Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 128

"Never even...never even...never even..."

He spied the turn-off for Baton Rouge and on his portable GPS screen he saw his ultimate destination, the campus. He'd changed in the truck, just so that no one-a late-night jogger, some idiot out walking his dog, or a drunken college kid weaving his way back to his dorm-would notice anything out of the ordinary, such as blood staining his neoprene jogging suit.

As the Voice had directed, he drove past All Saints's main gates, and a chance meeting with a campus security guard, then parked his truck in an alley behind an abandoned service station with boarded windows, dry pumps, and a signboard indicating the price of gasoline at under a dollar a gallon, either someone's idea of a bad joke or the service station had been closed for a long, long while.

Fortunately, the alley backed up to a far edge of the campus and no one paid him any notice as he headed quickly across the lawn. He wore a jogging suit with an oversized jacket covering his backpack, tools and weapons. Anyone who saw him cutting through the live oaks would think he was an overweight man trying to jog off a few pounds before starting his day.

The small convent was on the perimeter of the campus, far away from the quad, library, and lecture halls. He glanced neither left nor right as he jogged, as if he'd run this particular course a hundred times. At the convent garden, he stopped, leaned over, gloved hands on his knees, as if to catch his breath, and then, glancing around the immediate area and seeing no one nearby, he scaled the fence, an easy job for anyone athletic enough to hoist his own weight upward. The edges of the bricks made perfect finger-and toeholds, and as he reached the top of the wall, where a single row of wrought-iron spikes prevented most people from even entertaining the thought of trying to climb over, he placed his hands on the smooth concrete, arched his body up and over, and did a handspring into the air. He landed as soft as a cat on the interior side of the wall.

Easy as pie.

Now for the hard part.

He only hoped the Voice knew Sister Vivian's routine.

Doubt not, G.o.d is with you, he thought, wishing the Voice would speak with him, guide him. Of course, it was not to be. G.o.d spoke to him only when He wanted. It seemed always late at night while he was lying in his bed-having trouble falling asleep, the aggravating little voices sc.r.a.ping through his brain-that G.o.d would visit and the Voice would offer him counseling and instructions. he thought, wishing the Voice would speak with him, guide him. Of course, it was not to be. G.o.d spoke to him only when He wanted. It seemed always late at night while he was lying in his bed-having trouble falling asleep, the aggravating little voices sc.r.a.ping through his brain-that G.o.d would visit and the Voice would offer him counseling and instructions.

The convent was darker than the campus had been, but his eyes adjusted, and, with moonlight as his guide, he followed the map in his head, around one vine-clad building, across a small patio, and through a creaking gate to the lush and fragrant gardens.

He checked his watch. The illuminated dial read four-forty. He would have twenty minutes to wait, then only ten more to execute G.o.d's intricate plan. He hid behind a tall pillar and prayed for strength, pleaded for understanding, begged for G.o.d's help, and implored the Father to show him the way...though all the while he thought of Eve. Surely when he dispensed with this one, G.o.d would see fit to-Bong!

His heart nearly exploded in his chest. Then he realized it was the church bells pealing at the stroke of five.

Bong!

He was ready. Knife, rope, drink, and, if necessary, small pistol, all at hand.

Bong!

He leaned out from behind the pillar, waiting, watching.

Bong!

He saw a dark figure approaching, hurrying forward, head bent. She was small. And frail. This would be easier than he'd antic.i.p.ated.

She found a place on a bench and mumbled softly, her fingers working a rosary as he slid silently up behind her through the tall, shadowy plants.

Bong!

The death knell. He leaped forward, slung his small garrote over her head and around her throat. She gasped, struggling, her fingers scrabbling desperately at her throat, her tiny body stronger than she looked in her habit. Her rosary dropped to the smooth stones of the garden; her small prayer book, too, fell to the ground. Her spine flexed and bent. She tried to scream, to fling him off her, to save herself as she fought tooth and nail.

But she, this little nun, Sister Vivian-"Viv," as they'd called her-was no match for him. No match whatsoever.

Grimacing, he pulled tighter, his arm muscles flexing as she began to go limp, the fight slipping out of her.

Feeling powerful. Indeed G.o.dlike, he took her to the brink, into the darkness of unconsciousness, then he hauled her swiftly and efficiently in a fireman's carry out of the garden, through the main gate. This was where it was tricky.

If anyone saw him now he would have to use his gun and that, too, would cause complications, the kind that he didn't want to deal with. He moved swiftly through the shadows, away from the security lights, hiding whenever he heard anyone, ducking into an alley when a garbage truck, lights flashing, pa.s.sed.

He was sweating, frightened, but exhilarated as well.

This, the capture, was a new thrill.

This one would be revived.

But only for a short while.

Then she, too, would die.

Kristi rolled out of bed and groaned. It was just too d.a.m.ned early to get up. It wasn't even light out yet, but she had no choice, not if she wanted to stay fit, keep her body honed. Besides, she needed a release, something to help mentally prepare her for her day ahead of eight hours of calls and complaints to Gulf Auto and Life.

"Yuck," she said aloud as she propelled her body from the bed and walked to her closet where her gym bag was already packed with her swimsuit and workout gear. The club where she exercised was kind of a "rat gym," but it had a clean, Olympic-sized pool, and at this time of the morning she was a.s.sured of her own lane. If she changed her routine and swam later in the day, the pool was too crowded, and besides, she needed those hours after work to read, watch cop dramas on television, or work on her own writing projects. She'd just sold two more true-detective stories to a magazine but had resisted her editor's offer to write some kind of funky "real-life Nancy Drewtype series," seeing as how she was the daughter of a New Orleans detective. The editor seemed to still believe she could draw her father into this writing gig and give his insight into the cases she was writing about.

Yeah, right.

She tore off her oversized New Orleans Saints T-shirt and flung on her jogging bra, T-shirt and shorts. That accomplished, she used the toilet, splashed water onto her face, twisted her hair into a tight little knot that she banded in place, then did a quick series of stretches, just to get her blood flowing. After stepping into flip-flops, she slung the strap of her gym bag over her shoulder. The small canvas bag was packed with a fresh set of clothes, tennis shoes, and anything else she would need if she wanted to add to her routine and jog on the treadmill or lift weights.

Grabbing a bottle of water from her small fridge, she threw a glance at the police scanner that sat on her desk as she headed for the door. Her father'd had a fit about her buying the equipment and listening to the radio band, but she didn't care. She figured it was her money, her apartment, her business.

And as for the apartment...She looked around and frowned. She had clothes draped over her few pieces of furniture, a floor that should be mopped, a sink filled with gla.s.ses and cups that needed to be washed, and the shower-gross! If her stepmother Olivia ever stopped by, she'd probably faint. Housework wasn't exactly "her thing," but even Kristi knew that before she settled in at her desk she'd have to do major cleaning. Fortunately the place was small.

The police-band radio started sputtering out reports as Kristi was opening the door. She heard the words "at Our Lady of Virtues Convent" and froze in the act. Several officers were speaking, and then she recognized her father's voice. It was a homicide. A murder.

Correction, make that another another murder. murder.

Kristi stepped back into the studio and let the door softly close.

She felt a little tingle. This was the the story. No matter what her father said. The killings that were swirling around Our Lady of Virtues were perfect for her book. story. No matter what her father said. The killings that were swirling around Our Lady of Virtues were perfect for her book. Perfect! Perfect!

She dropped any idea of heading to the gym this morning. Her workout could wait.

And she still had three hours before she would have to even think about getting ready for work. There was plenty of time to run out to the convent and get back in time to hit the shower and fly to the office. Her dad would kill her, of course, be mad as h.e.l.l that she showed up, but with the crowd of reporters that were no doubt already gathering around, she'd blend right in. He was just no d.a.m.ned help...yet. She planned on changing that and soon. In the meantime she already had a leak in the department, a cute guy who, after a few drinks, could be counted on to give up something. True enough, he was just trying to get her into bed, and they both knew it, but still, he would let a few things slip.

If her dad didn't come through, and he wouldn't, she could count on her friend.

For now, though, she needed to get out to the scene and fast, learn what she could firsthand. There would be news crews at the convent and lots of loose chatter. And she was a cop's daughter, trained in the art of observation. Her father had always been over-protective, forcing her to learn to observe her surroundings and be prepared at all times for a potential attack or kidnapping. He'd paid for self-defense cla.s.ses and had insisted she run with a whistle and can of pepper spray when she was jogging. But most of all he'd taught her to watch everything that was happening around her. He was a d.a.m.ned freak about it, always believing that someone he'd sent away to prison might get out and seek retribution by harming Kristi.

But, as she'd proven before, she knew how to handle herself.

And after that time she'd been abducted, she'd taken her father's advice more seriously and had redoubled her efforts in the martial arts and weaponry. As her computer-geek friend had once told her, "You're one bada.s.s dude...or is that dudette?"

Whatever.

Digging in her closet again, she came up with a battered Marlins baseball cap then located her sungla.s.ses in her purse. She crammed the cap onto her head, pulled the brim down low. Next she slid the shades onto the bridge of her nose.

Checking out her reflection in the mirror mounted over her bureau, Kristi figured her dad might not even recognize her.

And if he did, so what?

The last she heard, it was still a free country.

The half-dead nun was lying on his bed, stripped of her clothes and moaning softly. Irritating him. She was waking again, and that was a mistake. Hadn't the Voice said to kidnap her, kill her, then dispose of her? Hadn't G.o.d's instructions been precise as to what He wanted?

Yet the Reviver had improvised.

He'd driven her to his little cabin in the woods rather than to the spot G.o.d had indicated.

And she was still alive.

Because he'd let his emotions run away with him. While he was still on an incredible high from the first killing, he'd decided that he was able to make his own decisions, that he was the Reviver and could decide who would live and who would die. But that was wrong. G.o.d would be very, very angry. Perhaps punish him. Even take away his promise of deification. He had to work quickly. To cover his mistake.

G.o.d is all-knowing. And he's furious. That's why he hasn't spoken to you. You are already being punished! Agitated, he stood in front of the fire, the last number-111-gleaming upon his body near the others. He stared at the words he'd spent so many hours inscribing into his flesh, feeling the sting of the needle, the bite of the first little puncture. And now there were so many fresh ones with scabs. Agitated, he stood in front of the fire, the last number-111-gleaming upon his body near the others. He stared at the words he'd spent so many hours inscribing into his flesh, feeling the sting of the needle, the bite of the first little puncture. And now there were so many fresh ones with scabs.

"Oooh," she moaned.

Revived.

Brought back from the brink of death...only to sink into oblivion forever. He thought about decorating his body with her information but decided he would have to wait. The ritual was always the same.... The engraving was to take place after the killing.

Not always, though. You've broken that rule.... Look into the mirror. At your reflection. What do you see?

He saw her her name. name. Eve Eve. Etched into his skin, reminding him of her. He traced her name with one finger, rubbing his skin over and over, imagining the needle pressing into her firm flesh, puncturing her, deeper and deeper, faster and faster, the sweat on their bodies mingling as he reverently and indelibly made her his.

His blood thrummed. Eve. Eve. EVE! Eve. Eve. EVE!

He'd broken his own rules because of her, but this...this inconsequential nun was different.

He turned and saw that she was awake, her eyes round with terror, her voice gurgling in panic behind her gag.

"Viv," he whispered, and she visibly cringed in the firelight, her pale body cast in gold.

She was shaking her head, silently screaming, "No."

In a way, he felt sorry for her-the sinner-and he walked back to his altar, found his rosary, and carefully twined the blood-red beads through her bound fingers. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked, but he knew she was already, in her mind, seeking comfort in the prayers.

Then he went to work.

CHAPTER 22.

What had she done?

Eve opened a bleary eye and rolled over, expecting Cole to be lying beside her. What felt like hours of intense, glorious lovemaking hadn't been a dream. She was sore in all the right places to remind her that last night, while still on medication, she'd practically seduced Cole Dennis!

But the bed was empty, and as she turned to one side, pain ripped down her shoulder.

Oh yeah.

That.

She looked down at herself. All she was wearing was a sling.

"Great," she mumbled, climbing out of bed and catching sight of her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. It was worse than she'd thought. Inwardly groaning, she noticed her bruises, messed hair, and sunken eyes. Either she'd had a really good time last night or a really bad one.

So where was he?

Maybe he'd already taken off.

That would be good. Very good. She couldn't get involved with him again. Not unless she wanted to play emotional suicide.

Face it, Eve. You are already involved.

Cringing at the thought, she heard Cole singing off-key, the atonal melody floating up the stairs along with the warm scent of coffee. Just like old times. As if they'd never experienced a horrid rift where they'd almost ended up in the courtroom, when she'd been certain he'd tried to kill her and he'd thought she was sleeping with another man.

And poor Roy had ended up dead.

"I'm living a soap opera," she said, grabbing her robe, then heading barefoot to the second floor, where she locked herself into the bathroom, showered quickly, tossed back half a dose of pain pills, and towel-dried her hair. A slash of lipstick and the tiniest bit of mascara was all she could manage before she slipped on her robe, tightened the cinch, and nearly tripped over Samson on her way down the stairs.

"Watch out," she warned the cat, then followed him to the kitchen, where bacon was sizzling in a frying pan.

Cole was at the sink.

Having the audacity to look chipper and hale.

Pouring coffee and scrambling eggs while a platter of hash browns steamed on the counter.

"You went shopping?" she asked as her grandmother's old toaster clicked and two pieces of only slightly burned toast popped up.

"Just to the local market." He cast her a glance and grinned wickedly, reminding her of the night before.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

But her stupid heart rate skyrocketed despite herself. d.a.m.n the man, he knew knew what he did to her, and he took advantage of it. Even now, in the crummy jeans and T-shirt, facing away from her, slapping b.u.t.ter on the toast, he was s.e.xy as all get out. His jeans hung low, his shirt stretched over his shoulders, and every once in a while she caught a glimpse of his smooth, muscular back as the hem of his shirt shifted. what he did to her, and he took advantage of it. Even now, in the crummy jeans and T-shirt, facing away from her, slapping b.u.t.ter on the toast, he was s.e.xy as all get out. His jeans hung low, his shirt stretched over his shoulders, and every once in a while she caught a glimpse of his smooth, muscular back as the hem of his shirt shifted.

"Like the view?" he asked, not even turning around.