by Lisa Jackson
Staring at the sketch, Sam felt cold as death. The drawing was clear, but the features weren't denned. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to marks on the drawing of the suspect's left cheek. "A scar?"
"Scratch marks. The potential victim who got away clawed at him."
"Good," Sam said as she stared at the composite. "I— I don't think I know this man," she said, slowly shaking her head. "This guy could be anyone."
"With Type A positive blood. We're double-checking."
Charon, eyeing the detectives warily, had hopped onto Sam's lap and she petted him absently as they talked. They questioned her about phone calls, had she seen anyone lurking around? Had she been approached? Was her alarm system working? Did it scare intruders off, or was it connected with a service? All the while the sketch was on the table, staring at her through dark glasses. He seemed familiar and yet not.
Once the preliminary questions were over, the detectives offered to drive her into New Orleans, to the station to view and possibly identify the red teddy, the single garment Leanne was wearing when she was killed. It made Sam sick to think of it, to imagine that she had anything to do with Leanne's death. She imagined the girl's terror, her fear, her pain.
If only she could have interceded, taken Leanne's calls for help, she thought again as she sat in the back of the cruiser. Montoya drove. Bentz, one arm over the backrest, twisted so that he could see Sam. The air conditioner roared, and the police radio crackled.
"We think he dresses them up to look like you," Bentz said, as Montoya drove around the edge of Lake Pontchartrain. Through the window, Sam glanced at the darkening water. A few sailboats were visible, the first stars were winking high overhead and the calm water seemed somehow foreboding and dark. Sinister. Like the evil that lurked in all the shadows, the evil that was somehow linked to her.
"We're confiding in the media, handing out composites and descriptions, hoping someone will recognize him. We won't mention you or the calls to the station, nor will we bring up anything about Annie Seger or Houston, but we hope to flush him out."
"Or drive him to kill again."
Bentz didn't say a word.
"He will anyway," Montoya offered as he switched lanes.
"We have to stop him before he does," she said, as the lights of New Orleans glittered ever more closely. Montoya was a lead-foot; the cruiser sped past other vehicles driving into the city. Sam hardly noticed. "We have to do anything we can to end this."
"That's the idea," Bentz said, and stuffed a stick of gum into his mouth. "The department's doing everything in its power—"
"Screw the 'department'," she bit out. "How many women are dead? Three, you said, maybe more? Because of me and my show and God only knows what else? The 'department' hasn't saved any lives so far, right?" She was thinking hard. "And I'm the connection to him? Then we should use that. Try to reach him through my program."
"This is a police matter."
"Like hell, Detective. This is personal. To me. 'John's' made it personal. He's called me, sent me threats, broken into my house and now he's killed someone I care about. It's personal to me." By the time Montoya had parked on the street and Bentz had shepherded her into the building and up a set of back stairs to his office, she was furious. At the killer, at the police, at herself and at Leanne for going with the creep. Why had she decided to hook again? Turn a trick?
She tried to reach out to you, Sam, but you weren't there for her, were you? Just like you weren't there for Annie, and now she and her baby are dead. Dead! Because you weren't there.
She marched into Bentz's airless office and waited while he unlocked a cabinet and retrieved a plastic bag. Inside was her red teddy. There was no doubt. She recognized the pattern of lace that covered the breasts, saw the remainder of the tag that she'd cut off when she'd first purchased the flimsy garment, and felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach.
Leanne had been wearing it when she'd died. Why? Oh, poor confused baby. Leanne had only been a teenager.
But someone had stolen the teddy from Sam's house. Probably on the night she'd been with Ty on the boat. Who had walked in and taken something so personal? Leanne? Or "John"? Or an accomplice?
She sank into one of the visitor's chairs in the hot little office and felt as if the blood had been drained from her body. "It's mine," she whispered, dry-eyed, but screaming inside. No, no, no! Leanne, please ... Dear God, let this be a nightmare. Let me wake up!
"He's getting closer to you," Bentz said, and she shuddered inside. "But we're going to get him."
"I believe you." She met the detective's determined gaze with her own. "Let's find that son of a bitch, toss him into jail and throw away the key."
"That's too good for him." Bentz walked to the fan behind his desk and switched it to its highest setting. "In this case I'd like to see him drawn and quartered."
"But first we have to catch him," Montoya pointed out. He rested a hip on the edge of Bentz's desk and leaned closer to Sam. "For that, we're gonna need your help."
"You've got it," Sam said, her jaw setting. "I'll do whatever I have to."
The bitch had scratched him.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror he'd nailed over a basin on a stand. Sure enough, despite two days' growth of beard, the wound was visible, three distinct gouges from the cunt's claws. He shouldn't have let her escape. That had been a mistake, one his instructor would never have made.
Don't think about him. You're in control now. You. Father John.
But he felt desperate. Angry. Restless. He glanced around the cabin, his only real home now, not much by his old standards, and yet a place where he felt he belonged. Only on the bayou did he feel some peace, some respite from the thrumming in his brain.
He'd grown up privileged and somehow ended up here… cast out of his own family… he thought of his mother… his sister… his father… shit, he didn't have a family anymore. Hadn't for years. He was on his own. Even his mentor had abandoned him, the very man who had helped him deal with the monster within him, the one who had shown him the way…
Yes, he was truly alone.
If Annie had lived…
Whoring cunt—she deserved to die. She asked for it… Betrayer… Jezebel… How could she have been with another man?
He reached into his shaving kit and found a tube of salve and a small bottle of face makeup. After coating his wounds with the ointment, he carefully dabbed concealer over the discoloration on his skin. Squinting in the light from his lantern, he added mascara to his beard-stubble until the wounds weren't visible.
A low moan from the corner caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder to the corner cot and saw his prisoner. A pathetic specimen, bound and gagged, drugged into oblivion, only roused when it was necessary for the victim to realize the magnitude of their sins.
Haunted eyes opened, blinked, then, as if unable to accept their fate, closed again.
Father John looked into the mirror again, stared into his own gaze and inwardly cringed. His eyes had seen too much, and now accused him of crimes he'd committed, sins that he could never repent. And yet the thought of those sins… the hunt… the capture… the terror of his prey… and the ultimate bloodlust… the kill… brought a rush to his veins, a tingle of anticipation flowing through his blood.
He reached into his pocket and found his special rosary… cool, cold beads, sharp against the pads of his fingers and thumb. Such a wicked, lovely weapon, the symbol of good and purity and capable of such a hellish death. That's what he liked about it—the cruel irony of it.
He thought of the women he'd killed… Annie, of course, but that was before he'd learned from the master, before he understood his mission, before he'd perfected his method and employed his treacherous, beloved noose. He'd watched her blood flow, so slowly it seemed now… and then there had been the first whore… he'd planned that after he'd been betrayed by the one woman he'd trusted… the one woman who should have been there for him forever.
He'd heard Dr. Sam's voice one night… here… away from Houston… away from Annie… and he'd known he had to set things right, that Samantha Leeds was the reason Annie was dead. He'd been forced to kill Annie because of Dr. Sam.
The nerve of the bitch to start up again, broadcasting her meaningless, psychological mumbo-jumbo. Messing up people's lives.
But soon she would stop. He would see to it.
He thought of the women who had paid for Samantha Leeds's sins. The first victim had been random, the hooker who had been hanging out on Bourbon Street, luring men, offering up her body… and it had been such a rush, such a turn-on to watch the terror in her eyes when she'd realized he was going to strangle her with the rosary.
He grew hard at the thought, and he remembered the second victim, another prostitute who had approached him down by the brewery. She'd been tough, hadn't wanted to wear the wig, but had eventually complied, and he'd slowly killed her just like the first. Seeing her horror, watching her struggle while growing so hard he nearly came in his pants.
But the best, the very best, had been the Jaquillard girl. He hadn't meant to kill her that night—but the other one, the bitch he'd found near the universities, the girl dressed like a hooker who had clawed him had gotten away had left him empty.
Then he'd set his sites on the Jaquillard girl, followed her. It had seemed fitting that the girl closest to Samantha die on Annie's birthday. It was only after the frustration of losing one victim that he'd taken the streetcar to Canal Street, walked to the Jaquillard girl's apartment and waited for her in the dark. She'd left the apartment after nightfall and had walked to the river, looking edgy. He'd followed her, approached her as she'd sat on the bench looking at the dark, slow-moving water of the Mississippi. She'd been lost in thought, but eager to score some quick money when he offered the deal.
The rest had been easy. As easy as stealing Sam's teddy had been.
He wondered how Dr. Sam had taken the news about the girl… they'd been close, he'd seen them together, heard from his source that Leanne Jaquillard had been special to Dr. Sam. Oh, he would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Dr. Sam found out about Leanne's death.
Samantha would have known, deep down, that the girl was dead because of her.
He remembered the kill. How she'd begged.
His blood turned hot.
Molten.
Roared through his veins.
His cock pressed hard against his pants as he thought of Samantha with her red hair and green eyes. Soon he would have the pleasure. He reached down, felt himself, closed his eyes and imagined taking Leanne Jaquillard's life—
His cell phone rang jarring him out of his fantasy, causing the pathetic worm on his cot to jump. Angrily, he crossed the stark living area and picked up. "Yeah?"
"Hi!" Her voice was perky, expectant. He smiled. She was a pretty thing and ambitious, willing to do just about anything he wanted. "I'm not working tonight and I thought maybe we could get together."
"Maybe," he said, glancing at his rousing victim. Time for another dose. Sleeping pills that he'd stolen in Houston.
"There's a new restaurant on Chartres. I read about it in the paper. Authentic French cuisine, but then that's what they always say. Or we could eat in… I'd even cook."
He thought about the hunt, about snuffing out Leanne's life, and he grew hard again. This woman, too, though she didn't know it, would feel the sweet torture of his glittering wreath surround her long neck.
"Let's go out," he said, wanting the feel of the night to close in on him, hoping to get lost in the crowd, to blend in to the heated throng pulsing down Bourbon Street "I'm in the mood for jazz. I'll meet you." He glanced at his watch. "At ten o'clock. Corner of Bienville and Bourbon."
"Can't wait," she said, and hung up.
Neither can I. He looked around his cabin, the souvenirs he carried with him from a happier time oh, so, long ago. Pictures of Annie, pictures of Samantha, ribbons and athletic trophies—a tennis racquet, set of golf clubs, lacrosse stick, fishing rod and skis. Reminders of what his life was and could have been.
But you're a sinner.
He knew that much. Didn't need to remind himself.
Tonight he'd lose himself in the crowds. Drink. Do some coke if he was lucky enough to score. Blend in with the masses and later… later… he'd come back here, to this dark place where no one could hear a scream, and make his prisoner beg for the mercy of death.
He had work to do. Tonight he would begin to set his plan into motion. He glanced at his moaning victim and grabbed the syringe from his shaving kit. The prisoner saw him coming, started making little choking, gasping sounds beneath the gag and scooted away. But there was no where to turn. His prisoner's hands were tied behind the captive's back and the legs were shackled. Terror rose from bulging eyes and his prisoner's head whipped back and forth, spittle darkening the gag.
"It's either this or the gators," Father John said as he found his captive's left arm and jabbed the needle deep. "And the gators are too good for you."
The prisoner started to weep.
Pathetic. It would be so much easier to kill his victim now… but that would ruin everything.
"Shut up," he said and the prisoner mewled. Dr. John kicked hard, in the shins, landing a steel-toed boot against a bare leg. "Shut the fuck up."
His captive became soundless, but the tears still streamed. John grabbed the prisoner's hand, clamped his fingers around the prisoner's finger and stripped off a ring. Unable to conceal his smile, he opened the cupboard where he stored his treasures, the trophies from his kill and added the band with its single winking stone. The prisoner started screaming behind the gag again, but one look ended the screams.
Good.
Father John forced his thoughts to his ultimate victim.
Dr. Sam.
But not through the airwaves.
In the flesh.
Such sweet vengeance… he had great plans for her. He'd bring her here, make her see the error of her ways, keep her alive until she begged his forgiveness.
And then, when he was tired of the game, he'd kill her with the rosary.
Deftly he made the sign of the cross, then reached for his Ray-Bans.
Chapter Thirty
"You're not staying here." Ty was adamant as he strode through the open door, and Sam flung herself into his arms. "Come on, darlin' let's get you somewhere safe." He kicked the door shut and it was all she could do not to fall into a thousand pieces as she clung to him.
"It's just so awful. The same thing happening all over again," she said brokenly. "Leanne… oh, God, she was pregnant. Just like Annie."
"Shh. It's going to be okay."
"It'll never be okay, Ty. Never."
His arms tightened. His lips pressed against her forehead, then her eyes. "Sure it will… you just give it time."
"There is none. That—that monster is out there."
"We'll get him. I promise." He kissed her tearstained cheek, then finally her lips. His lips were as strong as his words. "You just stick with me. Things will work out fine." She wanted to believe him. Oh, God, she wanted to believe him. But the nightmare wasn't over yet and despite his platitudes, she doubted anything would ever be the same.
"Now, tell me what happened," he said, pulling her into the den, one arm around her shoulders.
Sam drew in a ragged breath. "It was awful." He guided her to her desk chair, and while she sat in front of the flickering computer screen, he rested a hip on the desk and listened.
She explained what she'd done while he was away, what she'd accomplished, how she'd failed. She'd tried to reach her friend who worked at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, but it was the weekend, so she had to leave a voice mail message. She'd also attempted to get in touch with Leanne, but, of course, that had been fruitless, the poor thing was already dead. Twiddling a pencil and feeling cold to the marrow of her bones, she explained about her call about her brother, then the horrid, mind-numbing phone con
versation with "John" just as the police arrived with the news that Leanne Jaquillard had been murdered by a serial killer.
"Jesus," Ty said. "I should have been here."
"You couldn't have stopped it. No one could have." She dropped the pencil and slumped in her chair. "God, I'm exhausted."
"I've got just the thing." He walked into the kitchen where she heard him rummaging through the cupboards, then twist on the faucet. Water ran. A few seconds later he reappeared with a glass. "Here."
"Thanks." She took a sip, placed it to her head and she explained about the trip to New Orleans and the police station. "Ever since Detective Montoya dropped me off, I've been here, going through my textbooks and the paperbacks I've collected over the years on criminal psychology, psychosis, and dysfunctions of serial murderers."
"A lot of good that did." She took another long swallow from the glass. "I was so stupid. So naive, no, so arrogant. I thought I was beginning to understand it. I really believed this was all just a sick game to John. Oh, I knew he had a violent streak, that was evident in that first cut-up picture he sent me, but I had no idea, I mean, I didn't think for a minute that… that he was a killer." She closed her eyes for a second, trying to pull herself together, to push out the cacophony of guilt that blared in her brain.
"We'll find him."
"But who is he? I've been trying to figure it out. The police have semen samples and they're comparing them to anyone associated with the women who were killed, with anyone associated with Annie and with anyone associated with me, but it's going to take time."
"I have some of that information. Remember? Because of Annie's pregnancy." Ty reached for the phone. "What's the name of the detective?"
"Rick Bentz."
"I'm going to call him and tell him everything I know, offer my files, tell them what I've found out and try and convince them that this all started with Annie Seger. Whoever killed her is the man they're looking for."