Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 92

Because he'd erred.

Horridly.

And now he was being punished.

He tried to concentrate. Had he been mistaken. Hadn't the Voice told him there would be two inside? Two to sacrifice? Yes, he was certain that was it. A man and a woman, Eve, were supposed to be inside and yet he'd only found the man.

"Forgive me," he whispered in agony. What would his penance be this time? He thought of the scars upon his back from flagellation, the burns on his palms from hot coals. He shuddered to think what was to come.

And yet . . .

His heart was still beating erratically, his blood still singing in his veins from the kill. Oh, how exquisite had been that first slice of his blade to the soft tissue of the throat. And the thin, pulsing seam of red as the blood began to flow . . . He closed his eyes and felt the rush all over again.

Nervously, he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Disappointment gnawed at his guts.

Still he waited.

The Voice had never been wrong before.

And who was he to doubt G.o.d's instructions?

Sometimes he became confused. Often, the other voices screamed at him . . . screechy, irritating little things that would hiss, whine and yell at him, clouding his judgement, causing his head to pound making him wonder about his own sanity. But tonight, they, too, were silent.

"Help me," he mouthed. "Talk to me. Please a.s.sure me that I am doing your bidding."

There was no response, only the sound of a short gust of wind rattling leaves as it whipped through the cypress and live oaks in this part of the swamp.

He would wait.

Quickly, pleadingly, he made a desperate, deft sign of a cross over his chest and as he did, he heard the soft rumble of a car's engine approaching.

YES!!!.

His eyes flew open.

Tires crunched on the spa.r.s.e gravel.

He didn't have to see the car to know it was a Toyota. Eve's vehicle. Antic.i.p.ation zinged through his blood as he spied the headlights, mist swirling in their weak golden beams. His gloved hand tightened over the handle of the knife, with its razor thin blade, sharp enough to slice flesh quickly to the bone.

Crouching, he began to steal silently through the undergrowth and stopped near the garage, behind a rotting tree stump, close enough that he could reach her in three steps when she walked to the door.

Her headlights washed over the grayed walls of the tiny cabin and the engine died. In a split second the door opened and he caught a glimpse of her, red curls sc.r.a.ped away from her face, jaw set, eyes darting quickly. She cast a glance at Roy's truck, parked beneath the overhang of a carport, then using a small flashlight, she walked swiftly toward the cabin's door, tested it and found it locked.

"Roy?" she called, knocking loudly, a hint of her perfume wafting his way. "Hey . . . what's going on?" Then adding more softly, "If this is some kind of sick joke, I swear, you'll pay . . ."

Oh, it's no joke, he thought, every nerve stretched to the breaking point. She was so close. If he leaped out, he could tackle her.

She shined the flashlight's beam over the dilapidated siding and onto a sagging, battered shutter. What're the chances? She reached behind the broken slats and extracted a key. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered, inserting a key into the deadbolt.

With a click, the old lock gave way.

As she stepped into the house, he started to move. He had his knife gripped tightly in his hand and he desperately wanted to use it, to watch as it slit her soft white flesh. But, just in case, there was always the pistol, a small caliber, but deadly enough.

A light snapped on inside the cabin.

Through the dusty gla.s.s of the kitchen window, he saw her, her hair pulled away from the long column of her throat. His heart kicked into overdrive and he licked his lips, envisioning the act.

She'd hear his footsteps, turn, gasp when their eyes met, then he'd move quickly, slashing that perfect long throat, slicing her jugular, crimson blood spraying.

He drew in a swift breath.

His c.o.c.k got hard.

He could almost taste her.

Eve.

The original sinner.

Time to pay.

"Roy, are you here?" Eve called. She didn't know whether to be scared or p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l as she stepped through the kitchen where a thin layer of dust covered everything. "You know," she said, feeling sweat bead in her hair as she spied a half drunk bottle of beer left on the scarred drop-leafed table, "this is creeping me out. I mean, if this is one of your games, I think I'll just have to kill you."

She heard a sc.r.a.pe, turned, her heart in her throat as a small black body scampered across the yellowed linoleum to hide beneath an ancient refrigerator. "c.r.a.p!" The mouse's tail slid out of sight. "Oh, Jesus." Her heart pounded crazily. She shouldn't have come here and she'd known it from the get-go. When Roy had called, she should have insisted he come to her or they meet somewhere public. Being out here was creeping her out.

Where the h.e.l.l was he? "Roy?" He had to be here. His car was parked in the carport, the hood still warm. "Roy? This isn't funny, okay? Where are you?"

The door to the bathroom was hanging open, but it was dark inside. She tried the switch, but the bulb had burned out long ago, and when she shined her flashlight across the sink and toilet, she saw only rust, stains and dirt. She should go home. Now. Something was definitely wrong here.

She walked three steps to the living room where a lamp on an old end table was burning bright. Obviously Roy had been here . . . no, not really, obviously someone someone had been here though the room itself looked as if no one had been inside for a decade. Dust and cobwebs covered the floor, pinewood walls and ceiling. Even the ashes and pieces of burnt wood in the grate seemed ancient. A yellowed fishing magazine, its pages curled, had been published nearly eleven years earlier. It was as if time had stopped, here in this dilapidated cabin on the bayou. had been here though the room itself looked as if no one had been inside for a decade. Dust and cobwebs covered the floor, pinewood walls and ceiling. Even the ashes and pieces of burnt wood in the grate seemed ancient. A yellowed fishing magazine, its pages curled, had been published nearly eleven years earlier. It was as if time had stopped, here in this dilapidated cabin on the bayou.

So what the h.e.l.l was she doing here?

To see Roy? To find out what he meant by evidence?

What the h.e.l.l kind of evidence was Roy talking about?

Something to do with Dad, she thought again. she thought again. That's what Roy meant. You know it. You can feel it in your bones. Roy knows whether Dear Old Dad is innocent . . . or guilty as sin. That's what Roy meant. You know it. You can feel it in your bones. Roy knows whether Dear Old Dad is innocent . . . or guilty as sin.

She swallowed hard and pulled her cell phone from her purse. Still no service.

"Roy? Look, you've got about two minutes and then I'm outta here and I don't give a d.a.m.n about whatever evidence you think you've got. E-mail me, okay?"

Irritated, she took one last look around. Just past the open stairway was a short hall leading to the one bedroom on the main floor. The door gaped open.

Steeling herself, she walked toward it.

s.h.i.t! She had a cell phone! He hadn't thought of that. The Voice hadn't warned him about the phone. But as he stared through the window, watching her walking carefully through the house, he saw the d.a.m.ned phone and knew she'd call 911. The number was probably on speed dial. He hadn't thought of that. The Voice hadn't warned him about the phone. But as he stared through the window, watching her walking carefully through the house, he saw the d.a.m.ned phone and knew she'd call 911. The number was probably on speed dial.

He had to stop her. Fast!

Without a sound, he sheathed his knife, flicked open his ankle holster and pulled out his pistol.

Time to finish this.

Nerves on edge, she pushed open the bedroom door. It creaked on old hinges. "Roy?"

She heard the faintest of moans.

"Roy?" The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she fumbled for the light switch. With a click, the room was instantly awash with light from an ancient ceiling fixture.

She screamed.

Roy lay on the floor by the old metal bedframe. Blood slowly oozed from a huge gash on his neck and spread over the floor.

"Oh, G.o.d." She stumbled forward. The blood was flowing. His chest moving ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. He was still alive!

"I'm here, Roy, hang on!" she cried, terror clawing through her, bile rising in her throat. "Who did this . . . oh, sweet Jesus . . ." She tried to staunch the flow of blood with one hand while dialing with the trembling fingers of the other. The phone slid from her hand, sliding through a thick smear of blood. In an instant, still holding her fingers to Roy's throat, she retrieved the b.l.o.o.d.y cell with her free hand and punched out 911 with sticky, shaking fingers. "Help," she pleaded, but the screen told her there was no service. No calls were going through.

"d.a.m.n!" Panic welled up inside her. She was frantic.

Calm down, Eve. You can't help Roy without a clear head. Don't lose it. Think! Does the cabin have a phone? A land line? The electricity's working. Maybe Vernon keeps phone service for emergencies . . . Her gaze swept the room and skated over the pinewood walls. No phone outlet, but near Roy's head, upon the yellowed pinewood walls was a message, written in blood: Her gaze swept the room and skated over the pinewood walls. No phone outlet, but near Roy's head, upon the yellowed pinewood walls was a message, written in blood: 212. 212.

She recoiled and gasped.

What the h.e.l.l did that mean?

Had Roy written it?

Or someone else . . . Oh, G.o.d was Roy's a.s.sailant still here? Maybe in the house? She thought of the can of pepper spray in her purse . . . a useless weapon.

She didn't have time to waste, she had to get help . . . the blood flowing through her fingers at Roy's neck had eased to nothing. Oh, G.o.d . . .

Another low moan and it was over. Roy took one last shallow, wet breath.

"No! Oh, G.o.d, no . . . Roy! Roy!" But the hand on his neck found no pulse. "You can't die, oh, please."

A floorboard creaked.

She froze.

The killer was still here!

Either inside the house or on the porch.

Oh, G.o.d.

Heart thundering in her ears, she tried her d.a.m.ned phone again. Come on, come on, Come on, come on, she thought, listening for any sound, her gaze moving quickly around the room and to the doorway. If she could only snap out the light, or crawl out the window. she thought, listening for any sound, her gaze moving quickly around the room and to the doorway. If she could only snap out the light, or crawl out the window.

Another soft footstep. Leather sliding over wood.

Her insides turned to water.

She reached into her purse, b.l.o.o.d.y fingers scrambling for the pepper spray as she kept her gaze moving from the doorway to the two windows to the mirror and her own panicked face. She risked glancing down, found the spray and had the canister out of her purse when she heard the footsteps again. More loudly. Coming at her.

He knew where she was.

Get out, Eve, get out now!

She shot to her feet, adrenaline fueled by horror, pushing her. She reached for the light switch, slapped it off. Darkness rained.

She turned quickly, her shoes sliding in Roy's blood. She fell noisily, biting back a scream, holding fast to the canister. Her leg sc.r.a.ped down the iron bedframe. Her head thudded against the wall. Pain exploded behind her eyes.

More footsteps!

Don't pa.s.s out. For G.o.d's sake, don't lose consciousness!

She flung herself toward a window.

Pitched forward.

She saw him.

In the gla.s.s.

He was holding something in his hand. Pointing it at her.

She recognized him in a heartbeat.

Cole?

The man she loved?

Cole Dennis was going to shoot her?

NO!.