Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (62 page)

“Olivia—”

“Can it, Bentz. Whatever it is you want to say, just can it. I’m not interested. I’ve done my part, my good citizen bit, and I’ve suffered enough of your disbelief and suspicion and your insults. Enough already.”

“You can’t blame me for being skeptical.”

She spun on him, bumping into his chest. “I can and I will. Take me at face value or leave me the hell alone.” She was overreacting, but she didn’t care. Who the hell was he to second-guess her? To mock her? She expected more from him and, damn him, he kept letting her down. One minute he seemed to trust her, to open up to her, to even go so far as kiss her, for God’s sake, then the next thing she knew they were back to this, the hard-nosed cop with all the questions.

She darted across the street, dashing through traffic, hearing a horn blast as she jaywalked. She half-expected Bentz to pursue her and slap a ticket on her, but she made it back to the shop without being accosted and didn’t bother looking over her shoulder to see if he was still standing on the other side of the street staring after her.

It didn’t matter.

Because the feelings she had for him, the desperation she felt to make him believe her, not just to solve the crime, unfortunately, but for personal reasons she had no right to feel, were ludicrous. She was being a fool. Of the highest order. A fool of a woman over a man.

That, she told herself, was going to stop. Pronto.

The Chosen One was restless. Edgy. Irritated as he paced in his chapel. He’d read the accounts of the fire in Bayou St. John. No mention of the sacrifice. Just a victim who’d died in the blaze. As if she’d accidentally succumbed to the flames.

Ahh … Cecilia. What a beauty she was.

The police were withholding evidence, of course, but they were morons. Cretins. He’d watched them arrive, a pathetic group and they hadn’t yet connected his “crimes.” That’s what the imbeciles would call them—crimes. Like he was a common criminal. They had no idea of his mission, that what he was doing was God’s work. And he was far from finished.

No amount of prayer could calm him. He reached into his closet to his private cache and fingered the pieces of fingernails and toenails, the tiny trophies he’d taken and he relived each encounter. Closing his eyes, aware that his cock was stiffening, he saw himself in the mirrors he’d set upon his altar, the way he’d been able to see his victims’ fear and his own mastery in the reflective glass, the way they’d begged. He’d ached for each of them, suffered the torment of wanting to claim their blasphemous, heathen bodies. The Jezebels had been so outwardly innocent, so inwardly evil. There were so many of them.

One more important than the rest. The cop’s daughter. That one was personal. Smiling, he thought of her … soon … soon.

Deep in the recess he found the braid, the one he’d so carefully woven, strands of different colored hair winking in the light from his candles … brown, black, blond … but no red. A flaw. One he would have to correct. He rolled the plait between his fingers, imagined each terrified face of the whores, remembered cutting a lock of hair first, while they still believed they would live, while they were sending up prayers of repentance for crimes they didn’t believe they’d committed, then tucking the trophy under his neoprene suit, close to his body. Foolish cunts. Daughters of Satan. Whores each and every one.

Slowly he parted his bath robe, letting it fall open. His cock was hard. Throbbing. Standing at attention. He dragged the braid across himself, feeling the light caress, as soft and teasing as a harlot’s lips. He stiffened, sensing the driving need to release. His blood pounded through his veins, thundered in his ears, ached in his groin. Oh … for just the touch of one mouth upon him … one evil kiss … He felt the need to touch himself, to let go, but he didn’t. No. He would not give in to the base desire to relieve himself.

Instead he imagined the whores’ faces. Beautiful. Seductive. Wicked. Tear-stained in fear, begging him to let them service him, bargaining for their wretched lives. He smiled. Sweat ran down his back and face. They were his in death. Did they not know he’d saved them? Martyred them?

But he needed another … a soul to save … another Jezebel to add to his harem of the dead… one more lock to add to his braid … tonight.

He had the place. It was ready, a crude altar, but a place of sacrifice nonetheless. Hidden. Dark. The weapon waiting.

The time had been preordained. He looked at the calendar. November twenty-fifth, the feast day of St. Catherine of Alexandria, patron saint of maidens … of philosophers … of preachers … of students … how fitting … oh, yes, it would be perfect.

It had to happen tonight. Before the stroke of midnight. God was waiting.

Chapter Nineteen

Olivia had trouble shaking off her confrontation with Bentz. What was it about the man that made her so crazy? What did she care what he thought? She locked up the shop and was going to pick up her things when the phone rang. The recorder would pick it up, of course, but being as it was near the holidays and all, she plucked the receiver off the phone and said, “The Third Eye. This is Olivia. How can I help you?”

There was silence, but she knew that someone was on the other end.

“Is someone there?” she asked, glancing through the paned windows to the darkened street. The shop itself was shadowed, only the security lights giving any illumination. “Hello?”

“Olivia?” A man’s gravelly voice.

“Yes.” Hadn’t she already identified herself? “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” A second’s hesitation as if he were gathering his thoughts. “This is your father.”

Her heart plummeted. She didn’t say a word. Couldn’t.

“You probably don’t remember me. I’ve been away a long time, but I was hopin’ that you and I, we could get together.”

She leaned against the wall. Frantically her eyes darted around the shop to the darkened displays, as if she expected Reginald Benchet to pop out from behind a Mardi Gras mask or the rack of books on witchcraft. “I… I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“How do you know?”

“Look, let’s just leave things the way they are,” she said, sweat prickling her scalp.

“Well, that’s the problem, Livvie,” he said and the use of her nickname in his thick southern drawl gave her the creeps. “I’ve been away a long time and I had plenty of time to think. To reassess my life. I didn’t call you right away, didn’t contact your mother, didn’t even come to your grandmother’s funeral even though I read her obituary in the paper. I thought I’d give us all some time to get used to the idea that I’m a free man.”

I’ll never be used to it.
“Why would that make any difference?”

“Because I’ve changed, Livvie. I spent a lot of time alone, and a lot of time reading, reevaluating, even philosophizing. I’ve let Jesus into my life, into my heart, and I’ve not only paid my debt to society, but I’ve repented for my sins and taken Jesus Christ as my personal savior.”

“That’s good …” she said, winding the cord around her fingers and wishing there were some way to break the connection. She didn’t need a father now, not the kind of father Reggie Benchet was.

“You bet it is. And I’m going to prove myself.”

“How’s that?”

“By doing the Lord’s work. Spreading His word. I’m a minister now, Livvie, and now that I’m on the outside it’s time to visit my daughter. You’re the only child I’ve got left, you know. I’ve lost the others. When a man spends as much time as I did in prison, he learns what’s valuable in life. And it’s family, Olivia. Family and God.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” she said. “In fact, I know I’m not.”

“Give it some thought.”

Not hardly.
“I will,” she lied.

“The Lord be with you, Livvie.” He hung up before she did. Olivia closed her eyes for a second.

He’s your father,
her mind nagged, but she wasn’t buying it. “He’s the sperm donor. Nothing more.”

But he’s changed. Turned over a new leaf

Something else she wasn’t buying. From what she’d heard about Reggie Benchet, she’d learned that he was a con artist of the highest order, someone who could talk the skin off a rattler. She didn’t want anything to do with him.

Yeah, and what if he gets sick and has no money… what then? You are flesh and blood. His only kid.

She decided she needed help sorting this all out. After finishing locking up, she reached in her purse, pulled out her wallet, and found the card Father James McClaren had pressed into her hand when she’d found him at St. Louis Cathedral.

“This is a surprise,” James said, and he meant it as he looked up from his desk. The secretary had left for the day, as had Father Roy, and now he was faced with Olivia Benchet again, the beautiful woman with the tangled hair and enigmatic eyes. He’d thought about Olivia more than once in the last couple of days. More than he should have. And his thoughts hadn’t been pure. Far from it. But that was his personal cross to bear, the demons he had to fight.

“I want to talk to someone,” she said, hesitating in the doorway.

“Come in … please …” He stood and pointed at one of the two side chairs on the other side of the desk. They were wooden, their seats smoothed and polished by fifty years of backsides of the troubled, the cursed, or the penitent. “You’re here to see me?”

“Yes.”

“As a priest?”

She hesitated as she sat and he noticed the curve of her calf peeking from beneath a slit skirt. Quickly, he looked away, to the window and the naked branches of the oak tree that were visible in the blue illumination from nearby street lamps. A crow was sitting on a lower limb, his head tucked beneath his wing. “Yes, and, well … I haven’t been to mass in years.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.” He offered her a smile and noticed her lips twitch.

“If so, it’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What’s going on with you, Olivia?”

Again there was a moment’s hesitation. She worried her lower lip as if deciding just how much she could confide. “I think I should start with my family,” she said, then found his eyes again. “That alone could take days.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Why don’t you begin and we’ll see where it takes us and how long. I’ve got all night.”

“Even men of God need to sleep,” she said.

“What’s troubling you, Olivia?”

What isn’t?
she thought, but said, “I guess I felt compelled to seek some kind of counseling because of my father. I’ve never really known him; he and my mother were divorced when I was a toddler, and for most of the remaining years he’s been in prison. For murder.” Father James didn’t so much as flinch. “But he got out earlier this year, I guess, I didn’t know. My mother told me just recently and now he wants to meet me. He even called and claimed he’s a changed man, that he’s reformed, a minister of some sort, and the simple truth is I really don’t want anything to do with him.”

“But …” he encouraged.

“But even though I think of him as just a sperm donor, the truth of the matter is that he is my flesh and blood. I’m his only living child and my good old Catholic guilt is rearing its ugly head. He mentioned that I was all he had left.” And there was something about the way he’d said it that had bothered her; something was off.

Father James was listening hard, his square jaw balanced on the knuckles of both hands, his blue eyes focused on her. His jaw was dark with beard-shadow and he wore a black shirt and a stiff white cleric’s collar. He was just too damned handsome to have given his life to God. There was something about him that reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t put her finger on who that could be. Probably some television or B-movie Hollywood hunk who never made much of a name for himself.

He just didn’t look the part of a priest. Though he wore cleric’s garb and sat in this ancient room with its wide, polished desk, an open Bible in one corner, an arched window offering a view outside the vestibule, Father James McClaren looked as if he belonged on a soccer field or guiding a white-water rafting trip or standing on the bridge of a sailboat.

As if he read her mind, he smiled, showing off straight white teeth. “I guess I should tell you to search your heart, look into your soul, find the courage to forgive your father for his sins against you.”

“Turn the other cheek and avert my eyes to all he’s done?”

“He’s paid his debt to society. His punishment has been complete in the eyes of the law, so that leaves what he did to you, which, essentially is abandon you and your mother, the embarrassment to you.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t mean to trivialize it. There’s nothing trivial about abandonment, especially to a child. I’m sure the ramifications to you and your mother were devastating. And even though you’re an adult, it doesn’t mean that the pain will just vanish. You can say you don’t care, that you’re over it, that it was probably for the best, but the scars run deep and are painful. And when the pain is revisited as it is now that your father has contacted you again, it’s like the scab over those old wounds is being picked at. It stings. Threatens to bleed again. Burns. Brings back old, wretched memories that we’d hoped and prayed were long forgotten.” He didn’t smile as he looked at her, and Olivia was suddenly aware how dark the room was, that aside from the weak light from the street lamp outside, the only illumination in the room was from a banker’s lamp with its dim bulb and green shade.

The corners of the office seemed to shrink, the atmosphere thickening.

Father James said, “I can’t tell you what to do, Olivia. I can only suggest that you pray and talk it over with God. See what He says.” He spread his hands wide. “That’s probably not the answer you were searching for, but it’s the best I’ve got.”

“Is it?”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you go home and think about it? Do some soul-searching, then come back in a couple of days and we’ll discuss it again.”

“And in the meantime? If he calls again?”

“Do what your heart tells you.”

“What if my heart tells me to call him every name in the book?” she asked and he grinned.

“Just make sure it’s this book.” He thumped two fingers on a corner of the Bible resting on his desk.

“Is that what you’d do?”

“It’s what I’d
try
to do.” He sighed through his nose. “You know, I wear this collar”—he touched the white ring at his neck—“but it doesn’t mean I have all the answers. I’m just a man.”

“And here I thought you were touched by God.”

“I guess I’m supposed to say we’re all touched by the Father.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I suggest you speak with Him. And then listen. He will respond.”

She wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t argue. After all, she’d come here for Father McClaren’s counsel. The least she could do was hear him out. “Thank you for your time.”

“My pleasure,” he said and the twinkle in his eye and warm handshake across the desk told her that he meant it. “Here, let me walk you out.” He rounded the desk, touched the crook of her arm as he opened the door, then crossed the vestibule to the front doors. Dozens of votive candles were flickering in the dim nave, and a few lights glowed, shining from the exposed beams and reflecting on the stained glass windows. “Perhaps I’ll see you at mass this Sunday,” he suggested as he shouldered open the door and a cold breeze gusted inside, sending the tiny flames of the candles dancing wildly.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

He touched her hand, his fingers brushing the back of her knuckles. “Call me after you talk with God.”

She glanced into his eyes … blue … intense … sexy. At odds with his soft-spoken piety. “I will,” she promised and he stepped away from her, though she felt his gaze as she bundled her jacket around her and skirted puddles to reach her truck. As she climbed inside and slid behind the steering wheel, she saw him lift a hand and she waved back, then shoved her key in the ignition, pumped the gas, and twisted her wrist. The old engine ground for a second or two and she hesitated, then gave it another try. The tired motor sputtered to life and she wheeled out of the parking lot, the truck bouncing over potholes.

Her heart was pounding way too fast.

Because Father McClaren had touched her. Not her skin. But deeper down. To her soul.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned as she looked into the rearview mirror. She couldn’t let herself be attracted to a priest. Nor a cop. Two men who were off-limits. Way off-limits. Maybe that was her problem, she thought as she accelerated onto the freeway. Maybe she was only interested in men who weren’t safe; men she couldn’t possibly be involved with.

So why didn’t you confide in Father McClaren about your visions? Why not trust him? Are you afraid he might think of you as another nutcase like Bentz does?

Large drops of rain started to fall, splattering on her windshield. She turned on the wipers and knew she couldn’t talk to the priest. Not yet. She’d look like a fruitcake. He already knew about her ex-con of a father, and soon, no doubt, she’d explain about her often-married mother, so right now she wouldn’t bring up a grandmother who practiced voodoo along with Catholicism, nor would she mention the fact that she witnessed murders through visions in her mind … at least one of which had been committed by a priest.

He’d write her off for good if she mentioned that little fact.

So, for now, she’d hold her tongue.