by Lisa Jackson
Again, nothing.
Nor did the old, half-crippled dog appear.
Cole knocked again but knew it was no use.
Well, hell.
Had Renner taken off?
Cole walked to the garage, peered through the side door, and spied the looming dark shape of Renner’s truck, a newer model Dodge, parked inside. Which didn’t mean he couldn’t have taken off with someone. Renner had called from his cell; Cole had recognized the number. So that meant he might not have phoned from the house.
Still…the open bottle of booze, the ice tray on the counter? Cole knew a lot of men who wouldn’t have bothered capping a bottle or returning the tray to the freezer, but those men weren’t the precise and anal Dr. Terrence Renner.
Walking down the cement path again, Cole took the steps to the back porch two at a time and pounded on the door again. “Terry!” he yelled, and when that didn’t work, he grabbed the damned door and pushed.
It opened.
Cole stood a moment in surprise. This wasn’t Renner’s style. He’d been about to search for the spare key he knew Renner kept hidden on the sill above the door, but it hadn’t been necessary.
Another oddity.
Renner was a stickler for locking his doors, be it his house, his office, his truck, or his briefcase. Probably from all those years working with the mentally ill. Cole had seen some of Renner’s patients. Some were docile, just troubled or depressed. Others were violent. Psychopaths. It was a wonder Renner had never installed an alarm system…but then, he’d had the dog. “Terry?” Cole yelled, walking into the kitchen. “Dr. Renner? Rufus?”
No startled response. No surprised bark. No clicking of dog toe-nails or pad of slippered feet coming down the hallway to investigate. “Dr. Renner!”
Why the hell wasn’t he answering? Had he been too drunk to turn off the lights, lock the door, put the booze away, or turn off the radio? Maybe he’d already gone upstairs to bed.
But Cole’s gut told him otherwise.
Slowly, he turned down the hallway, his senses on alert.
Maybe Renner had fallen asleep. And the dog had been half deaf. The pop of a crackling ember drew Cole’s attention to the adjoining den. He peered inside and noticed a dark stain on the floor.
A drop.
A red drop.
And then another.
And another.
“Shit! Terrence!” Cole yelled as he burst into the den.
Every muscle in his body froze.
Renner was lying faceup on the carpet. His eyes stared at the ceiling. Blood covered his neck and face. It pooled thickly on the floor.
“No!” Cole knelt beside him, his fingers clenching the doctor’s wrist to find a pulse, hoping to hear the sound of shallow breathing.
He was too late.
The blood had stopped flowing. There was no heartbeat. Not the shallowest of breaths being drawn.
Renner was dead.
Distantly Cole noticed Renner’s right arm lay at an odd angle. His gaze moved upward slowly, and he saw the number scrawled onto the wall in thick red streaks:
101.
Every hair on Cole’s scalp was raised. One hundred one? Like 212? The number written with Royal Kajak’s blood by his own damned finger?
Cole’s heart was a drum.
Renner was dead…dead…and yet he’d called Cole on his cell less than an hour earlier.
Jesus Christ, what the hell was going on?
You’re being set up.
Again.
Someone had waited for him. Patiently biding his time until Cole had been set free. And then, within hours of his release, he’d slaughtered Renner—and called Cole!
What was it the guy on the phone said?
“I’ve got evidence.”
The same chilling message Eve had received from Roy Kajak before he’d been killed.
The killer could still be in the house.
He scanned the room, checking the shadows, searching the darkened hallway where light from the den didn’t spill. There was a letter opener on the desk. He grabbed it.
Get out! Get out NOW!
He listened, ears straining for any foreign sound, but all he heard was the tick of an old clock in the foyer, the notes of soft acoustic music playing from a radio on the desk, and the loud, powerful pounding of his heart crashing frantically against his ribs. No running footsteps. No deep breathing. No sound of a knife being slipped from a sheath.
The house seemed still.
Empty.
Not even a whimper, whine, or bark from the dog.
What are you waiting for? Get out!
Full-blown panic ripped through him.
Someone’s setting you up, Cole. This is no fucking coincidence. Some sick son of a bitch has it in for you.
Why?
Who?
Someone Terrence Renner had been mixed up with?
Someone who had killed Renner.
Cole found the telephone and dialed 911. The dispatch officer answered before the phone rang twice. “Nine-one-one. What’s the nature of your—”
“There’s been a murder,” Cole cut in tersely. “Terrence Renner. Someone killed him. At his house…” He had to think for a second before he rattled off the street address.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
“Yes. But Renner. He’s dead.”
“What’s your name?”
He clicked the phone off.
He had to get out of here and fast. Before the cops arrived. He was in enough trouble already…. They’d figure out that he’d been here, of course, but for now he needed some time to sort things out.
Spying Renner’s laptop sitting on the desk, he snatched it up, yanking the cord from the wall. Face set, mind snapping ahead, he shoved the slim device into the briefcase that lay open on the small love seat that faced the fire.
Taking anything from the house was a crime, but he didn’t care. Whoever had killed Renner had purposely called Cole as a means to tempt him here. Maybe there was a clue in Renner’s work notes, maybe not, but he’d never have this chance again.
Spurred by fear, fueled by adrenaline, he started a quick cleanup. If he were caught here, or anywhere near here, he’d be taken into custody.
The phone rang, and Cole jumped. He whipped around. It was the cops! The 911 dispatcher calling back!
As rapidly as he could, Cole wiped away any finger-, hand-or shoe-prints he might have left on the desk, the floor, the phone. Distantly he heard sirens screaming, and he flew out of the house, wiping the doorknob on his way out and leaping from the back porch to the patchy grass. Heart thudding, he sprinted to his Jeep, tossing the briefcase inside.
He backed down the driveway as fast as he dared. Then, at the county road, he threw the Jeep into first and stepped on it, rocketing in the opposite direction of the small town, telling himself not to speed, fear knocking deep in his soul. He forced himself to calm down, to step outside the murder, to think as a defense attorney, not one of his clients.
His voice was recorded. The police would eventually figure it out and call him in for questioning. He would have to face them. But not tonight. Not before he had a few answers of his own. In jail he’d vowed he would figure out what really happened the night Roy Kajak died, and that’s what he intended to do. He couldn’t have Roy’s murder forever unsolved, himself the only serious suspect. And now Renner’s death would put him at the top of that suspect list as well!
Think, he told himself. Figure out your next step.
First things first. He not only had the money, but Renner’s laptop. He needed a place to hide them, and he knew a place that should be perfect: Eve’s house. It was empty. Had been for months.
And, he decided, his brain clicking systematically, if the police searched her home, they wouldn’t think it all that odd that Terrence’s computer was there, at his daughter’s. Cole would stash the money there too. No one would be able to connect it to him.
He found his way back to the free
way, and as he did he saw the familiar glow of New Orleans in the distance, the city lights visible through a thin, rising fog.
What about Eve? You need to call and tell her about her father. She deserves to know.
His jaw slid to the side as he considered the consequences.
Leave it to the police. If you tell her, she’ll lead the cops straight to you.
Son of a bitch, he thought. No matter what he did, he was screwed.
CHAPTER 8
Time is running out.
And there is much to do.
So many rituals…so little time.
Yet he couldn’t rush things, oh no.
The Reviver was still hyped-up as he parked his truck in a space he’d carved out in a dense thicket of brush and buckthorn. Nerves jangling, his body covered in sweat, he removed his tools from the back of the truck. He worked efficiently, taking anything incriminating from the truck then locking the vehicle securely and dashing up a slight hill to the knoll where his cabin was tucked into a deep copse of trees. The cool night breezes could not quench his heated skin. His pulse was pounding, the scent of blood still tantalizing his nostrils as he headed down the long, overgrown path to the cabin.
He had a place in the city, of course, but here, in the woods, this was where he belonged, where the Voice of God had found him, the only place he was certain to communicate with the Father.
Once inside, he threw the dead bolt, made certain the shutters were completely closed, then stripped himself of all clothing. He dropped all of his clothes into an ancient washer then placed his boots into the stainless steel sink and used a sprayer to wash the blood down the drain. When he was finished, he ran the washer, dumping a quart of bleach into the machine and scrubbing the sink with chlorine bleach as well. Though he felt as if he were doing a good job in covering his tracks, he had to be doubly careful. No plan was fail proof; the cops were far from idiots.
Trust in the Voice. Have faith.
Do not doubt.
Never doubt.
He was still on a high, reliving the kill over and over.
He’d known that Cole Dennis would take the bait.
The bastard had shown up at Renner’s house right on cue and discovered the body.
The Reviver hadn’t been foolish enough to wait around and watch, much as he’d wanted to. That would have been too risky, and the Voice had been clear about leaving as soon as he was finished. But as he’d driven here he’d turned on the police-band radio mounted in his truck and listened to what the cops were doing.
He didn’t need much time to complete the plan. The Voice had been clear that the Reviver’s mission was to be finished quickly, in a mere matter of days, culminating with Eve.
He thought about what he would do to her.
How he would punish her for all her sins.
He scratched his palms in anticipation.
He would strip her bare.
Take that body she flaunted and do everything he dreamed…
Now, lighting the fire, he spread a plastic sheet in front of the grate before carrying a freestanding full-length mirror from the bedroom and angling it on the edge of the sheeting so that the glass caught the reflection of the fire and of the mirror over the fireplace. He located his “kit” in the bottom drawer of an old cupboard and spread all the implements over the mantle. Once the altar was ready, he hurried into his cranny of a bathroom, turned on the pulsing spray, stepped beneath it. Icy water blasted his skin in a quick, harsh tempo. Thoroughly he washed away all the dirt, all the sweat, all the grime with industrial-strength soap that he used on his hair, his face, his hands, and his genitals. Once the suds were rinsed off, he stepped onto the cold stone floor and, still dripping, his skin dimpling with the cold, padded to the living area, where the fire illuminated the sparse, utilitarian room.
He lit the candles standing ready on the centuries-old mantel. Unscented votives, tapers, and pillars, all pristine white, flickered and burned, their tiny flames reflecting a dozen times over in the angled glass.
Catching the light from the candles’ flames, his rosary sparkled as it hung from a hook over the mantel.
Tenderly he removed the glittering strand from its resting place. Letting the cool, blood-red beads run through his hands, closing his eyes as he lowered himself to his knees, he recovered some of his equilibrium. The rosary always comforted him, helped calm him, aided him in keeping the demons and ungodly thoughts at bay. He knew that what he’d done—the killing—was considered a sin, but not, he told himself, when he was on a mission from God, a modern-day crusade, a cleansing of the heathens.
The Voice of God had instructed him.
He was but an instrument; this he believed.
And yet he had unclean thoughts. Lustful thoughts. And he savored the killing. Fantasized about it. Relived it. Which was not God’s intention.
How he ached to revel in the taking of Terrence Renner’s life, to replay it even more, over and over, in his mind—just as he longed to imagine the violent coupling with Eve before he sacrificed her.
But he had to wait, to calm himself, to ignore the fantasies. In the end surely God would understand, for it was God who had led him to Eve, who had brought them together, as children and now as adults. As a child she’d been intelligent and clever. He remembered seeing her running through the hospital grounds, her tanned legs flashing in the bright sunlight, her coppery hair flying behind her, her blue eyes dancing. Even then, at twelve, her breasts had started to show, little buds that had been visible under her T-shirts until she’d started wearing a bra. She’d been athletic and wild, and he’d watched her grow, feeling heat seep through his bloodstream, causing his groin to tighten, his dick to grow, desire thudding in his brain.
But he hadn’t dared mention his want of her to the doctor, her father. Not if he wanted to keep away from the medications that made him feel thick and dull, every movement an effort, as if he were trudging through water.
God had shown him Eve as a child.
God had allowed him to see her develop into a woman.
Then God had taken her away, probably because he’d sinned. Hadn’t Sister Vivian told him so when she’d caught him in the closet, alone, touching himself, a picture of Eve taped to the back of the door? He could still see the nun’s shock, the horror on her face.
She’d punished him then, threatened to tell the doctor. But his tears of repentance had stopped her from speaking of his sins to anyone but Sister Rebecca, who had pursed her lips and condemned him with her harsh gaze. It was she who had insisted he confess to the priest. To God. While the priest heard his confession, his prayers, and meted out his penance of prayers, good deeds, and clean thoughts, Sister Rebecca had come up with her own punishment. He’d been isolated from the other patients his age, those who had only “clean thoughts.” He also was at Sister Rebecca’s beck and call, her personal slave.
He’d felt as if he’d been chained to the voluminous skirts of her dark habit and by the dark beads of her ever-present rosary. If he ever complained about his serfdom, Sister Rebecca threatened to tell Eve and Dr. Renner his dark secret, that he found pleasure in fondling himself while watching her.
“Just think what will happen then,” Sister Rebecca had warned him in a conspiratorial whisper. “Everyone here will soon know just what kind of a sinner you are….”
Sister Vivian, an underling of Sister Rebecca’s, had avoided and abandoned him. While Sister Rebecca had relished punishing him, the younger nun had wanted nothing to do with such a sinner.
But then, they had been impure themselves, had they not?
Hadn’t the Voice said as much?
Hadn’t God Himself led the Reviver to Eve, who was no longer a girl but a woman?
And a sinner.
A whore.
And as unclean as she was, he ached for her.
His mouth dried of spit, and he began to tremble inside as he thought of her, remembered standing in the closet, staring at her picture….
<
br /> He needed to pray now, to beg forgiveness for his unclean thoughts and then finish with his own penance, his own private ritual.
Only then could he hope for the Voice to reach him again, to seek him out, to drown out the other tinny, aggravating voices that beleaguered him.
Gently holding the crucifix within the rosary between his thumb and forefinger, lightly touching the tiny image of Christ’s body upon the cross, his voice barely audible over the hiss of the fire, he began to pray.
“I believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only son, our Lord…”
His blood began flowing more slowly, his heartbeat finding a regular cadence again, the beads of water upon his skin drying. As he had since he was a child, he touched each bead, murmured each prayer, until he was finished. “O loving. O sweet Virgin Mary. Pray for us. O holy mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Amen.”
Slowly he rose, his naked body cleansed, his soul washed free, for he considered this his confession and communion. He didn’t need a priest, an intermediary between himself and the holy Father.
God talked to him.
At night.
When he was alone.
And He told him to mark himself to remind himself of his mission. He opened his small case and looked at the gleaming instruments inside.
He took out the needle, filled the syringe with blue ink, plugged in the machine. Staring at the image of his naked, shaved, and waxed body in the tall mirror, he began. With careful strokes, he inscribed the number 101 upon his skin, the tiny, sharp needle moving with rapid, stinging strokes as he worked a foot pedal. He was precise, adding the tattoo to a clean space where he could read it easily among the others that he’d drawn on his body. For his victims, of course, he had to use a smaller, battery-powered needle. His work on the bodies was quick and rough. But on himself, he had the luxury of time to make each letter and number perfect. Exquisite.
The pain was exciting, a turn-on. While he worked his needle, he had to concentrate intensely to keep his cock from coming to attention, to keep his mind free of images of sex and pain, to ensure the quality of his artwork. Over and over the numbers he worked, coloring them in, making certain the scab would form and the impression would be forever.