Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 106

Within seconds, the phone was connected.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

"h.e.l.lo?" The old man's voice was brusque, loud over the background noise of the talk radio show he was tuned to. "Wait a minute. Who is this? How did you get my...s.h.i.t!" A beat. "You're calling from my my cell number...but...how?" cell number...but...how?"

The Reviver smiled as the man appeared in the kitchen, walking with an uneven gait.

"You have my phone!"

Outrage. And his words were slightly slurred.

The Reviver didn't respond.

"h.e.l.lo? Are you there? How the h.e.l.l did you get my d.a.m.ned phone?"

Again, no response.

"Did you find it somewhere? Did I leave it in my car...? No, wait. It was here earlier. I remember plugging it into the charger...." His voice trailed off. "You were in my house? You stole stole it, you punk b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" it, you punk b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"I have information," he finally said.

A pause. "Information about what?"

"Information you'll want."

"Hey...what is this?"

Another lengthy pause.

"So, what is the information you have for me?" The man's voice was calmer now, but the Reviver spied him walking from room to room, peering out the windows. "Why did you take my phone?"

Checking his watch, the Reviver hung up then flipped the ringer to vibrate and slipped it into his pocket. Within seconds he felt the cell vibrate against his leg, and he smiled inwardly, sensing the man's panic.

Just as he expected.

The vibration stopped as quickly as it had started.

Quietly he walked to the side of the house, careful to stay in the shadows. The cell vibrated again, and he could feel the man's growing unease.

Good. You feel it. It's your turn.

In the window, his victim nervously lifted a short gla.s.s filled with whiskey to his lips.

Drink up, moron. Drink it all.

The man visibly swayed, caught himself by pressing a hand to the gla.s.s pane.

The Reviver grinned in the darkness. He'd spent so little time in the kitchen, just long enough to steal the phone and slip the small tablets into the open bottle of whiskey.

It had been so easy.

And now those pills were working their magic, making his victim sluggish.

"Bottoms up," he mouthed, feeling a rush steal through his blood as the man stumbled away from the window, heading, no doubt, for his recliner.

No reason to wait.

He hurried to the back of the house and stole up the steps to the back porch.

The door to the kitchen was still unlocked.

Dr. Terrence Renner drained his gla.s.s, set it on the table next to his recliner, and tried not to panic. Someone had called him...using his own cell phone. Someone had been in the house. Probably the teenagers who lived about a quarter of a mile away; three boys, and h.e.l.lions every one. Troublemakers.

All that talk about "information" was probably just part of a prank. Right? And yet he'd heard real menace in the caller's voice. Determination.

It took him three attempts to place the portable receiver into its cradle. Then he half collapsed into his recliner and stared at the phone, expecting it to ring again. All the while Midnight Confessions, Midnight Confessions, that ridiculous radio show with "Doctor Sam," a pseudo-psychologist, was playing on the radio. The show and woman irritated him, but he hadn't been able to stop tuning in. Pop psychology. Ridiculous. that ridiculous radio show with "Doctor Sam," a pseudo-psychologist, was playing on the radio. The show and woman irritated him, but he hadn't been able to stop tuning in. Pop psychology. Ridiculous.

So who had his d.a.m.ned phone?

"Stupid punks," he muttered and told himself to calm down, enjoy his fire-perhaps the last crackling fire of the season-and the remains of his drink.

He flipped off the radio, couldn't stand to listen to that d.a.m.ned fake shrink another minute.

Had someone been in the house?

When?

Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at the phone again and considered calling the police but was just too d.a.m.ned dizzy. He'd think more clearly in the morning. Tonight he'd finish his crossword puzzle then go to bed. He pulled the folded newspaper onto his lap and forced himself to concentrate.

From habit, he reached down to pat Rufus's old head then realized his mistake. The dog had been dead over two weeks, and it was amazing how much Renner missed the old terrier, who in his youth had chased rabbits, squirrels, and cars with the same enthusiasm. Fortunately, the stupid dog had never caught anything.

A soft footstep sounded in the back of the house.

What the devil now?

He looked up quickly, knocking the newspaper from his lap as he stared over the top of his reading gla.s.ses. The room seemed to rotate slightly, and he blinked a couple of times. His nightcaps had hit him hard. Harder than usual, and as he pushed himself upright, he wobbled slightly, his legs unable to hold him.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," he growled as his b.u.t.tocks landed on the worn cushion of his favorite chair. "Son of a G.o.dd.a.m.ned-"

There it was again. That familiar creak of floorboards in the hallway running from the kitchen, the sound made when someone walked along its length.

But he was alone.

Wasn't he?

The hairs lifted on the back of his skull.

Had the punks who'd stolen his phone returned?

"h.e.l.lo?" he called, slightly nervous and feeling like a fool. No one was in the house. No No one. one.

He strained to listen, to rise from the chair, to push up, but his arms were as weak as his legs, flaccid, useless appendages. Had he had a stroke? Was that possible?

Another footstep. Heavier this time.

His heart froze for an instant.

"Ith thum-one there?" he demanded and heard the slurred panic in his voice. "Inez?" he asked, calling out the housekeeper's name though she wasn't scheduled for another couple of days. "Franco?" But the farmhand who worked for him had left hours earlier, before the sun had gone down. For the first time in his life, he felt isolated out here.

Again he tried to push himself upright, his arms trembling with the effort, his legs wobbly.

Again he fell back.

Don't panic. You're imagining all this. The drinks were stronger than you thought...that's all. Get up, d.a.m.n it. Get up! Get up, d.a.m.n it. Get up!

"Dr. Renner." A deep male voice called to him from the darkened hallway beyond the French doors.

His eyes widened, felt stretched across his face.

He lunged for the phone, throwing himself from the recliner, knocking over the remains of his drink.

Ice cubes skittered over the gleaming hardwood floor.

Pain shuddered through him.

Pushing himself, he was determined to get to the phone, even if he had to crawl. But...but his arms wouldn't drag him. His legs were useless. He was facedown on the floor when the light shifted. The gla.s.s doors opened, a shadow stretched in front of him, and he found himself looking at a pair of thick army boots.

He nearly lost control of his bladder as he slowly raised his eyes, up, up, up long, powerful-looking legs covered in camouflage, then farther upward past a matching jacket that covered a ma.s.sive chest. Above the collar was a thick neck and a face concealed by a ski mask.

Startling blue eyes stared down at him.

"Who are you?...What do you want? I have money...in the safe...." Renner squeaked as panic closed his throat and constricted his lungs.

"Money." The intruder spat the word. Moved his gloved hands.

Renner saw the knife-a long, wicked hunting knife, the blade catching and gleaming, reflecting the fire.

Terror grabbed him. "No," he whispered. "Please...I beg you..."

"Retribution," the big man whispered in a voice that cut through the air like a whipsaw.

"No...please...I don't know who you are...what you want...but you're making a mistake."

"No mistake, Doctor."

Fear blasted through him. He tried to scuttle away, to move anywhere, but his d.a.m.ned body...Oh h.e.l.l, he'd been drugged. He realized that now. It wasn't the booze...

His attacker lunged. Was on him in an instant.

A big hand pulled back on his forehead until his neck bowed back so far he was certain his spine would snap. Pain screamed down his backbone. "No!" he rasped.

In one last terrifying instant, he saw the wicked blade in a strong black-gloved hand.

It moved across his line of vision.

Oh sweet Jesus, this maniac was going to slit his throat!

The tip of the blade pressed against the side of his neck.

"I'm the Reviver," his attacker whispered intimately into his ear. "I decide. Who lives. Who dies. Who will be revived."

Delusional psychopathy with a G.o.d complex.

Renner closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.

G.o.d have mercy on my soul.

The knife point p.r.i.c.ked his skin.

He swallowed hard.

"It's G.o.d's will, Doctor, that you go straight to h.e.l.l," the killer whispered just before he drew his arm backward and the blade slashed in a sharp, clean arc.

CHAPTER 7.

Why the h.e.l.l had Terrence Renner called him?

Cole's eyes narrowed on his cell phone's screen as he drove toward the heart of the city.

And how would Renner know that after three months in jail, Cole's cell phone service was restored, courtesy of Sam Deeds?

A bad feeling crawled through him, and he resisted the urge to return Renner's call. In fact, he thought he should probably ditch the phone. The police had confiscated it when he'd been arrested; Deeds had just gotten it back and restored service, but what if someone in the department had put a GPS chip inside the phone? What if the police could tail him without physically tailing him? How would he know?

s.h.i.t! He didn't dare use the thing, and the only numbers he needed that were stored in the phone, he had already memorized. He had to be smart...couldn't take chances...had to ditch the cell and his computer and start over. Brand new. Just to make sure that Montoya and Bentz, or someone higher up, or the d.a.m.ned Feds, weren't listening in.