Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 91

PROLOGUE.

Near New Orleans Three months earlier

The voice of G.o.d pounded through his brain: Kill.

Kill them both.

The man and the woman.

Sacrifice them.

Tonight.

This is your penance.

He lay on the sweat-stained sheets of his bed while a neon light pulsed blood-red through the slats of blinds that didn't quite close over the windows. The Voice thundered in his ears. Reverberated through his head. Echoed so loudly It drowned out the others, the little screechy, irritating, fingernails-on-chalkboard voices that he thought of as belonging to bothersome insects. They, too, issued orders. They, too, disturbed his sleep. but they were small, annoying and not as powerful as The Voice, the one he was certain was from G.o.d Himself.

A niggling doubt wormed through his mind, suggesting that the Voice was evil, that It might be speaking the words of Lucifer, the Lord of Darkness.

His jaw tightened. He couldn't think this way. He had to have faith. Faith in the Voice, in what It told him, in Its ultimate wisdom.

Quickly, he rolled off the cot and onto his knees. Deftly, from years of practice and sacrifice, he made the sign of the cross over his naked chest. Beads of perspiration collected on his scalp as he prayed for guidance, begged to be His messenger, felt a thrum of antic.i.p.ation that it was he who had been sought out. He was G.o.d's disciple. "Show me the way," he prayed, licking his lips. "Tell me what I must do."

Kill.

The Voice was clear.

Slay them both.

Sacrifice the man and the woman.

He frowned as he prayed, not completely understanding. The woman, Eve, he understood. Oh, how long he'd waited to do just what the Voice commanded. He envisioned her. Heart-shaped face with a strong, impertinent chin. The faintest hint of freckles bridging her short, straight nose. Intense eyes as clear as and blue as a tropical lagoon and fiery, storm-tossed hair.

So beautiful.

So headstrong.

And such a wh.o.r.e.

He imagined what she let men do to that athletic body . . . oh, he'd seen her before, peeked through the slit between her curtains and seen taut skin stretched over feminine muscles that moved so fluidly as she bathed. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small, firm, and tipped with rosy-hued nipples that tightened as she stepped into the bath water.

Oh, he'd watched her, spying on her as those long legs stepped over the edge of the tub, unknowingly flashing him just a glimpse of the pink folds and red curls at the juncture of her thighs.

Thinking of her, he licked his lips and felt that special tingle that only she could entice from him, the hot run of blood that flushed his skin and caused his c.o.c.k to thicken in antic.i.p.ation.

If only he could run his fingers inside her legs, lick those tight little b.r.e.a.s.t.s, f.u.c.k the h.e.l.l out of her. She was a wh.o.r.e anyway. In his mind's eye he saw himself mounting her, his toned body over hers, his c.o.c.k driving deep into that hot, wanton wasteland where others had spilled their seed.

He was breathing hard.

Knew what he was thinking was a sin.

But just once he wanted to f.u.c.k her.

Before the killing.

But what of the man?

Realizing he was still on his knees, he made another swift sign of the cross and felt a jab of shame that G.o.d might read his thoughts and know his weakness. He had to fight the l.u.s.t. Had to.

And yet, as he stood, stretching his honed muscles, he felt needles of antic.i.p.ation piercing his skin, desire causing his groin to tighten almost painfully.

He dressed in the dark, pulling on his camouflage pants and jacket, ski mask and boots, the uniform he'd hung from a peg near the door. His weapons were already stowed in his truck, hidden in a special locked drawer in the false bottom of his tool box. Knives, pistols, silencers, plastic explosives, even a pea-shooter and darts with poisoned tips, along with the plastic explosives.

He slid out of his dark room and stepped into the dark, mist-laden night.

He was ready.

Eve checked her watch.

Ten forty-five.

"Great," she muttered between clenched teeth.

She was running late.

Despite the fact that the night outside the windshield of her Camry was thick with fog, she stepped on the gas. Her dented Toyota had nearly a hundred and twenty thousand miles on the engine, but still leapt forward, ever reliable.

So she wouldn't be on time. So what? A few minutes one way or the other wouldn't hurt.

She took a corner a little too fast, cut into the inside lane and nearly hit an oncoming pickup. The driver blasted his horn and she jerked on the wheel, slowing a little, her heart jack-hammering.

Roy could wait, she thought, thinking of the frantic phone call she'd received less than half an hour earlier. "Eve, you've got to come," he'd said in a rush, his voice tense. "To the cabin, you know the one, where we used to go in the summer as kids. My uncle's place. But hurry. I'll . . . I'll uh, meet you at eleven."

"It's the middle of the night," she'd protested. "I'm not going to-"

"I've got evidence."

"Evidence of what?" she'd asked, her attention suddenly grabbed.

"I'll tell you when you get here. Just come. Alone."

"h.e.l.l, Roy, you don't have to go all cloak and dagger on me. Just tell me what's going on!"

He'd hung up.

"No, wait! Roy! Oh, for G.o.d's sake," she'd growled, then poked a few b.u.t.tons on her phone, hoping to capture his number on caller ID and return the call, but her screen had come up with the phrase Unknown Caller and she was left gnashing her teeth in frustration, her heart pounding with a case of nerves. What evidence had Roy found? What was he talking about? Half a dozen possibilities, none of them good, had run through her mind and she'd thrown on her jeans, a sweater, and grabbed a rain coat as she'd headed for the door.

So, now she was driving. In the middle of a moonless Louisiana night, toward the swampland where Roy's uncle, Vernon, owned an old fishing cabin. If it still existed. The last time she'd been there, over ten years earlier, the place had been going to seed. She couldn't imagine what it might be like now.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the worry in her eyes. What the h.e.l.l was going on?

She hadn't spoken to Roy in over a year.

Why would he call now?

He's in trouble again, of course. You know Roy. He's a prime example of borderline paranoia; he's got his own special brand of neurosis.

So why do you always come running, when he calls, huh? What kind of pull does he have over you?

What's your your own special brand of neurosis that you have to bail him out over and over again? own special brand of neurosis that you have to bail him out over and over again?

"Oh, shut up," she growled at herself. The problem with being part of a post-grad psychiatry program was that she was always psychoa.n.a.lyzing herself.

It got old.

She snapped on the radio. Notes from the tail end of some country ballad about a love triangle only got worse trailed into a commercial for the latest weight loss program. Not much help. Switching stations and listening with half an ear, she peered through the rising mist . . . Vernon's place was nearby, she thought, but it had been more than a decade since she'd visited. Squinting, she spotted a faded NO HUNTING sign that had been nailed to the trunk of a tall pine tree and been blasted with a shotgun several times over, the letters nearly obliterated by buckshot.

Only one other vehicle pa.s.sed as the road wound through the swampland. She shivered, though the night was far from cool. Finally, the headlights' beams splashed upon a burned-out snag of a cottonwood tree and just beyond was the entrance to Vernon Kajak's property. The rusted gate was hanging open, the old cattle guard still intact and causing her tires to rumble and quake as she drove into the private acres.

The drive was little more than twin ruts. Where there once had been gravel, there was now only scattered stones and mud. Weeds sc.r.a.ped the undercarriage. Her Camry shuddered and bounced over the potholes and protruding rocks, and she slowed to a creep as she picked her way through the bleached trunks of the cypress trees and brush.

G.o.d, it was dark. Eerie. The stuff from which horror films were made.

Eve had never been faint of heart, nor was she a coward, but she wasn't an idiot either and driving around in the middle of a Louisiana swamp on a gloomy night seemed, at most, like a bad idea. Years practicing tae kwan do and a small canister of pepper spray tucked inside her purse didn't seem like enough firepower to fight whatever evil might lie in the dense undergrowth. "Oh, get over yourself," she said.

She clicked off the radio and picked up her cell phone, only to note that it was receiving no service.

"Of course," she muttered sarcastically under her breath. "Wouldn't you know . . ."

Her car crept forward and she narrowed her eyes, straining to see the cabin.

Everything that had happened today was out of sync, just not quite right.

It had started with the fight with Cole . . . how had that happened? Okay, so she'd been p.r.i.c.kly after a visit from her father, but had that warranted the kind of cold fury that had been unleashed upon her by the man she had, until five hours earlier, planned to marry?

Then, there had been the call from Roy out of the blue.

Odd.

Not to mention the seeping, clinging fog.

There was just this general feeling of malaise, an uneasiness that everything about this too quiet night was a little out of kilter.

She checked her watch again.

In a few minutes it would be over.

The cabin was less than a quarter of a mile ahead.

He waited.

Trembling.

Antic.i.p.ating.

Ears straining.

Every nerve ending stretched to the breaking point.

But the Voice was silent.

There was no praise for his act; no recriminations for not completing the job.

His heart raced and he licked his lips as cold December cut through this part of the bayou. The moon, nearly obscured by the rising fog, offered only a chilling slice of illumination in the night.

Senses heightened, he smelled the metallic odor of blood as it dripped from the fingertips of his gloves.

Talk to me, he silently begged the Voice. he silently begged the Voice. I have done your bidding as best I could. She wasn't there, not where you said she'd be. I couldn't kill her. Should I track her down? Hunt her? I have done your bidding as best I could. She wasn't there, not where you said she'd be. I couldn't kill her. Should I track her down? Hunt her?

His breath became faster at the thought of stalking her, cornering her, witnessing his fear, then taking her.

But the night was deathly quiet.

No frogs croaked.

No cicadas hummed.

No crickets chirped.

There was nothing but silence and the sound of his short, rapid breaths that mingled with the fog in the still air.

The Voice of G.o.d, it seemed, had become mute.