by Lisa Jackson
He was proud of himself. Of his resourcefulness. He’d found the dogs through an ad in a local paper that was chock-full of cheap items for sale—everything from used mattress and springs to farm equipment and exotic pets. The animals had been described as “guard dogs—Doberman/Rottweiler mix.” They were perfect.
Except for their incessant howling from the basement. This, of course, was not where he lived; just where he spent most of his time. He lived in a cramped space only a few blocks from the college. His furnishings, books, and clothing were there. He’d left a few things strewn about to make it seem as if he entertained women in those quarters, and he found this the most exciting part for they were earrings, or necklaces, or even scarves of some of the women he’d immortalized.
Now, he untied his cincture and let his alb slide to the floor. He stood naked before the altar, but he couldn’t concentrate, the dogs were too loud. Music didn’t help and even the caress of the jeweled whip striking his flesh wasn’t enough to satisfy him. His prayers seemed empty and unanswered, and when he fondled his braid, rubbing the plait slowly between his fingers or upon his cock, he had only the hint of an erection. Closing his eyes, he conjured up the image of St. Catherine of Alexandria rotating on the wheel, her white body spinning and dripping blood, the horror upon her face as he withdrew his blade … but, no … he didn’t get hard, didn’t feel the presence of God … began to doubt.
The barking continued. If one of the beasts quieted, it seemed the other took up the call. He strode to the landing and screamed down, “Shut up!” Spawn of the devil, that’s what the curs were. His head began to pound harder and harder with each yowl.
Perhaps he should beat them again. Take the leather straps and whip them until they turned and snarled at him. They had water and a couple of bones with tattered pieces of meat but he’d offered them no solid food. He wanted them ravenous for St. Vivian.
As his head ached, he sensed, from somewhere in the back of his brain, that he should repent. It was so confusing at times. God meant him to do His will. Yes, of course, but … the priest had insisted that he stop; that his sacrifices were a sin… but then the priest didn’t understand. Couldn’t.
Pray the rosary and go to the police.
What kind of a priest was Father James?
At the altar The Chosen One slid to his knees and bowed his head. He prayed until his knees ached, until his neck hurt, but it was no good. He needed to confess and the phone wasn’t good enough. No … he needed to visit the confessional and hear Father McClaren’s breath, feel the heat from his body through the thin partition … yes … it would be dangerous, but necessary.
God would expect no less.
Chapter Thirty-two
“… a bar in Lafayette, one in Baton Rouge, two in New Orleans, and one in Cambrai,” the owner of Nick’s Neon Lighting said from his office in Montgomery. Seated at his desk with the phone receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder, Bentz was scribbling notes. “Those are the only places I’ve sold a neon sign like the one you described, with the pink martini glass. I’d be glad to fax you over the information.”
“Do that,” Bentz said and gave him the fax number. Irritated, he plowed stiff fingers through his hair. The case was getting to him. He’d viewed every shred of evidence and was working with the damned task force but he still felt as if his wheels were spinning, they were getting nowhere.
Fast.
And now a neon sign of a pink martini glass could be linked to Baton Rouge, only a few blocks from the campus where Kristi was attending school. At All Saints. Even though there were other bars who had the same signs displayed, Bentz focused on the one in the window of The Dive. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
As soon as he got the fax, he’d give a copy to the task force, just as he’d taken them a copy of the list of names Olivia had provided him with. The team was sorting through it, locating those infants, comparing the list to recorded births, Social Security numbers, DMV records, and arrests. They were sifting through class lists, faculty lists, alumni lists, and employee records for the colleges the victims had attended, scouring the information for a link. The FBI was comparing the murders to others in the data base in the hope of finding similarities with other crimes that had been committed across the country, just in case New Orleans wasn’t the killer’s first or only hunting ground.
The task force had established a hot line and had given more facts to the press in case anyone knew of anything suspicious.
In the matter of a week, evidence was being collected, sifted, and classified, but so far the task force hadn’t come up with dick and Bentz felt as if they were running out of time. More feast days loomed, each day bringing them closer to another murder. Loosening his collar, he read through the list of names on his copy of Olivia’s list for the dozenth time … He felt as if he were missing something, as if somewhere in those sixty-odd names, was the killer. “Who are you, you bastard?” he wondered aloud.
Had any of these newborns grown up to be priests? Had any attended the colleges in the area? How many now lived around New Orleans? The computers would sort this out. If there were any matches …
A secretary rapped on his door, then dropped off the fax and some mail, all of which had been opened, none of which was valuable. He skimmed the fax from Nick’s Neon Lighting, then shot a copy to the coordinator of the task force. None of the addresses for the bars was near the victims’ homes, or their places of employ, or from where they were assumed to have been abducted.
Except for The Dive in Baton Rouge. Only three blocks off the campus of All Saints College. Hell, why couldn’t he shake his bad feeling about this one? He glanced at the bifold pictures of Kristi, then remembered seeing her buried beneath the covers of her bed on Thanksgiving morning. Later he’d caught her kicking the hell out of his punching bag. At dinner she’d tried heroically to pretend that his miserable attempt at Thanksgiving dinner was fabulous.
He grinned. Kristi was right. He was paranoid. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost her. His daughter—and he’d beat the living tar out of anyone who even suggested she wasn’t rightfully his—was the one constant in his life, the reason he’d quit booze and women.
He knew he had to let her go, and hell, he was trying. Half the time she was pushing him away, telling him to “get a life.” He glanced around the small, cluttered office where he spent more hours than he wanted to count. Case files and empty cups cluttered his desk. Pictures of grizzly murder scenes had been tacked to his bulletin board. Dust collected on the few pictures he had mounted on the walls. This wasn’t a life. When he went home, it was more of the same. Aside from watching sports or sometimes taking a few swings at the punching bag.
He threw down his pencil and closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. She was right. He did need something more in his life.
Something or some one like Olivia Benchet?
“Shit.” He didn’t have time for a woman. Especially not one who had somehow befriended Father James.
Why not? Hell, Bentz, she came here offering a damned olive branch and you treated her like dirt.
His jaw clenched so hard it ached. He didn’t want to think about a relationship with anyone right now, not even Olivia. When this was all over, when the madman was either dead or behind bars, maybe then there would be time for a woman in his life.
Like Montoya’s life? Bentz scowled darkly. Montoya’s girlfriend still hadn’t shown up. Disappeared without a trace.
An APB hadn’t come up with the girl or her car. And she was a part-time student.
That was the connection… but he was missing something … something important. He reached into his drawer, found a pack of nicotine gum, and shoved the tasteless stick into his mouth. The schools, it all had to do with the schools.
He picked up the information sheet he’d put together on Brian Thomas. In less than twenty-four hours, Bentz had figured out that Thomas was thirty-one, estranged from his parents, had gotten into trouble when h
e was younger when an underage girl had cried rape, and gone to the army as well as been enrolled for a while in a seminary.
There were too many damned red flags waving around the guy. Olivia thought she’d seen a priest behead Stephanie Jane Keller in her vision and the guy was about the same weight and height as Thomas, athletic and blue-eyed. Thomas had been trained with all sorts of weapons while he was in the military and at one time had a deluded vision of becoming a priest. His days at the seminary had been numbered and somehow Thomas ended up at All Damned Saints while victims were being slaughtered in accordance with saints’ feast days.
And what if he was the killer? Why would he be dating Kristi? Is that how the killer got to know his victims—by cozying up to them, dating them? That MO seemed unlikely and dangerous; the killer would take a big chance of being seen with the women he eventually killed. So far no one had connected the murderer with the women who had been slaughtered.
That you know of. Maybe he was clever. Maybe Thomas had dated them in the past.
There were too many damned coincidences for Bentz’s way of thinking.
Time to have a chat with Kristi’s boyfriend. Behind his daughter’s back.
If she found out and was pissed as hell, that was too bad. At least she would be alive.
“So that’s it, I have to face it. Leo wants a divorce and there’s not a whole lot I can do about it except get the best damned lawyer in Tucson… no, make that Phoenix,” Sarah decided.
She’d returned around five that morning, had slept until two, then rattled around in the bathroom for ten minutes before appearing with her two bags in the kitchen. Her eyes were puffy and she looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink, but she wasn’t crying now. She appeared calm and determined. “He wants to marry the bitch. Can you believe it? He’s”—she made air quotes with two sets of fingers—” ‘in love.’ He didn’t want this to happen, you know, it just did.”
She took the cup of coffee Olivia handed to her. “It’s such bullshit. When I think of all the years I looked the other way, put up with his nonsense, figured that someday he’d grow up … Jesus, I was a fool.”
“You were married to him. Quit beating yourself up.”
“Oh, and that’s the best part. He and the bitch are already planning their wedding. As soon as the divorce is final. He’s quitting his job in Tucson, well, they’ve probably fired him by now anyway, and moving in with her. They’re …” Sarah’s chin wobbled. She buried her nose in her cup and took a big gulp. “… they’re even talking about having a baby together. Her kids are six and eight. Girls. They want a son.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Sarah—”
A solitary tear tracked from one of her eyes and she held up a hand, palm outward. “Here’s the kicker. She’s married, too. Her husband just found out last weekend and he’s shell-shocked. Had no idea his wife was foolin’ around on him.”
“They deserve each other.”
“I know …” She set her half-full cup on the counter. “Look, I’ve got to get home. I have a lawyer to see, a store to run, a cat to adopt, and I think I’ll sign up for one of those dating services on-line.”
“Are you sure? Cats? Dating services?”
“I’m not sure about anything except that I’m through sitting around and bawling my eyes out over that loser. The cat will be better company and I’m going to meet some men, damn it. Somewhere there’s got to be a better guy out there.” Again her chin trembled and her eyes filled. “Damn it, why do I even care? Leo’s a bastard. Always was.”
“And you’re the winner. Keep reminding yourself of that … call me anytime and… are you sure you have to leave?” Olivia asked, touching her friend on the arm. “I’ve got the extra room.”
“Thanks, you’re a love, but I have to put my life back together. And you … figure it out with the cop and Father James.”
“What? I’m not—”
“Shh.” Sarah shook her head and held up a hand. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve got some kind of thing for the detective but I saw the way Father James looked at you.”
“If you remember, he’s a priest.”
“He’s a man who just happens to be a priest. And he’s a hunk.”
“You really have flipped.”
A sad smile twisted her friend’s lips. “Maybe I have,” she admitted. “Maybe I should amend my earlier goals. Make it that I have a lawyer to see, a store to run, a cat to adopt, a dating service to join, and a shrink to visit. Is that better?”
“Much,” Olivia said, sad that Sarah was leaving. It had been nice to have someone in the house again. They hugged and sighed, then Olivia helped Sarah stash her things in the trunk of her rented compact. A squirrel scolded them both as she drove away. Hairy S whined as the little car disappeared over the bridge and through the trees. “She’ll be back,” Olivia predicted, glancing down at the dog. “And you be good. She’s not all that crazy about you. Come on.” She whistled to the dog, who took off after a squirrel. “Hairy!”
The phone rang.
“Hairy, you get in here!”
The dog ignored her. Again the phone rang.
“Fine!” She left the door open and ran to the kitchen in time to hear her own voice on the recorder. “This is Olivia. I’m either out or—” She grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Oh, hi … It’s James,” Father McClaren said and she smiled as she conjured up his handsome, if worried face. “I’m glad I caught you … I feel like a fool to admit this but I think I may have left my wallet at your house. Maybe I dropped it while looking in the toolbox or while I was sitting on the couch … I don’t remember.”
“Let me check. Hold on a minute.” Olivia did a quick search. The toolbox didn’t hold anything other than her grandfather’s assortment of screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, and wrenches, and the couch only gave up a few quarters, lint, and kernels of popcorn, but then she looked beneath the blankets in Hairy S’s bed in the part of the porch that had been converted to the laundry room and sure enough she found a slim, black leather wallet. Father James McClaren’s picture stared up at her from his driver’s license.
“Got it,” she said as she returned to the kitchen and picked up the phone again. “My dog’s a thief. I found it in his bed. I could bring it to you tomorrow. I’ve got to drive into the city anyway.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need it before then, so unless it’s inconvenient, I’d like to stop by and pick it up later. Right after mass tonight?”
“That would be fine, “ Olivia said, leaning a hip against the counter and seeing Hairy appear at the back door, where he began to pound against the glass. “I was just trying to save you a trip.” She unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hairy galloped inside.
“I’ll see you later then,” Father James was saying. “How about around eight-thirty?”
“Great.”
“How’s Sarah?”
“She just left.” Olivia sighed. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.”
“See you later.”
Olivia hung up and set the wallet on the counter, where the dog couldn’t get to it. “Shame on you,” she said to Hairy S as she walked to the front of the house and shut the door. “Stealing from a priest.” That’s worse than lusting after one. She ”tsked, tsked,“ then fed both animals and, telling herself that she was not paying any attention to Sarah’s assessment of Father James’s feelings for her, changed into black slacks and a sweater, touched up her makeup, tried and failed to tame her hair, and spritzed on a couple of shots of perfume.
Reminding herself she wasn’t getting ready for a date, she switched on the television. The screen flickered to show an African-American newswoman standing in front of an old, dilapidated building surrounded by trees and brush. Police cars, lights flashing, were parked haphazardly around what looked to be a warehouse until she realized that she was viewing the grist mill where the most recent victims had been found.
She swallowed hard.
So this was where they had died—in a desolate, crumbling building.
“… as you can see, the police are still here, searching for clues. Last night the bodies of two women were discovered by …”
Olivia, mesmerized by the report, dropped onto the couch. She’d avoided watching the news for the last few days, hadn’t wanted to dwell on the murders, but now, viewing the crumbling mill and knowing what had happened inside, she listened, transfixed, as the reporter warned the citizens about a brutal serial murderer on the loose. “… though not many details have been released, the police have issued a warning to all citizens …” Other images flashed before the scene. Photographs of the victims interspersed with footage from the archives which displayed the apartment house in the Garden District where Cathy Adams’s nude body had been found, the statue of St. Joan of Arc, and the burned-out shell of a house in Bayou St. John where Stephanie Jane Keller had been slain. “ . . . and now, here, two women found in what an anonymous source has called macabre, brutal, and ritualistic slayings reminiscent of the Rosary Killer, who prowled the streets of New Orleans just last summer.” The screen changed to footage of Bentz talking to the press. It was a hot summer day and Bentz was sweating as he answered the reporter’s questions, assuring the viewers that the Rosary Killer had been killed.
“But, Detective, isn’t it true that the killer’s body was never recovered?” a sharp-featured reporter asked.