by Lisa Jackson
The dogs were driving him out of his mind. They howled from dawn to dusk and then some.
The Chosen One reminded himself that he didn’t have long to wait. December second was barely a week away … and he needed to spend that time flogging Bibiana while the dogs watched and grew hungrier.
He crossed himself at the altar and changed into street clothes, surveying himself in the mirror, smiling as he thought of his next mission. This one was more personal than the others … Bibiana … Sister… it was time to meet … How had it happened that his mother, named for St. Bernadette of Lourdes, had been such a whore? A woman capable of giving up her child, her only son, then marrying the very man who had sired that boy and having more children—girls—which she kept. Never once had she tried to contact him. Never once had she attempted to explain. It was as if he’d never existed.
It was an outrage; a sin.
Who had the son been given to? Hayseeds! Hicks! A barren farming couple who wanted him only to put him to work, sunup to sundown, a couple whose strict interpretation of Catholic dogma had been corrupted by their need to survive. He, the son they’d wanted so desperately, had been flogged and cursed, forced into servitude, told incessantly how much he cost his parents with his parochial education which, of course, they’d insisted upon. And a strict school it had been, an institution where there had been no girls, no distractions, a school which concentrated on learning and higher education, a school where he’d excelled and managed to receive scholarships and where he’d learned that he’d had a different calling, that God had chosen him to suffer, the Father in all His wisdom, had picked him to rid the earth of sinners … first his parents, but slowly … so that it would appear natural.
First the “accident” with the tractor that had left his father a cripple. Then, over time, the slow effects of the fertilizer supplements added to his medications, swirled carefully into tall glasses of sweet-tasting, over-the-counter concoctions for everything from cough syrup to constipation remedies. His “mother” had been just as easy with her belief in “natural” herbs, pills that could be easily doctored, capsules that could be swapped all too easily. She’d been half-blind, so dependent. No one had suspected. They’d been in their late forties when they’d adopted him, and then, when he’d found his calling, when God had first spoken to him, they had already started to decline.
Freda had died in her La-Z-Boy watching Jeopardy!, Tom from a heart attack not a year later.
Simple.
Neat.
Tidy.
And just the beginning, he thought now as he heard the dogs’ howls over the soft strains of classical music. Bach. Usually calming. But not tonight.
Tonight he was restless. He needed to find Bibiana, to convince her to meet with him. She would be wary, so he would have to be careful. But then … he had just the bait.
Adjusting his jacket, he walked down the stairs to the basement where a single red bulb glowed, giving the old cement walls a faint crimson glow.
The woman laying naked in the straw was still unconscious. Her hands were bound behind her, a shackle chaining one ankle to the wall. He’d left her a bucket to use should she need to defecate and he gave her enough water to keep her alive. She was groggy still, the discoloration on her face unfortunate. He hadn’t expected her to struggle. Stupid bitch of a woman. Whore. Out drinking and flirting … a married woman. He would keep her. Alive. For a while. Until she’d lured St. Bibiana here. His hands clenched as he thought of his sister. Olivia Benchet, the privileged one.
Soon to be sacrificed.
God was waiting for her.
The dogs bayed and growled from their kennels and he noticed that their ribs were beginning to show. Drool dripped from their muzzles. He tossed them each a bone from the meat market… and they, snapping and snarling, dark eyes glittering, pounced on their morsels.
The woman moaned. He’d have to tend to her. Take off her gag so that she could lap water … stupid whoring bitch …
One eye opened, blinked, and focused for a second. She jerked away, scrambling as best she could toward the wall. Fear widened her eyes over the gag. One cur growled and the woman snapped her head, caught sight of the dogs and scrambled closer to the wall.
His cock twitched when he saw her terror. He thought of what he could make her do … the sexual acts he’d imagined … he was suddenly hard. It would be so simple to rut with her. To debase her. To show her what a filthy whore she was … but he couldn’t. It would be unclean. Unworthy.
Carnal pleasure is not part of the mission. His headache grew. The tic beneath his eye began again. His mission seemed cloudy.
Confess. You need to confess.
The prisoner’s gaze was fastened on the spasm on his face, then when he caught her looking, her eyes moved and saw the bulge in his pants. Her terror was complete … or was it … there was something else in her eyes—a cool calculation. She was planning her escape. Even in her foggy mind. He clucked his tongue. He thought of putting her under again, then decided to let her consider her fate. One dog sent up a wild yip and she glanced over at it, new horror showing in her eyes. She hated them. And rightly so.
The Chosen One turned to the stairs and he heard her mewling behind him. Soon she would beg for her life, do anything he wanted, and he’d have absolute power over her. He turned on the third step and gazed down at the windowless cavern with its reddish light. She scooted closer, supplicating.
Yes, she was beginning to understand. He was her master. He alone decided her fate. He felt a spot of tenderness for her shackled and naked. But he had work to do. Time was passing. He felt a twinge of regret, of conscience. Sometimes his mission seemed wrong … other times he knew he was right. His head thundered. Remember, you are the cleanser, one whom the Father has told to go forth and purge the earth from the depravity of sinning women. This is about purity. And retribution.
The Chosen One fought the pain and doubts knifing through his brain. He needed counsel, direction. To reaffirm that which he knew to be true. He sucked in his breath against the agony roaring through his head. Unlike the sweet bite of the whip, the pleasure that the kiss of the leather straps invoked, this was sheer agony. This pain was far different. Debilitating. Blinding. He needed to talk to someone. Father James … yes …
The woman made another strangled cry and The Chosen One turned from her. Before he clicked off the light, he glanced back. She knew only fear. She had no concept that he was going to make her immortal, that she would become a saint.
His was a heavy burden. He snapped off the light and said, “Good night, Sarah.”
“… it’ll all be in my report,” Officer Calvin Smith, one of the deputies assigned to watch Olivia, was saying, “but I thought you’d want to know that besides her friend, Sarah Restin, who left and drove to the airport, Ms. Benchet has had another regular visitor. He visited her for Thanksgiving and then stayed over the next night. I wasn’t too worried about it because I saw her greet him and they obviously knew each other, but now I’m thinkin’ it was kinda odd.”
Every muscle in Bentz’s body tensed. “He stayed over?” Bentz repeated, jealousy spurting through his blood.
“Yeah, and that’s what’s odd. I ran the plates of his vehicle a little while ago and the car belongs to the Church.”
“What?” Bentz whispered, dread chasing away the jealousy. “The Church?” No!
“Yeah. The guy’s a damned priest.”
Bentz shot to his feet. He wanted to reach through the phone lines and strangle the man. Fear gelled in the darkest reaches of his soul. “Who?” he demanded, envisioning Olivia tied up somewhere. Tortured. Images of Leslie Franz strapped to the wheel of death and Stephanie Jane Keller chained to a pedestal sink zipped through his mind in horrid, vibrant technicolor.
“Father James McClaren.” The officer laughed. “I guess even priests have to get their rocks off sometimes.”
Bentz’s teeth ground together. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know we’re looking for a priest? That the serial killer—”
“Jesus, no! I’ve been on vacation. Just got into town and pulled this duty. My partner never said anything about the suspect being a priest.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. I’m off duty.”
“Dammit. Find out and call me back. On my cell phone. Pronto.” He gave the idiot his number. “You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Repeat it back to me.”
Smith did. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Pray, Smith,” he said. “Then sit tight. I think you’ve done enough.” Swearing, Bentz slammed down the phone. He strode out of his office and flew down the steps. He was in his Jeep within minutes. Throwing the rig into gear, he closed his mind to the grotesque images that chased after him. Olivia and James … lovers … like Jennifer and James … no way. No way! He pounded a fist against the steering wheel and snapped on his lights. Blowing through a stop sign, he considered the evidence. James? James was the killer? He was the right size, athletic, about the right age if Norm Stowell, the profiler, was to be believed and hell … he had blue eyes … didn’t he? But why would Olivia get herself entangled with a priest after experiencing the horror of her own visions? It didn’t make any sense. What had she said? That she’d gone to St. Luke’s because it was the closest church to the fire that had taken Stephanie Jane Keller’s life? That she’d asked Father James, the parish priest, to get the list of babies who’d been christened about the time of her brother’s birth?
Bentz whipped around a double-parked van. Had he been wrong? He’d assumed the killer was related to Olivia somehow, but he could have made a mistake … and now Olivia might be paying with her life! He blasted his horn when a middle-aged BMW driver cut him off.
His cell phone beeped and he picked it up, bracing himself for the worst. That there was another victim, that the son of a bitch had somehow gotten Olivia … “This is Bentz,” he snapped.
“Rick? It’s Olivia.” She sounded frightened. Scared out of her mind. Oh, God. No …
“Where are you?”
“At work … but something’s wrong … I can feel it,” she said. “He’s … he’s conflicted. Confused. The killer wants to talk to someone …”
“Who?” Relief washed over him. At least she was safe. Unharmed.
“I don’t know … but I have the feeling that he needs to unburden himself, that he will do something worse … he’s desperate.”
“Stay put. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He cranked on the wheel at the next light and nosed his Jeep toward the French Quarter.
The Chosen One slunk through the shadows of St. Luke’s. He’d walked these halls before and knew the hidden closets and doorways, the places to hide or flee if he needed to. He was familiar with the cloister and the gardens and had used the tiny clear panel in one stained glass window to view inside.
On silent footsteps, he made his way through the chancel, then, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, stopped short.
He wasn’t alone.
An altar boy, still dressed in cassock and surplice, had rummaged through the sacristy and was drinking the priests’ wine from a gold chalice. The hooligan had a nearly shaved head and an earring that winked in the dim light.
The Chosen One slid into a dark niche. His head was beginning to ache again. Ignore the boy. He is not part of the plan.
Or was he? Perhaps …
Blatantly abusing his privilege, the thief of about fourteen was pouring more wine into the chalice—the chalice—and then as if he had every right, took the blessed cup to his lips and guzzled wine as if he were a street wino.
Sacrilegious!
Making a mockery of all that was holy.
From his position in the shadows, The Chosen One realized that he had been drawn here not for confession, but because he had work to do. God had sent him here to punish the heretic in altar boy vestments. And… for another reason, one more intimately entwined with his higher calling. Yes … the boy would provide a distraction for the police … Perfect.
Withdrawing the small knife from his pocket, The Chosen One moved noiselessly and swiftly. The heretic, caught up in his sinful deeds, didn’t notice. Nor did he hear the click of the blade switching into place. His lips were stained from the wine, his wicked smile surrounding the cup as he thought, no doubt, of how he’d brag to his peers at school.
He wouldn’t have the chance.
The Chosen One yanked back the pagan’s head, exposing his white throat. The boy cried out. But it was too late. The Chosen One clamped one gloved hand over the boy’s mouth and used the other to slash his throat. Blood spilled. The chalice fell to the floor, rolling and shimmering in the dim lights. The boy struggled as The Chosen One dragged him through the darkened ambulatory to the altar and left him there, not only as a sacrifice but as a warning.
Wiping his blade on the black skirt of the boy’s cassock, he smiled. This was his purpose. To rid the world of sinners. Adrenalin sang through his blood as he snapped his deadly weapon shut and slipped into the night again. Outside, breathing the heavy air scented by the Mississippi River, he realized that his headache had vanished.
“Nooo!”
Olivia’s knees buckled. She was polishing small pyramids in the Third Eye when she caught her reflection in the windowpane. But beneath her own image she noticed something darker, a distorted face, wide and evil. In her mind’s eye she saw a small, finely honed blade. It slashed down. Blood sprayed. She fell into the display, knocking over candlesticks and incense holders and picture frames.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Tawilda said, pushing aside the beaded curtain to find Olivia slinking to the floor, her head in her hands. “Olivia? Jesus Christ, are you okay? Do I need to call nine-one-one?” She’d already whipped her cell phone from her purse and was kneeling beside Olivia. “Honey—”
“No, I’ll be all right,” Olivia whispered, her head pounding, tears blurring her eyes. But she wouldn’t. Not as long as the monster was free.
“Well, you don’t look all right to me. You look like you’ve just seen a damned ghost. I’m callin'—”
The front door burst open, chimes tinkling. Rick Bentz took one look around, vaulted over a wagon displaying unique Christmas ornaments, and landed next to Olivia. “What happened?” he demanded.
“She collapsed!” Tawilda said. “And what the hell are you doin’ here? I thought she gave you the heave-ho.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, ignoring Olivia’s coworker.
“Yes, but he’s at it again,” she said, shaking and cold.
Bentz’s arms surrounded her and she clung to him, barely hearing Tawilda’s “Tsk, tsk, if that don’t beat all.”
“Tell me,” Rick insisted. “What did you see?”
“He killed someone. Quickly, with a knife, I don’t think it was planned.” She was breathing in gasps. “It wasn’t expected … and he … he wasn’t wearing a mask, I saw his face.” She shuddered and leaned into Bentz.
“He killed someone? What the devil are you talkin’ about?” Tawilda cut in.
Olivia hardly heard her. “But the image was distorted this time. As if he were looking into one of those fun-house mirrors … He … he had blue eyes and had dark hair and … I think.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I caught an image of a ring of some kind.”
“A wedding ring?”
“No … I mean, I don’t know … but it had a stone in it.” She was shaking. “Oh, God, I think … I think the victim was a child …” Tears ran down her face as she clung to him. “A girl in a long black dress with an apron … or …” Her eyebrows knit and she shook her head. “I … I’m not sure …”
“We’ll check it out,” he promised, wanting to reassure her. But he couldn’t. They were out of time. “Can you describe the scene?”
She nodded. “I have the
feeling that it was in a church … He killed the child in a closet of some kind and then dragged her to an altar.” No, that wasn’t right, the victim didn’t have any hair. Swallowing hard, she looked over Bentz’s shoulder toward a rack of Mardi Gras beads, but he knew she wasn’t focusing on the display, that she was seeing inward, viewing the scene in her mind’s eye. “I don’t know why, but it seemed somehow familiar … but I only caught glimpses … It was violent. Brutal and the killer … the killer was enraged.” She shuddered in his arms, then, as if realizing how close they were, she seemed to gather herself and push gently away. She bit her lip. “I think this might have happened at St. Luke’s,” she said, her eyes darkened. “I caught a glimpse of bright colors, panels of color from a stained glass window I’d seen before at St. Luke’s. It was distorted, but … I’m nearly positive.”
His gut clenched. “Then I’d better go check it out.” He reached for his cell phone to call the station, but her fingers clamped around his wrist.
“I’m coming with you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You heard the lady,” Tawilda interjected. “Seein’ what she’s goin’ through here, I think you’d best take her along.”
“If you don’t, I’ll just follow. No!” She said as if she finally understood. “It wasn’t a dress. But a robe. Like a choir person would wear … or an altar boy.” Her eyes met his and he read the fear in her gaze, the concern. Whether she admitted it or not, she, too, thought somehow James could be involved in all of this.
And it was tearing her up inside.
So are you going to give up the priesthood? Renounce your vows? Change the course of your life forever because of one woman?
Father James reached the church and found the back door ajar. Again. Monsignor O’Hara was oftentimes careless about locking up and when James pointed out the need for security, he’d snorted the same tired litany, “The doors to God’s house are always open.” The very same quote you said to Olivia when you tried to lure her back to mass.
Olivia. His heart twisted at the thought of her. Their one night together when they’d nearly made love had been heart-wrenching, and in the morning, she’d met him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, then, her fists plunged into the pockets of her robe, she’d apologized for making a horrid mistake, the guilt in her large gold eyes reflecting his own misery. He’d drunk the coffee, eaten the breakfast she’d made, cracked a couple of lame jokes that now caused him to wince and had walked out of the house into the wintry morning. Throughout the drive to the church he’d thought of her, never noticing the traffic nor the threat of rain.