by Lisa Jackson
Outside, she crossed a parking lot where the potholes had been patched and climbed into her truck. So RJ knew about her trips to the police department. Great. It was probably all over town, would probably get back to her boss at the Third Eye and even to the University, where she was taking graduate classes.
Wonderful. She rammed the old Ford Ranger into gear and roared out of the lot. She didn’t want to think about the visions she’d had, the glimmers of evil that she sometimes felt rather than saw. Disjointed, kaleidoscopic shards of horrid events that cut through her brain, made her skin rise in goose bumps, and troubled her so much that she’d actually visited the local police.
Where she was considered a nutcase and had been practically laughed out of the building.
Heat climbed her neck at the thought. She flipped on the radio and took a corner a little too fast. The Ranger’s tires screeched in protest.
Sometimes being Virginia Dubois’s granddaughter was more pain than it was worth.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” the naked woman whispered, unable to speak loudly, unable to scream because of the tight collar at her neck. On her knees, chained to the pedestal sink, she obviously didn’t begin to recognize the magnitude of her sins or the reason that she was being punished, that he was actually saving her.
“Tell me,” The Chosen One whispered. “What sins?”
“For … for …” Her terrified eyes bulged and blinked as she tried to think, but she wasn’t penitent. Just scared. Saying what she hoped would convince him to set her free. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “For all my sins,” she said desperately, trying to please him, not knowing it was impossible; that her destiny was preordained.
She was quivering with fear and shivering in the cold, but that would soon change. A bit of smoke was already beginning to waft into the tiny bathroom through the vents. Flames would soon follow. There wasn’t much time. “Please,” she rasped. “Let me go, for the love of God!”
“What would you know about God’s love?” he demanded, then, tamping down his anger, he placed a gloved hand upon her head, as if to calm her, and from somewhere outside, through the cracked window he heard a car backfire on the wintry streets. He had to finish this. Now. Before the fire attracted attention. “You’re a sinner, Cecilia, and as such you will have to pay for your sins.”
“You’ve got the wrong woman! I’m not … her … I’m not Cecilia. Please. Let me go. I won’t say a word, I promise, no one will ever know this happened, I swear.” She clutched at the hem of his alb. Desperate. And dirty. She was a whore. Like the others. He turned his attention to the radio sitting on the windowsill and swiftly turned the knob. The sound of familiar music wafted through the speakers, fading to the sound of a woman’s sultry voice.
“This is Dr. Sam, with one last thought on this date when John F. Kennedy, one of our finest presidents, was killed … Take care of yourself, New Orleans. Good night and God bless. No matter what your troubles are today, there’s always tomorrow … Sweet dreams …”
He turned the dial, switching stations, and heard the static and chirps of announcers’ voices until he found what he wanted: pipe organ music. Full. As if echoing in a cathedral.
Now it could be done.
As the whore watched, he withdrew his sword from behind the shower curtain.
“Oh, God. No!” She was frantic now, pulling at the chain as the collar tightened even further.
“It’s too late.” His voice was measured and calm, but inside he was shaking, trembling, not with fear but anticipation. Adrenalin, his favorite drug, sang through his veins. From the corner of his eye he noticed flames beginning to lick through the screen of the vent. The time had come.
“No, please, don’t … oh, God …” She was clawing at her tether now, vainly trying to hide behind the pedestal as the collar tightened, her wrists and ankles bleeding and raw from her bonds. “You’ve got the wrong woman!”
His pulse throbbed, pounded in his brain. For a second he felt a tingle against the back of his neck, like the breath of Satan. He glanced at the mirror, searching the shimmering surface, looking beneath the reflection of his own image, his face hidden in a tight black mask, but feeling as if someone were watching through the glass. Witnessing his act.
But that was impossible.
Sweat slid into his eyes as he lifted his sword so high his arm ached. Smoke burned in his lungs. Blood lust ran through his veins as he grabbed a fistful of hair in his free hand. He stared down at her perfect neck surrounded by the choke collar. He was hard between his legs, his erection nearly painful. Oh, how he would love to thrust into her body, to taste of her before absolving her of her sins. But that was not his mission. Denying himself of such wicked pleasure was his own act of martyrdom.
“For your sins, Cecilia,” he said, biting out the words as ripples of pleasure passed through him, “and in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I commit your soul to God.”
Chapter Two
“No!”
Olivia’s eyes flew open.
Her own scream echoed through her small bedroom. The dog gave up a sharp “Woof!”
“Oh, God, no.” Her heart was a drum, her body drenched in sweat, the vivid dream lingering as clearly as if she’d just witnessed a murder. Again. Oh, God, it was happening again.
The vision was so damned real. Her nostrils still stung from the smell of smoke, her ears rang with that eerie pipe organ music, her mouth was dry as cotton, her throat raw from her scream. A blinding headache started at the base of her skull and moved upward.
She glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen. Her hands shook as she pushed the hair from her face.
At the foot of the old bed, her grandmother’s mutt lifted his head and was staring at her. Yawning, he emitted another warning bark.
“Come here, you,” she said, patting the pillow as Hairy S stretched. He was all scraggly bits of fur, mottled gray and brown with splotches of white, heavy eyebrows that hinted of some schnauzer hidden back in his bloodlines. He whined, then belly-swamped up to the pillows next to her. Absently, she pulled him close, needing something to cling to. She ruffled his coarse coat and wished she could tell him it would be all right. But it wouldn’t. She knew better. She buried her face in his fur and tried to calm down. Maybe it was a mistake … maybe it was just a dream … maybe … no way. She knew what the images meant.
“Crap.”
She scooted up to a sitting position. Calm down. But she was still shaking, the headache beginning to pound. Hairy S wriggled out of her arms.
“Damn you, Grannie Gin,” she muttered as the sounds of the night floated in through the open window, the rustle of the wind moving through the trees underscored by the hum of traffic, eighteen-wheelers on the distant freeway.
Dropping her head into her hands, she massaged her temples. Why me? Why? The visions had started at a young age, before she could really remember, but they had been less defined then, and rare. In the off-and-on-again times when her mother had lived with them, the times between husbands.
Bernadette had never wanted to believe that her daughter had inherited her grandmother’s psychic gift.
“Coincidence,” Bernadette had told her child often enough, or, “You’re making this up. It’s just a cheap attempt to get attention! Now, knock it off, Livvie, and quit listening to Grandma. She’s touched in the head, you know, and if you aren’t careful … You hear me?” she’d said sharply, shaking her daughter as if to drive out the monsters in her brain. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll be touched too, not by some ridiculous gift of sight as Grannie claims, but by the devil. Satan never sleeps. Do you hear me? Never.”
Once Bernadette had pointed a long red-tipped nail at the end of her eldest daughter’s nose. They had been in the kitchen of this very house where the smells of bacon grease, wood smoke, and cheap perfume had adhered to pine cabinets yellowed with age. A fan had sat near the ancient toaster, rotating on the corner of the countertop and blo
wing hot air around the tiny, sparse room.
As Olivia recalled, Bernadette had just gotten off the day shift down at Charlene’s restaurant at the truck stop near the Interstate. She was standing on the cracked linoleum floor in bare feet, a white blouse, and the ever-present black skirt of a waitress. One strap of her bra was visible and a tiny gold cross hung from a chain around her neck and lay nestled in that deep cleft between her breasts. “Listen, child,” she’d said seriously, her expression intense. “I’m not kidding. All this mumbo jumbo and hints about voodoo are just bullshit, you hear me? Bullshit. Your grandma has delusions of being some damned voodoo priestess or some such nonsense, but she’s not. Just because way back when there was some octoroon blood mixed in with the rest, doesn’t make her a … a … damned fortune teller, now, does it? She’s not a psychic and neither are you. Okay?”
Bernadette had straightened, adjusted her short black skirt, and sighed. “ ‘Course it doesn’t,” she’d added, more, it seemed, to convince herself than Olivia. “Now, go outside, will ya, ride your bike or skateboard or whatever.” She picked up an open pack of Virginia Slims on the counter, shook out a cigarette, and lit it quickly. With smoke seeping out of her nostrils, she stood on her tiptoes and reached into an upper cabinet, where she pulled out a fifth of whiskey.
“Mama’s got herself a whopper of a headache,” she’d explained as she found a short glass, cracked ice cubes from a plastic tray, and poured herself a healthy drink, which she’d explained was her reward for a hard day’s labor while enduring the leers, winks, and occasional pinches at the truck stop. Only after taking a sip and leaning her hips against the counter did she look at her daughter again. “You’re an odd one, Livvie,” she’d said with a sigh. “I love ya to death, you know I do, but you’re different.” With the cigarette planted firmly between her lips, she’d reached forward and grabbed Olivia’s chin, moving her head left, then right. Narrowed eyes studied Olivia’s profile through the smoke.
“You’re pretty enough,” Bernadette finally allowed, straightening and flicking ashes into the sink, “and if you use your head and don’t go spouting off all this crazy talk, you’ll land yourself a good man, maybe even a rich man. So don’t go scarin’ ‘em off with all this weird talk, y’hear me? No decent man’ll have you if ya do.” She’d rolled the drink in her hands and watched the ice cubes clink together. “Believe me, I know.” A sad smile had curved her lips, which showed only a hint of lipstick applied much earlier in the day. “Someday, honey, you’re gonna git yerself outta this dump”—she fluttered her fingers to take in all of Grannie Gin’s cabin—“and into a fancy house, just like Scarlett Damned O’Hara.” She managed a wider grin, showing off straight, impossibly white teeth. “And when you do, you’re gonna take care of your mama, y’hear?”
Now, thinking back, Olivia sighed. Oh, Mama, if you only knew. Olivia would have done anything to make the demons in her mind be still. But lately, those dreams she’d repressed had come back with a vengeance.
Ever since she’d returned to Louisiana.
She had to do something about the visions. She had to do something about tonight.
The woman’s dead, Olivia. There’s nothing you can do for her and no one’s going to believe you. You know that. You’ve tried to contact the authorities before. You’ve tried to convince your family, your friends, even your damned fiancé. No one believed you then. No one will now.
Besides, it was a dream. That’s all. Just a dream.
Slowly she edged off the bed, dragging her grandmother’s quilt with her, then unlocked the French doors to the verandah. The dog trotted after her as Olivia stepped into the cool winter of early morning, the floorboards smooth beneath her bare feet. The bayou was quiet, mist rising slowly, huge cypress trees guarding the sluggish waters that lapped near the back of the house. She leaned a hand against the rail, worn smooth by the touch of human hands over the past hundred years. Some creature of the darkness scuttled through the brush, rustling dry leaves and snapping thin branches on its way into the swamp. Goose bumps sprouted on Olivia’s arms. As she gazed across the still, dark waters, she tried to shake the dream from her mind, but it remained steadfast, clinging with razor-sharp talons, digging deep into her brain, refusing to be dismissed.
It was more than a nightmare.
Olivia knew it with horrid certainty.
It wasn’t the first time she’d “witnessed” someone’s death. They had come and gone over the years, but whenever she was here, in this part of bayou country, the visions had preyed upon her. It was one of the reasons she’d stayed away so long.
Yet, here she was. Once again in Louisiana. And the nightmares had already begun, back with a blinding, soulscraping fury that scared her to death. “It’s your fault,” she muttered as if Grannie Gin, bless her voodoo-lovin’ soul, could hear her.
Olivia’s fingers gripped the railing. As clearly as if she’d been in that minuscule bathroom, Olivia saw the murder again. Smoke rose as the masked priest lifted his sword and swung downward, not once, but three times….
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, but the vision wouldn’t go away. A priest. A man of God!
She had to do something.
Now.
Somewhere tonight a woman had been murdered. Violently.
By rote Olivia sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest. She rubbed her arms and pulled the quilt more snugly around her as a soft November breeze sighed through the trees overhead and the dank smell of the swamp filled her nostrils. She couldn’t pretend this hadn’t happened even though no matter what, no one would believe her.
Turning quickly, she hurried inside, Grannie’s quilt billowing after her. Hairy S was right on her heels, toenails clicking across the hardwood floor as she made her way to the desk. Flipping on a small lamp, she scrounged through the dusty cubbyholes, discarding pens, note cards, thimbles and rubber bands until she found the scrap of paper she’d been looking for, a tattered piece of newspaper. It was an article that had been in the Times-Picayune after the latest rash of murders in the Crescent City had occurred. According to the report, a detective by the name of Rick Bentz had been instrumental in solving the bizarre killings. He’d been the man who had discovered the link in the crimes and how they were related to Dr. Sam, Samantha Leeds, host of the talk-radio program Midnight Confessions.
The same radio show Olivia had heard tonight in the vision.
She shuddered as she scanned the article she’d torn from the paper months ago.
Bentz and his partner Ruben Montoya, were given credit for breaking the “Rosary Killer” case where several prostitutes had been killed by “Father John,” a man who had stalked the city of New Orleans a few months back. Father John. The killer who was obsessed with Dr. Sam and her radio show, a sadist who would demand his victims don red wigs so that they would look like Dr. Sam, a murderer who scripted the dialogue for his victims, insisting they repent for their crimes … just as she’d seen the priest in her vision demand his victim’s pleas for mercy and forgiveness.
Her blood turned to ice.
First a man calling himself Father John and now a priest.
She had to talk to Detective Bentz. ASAP. No one else at the police station had even listened to her—just written her off as a lunatic. But then, she was used to the ridicule. Maybe Rick Bentz would be different. Maybe he’d listen to her.
He had to.
She dropped the blanket and reached for her jeans and a sweatshirt she’d tossed over the bedpost and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from the night table. She downed four tablets dry and hoped they’d take the edge off her headache. She had to think clearly, to explain …
Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she slid into a pair of moccasins and flew down the stairs. Hairy S scrambled after her. But as she dashed past the bookcase in the alcove near the front door, she felt a draft—a whisper across her skin, something evil.
She stopped short. Glanced out the window. The dog growled
, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Again, through the open window, she heard the rustle of dry leaves, a gust of wind through brittle branches. Was it her imagination or was someone outside … lurking in the darkness?
Fear pulsed through her blood. She moved close to the window, peered through the mist and darkness, but saw no one. The night was suddenly still, the rush of wind having died.
She slammed the window shut, locked it, and snapped the blinds closed. This was no time to get spooked. But at the bookcase she felt it again, that icy sensation.
You’re overreacting. Stop it, Livvie!
Her breath was shallow, the hairs lifting on the back of her arms, as if there were someone in the room with her. She caught her reflection in the mirror mounted next to the bookcase and shivered. Her hair was wild and uncombed, her face pale beneath a few freckles, her lips bloodless. She looked as scared as she was.
But she had to go…. She dug into her purse and grabbed her key ring, held the longest and sharpest key in her fingers as if it were some kind of weapon, then headed for the front door. Hairy S followed after her, his tail between his legs.
“You have to stay here,” she insisted, but as she opened the door, the scrappy little mutt streaked through, tearing through the fallen leaves to her beat-up truck. Olivia locked the door behind her, checked over her shoulder, and jogged to the driveway, where the dog was whining and jumping against the cab of her pickup. “Fine, get in.” She opened the driver’s side and Hairy S hurtled inside. He took his favorite spot on the passenger’s side of the bench seat, propping his tiny feet on the dash, his tongue lolling as he panted. “This isn’t a joyride,” Olivia said as she backed into a turnout, the beams of her headlights splashing over the face of her little cabin. She saw no strangers lurking in the shadows, no dark figure hiding behind the wicker furniture on the porch. Maybe her vivid imagination had run wild again.
It had to be.
Still her heart pumped wildly.