so close to her then, would be again soon. Even closer. Her message tonight about sacrifice was meant for him.
Only for him.
She was ready, he knew it. She would atone for her sins and then she would sacrifice herself. To him.
Ty glanced at his watch. There were only forty-five minutes of Sam’s program left, and it was time to leave. But Navarrone hadn’t shown up yet. He finished his drink and reached for his shoulder holster.
“And so you think sacrifice is just a part of life?” Sam was saying to a caller, which made Ty all the more anxious. What was she doing, egging the killer on?
“Yeah, that’s right. I’m sick of everybody whining about it,” a nasal-voiced man said.
Through the open window Ty heard the distinctive yap of Mrs. Killingsworth’s dog putting up a ruckus.
Sasquatch had been lying on the rug near the door. He got to his feet, ears pricked forward. A low rumble came from his throat.
“It’s okay,” Ty said, walking to the sliding door and slipping outside, where insects thrummed and the radio was muted. But something wasn’t right. He felt it as surely as the hot breath of the wind. Squinting, he stared into the darkness toward the boat. He thought he saw a shadow move, but told himself he was imagining things.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Not if he wanted to make sure that Sam got home safely. He heard her voice, still answering questions and giving out advice over the airwaves. “Come on,” he said to the dog, the hairs prickling on his arms as he reached for his pistol and shoulder holster. “Let’s go.” He was out the door when he saw the dark figure move from out of the shadows.
He reached into his shoulder holster, his fingers wrapping around his pistol. “Navarrone?”
“Yeah.” Andre met him at the Volvo.
“You bastard, where the hell have you been?”
“Get in the car, and I’ll tell you about it,” the other man said as he walked to the passenger side of the Volvo. “I think I know who the killer is.”
Sam glanced at the clock. The show was nearly over. She’d waded through the calls, one after another, waiting, listening, handing out advice, her muscles tense, her nerves stretched like piano wire.
So John hadn’t called while she was on the air. That wasn’t really a surprise. He could call later, or when she was at home.
“So you wouldn’t sacrifice for anyone,” she was saying to a woman who had identified herself as Millie when, in her peripheral vision, she saw Tiny waving frantically, pointing at her computer. She glanced down. John’s name came up on line three.
“I did enough of that while I was married,” Millie was saying. Sam had to keep her on the line, keep her talking, so that if John was listening to the show he’d know that she was tied up. Meanwhile, his call would be traced.
“What about if you remarried?”
“That’ll be a cold day in hell,” Millie said with a snort.
Don’t stop, Millie. Keep talking, Sam thought, sweating as she watched line three blink. The trick was to take his call before he gave up in frustration. He had to know that the call would be traced, so he was probably timing the call. “Thanks for calling in,” Sam said, as the policewoman stood in the window between the booths, using hand signals to remind Sam to take the call and somehow see that John was intrigued enough with the conversation not to hang up. She punched line three. “Hello, this is Dr. Sam. You’re on.”
No one answered.
“Hello? This is Dr. Sam,” she said again, hearing the dead air space. “You’re on the line now.”
She waited again, the buttons for line three continued to flash, the caller hadn’t hung up.
“Can you hear me? Did you want to talk about sacrificing?” she asked, trying to fill the dead air. “Hello? Caller are you there?” She looked through the glass to the policewoman, who held up a finger, punched line three so they didn’t lose the call and pointed at Sam to answer another line.
Sam went on to the next call, a girl named Amy, all the while aware that line three was still lit, that John’s name was still on the computer screen, that he was out there somewhere, listening to the show and attempting to make contact.
What if he was killing someone right now? That’s what he does, Sam. He murders women while listening to your show. That’s wh
at he did to Leanne, to the others. Right now he could be taking the life of…
She saw Tiny standing in the window, waving frantically, and she realized that she’d missed something, that Amy had hung up. “Excuse me,” Sam said into the microphone. “It seems that we’re experiencing some technical difficulties here at WSLJ. We have a couple more minutes, so please call in.” Line one began to flash. The name on the computer screen was John.
He’d called back. She punched the button. “This is Dr. Sam and you’re on Midnight Confessions. Who’s this?”
“You know who I am, Samantha. I’m John, Father John, and I know all about sacrifices. In fact, I’ve just made another.”
Chapter Thirty-five
“Hello?” Sam’s voice sounded frantic on the airwaves.
Ty’s heart nearly stopped. He stepped on the accelerator, but then slammed on his brakes as traffic was snarled within the city limits. “Do you hear that?” He shot a glance at Navarrone.
“It’s Kent Seger. He’s called in.”
“John? Are you on the line? This is Dr. Sam.”
Ty pounded a fist on the steering wheel, grabbed his cell and punched auto dial.
“Hello?” Sam was saying.
Click.
“He’s gone,” Navarrone said, as Ty waited for someone from WSLJ to answer his call. What had Sam been thinking, baiting Seger like that. Ty’s guts clenched at the thought of Kent being near her, even talking to her.
“Come on, come on,” Ty growled into the receiver as he maneuvered down a side street. It was late, a Thursday night, traffic usually thin, but not tonight. Testily, he shot Navarrone a glance. “You’re sure the killer is Kent Seger? Not Peter Matheson or Ryan Zimmerman?”
Navarrone met his glance with one of his own, silently asking Ty if he’d ever failed him. “It’s Seger. Has to be. Matheson doesn’t live around her. Zimmerman’s got a different blood type from the killer. That leaves Annie’s brother.” No one was answering at the station. Ty was beginning to sweat.