Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 28

But he felt desperate. Angry. Restless. He glanced around the cabin, his only real home now, not much by his old standards, and yet a place where he felt he belonged. Only on the bayou did he feel some peace, some respite from the thrumming in his brain.

He'd grown up privileged and somehow ended up here...cast out of his own family...he thought of his mother...his sister...his father...s.h.i.t, he didn't have a family anymore. Hadn't for years. He was on his own. Even his mentor had abandoned him, the very man who had helped him deal with the monster within him, the one who had shown him the way....

Yes, he was truly alone.

If Annie had lived...

Whoring c.u.n.t-she deserved to die. She asked for it...Betrayer...Jezebel...How could she have been with another man?

He reached into his shaving kit and found a tube of salve and a small bottle of face makeup. After coating his wounds with the ointment, he carefully dabbed concealer over the discoloration on his skin. Squinting in the light from his lantern, he added mascara to his beard-stubble until the wounds weren't visible.

A low moan from the corner caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder to the corner cot and saw his prisoner. A pathetic specimen, bound and gagged, drugged into oblivion, only roused when it was necessary for the victim to realize the magnitude of their sins.

Haunted eyes opened, blinked, then, as if unable to accept their fate, closed again.

Father John looked into the mirror again, stared into his own gaze and inwardly cringed. His eyes had seen too much, and now accused him of crimes he'd committed, sins that he could never repent. And yet the thought of those sins...the hunt...the capture...the terror of his prey...and the ultimate bloodl.u.s.t...the kill...brought a rush to his veins, a tingle of antic.i.p.ation flowing through his blood.

He reached into his pocket and found his special rosary...cool, cold beads, sharp against the pads of his fingers and thumb. Such a wicked, lovely weapon, the symbol of good and purity and capable of such a h.e.l.lish death. That's what he liked about it-the cruel irony of it.

He thought of the women he'd killed...Annie, of course, but that was before he'd learned from the master, before he understood his mission, before he'd perfected his method and employed his treacherous, beloved noose. He'd watched her blood flow, so slowly it seemed now...and then there had been the first wh.o.r.e...he'd planned that after he'd been betrayed by the one woman he'd trusted...the one woman who should have been there for him forever.

He'd heard Dr. Sam's voice one night...here...away from Houston...away from Annie...and he'd known he had to set things right, that Samantha Leeds was the reason Annie was dead. He'd been forced to kill Annie because of Dr. Sam.

The nerve of the b.i.t.c.h to start up again, broadcasting her meaningless, psychological mumbo-jumbo. Messing up people's lives.

But soon she would stop. He would see to it.

He thought of the women who had paid for Samantha Leeds's sins. The first victim had been random, the hooker who had been hanging out on Bourbon Street, luring men, offering up her body...and it had been such a rush, such a turn-on to watch the terror in her eyes when she'd realized he was going to strangle her with the rosary.

He grew hard at the thought, and he remembered the second victim, another prost.i.tute who had approached him down by the brewery. She'd been tough, hadn't wanted to wear the wig, but had eventually complied, and he'd slowly killed her just like the first. Seeing her horror, watching her struggle while growing so hard he nearly came in his pants.

But the best, the very best, had been the Jaquillard girl. He hadn't meant to kill her that night-but the other one, the b.i.t.c.h he'd found near the universities, the girl dressed like a hooker who had clawed him had gotten away had left him empty.

Then he'd set his sites on the Jaquillard girl, followed her. It had seemed fitting that the girl closest to Samantha die on Annie's birthday. It was only after the frustration of losing one victim that he'd taken the streetcar to Ca.n.a.l Street, walked to the Jaquillard girl's apartment and waited for her in the dark. She'd left the apartment after nightfall and had walked to the river, looking edgy. He'd followed her, approached her as she'd sat on the bench looking at the dark, slow-moving water of the Mississippi. She'd been lost in thought, but eager to score some quick money when he offered the deal.

The rest had been easy. As easy as stealing Sam's teddy had been.

He wondered how Dr. Sam had taken the news about the girl...they'd been close, he'd seen them together, heard from his source that Leanne Jaquillard had been special to Dr. Sam. Oh, he would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Dr. Sam found out about Leanne's death.

Samantha would have known, deep down, that the girl was dead because of her.

He remembered the kill. How she'd begged.

His blood turned hot.

Molten.

Roared through his veins.

His c.o.c.k pressed hard against his pants as he thought of Samantha with her red hair and green eyes. Soon he would have the pleasure. He reached down, felt himself, closed his eyes and imagined taking Leanne Jaquillard's life- His cell phone rang jarring him out of his fantasy, causing the pathetic worm on his cot to jump. Angrily, he crossed the stark living area and picked up. "Yeah?"

"Hi!" Her voice was perky, expectant. He smiled. She was a pretty thing and ambitious, willing to do just about anything he wanted. "I'm not working tonight and I thought maybe we could get together."

"Maybe," he said, glancing at his rousing victim. Time for another dose. Sleeping pills that he'd stolen in Houston.

"There's a new restaurant on Chartres. I read about it in the paper. Authentic French cuisine, but then that's what they always say. Or we could eat in...I'd even cook."

He thought about the hunt, about snuffing out Leanne's life, and he grew hard again. This woman, too, though she didn't know it, would feel the sweet torture of his glittering wreath surround her long neck.

"Let's go out," he said, wanting the feel of the night to close in on him, hoping to get lost in the crowd, to blend in to the heated throng pulsing down Bourbon Street. "I'm in the mood for jazz. I'll meet you." He glanced at his watch. "At ten o'clock. Corner of Bienville and Bourbon."

"Can't wait," she said, and hung up.

Neither can I. He looked around his cabin, the souvenirs he carried with him from a happier time oh, so, long ago. Pictures of Annie, pictures of Samantha, ribbons and athletic trophies-a tennis racquet, set of golf clubs, lacrosse stick, fishing rod and skis. Reminders of what his life was and could have been. He looked around his cabin, the souvenirs he carried with him from a happier time oh, so, long ago. Pictures of Annie, pictures of Samantha, ribbons and athletic trophies-a tennis racquet, set of golf clubs, lacrosse stick, fishing rod and skis. Reminders of what his life was and could have been.

But you're a sinner.

He knew that much. Didn't need to remind himself.

Tonight he'd lose himself in the crowds. Drink. Do some c.o.ke if he was lucky enough to score. Blend in with the ma.s.ses and later...later...he'd come back here, to this dark place where no one could hear a scream, and make his prisoner beg for the mercy of death.

He had work to do. Tonight he would begin to set his plan into motion. He glanced at his moaning victim and grabbed the syringe from his shaving kit. The prisoner saw him coming, started making little choking, gasping sounds beneath the gag and scooted away. But there was no where to turn. His prisoner's hands were tied behind the captive's back and the legs were shackled. Terror rose from bulging eyes and his prisoner's head whipped back and forth, spittle darkening the gag.

"It's either this or the gators," Father John said as he found his captive's left arm and jabbed the needle deep.

"And the gators are too good for you."

The prisoner started to weep.

Pathetic. It would be so much easier to kill his victim now...but that would ruin everything.

"Shut up," he said and the prisoner mewled. Dr. John kicked hard, in the shins, landing a steel-toed boot against a bare leg. "Shut the f.u.c.k up."

His captive became soundless, but the tears still streamed. John grabbed the prisoner's hand, clamped his fingers around the prisoner's finger and stripped off a ring. Unable to conceal his smile, he opened the cupboard where he stored his treasures, the trophies from his kill and added the band with its single winking stone. The prisoner started screaming behind the gag again, but one look ended the screams.

Good.

Father John forced his thoughts to his ultimate victim.

Dr. Sam.

But not through the airwaves.

In the flesh.

Such sweet vengeance...he had great plans for her. He'd bring her here, make her see the error of her ways, keep her alive until she begged his forgiveness.

And then, when he was tired of the game, he'd kill her with the rosary.

Deftly he made the sign of the cross, then reached for his Ray-Bans.

Chapter Thirty.

"You're not staying here." Ty was adamant as he strode through the open door, and Sam flung herself into his arms. "Come on, darlin' let's get you somewhere safe." He kicked the door shut and it was all she could do not to fall into a thousand pieces as she clung to him.

"It's just so awful. The same thing happening all over again," she said brokenly. "Leanne...oh, G.o.d, she was pregnant. Just like Annie."

"Shh. It's going to be okay."

"It'll never be okay, Ty. Never." His arms tightened. His lips pressed against her forehead, then her eyes. "Sure it will...you just give it time."

"There is none. That-that monster is out there."

"We'll get him. I promise." He kissed her tearstained cheek, then finally her lips. His lips were as strong as his words. "You just stick with me. Things will work out fine." She wanted to believe him. Oh, G.o.d, she wanted to believe him. But the nightmare wasn't over yet and despite his plat.i.tudes, she doubted anything would ever be the same.

"Now, tell me what happened," he said, pulling her into the den, one arm around her shoulders.

Sam drew in a ragged breath. "It was awful." He guided her to her desk chair, and while she sat in front of the flickering computer screen, he rested a hip on the desk and listened.

She explained what she'd done while he was away, what she'd accomplished, how she'd failed. She'd tried to reach her friend who worked at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, but it was the weekend, so she had to leave a voice mail message. She'd also attempted to get in touch with Leanne, but, of course, that had been fruitless, the poor thing was already dead. Twiddling a pencil and feeling cold to the marrow of her bones, she explained about her call about her brother, then the horrid, mind-numbing phone conversation with "John" just as the police arrived with the news that Leanne Jaquillard had been murdered by a serial killer.

"Jesus," Ty said. "I should have been here."

"You couldn't have stopped it. No one could have." She dropped the pencil and slumped in her chair. "G.o.d, I'm exhausted."

"I've got just the thing." He walked into the kitchen where she heard him rummaging through the cupboards, then twist on the faucet. Water ran. A few seconds later he reappeared with a gla.s.s. "Here."

"Thanks." She took a sip, placed it to her head and she explained about the trip to New Orleans and the police station. "Ever since Detective Montoya dropped me off, I've been here, going through my textbooks and the paperbacks I've collected over the years on criminal psychology, psychosis, and dysfunctions of serial murderers.

"A lot of good that did." She took another long swallow from the gla.s.s. "I was so stupid. So naive, no, so arrogant. I thought I was beginning to understand it. I really believed this was all just a sick game to John. Oh, I knew he had a violent streak, that was evident in that first cut-up picture he sent me, but I had no idea, I mean, I didn't think for a minute that...that he was a killer." She closed her eyes for a second, trying to pull herself together, to push out the cacophony of guilt that blared in her brain.

"We'll find him."

"But who is he? I've been trying to figure it out. The police have s.e.m.e.n samples and they're comparing them to anyone a.s.sociated with the women who were killed, with anyone a.s.sociated with Annie and with anyone a.s.sociated with me, but it's going to take time."

"I have some of that information. Remember? Because of Annie's pregnancy." Ty reached for the phone. "What's the name of the detective?"

"Rick Bentz."

"I'm going to call him and tell him everything I know, offer my files, tell them what I've found out and try and convince them that this all started with Annie Seger. Whoever killed her is the man they're looking for."

"They might believe that Annie committed suicide."

"Then I'll just have to convince them otherwise," he said. "Do you have a direct line to Bentz's desk?"

"His card's on the refrigerator."

Ty wasted no time. He walked into the kitchen and punched out the numbers to the New Orleans PD. A few minutes later he'd connected with Bentz and was explaining his theory about Annie's death.

Meanwhile Sam made coffee. She had to keep busy, to keep going, to push back the demons in her mind that told her she was responsible for Leanne's death.

Not just Leanne, but others. At least two more women.

"John," whoever the h.e.l.l he was, stalked women, hunted them, killed them.

Because of you, Sam. Because of some great injustice you inflicted upon him when you didn't help Annie Seger.

NO WAY! Don't buy into his sick, convoluted thinking. He's twisted, Samantha, twisted. Now, get a grip on yourself and think. Use your brain, use your knowledge. Figure it out. Who is he?

Stiffening her back, she pulled herself together and, as the coffee perked, she half listened to Ty's conversation, but found a pen in her purse and grabbed a tablet she kept by the phone for messages.

Who had been in Houston at the time of Annie Seger's death?

She started with herself and just wrote the names as they came to her: George Hannah, Eleanor Cavalier, Jason Faraday, Estelle Faraday, Kent Seger, Prissy McQueen, Ryan Zimmerman, David Ross, and Ty Wheeler. And Peter Matheson...Don't forget that your dear, disappearing brother might have been in town. Inwardly she winced. Inwardly she winced. Not Pete-please, not Pete. Not Pete-please, not Pete. She put a question mark by Peter's name, then crossed out all the women-they could be accomplices, true, but not the actual murderer. From Ty's notes she knew that Jason Faraday and Kent Seger had O positive blood. So did Pete. She didn't know about Ty, or George Hannah, or David, but she crossed Ty's name off the list. He wasn't the killer. Nor was her brother. Pete had never met Annie Seger. She put a question mark by Peter's name, then crossed out all the women-they could be accomplices, true, but not the actual murderer. From Ty's notes she knew that Jason Faraday and Kent Seger had O positive blood. So did Pete. She didn't know about Ty, or George Hannah, or David, but she crossed Ty's name off the list. He wasn't the killer. Nor was her brother. Pete had never met Annie Seger.

How do you know, Sam? You haven't seen him in years. You didn't know he was in Houston, did you?

She wasn't even sure he'd been there...no, not Pete...memories of the dark-haired brother who had taken delight in besting her, outracing her on bicycles, out swimming her when they went to Lake Shasta, outskiing her when their parents had hauled them to the mountains...she remembered his easy smile, mischievous green eyes, so like hers, and the way he always enjoyed beating her at every game, until he'd slid into a world dominated by cocaine and crack and any other drugs that offered a quick buzz, a new high.

Just like Ryan Zimmerman.

But Pete would never...

She left his name on the list just as she heard Ty hanging up.

"What did he say?" she asked, still staring at her notes.

"To keep my nose clean, basically. I don't think he trusts me."

"I don't think he trusts anyone."

"Comes with the territory." Ty stared over her shoulder and read her notes. "Narrowing the field?"

"Trying."

"Same thing the cops are doing." Leaning over her back, so that his chest brushed her shoulders, he stretched his arm toward the table and pointed to his name. "Why did you strike me off the list?"

"Because you couldn't...wouldn't do it." With a final sputter and the ding of a soft bell, the coffee announced it was ready. Sam ignored it.

"That's true, but you're basing your choice on emotion rather than fact," Ty pointed out.

"You want me to put you back on the list?"