Wild and Wicked (34 page)

Sweat slid into his eyes as he lifted his sword so high his arm ached. Smoke burned in his lungs. Bloodlust ran through his veins. He was hard between his legs, his erection nearly painful, his own act of martyrdom. “For your sins, Cecilia, and in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I commit your soul to hell.”

 

Olivia’s eyes flew open.

Her heart was a drum, her body drenched in sweat, the dream lingering as clearly as if she’d just witnessed a murder. It had seemed so real. The smell of smoke was still in her nostrils, the girl’s screams rang in her ears, and her skin crawled as if blood had truly spattered her face.

Reaching for the bedside lamp, she scooted up in the old bed and tried to calm her racing heart. It was only a dream. Nothing more.
Nothing.

But she knew better. Just as she had before. “Damn you, Granny Gin,” she muttered as the sounds of the night floated in through the open window, the chirp of insects underscored by the hum of traffic, eighteen-wheelers on the distant freeway and the rattle of a freight train on faraway tracks. At the foot of the bed, Granny’s dog, Hairy S, raised his head and peered at her with bright brown eyes. A mutt of indecipherable lineage, he was all scraggly bits of hair, mottled gray and brown with splotches of white. He whined, then belly-swamped up to the pillows next to her. Absently, she ruffled his coarse hair and wished she could tell him it would be all right. But it wouldn’t. She knew better. The dreams had become more vivid.

Dropping her head into her hands, she massaged her temples. She’d experienced these visions before. Long ago. As a girl. When her mother had been alive. But Bernadette Benchet had never herself been visited by macabre dreams that had become real, nor had she believed in them.

“Coincidence,” she’d told her child often enough, or, “You’re making this up. It’s just a cheap attempt to get attention! Now knock it off, Livvie, and quit listening to Grandma. She’s touched in the head, you know, and if you aren’t careful . . . you hear me?” she’d said sharply, shaking her daughter as if to drive out the monsters in her brain. “If you aren’t careful you’ll be touched too, not by some ridiculous gift of sight as Granny claims, but by the devil.”

On one particularly vivid occasion Bernadette had pointed a long, red-tipped nail at the end of her eldest daughter’s nose. They had been in the kitchen of this very house where the smells of bacon grease, smoke, and cheap perfume had adhered to pine cabinets yellowed with age. A fan had sat near the ancient toaster, rotating on the corner of the countertop and blowing hot air around the tiny room.

Bernadette had just gotten off the day shift of waitressing down at Charlene’s. She was standing on the cracked linoleum floor in bare feet, a white blouse, and trademark black skirt. “Listen, child,” she’d said seriously. “I’m not kidding. All this mumbo jumbo and hints about voodoo are just bullshit, you hear me? Bull
shit.
Your grandma has delusions of being some damned voodoo priestess or some such nonsense, but she’s not. Just because way back when there was some octoroon blood mixed in with the rest, doesn’t make her a . . . a . . . damned psychic, now, does it?”

Bernadette had straightened, adjusted her short black skirt, and sighed. “Course it doesn’t,” she’d added, more, it seemed, to convince herself than Olivia. “Now go outside, will ya; ride yer bike or skateboard or whatever.” She picked up an open pack of Virginia Slims on the counter, shook out a filter-tip, and lit it quickly. With smoke seeping out of her nostrils she stood on her tiptoes and reached into an upper cabinet where she pulled out a fifth of whiskey.

“Mama’s got herself a whopper of a headache,” she explained as she found a short glass, cracked ice cubes from a plastic tray, and poured herself a drink. Only after taking a sip and leaning her hips against the counter did she look at her daughter again. “You’re an odd one, Livvy,” she said with a sigh. “I love ya to death, you know I do, but you’re different.” With the cigarette planted firmly between her lips, she’d reached forward and grabbed Olivia’s chin, moving her head left, then right. Narrowed eyes studied Olivia’s profile through the smoke. “You’re pretty enough,” Bernadette finally allowed, straightening and flicking ashes into the sink, “and if you use your head and don’t go spouting off all this crazy talk, you’ll land yourself a good man, maybe even a rich man. So don’t go scaring ’em off with all this weird talk, y’hear me. No decent man’ll have you.” She rolled the drink in her hands and watched the ice cubes clink together. “Believe me, I know.” A sad smile curved her lips. “Someday, honey, you’re gonna git yerself outta this dump”—she fluttered her fingers to take in all of Granny Gin’s cabin—“and into a fancy house, just like Scarlett Damned O’Hara.” She had managed a wider grin. “And when you do, you’re gonna take care of your mama, y’hear?”

Now, thinking back, Olivia sighed.
Oh, Mama, if you only knew.
Olivia would have done anything to make the demons in her mind be still. But lately, those dreams she’d repressed had come back with a vengeance.

She had to do something about the visions. And she had to do something about tonight. About that poor terrified woman. She threw off the covers of Granny Gin’s old bed and walked to the antique desk. Hairy S was right on her heels, toenails clicking across the hardwood floor. Flipping on the desk lamp, she looked through the cubbyholes and withdrew a tattered piece of newspaper, an account by the
Times
of the latest rash of murders in the Crescent City. According to the reporter, a detective by the name of Rick Bentz had been instrumental in solving the bizarre killings. He’d been the man who had discovered the link in the crimes and how they were related to Dr. Sam—Samantha Leeds—host of the talk-radio program
Midnight Confessions.

No one else had helped her. Maybe Bentz would.

He had to.

Olivia glanced at the clock. The digital readout glowed bright red. Three twelve A.M. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep, she tucked the newspaper clipping into the pocket of her robe and headed down the old stairs to the first floor where she planned on brewing a strong pot of coffee while she waited for the sun to come up over the bayou. But as she reached the bottom step, the dog shot in front of her, racing to the French doors. Glancing through the paned windows, she saw a glimmer of light that grew into a faint glow in the horizon, an orange haze, through the thick stands of cypress and live oak.

Her insides twisted.

She knew before the firemen or the police that somewhere in the raging bowels of that hellish inferno was the body of a woman, her head nearly severed, chained to a pedestal sink.