by Lisa Jackson
She sensed, with cold certainty, that Ariel was doomed.
CHAPTER 9
“Idiot,” Jay muttered under his breath. He wanted to kick himself five ways to hell and back as he drove through the empty streets surrounding the campus. Bruno gave a soft woof, his nose at the crack in the passenger window, drinking in the smells of the night.
Jay flipped on the radio, hoping the sound of the Dixie Chicks would drown out any thoughts of Kristi. Instead, the song about getting even with an ex-lover only made him grip the wheel even tighter. “Son of a bitch.” He’d kept his cool through class and beyond, when she’d chased him down to set things straight and clear the air between them, but it had backfired. At least for him. As mule-headed and reckless as she was, he still found her damned fascinating.
It was a sickness.
Like a death wish for his soul.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he grumbled, and switched stations to a local radio station where Dr. Sam, a radio psychologist, was dispensing advice to the lovelorn or confused in a special extended program. He figured there must be a lot of loonies in the dead of winter. He slapped the radio button off as he flipped on his wipers to swat away the mist that had collected. It wasn’t raining, but the fog was dense and he wondered if he should have insisted on driving Kristi home.
How? By bodily restraining her? You offered. She declined. She didn’t want to ride with you. End of story.
“Unless she ends up missing,” he said, squinting through the windshield and stopping at an amber light about to turn red. A couple of teenaged boys zipped across the dark street on skateboards, their wheels grating on the pavement. Laughing, one dialing a cell phone as he rode, they turned toward a convenience store sizzling with neon lights but guarded with bars on the windows. A few cars crossed the intersection before the light changed again, glowing green in the mist.
Jay started, only to slam on the brakes as a cat sprinted across the street. “Damn!”
Bruno, spying the speeding tabby, started baying and scratching madly at the dash.
“Stop!” Jay ordered the dog as he eased through the intersection.
Bruno twisted, paws on the back of the passenger seat as he glared through the window of the cab at his adversary. He was still growling and whining. “Forget it,” Jay advised, increasing his speed to thirty. “It’s gone.”
The hound wasn’t about to give up but with a final “Leave it,” from Jay, he gave a single woof and curled up on the seat again. “Good boy,” Jay said, then spying something in his headlights, slammed on the brakes again. “Jesus!”
His truck skidded, frame shimmying, tires squealing. Bruno was nearly dumped into the dash as the truck’s grill barely missed the man in black who leaped to one side and hazarded a quick glance at the pickup, his clerical collar showing white, his glasses fogged and reflecting the headlight’s glare. His washed-out face was twisted in anxiety, as if he were in fear for his life. He kept running, his cassock billowing behind him. “Are you nuts!” Jay yelled, adrenaline shooting through his bloodstream.
Jay’s heart was beating like a drum. He’d nearly struck the guy! But the priest didn’t so much as break stride. Half running, he disappeared into a park that backed up to one side of the campus.
“The guy’s out of his mind,” Jay muttered furiously, mentally counting to ten as he eased off the brakes and once again started driving through the night. “What the hell is he doing crossing the damned street in the dark? Moron! What’s wrong with the crosswalk?”
What the hell was going on…? The holy man looked as if he’d just seen a ghost, and he seemed to want to avoid anyone seeing him.
Jay let out his breath but he was still tense, muscles drawn, nerves stretched thin, fingers clenched over the steering wheel. Within three minutes he’d nearly hit a cat and a man.
The priest had looked familiar. It had been dark, yes, but there was something about him that made Jay think they’d met before. Here. In Baton Rouge. And it wasn’t because Jay hightailed it to mass on Sunday mornings. No…it had to have been on campus or at an All Saints event of some kind.
Letting out a shaky breath, Jay shook his head. He cautiously stepped on the gas again, his eyes narrowing on the quiet road. “Third time’s a charm,” he said, wondering if he were cursing himself. Few cars passed him, nor were any following him as he turned onto the winding street leading to his cousins’ bungalow.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, though he didn’t know why. No one was following him. “Better keep your eyes on the road, McKnight.”
He was still trying to place the priest. It hadn’t been Father Anthony Mediera, the priest who, for all intents and purposes, was in charge of the college, but someone else he’d met on campus. Who? When?
He turned into the driveway of Aunt Colleen’s small house, wondering what the hell the priest had been running from.
Mathias Glanzer!
That’s who it was. Father Mathias, Jay was certain of it, and yes, he was associated with the college in some way. Huh, Jay thought. What’s the deal?
Jay parked, pocketed his keys, and dragged his briefcase and computer into the cottage. With Bruno at his heels, he walked into the kitchen, where he studiously ignored the exposed sheetrock and lack of countertops. As Bruno sloppily drank from his water dish, Jay pulled a beer from the refrigerator and followed a short hallway to his pink office. Bruno, water dripping from his snout, tagged after him.
“I really have to paint in here,” Jay advised the dog as Bruno curled into his dog bed in the corner of the room, where once Janice’s—or had it been Leah’s?—twin bed had been positioned under a canopy of posters and album covers of the sisters’ favorite rock stars. David Bowie, Bruce Springsteen, Rick Springfield, and Michael Jackson came to mind.
He sat down at the makeshift desk, then hooked up his laptop, waiting for an Internet connection. Logging on to the Web site for All Saints College, he browsed through the list of instructors until he found a picture of Father Mathias Glanzer, head of the drama department.
Twisting off the cap of his Lone Star, he took a long swallow. In the photo Father Mathias looked almost beatific, his expression warm, friendly, at peace. He sat wearing a white alb with a gold-embossed overlay stole. His hands were folded and his blue eyes, behind rimless glasses, stared straight into the camera’s lens. His chin was sharp, his lower lip slightly larger than the upper, his nose narrow. The entire photograph gave the viewer a sense that they were staring at a composed, calm man of conviction.
Far from the vision Jay had experienced earlier, when the priest had seemed rattled—or furtive—as if a demon straight from hell had been on his tail.
Why?
Jay shook his head. He’d had a long day and had to get up at the crack of dawn to drive to New Orleans. Shoving all thoughts of the holy man from his mind, he found the e-mail addresses of the students in his class and attached his syllabus. He saw Kristi Bentz’s name again and frowned.
Bad luck, that.
He grimaced. Maybe Gayle had been right when she’d charged him with never really being over his high school girlfriend. It had seemed ridiculous at the time, the ranting of a jealous woman.
But…
After seeing Kristi again, he realized she was still under his skin. It wasn’t as if he wanted to get back together with her. No way. But he couldn’t deny that there was something about her that caused him to think stupid thoughts and remember forgotten moments in sudden sharp clarity, memories he’d considered long forgotten.
He exhaled heavily.
The smart thing—the only thing—was to leave her alone as much as he could.
Wasn’t it bad enough that she thought she could predict her father’s death? Did she have to bear this onus for other people as well?
Kristi unlocked the door of her apartment and stepped inside. To the rooms that had been occupied by Tara Atwater, one of the missing students. Get over it. The apartment had nothing to do with Tara vanishing. S
he went missing from the campus and that didn’t keep you from signing up for classes. Wouldn’t you have taken this apartment anyway, even knowing?
“Not on a prayer,” she murmured, unable to stop the goose bumps from rising on her flesh. She double-checked the dead bolt as Houdini, who must’ve been waiting on the roof, hopped through the partially opened window, climbed over the kitchen counters, and disappeared.
“My stepmother would have a heart attack if she ever saw you on the cabinets,” Kristi said. The cat peeked out at her. Houdini still wouldn’t let her get close, but he was starting to seem to want to interact.
She filled the cat’s bowl, made herself a bag of microwave popcorn, and spent the next hour and a half organizing her desk, not only for her schoolwork, but also to organize her notes on the book she hoped to write, the book about the missing girls, if it turned out they all had come to bad ends.
She looked around the small space where Tara Atwater had lived. Had Tara, like Kristi, slept on the trundle bed? Had she noticed the small closet smelled of mothballs? Had she complained about the lack of water pressure? Had she made popcorn here, used the same microwave, experienced the uncanny feeling that someone was watching her?
Kristi plugged her laptop into her printer, logged on to the Internet and began downloading and printing any article she could find on the missing girls. She located their MySpace pages and looked for any hint of them belonging to a cult or being interested in vampires. She thought there were some veiled references in their likes and dislikes columns, and decided to check them out further later. Tonight she’d gather information; later, she’d sort and analyze it.
Barely touching the popcorn, she searched cults, vampires, and cross-referenced them to All Saints College. She found that there was a surprising number of groups into the vampire/werewolf/paranormal thing. Some of the Web sites and chat rooms were obviously just for those with a passing interest, but others were more intense, as if whoever created the spaces actually believed demons walked among the living.
“Creepy,” she said to the cat as he tiptoed to his food. He scurried away at her voice. “Definitely creepy.” And Lucretia knew more about it than she was saying. “I guess we’d better stock up on garlic and crosses and silver bullets,” she said…“or wait, are the bullets for werewolves?” Houdini froze, tail switching. Then he ran across the floor, up to the counter, and out the window. “Something I said?” Kristi muttered as she walked to the counter and stretched.
She gazed out at the night, over the wall surrounding the campus to the buildings beyond. A few stars were visible through shifting clouds and the layer of light from the city. Again she had the disturbing sensation that she was being watched attentively, that unseen eyes were observing. Calculating. She lowered the blinds, leaving only enough space for the cat to return if he so deigned.
Returning to the computer, she wondered if Tara Atwater had experienced the same odd sensation that someone was surveying her from the cover of darkness.
It was time.
He had to dispose of the bodies.
As Kristi Bentz snapped the blinds shut, Vlad checked his watch. It was after one in the morning. Perfect timing. He’d been watching her for over two hours and wishing that she was next. He’d caught glimpses of her breasts as she’d pulled off her sweatshirt and unhooked her bra. The mirror over the fireplace was positioned so that if the bathroom door were ajar, he had a view of the shower stall, sink, and even a bit of the toilet. He’d observed Tara from this very spot as she’d spent so much time painstakingly applying makeup or cocking her head as she inserted her earrings, struggling with the backs. He’d held his breath as he’d watched her lift her arms. She’d been unaware that she was also moving her breasts, giving him a better view of those gorgeous, sexy globes and the vial of her blood hanging from a chain surrounding her neck, nestled in her cleavage. Where the hell had she hidden it?
You’ll never find it, he imagined her taunting him from the other side of the pale. Her tinkling laughter slid through his brain and his fists clenched so hard the skin over his fingers stretched taut.
“I’ll find it,” he muttered, then realized he was talking to no one, a ghost, the figment of his imagination.
Just like his mother.
Clenching his jaw, Vlad snapped back to reality. He couldn’t stand here indefinitely and remember Tara. Nor did he have time to fantasize about what it would be like to watch Kristi as she showered and toweled dry, her wet hair clinging to her white skin. His teeth ground together and he pushed aside the want that always snaked through his blood. He knew that his lust was only one part of his life, and the girls he so lovingly sacrificed were only a means to an end.
Without wasting a second, he hurried down the stairs and out a back door. On quiet footsteps he made his way through the alleys and streets, always taking a different path, never allowing himself the luxury or trap of using the same route, one where he might be seen over and over again.
Noiselessly he unlocked the door to his private space and entered. He was restless and knew the bracing cold water of the pool would settle him, but there was no time. He’d spent too long at the window, watching Kristi Bentz, trying to decipher what it was she was doing at her desk so long. She’d spent hours on the Internet and he doubted that she was studying for any of her classes.
Already dressed in black, he spent a few minutes applying dark face paint, pulled on a wig of light brown, then covered his features with a nylon stocking…just in case. He already had lifts for his shoes, so he appeared taller than he was…no one would recognize him and he’d been careful in his dealings with the women, so that there would be no way to link him to them.
He walked quickly, past the shimmering pool and further to the space beneath the old hotel’s kitchen. He unlocked a heavy door and carefully pushed it open, feeling the cold breath of winter against his skin, the kiss of Jack Frost. He snapped on a light. The single bulb illuminated the interior of the freezer in a glaring light that reflected in the thick bands of ice crystals lining the frigid room and sparkling, almost giving life to the open, dead eyes of the four women who hung on meat hooks, their skin frozen and pale as snow, the muscles of their faces solidified into expressions of sheer horror.
He hated to let them go.
He enjoyed visiting them after a long swim.
He’d walk between their cold bodies feeling the icy air on his own naked flesh. He would rub against them, feeling an erotic high, his white-hot blood almost boiling in his veins, the arctic air against his skin and the hard, smooth frozen muscles of these, the first of what would be many.
Licking his cracked lips, he leaned forward and ran his tongue over Dionne’s breast, darker than the others, the nipple taut in icy death.
“I’ll miss you,” he breathed, before suckling a bit and feeling his erection strong as he rubbed it against her hanging legs. One hand cupped her buttocks and he remembered the hot joy of entering her….
“In the next lifetime, my sweet,” he vowed, turning his attention to Rylee…perfect, petulant Rylee. He hadn’t had enough time with her. Her perfect, icy body called out to him and he thought of saving her, playing with her bloodless body, but he knew it was best to take her away as well.
He kissed her frozen, twisted lips and stared into her open eyes. Then he smiled as he viewed her neck, so perfect, arching back, the icy strands of her hair falling away to show the two perfect holes at the base of her throat, and he imagined the taste of her blood. Salty. Warm. Satisfying.
Yes, it would be difficult to let her go.
But there would be others…so many more.
He smiled in the darkness as their faces came to him.
Kristi couldn’t sleep. The clock at her bedside table told her it was nearly one in the morning and the events of the past few days had been swirling in her mind. Over and over again, the pictures of the missing girls revolved and she remembered the phone calls she’d made between classes and work and a few face-t
o-face meetings with students who had known the girls who disappeared.
“Always knew she would come to no good…bad blood just like her father.” It was Tara’s mother’s words that kept her awake the most. “He’s in jail, y’know. Armed robbery, not that it’s any of your business. My guess? She took off with some boy and somehow I’ll end up having to pay the loans she took out to go to school. You just wait and see. And me with two other kids to support….”
But Monique’s mother had been no better, seemingly pissed off that her daughter had gone away to school and left her to deal with a husband with Alzheimer’s disease. “She couldn’t deal with it…not that she could deal with anything. That girl!” Monique’s mother had snorted from somewhere in South Dakota.
Dionne’s brother had thought she was a “cheap-ass ho,” while her last boyfriend Tyshawn Jones was still MIA, or so it seemed. Dionne’s coworkers at the pizza parlor had insisted they didn’t get to know her and that she’d kept to herself.
Rylee’s mother was a nightmare, inferring her daughter would just get herself “in trouble” as if that were the worst thing that could happen.
Kristi threw off the covers, disturbing Houdini, who had ventured close to the bed as she was sleeping. “Sorry,” she said as the cat scrambled to his hiding place. She padded barefoot into the kitchen area, flipped on the faucet and, holding her hair away from her face, took a long swallow of the tap water.
How many times had Tara done this?
Kristi twisted off the tap and wiped her lips by turning her head, using the shoulder of the oversized T-shirt she used as pajamas. She leaned her hips against the counter and stared into the room where she and the ghost of Tara Atwater resided. The desk chair had come with the place, probably used by Tara to study for the same classes that Kristi was now taking.
She listened as the clock ticked off the seconds, the refrigerator hummed, and her own heart kept a steady beat. It was almost as if she was tracing Tara’s life, walking in her footsteps, becoming the girl who had just left class one day and never shown up again.