Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  “Just curious,” Jay hedged. He’d already decided to keep Kristi’s name out of it, unless he determined that she was in any kind of danger. The fact that she lived at the address of one of the missing girls bothered him. “I work up there, part-time, teach a class on forensics, and there’s been a lot of talk about what happened to the girls.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Sonny agreed. “Every time it’s a slow news day around here, I get some reporter nosin’ around, tryin’ to stir up trouble, make news if there isn’t any. Take that Belinda Del Ray from WMTA…what a pain in the ass she is. Good-lookin’, I’ll grant you that. And she uses it, let me tell you. But she’s like a damned pitbull with a bone, don’t ya know? Won’t take no for an answer and keeps pokin’ around even when we try to steer her to the PIO. But she’s not interested in the official statement from the Public Information Officer, no siree, not Belinda. She wants more than we’re willing to give. As far as the department’s concerned: no bodies, no case. But some reporters don’t know how to butt out.”

  “Just doing their jobs,” Jay said, playing devil’s advocate. He was ambivalent about the press. A necessary evil. Often useful. Sometimes a real pain. Especially the aggressive reporters hungry to make a name for themselves.

  “Humph,” Sonny snorted. “Obviously you haven’t dealt with too many reporters.”

  This was going nowhere. “So tell me about Detective Laurent. Why isn’t she buying the company line?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know what the hell Laurent thinks. You’d have to ask her. Oh, hell, I got another call comin’ in.”

  He clicked off and Jay stared at the notepad on his desk. Portia Laurent. He definitely wanted to hear what she had to say. He circled her name, tore off the sheet, stuffed it into a pocket of his jeans, and settled in to work.

  By the end of the day, chewing on his last brittle rope of red licorice, he didn’t know a whole helluva lot more than he had last night. Just enough, though, that he was starting to believe that Kristi was onto something. As for the whole vampire thing, he was surprised how many people bought into it. Not only books, movies, television, online gaming, but there was an entire Internet culture, linked, he was certain, to real people.

  A cult?

  Maybe.

  Centered at All Saints?

  He hoped to hell not.

  He thought about all the missing girls and Dr. Grotto’s class. He’d heard from a few members of the staff he’d met about the guy’s theatrical way of presenting the class, the fake fangs and contacts that covered his irises and made his eyes appear flat and black. Without a soul. Inhuman. But no one was worried about it. It was drama. Flair. And the students loved it. The fact that he was taller than most with thick dark hair and penetrating eyes didn’t hurt the image either.

  Jay rubbed the back of his neck and rotated his head to relieve the tension, all the while staring at the computer screen, where the face of Rylee Ames met his gaze. Young. Beautiful. Vibrant. At least in the head shot. But obviously messed up.

  Runaway? Or abduction? Possible murder victim…?

  Had she been a part of some private cult?

  Was Grotto into it? Hell, if so, he was flaunting his part, wasn’t he? Really out in the open with this vampire crap. How stupid would that be, to point a finger at himself? Or was it Grotto’s ego? Did he really think he was invincible? If so, the intense teacher wouldn’t be the first. Jay chewed hard on the tasteless candy, then tossed the wrapper into his trash can, all the while thinking about his colleague at the school. Maybe it was time for a background check on Grotto, a deeper check than the university had made. For that matter, what about some of the other professors and department heads? Or members of the administration? From what he knew about cults, they crossed all sorts of social barriers. He had the resources, he decided, and there was no reason not to use them. All he had to do was cross reference names and addresses. Some of the information would be public, other private. He’d go as far as he could without breaking the law.

  And then what?

  What if you need to dig deeper?

  “Hell,” he muttered. He would damned well cross that slippery bridge when he came to it.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Shifting on his chair, Jay retrieved the phone and saw Gayle’s home phone number flash onto his screen. Inwardly groaning, he considered not answering, but knew that was only postponing the inevitable.

  He had tried to be kind.

  It hadn’t worked.

  The woman wasn’t taking the hint.

  “Hey,” he answered, hating the upbeat sound of his voice. It sounded as phony as his feelings.

  “How are you?” Her voice too was sunny, a little breathless.

  “Busy.”

  “Always.” She sighed and he imagined her face turning petulant. God, how had he ever thought it was cute? “I suppose you’re in Baton Rouge and don’t have time for a drink or anything?”

  “Afraid not, Gayle.”

  “I could head up that way.”

  He didn’t tell her he was in New Orleans. He didn’t intend to spend the night here, anyway, and he definitely didn’t intend to spend it with Gayle. “I’m working.”

  “Well,” she said, and he imagined her walking across the plush carpet of her home, probably standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows to stare out at the night. The suggestion wasn’t unexpected. “You won’t be working all the damned night, now will you? I could stay over….”

  If it wasn’t so damned sad, it would be funny. Gayle, living in the lap of luxury, spending the night in Aunt Colleen’s torn-up bungalow without any hot water or much else.

  “Conditions are rustic. I sleep in a sleeping bag on a cot, Gayle.”

  “Cozy,” she said, deliberately misreading what he meant. “I could get a hotel. You could stay in something a little less primitive for a night.”

  “I don’t think so.” He leaned back in his desk chair again, his weight making it squeak in protest as he placed a foot on his desk. He thought of Kristi, the difference between the two women, and the fact that he’d never really felt the same way about Gayle. Not even close. Gayle had been right about that, her feminine instincts honed.

  “You’re avoiding me,” she said with a little pout in her voice.

  Jay steeled himself. There was just no way to sugarcoat this. “I can’t make time for you right now.”

  He heard her swift intake of breath. “Wow. I guess I didn’t expect that. I thought we were going to be friends.”

  Outside the door of his office, he heard footsteps and soft conversation as two colleagues passed. Further away a phone rang.

  “I think we have a different opinion on just what being friends is.”

  She charged, “You don’t want me to come up there.”

  “It wouldn’t be a good idea.” There was a pause. He didn’t really know how to do this without hurting her, then decided he had to be cruel to be kind. “Gayle, I don’t think we should see each other again. Not even as friends.”

  “Why’re you doing this?” she cried, appalled.

  “We both agreed it’s over.”

  “Your idea. Not mine!”

  “You weren’t happy.”

  “I could be.”

  “Oh hell, Gayle. It would never have worked. We both know it.”

  “You wouldn’t let it.”

  “I’m not going to fight about it.”

  “You bastard,” she said, her voice switching tones. “It’s Kristi Bentz again, isn’t it? I knew it. That’s why you went up there in the first place. Because she was going to school up there—surprised I know that?”

  No, he wasn’t. That was the problem. “It’s over, Gayle.”

  “For the love of God, Jay, will you never learn?” Her voice rose and once again he heard someone walk past his door as the phone momentarily cut out, heralding an incoming call.

  “I gotta go. Another call.”

  “You’re seeing her! Goddam
n it, Jay, I was right, wasn’t I? The least you could do is admit it. You’re still in love with her!”

  “Good-bye, Gayle,” he said, and clicked off, but her accusation rang through his head, echoing and sharp: You’re still in love with her.

  “Damned straight,” he said to himself. Okay, there it was. He was still fascinated as all get-out with Kristi. More than ever. “Shit.”

  He clicked to the other call. “Hello?”

  “McKnight?” Rick Bentz’s voice caught him off guard.

  “Yeah.”

  “I need a favor.” No beating around the bush with Bentz.

  “What?”

  “Kristi needs her bike. If I run it up there she’ll accuse me of butting into her personal life. I know you’re teaching a class at All Saints and that you’ve got a truck. Maybe you could run it up to her.”

  Sometimes fate had a funny sense of humor, Jay thought. “Sure.” He considered confiding in the detective; after all, Bentz was Kristi’s father and she seemed poised to get herself into trouble. Thinking of her, he held his tongue. For the moment.

  They made arrangements for Jay to pick up Kristi’s fifteen-speed at the station later in the day and Jay didn’t mention anything about the fact that Kristi was his student, that she’d confided in him, that she was digging into vampire cults, or that Jay intended to see more of her.

  He hung up and wondered if he’d made the right choice. What would he tell Bentz if Kristi got herself into real trouble? Danger? What if she ended up abducted? How would he feel then?

  He swore under his breath. Kristi would kill him if she found out he confided in her father and that would be the final straw. They would never reconcile.

  “Shit.” So that’s where all this was going. What a mess! He clicked off the computer and got to his feet. Maybe it was time to head back to Baton Rouge.

  Nothing!

  Kristi didn’t find one damned thing in Tara’s belongings that helped her figure out what had happened to the girl.

  “Damn it all to hell.” Rocking back on her heels, Kristi studied Tara’s things, all of which were strewn over the tarp she’d laid across the floor. If she’d hoped the jewelry box had contained a necklace with a vial of blood attached to it, she’d been sorely disappointed. If she’d thought she’d find a treasure map leading to a secret meeting place of a vampire cult, she’d been wrong there, too.

  “There has to be something here,” she said out loud. “Just find it.”

  But the obvious items were missing: computer, purse, cell phone and/or BlackBerry. There was no secret diary. No love letters. No address book or phone Rolodex. In the boxes of clothes, she had found a backpack that she’d unzipped, searched, and even turned upside down. One of the straps had been broken, but there was nothing inside except an empty pack of cigarettes, two sticks of gum, a half-full box of breath mints, couple of receipts from a local quickie mart, a squashed tampon, and a rubber band.

  She felt a little like Geraldo Rivera when he’d opened up what was supposed to be Al Capone’s vault on live national TV in the eighties, expecting to find all kinds of treasures or evidence against the gangster only to find the area empty except for debris. Which is just what Kristi had—nothing but debris from a missing girl.

  After almost being discovered by Hiram, she’d made three trips downstairs with her laundry bag, hauling up Tara’s things bit by bit, then searching through the pockets of her pants and jackets, looking for anything that might be a clue. But nothing came to light.

  “My father would be disappointed,” she said to the cat as he stared at her from an upper shelf on the bookcase flanking one side of the fireplace. “What am I missing?” She sifted through the piles of jeans, khakis, and shorts, then the sweaters, T-shirts, and jackets one more time.

  Nothing.

  Disappointment crawled through her. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for this,” she muttered while the cat watched her box up Tara’s things. Either Tara had taken everything of value with her when she left, or her abductor had. Kristi folded her own laundry, whipped out a paper for Dr. Preston’s writing class, and kept nodding off in bed while reading the latest assignment from the tome of Shakespearean plays.

  “Tomorrow,” she confided in Houdini as he hopped onto the bed and lay in the far corner, still ready to jump for cover should she startle him. Theirs was a growing, but extremely tentative, relationship. Bit by bit Houdini was edging closer, almost letting her pet him upon occasion, though his ears were often pinned back. Whenever she reached down he leaned away from her. She’d only managed to brush her fingertips along the tips of his fur.

  Not too far from the way she and Jay reacted to each other, she thought. Wary. Suspicious. Interested but frightened. God, why did she always seem to return to Jay? He was her professor and he’d agreed to help her figure out what had happened to the four girls, but that was it. There was absolutely nothing romantic or sexual in their relationship. And that’s the way it had to stay.

  “Right, Houdini?” she asked.

  The cat gazed at her, unblinking.

  Father Mathias Glanzer paced through the church, past the glass votives holding candles that had burned low. His footsteps sounded hollow along the floorboards of the nave. At the altar, before the huge suspended crucifix, he genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and sent up a small prayer for guidance as the image of Jesus stared down at him.

  In anger?

  Or compassion?

  His clasped hands were clammy, his body beneath his robes covered in a nervous, self-loathing sweat. He’d been a priest for nearly fifteen years and still he sought guidance, still he doubted. His faith wavered, though he would deny it to anyone who asked.

  But God knew.

  As did he, himself. “Forgive me,” he whispered, and though he knew he should stay and pray for hours, he found no solace in prayer, no comfort in seeking God’s counsel. Straightening, he left the church, the door to the nave shutting behind him with a soft, definitive thud.

  Outside, the night promised rain. Clouds were thick, the moon and stars blocked from a storm that was pushing inland. The January wind was cold, with a harsh bite as it blew through his soul.

  He’d come to All Saints thinking he could start over, reaffirm his vows, make changes in the college. In himself. Find God again.

  Just as in a marriage when spouses become too comfortable and take each other for granted, lose interest or vitality, so had he accepted his faith as pure and important and all-knowing. He’d become prideful. Vain. Seeking his own glory over that of God.

  And, of course, as high as he’d climbed, as far as his blind ambition had taken him, it had abandoned him. Now he was falling, tumbling into a darkness so bleak, he feared there was no return. Moving to All Saints hadn’t been a blessing, but a curse.

  He wanted to blame Dr. Grotto, or Father Anthony, or Natalie Croft with her damned vision for the English Department. He’d gone so far as to harbor feelings of injustice at the school administration with so many laypeople on the board, including the descendants of Ludwig Wagner, the man who had given the original plot to the archdiocese to build the school, but, in truth, all of his railing against the fates and those with whom he worked was foolhardy. The person who was at fault was himself. He thought of those who had gone before him, pure men who had tortured themselves in horsehair or with flails, who knelt for days upon cold stones, who fasted until they fainted…he would never test himself as they had.

  For years he’d told himself those penances were for the weak and addled, that he was above them. Now he knew differently. They were for the strong, and only cowards like himself—weak, mortal men—would run from God’s challenges.

  You can never outrun yourself, Mathias, now, can you? And even if you could, the Father would see your pathetic efforts. He looks deep into your soul and witnesses the wretched darkness within.

  He knows of your sins.

  The chapel bells tolled, their deep dulcet tones reverberating in hi
s brain, echoing in his heart. They should have uplifted him, but their deep resonance only served to remind him of how much he’d lost, how much he’d so willingly, almost eagerly, cast away.

  Swallowing hard, Father Mathias made the sign of the cross over his vestments yet again as he strode through the wet grass. He would go to his apartment, drink a little brandy, and try to come up with a plan, an escape.

  Coward! You can never break free. You are condemned to hell by your own hand. You are Judas.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement, the slightest shiver of the shrubbery flanking the galilee, the porch at the west end of the church.

  Father Mathias felt his heart shudder. He told himself not to be so frightened, the movement was probably caused by a cat out on a nightly hunt, or an opossum hiding beneath the branches or…Oh, God.

  He froze.

  A dark figure rose from its crouching position beneath the narrow tracery windows. “Father Mathias,” it whispered hoarsely as it drew near.

  Mathias was struck by fear as dark as Lucifer’s soul.

  “What is it, my son?”

  The being, for that’s how he thought of it, was large, a man in a costume, or something otherworldly? Male? Or an Amazon woman? Or sexless? Its features were hidden in the dark recesses of a thick cowl, its eyes seeming to glow bloodred.

  Mathias trembled, cold as death.

  White teeth flashed in the darkness. Lips dark, as if stained with blood, warned, “Do not betray us. I see it in your eyes, feel it in your expression, smell the fear within you.” The lips curled as if in disgust and for a millisecond he imagined he saw fangs within that shadowy evil countenance. “If there is a whisper of treason, the barest breath of your disloyalty, you will be blamed. And, I assure you, you will be punished.”

  Before Mathias could raise his arms to hold his crucifix in the demon’s face, it lunged, grabbing hold of his wrist in a painful grip. Hot breath scorched his skin.

  “No!” he cried.

  Too late.

  Cloth ripped.

  Lips curled back.