Caleb, too, wriggled to the floor before scraping his chair back as his mother poured milk over his cereal, then handed the carton to Trinity. As the kids dug in, Lena motioned to her husband that he was in charge before walking into the front hallway. With a hook of one finger, she indicated silently that she wanted Jase to follow.
Out in the hall, Lena pulled her daughter’s pink jacket from the hall tree as if by rote. Then, glancing outside to what promised to be a scorcher of a day, she replaced the small Windbreaker on a hook.
“Listen, Jase,” she said, her voice low. “I know you expected us to buy you out, but we just can’t. Okay?” Her eyebrows launched upward, but she didn’t wait for his response. “It’s too isolated out here for the kids and for me. They run me ragged. Have no boundaries. No friends. And with a new baby on the way, I can’t stand another minute here.” Frowning, she swept a glance around the entry with its massive but marred staircase, high ceilings, dark walls, and ancient windows, some of which were cracked and needed to be replaced. “We can’t afford to fix this place up. It would cost a fortune. All the wiring and plumbing needs to be replaced, and don’t get me started on the roof. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to mess with it. Too much time. Too much money. Too many headaches. I want new. Clean. Bright. Light. Close in.”
“I thought you wanted the kids to grow up in the country.”
“Well, I was wrong, okay? I changed my mind.” She crossed her arms over her ample belly and glared up at him. “We’ve already found a place in town that isn’t haunted by . . . well, you know.” She gave him a knowing look.
“No,” he said, wondering just how much his brother had confided in his wife of eight years. “Haunted by what?”
Lena’s blue eyes narrowed. She looked about to say something, but pressed her lips together firmly instead. “Everything,” she said evasively, throwing her arms wide. “This place, it just won’t work for us. I want to be close to the church.” As if to close the conversation, she rounded up two backpacks, one pink, the other blue, and hauled them back to the kitchen.
Jase followed.
Trinity was dutifully carrying her near-empty bowl to the sink. Caleb, not quite finished, lifted his dish to his face and started drinking the remains of his milk.
“Caleb Prescott Bridges!” Lena snapped. “What do you think you’re doing?” She shot a disgusted glance at her husband. “Did you see this? Did you? Do you let your son eat like a pig at slop time?”
Prescott snorted. “Honey, it doesn’t matter if—”
“It does matter, Pres. Of course it matters. That’s the problem. Out here you let these kids do whatever they please. No restrictions. I’ve had it.” She whipped Caleb’s bowl from his hands and tossed it into the sink where it clattered against a stack of dirty dishes.
Trinity jumped and Caleb, rather than incur any more of his mother’s wrath, slithered from his chair.
“Get in the car. Both of you!” Lena ordered, and her kids scurried out of the kitchen and out the back door leading to the garage. With a finger pointed at her husband, she said, “Deal with him!” Then pointed at Jase. “I’m losing it.” Snagging her purse from the counter near the microwave, she hurried out the same way her children had taken and let the screen door bang loudly behind her.
Only when he heard the car’s engine cough to life did Prescott speak. “She’s always a little nuts when she’s pregnant.”
“A little?”
“She’s got her eye on a house not far from the Garden District,” he said, walking to the sink and staring out the window. Through the dusty glass both men watched the silver Ford disappear down the drive. “A bungalow,” Pres continued. “Three bedrooms. Big yard. Space for a garden. One block from the church. Actually, we put an offer in and the people accepted, so it’s ours as long as the bank approves.”
“Will they?”
“Should. But we’ll have to sell my interest in this place.” He shoved his hands down the front pockets of his khakis. “We’re moving out.” A beat. “And moving on.”
“What’s that mean?”
Prescott turned and faced his brother. His tanned hands gripped the sides of the counter on either side of him and he suddenly looked older than his thirty-eight years. “Maybe we both should sell this place, Jase. Just cuz it’s been in the family a few generations, so what? We don’t need it. Hell, you were going to sell to me anyway.”
“Because you have kids.”
“So what’s the difference if I sell to someone else? Either way, you’re out.”
Prescott had a point, but it didn’t sit well with Jase. They both knew it. Because of the ghosts.
“Or,” Prescott said, as if the thought had just crossed his mind. “You could buy me out. I’d give you a deal, and we wouldn’t have the Realtor’s cut. Clean and simple.”
There it was. The reason Prescott had asked him to stop by so early in the morning. It was so like his brother to beat around the bush, hint, and sneak up on a topic rather than say what he wanted outright. In this case, Jase suspected it was because of Lena.
“This is just the opposite from what we agreed.” And Jase had ambitions associated with his job; he didn’t need a ranch to distract him from his goal. Already he had his application in at the police department.
Prescott lifted a shoulder. “Got to keep the peace, y’know? Besides, things change.”
“Do they?” Jase wasn’t so sure as he walked outside to the back porch and stared across the rolling acres to a rise. Past the drying grass and a few sunbaked outbuildings, a tall oak rose in the distance. Less than a hundred yards beyond the tree’s spreading branches was the property line and the slow-moving river.
Images seared through his brain: scenes from his youth, like photographs in an album shuffled quickly past, and he shut his mind to that part of his life, a past long buried that he’d tried like hell to forget.
He heard the porch boards creak as his brother came out to join him.
“In a way, Lena’s right, you know,” Prescott said, following Jase’s gaze down toward the river. “There are just too many damned ghosts here, y’know?”
Jase did know. Though he’d never admit it to anyone.
“I’ll beef up the patrols on your street,” Bentz said as he cradled his cell phone to his ear and rolled his chair closer to the desk. Immune to the noise of the other detectives and staff, he focused on the voice on the phone and the image of the killer on his computer screen. Obsessed with the footage, he watched the video of Father John for at least the twentieth time, but this morning, instead of beer, he was downing his third cup of coffee and hoping the caffeine would stave off the headache that throbbed near his temples.
All the while, the station had come to life around him. Phones jangled, voices buzzed, and footsteps shuffled amid the rows of desks. Somewhere a printer chugged out pages over the constant rumble of the air-conditioning unit forcing cool air through the vents. Still, the rooms were warm. Barely ten in the morning and already the heat of the day was permeating the windows and walls of the old building.
“Thanks,” Samantha Wheeler said from the other end of the telephone connection.
“I listened to your show last night.”
“Then you know that he didn’t call in. Maybe he’s not interested in me any longer.”
I wouldn’t bet on it. The killer had blamed Dr. Sam and her advice for causing the death of someone dear to him years before. He had targeted Dr. Sam, plotting out his revenge step by step, taunting the radio psychologist, teasing her and ultimately nearly killing her. The fact that he’d been thwarted should have only intensified his rage.
Unless he’d fixated on someone else.
“Don’t worry, Detective,” Samantha said. “I’m pretty sure I would recognize his voice. It made an impression.”
She seemed certain, but it had been years since Father John had called into her talk show and stalked her as steadily as a hunter searching out prey. Now, as Be
ntz ended the call, reminding her to be careful, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling. Still holding his cell phone, he stared at the screen of his computer where the frozen image of Father John leered up at him.
“I thought that bastard was gator bait,” Montoya said, eyeing the monitor as he cruised into Bentz’s office.
“So did I.”
“Maybe he tasted so bad the gator spat him out.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Bentz said sarcastically, then reached for his shoulder harness and sidearm. “I thought I’d run out to his place on the bayou. See if there’s any indication that he’s moved back in.”
“You think there’s a chance?”
“Probably not. But, you know. No stone unturned.” He slid the harness into place. “You comin’?”
“Why not? I’m in.”
No surprise there. Montoya was always “in.” Though he’d mellowed a bit over the years, settled down, married, even had a kid, Reuben Montoya would always be the same cocky kid Bentz had been partnered with for years. Montoya still sported a goatee, diamond stud earring, and black leather jacket despite the thick New Orleans heat. No strands of gray had yet dared invade his black hair, and his body was fit and toned due to regular gym workouts and a regimen of running the city streets late at night. But maybe, just maybe with the reintroduction of one of the worst criminals in New Orleans history, even Montoya might start to age.
Together they walked down the stairs and out of the building where the Louisiana heat hit them full force. As it was late June, the temperature was hovering near ninety. Only the barest of breezes rustled through the leaves of the live oaks planted near the parking lot.
“I’ll drive,” Montoya said, as if he’d ever missed a chance to sit behind the wheel, foot to the floor, fishtailing around corners.
Bentz didn’t argue. It was useless. Together they crossed the parking lot. “I’ve already called for a boat to meet us at the old pier near the spot where Father John camped out. You remember where it is?”
“Like it was yesterday.” Montoya’s face was grim, his voice low as he slid into the driver’s seat of his Mustang.
Bentz took the passenger seat. Before he could pull the door shut, Montoya fired up the engine and threw the car into Reverse.
“I can’t believe that bastard is still alive,” Montoya said as he wheeled out of the parking lot.
Bentz clicked on his seat belt and cracked his window as Montoya merged into traffic. “If I hadn’t seen his face, I wouldn’t have bought it either.”
“But there he was, big as fuckin’ life.”
“Yep. Not a copycat. Not this time.” Bentz glowered out the window and slipped a pair of shades over his eyes. So far, the headache that had been his companion all morning hadn’t abated. Last night, his one beer had slid into two, then three, and so on until the six-pack he’d picked up at the local convenience store had been downed, full bottles replaced with empties. Reaching into his pocket, he found a travel-sized bottle of ibuprofen, tapped out two capsules, and tossed them back. Dry.
“Feelin’ rough?” Montoya asked as he drove out of the city, leaving the sluggish Mississippi and the skyline behind. He, too, had slid a pair of sunglasses over the bridge of his nose, but Bentz figured the colored lenses were more for effect than to cut the glare—all part of the Detective Reuben Montoya too-cool-for-school image.
“I’m okay,” Bentz said, and thankfully his partner didn’t press the issue. Bentz had been sober going on twenty years. Aside from a couple of slips, one of which had been last night, the worst yet, he hadn’t even been tempted. He decided to clamp down on himself. Just because a serial killer that he’d thought he’d taken care of had returned was no reason to start sliding. If anything, he needed to be smarter than ever, at the top of his game. Booze, even light beer, was out.
“Give any more thought to turning in your resignation?”
“Not much.”
“Good.”
Bentz could retire. Between his years with the LAPD and his time here in New Orleans, he’d be okay financially. But he wasn’t old enough to completely throw in the towel, and he felt younger than his age. He watched the city disappear through the passenger window. From time to time he’d considered leaving the force. He’d suffered through some near-fatal injuries and put himself and his family at risk, which wasn’t good. And now he was the father of an infant.
Olivia was all for him quitting; she claimed it would give them more time together with the baby. But his grown daughter Kristi thought the idea preposterous. “Oh, yeah? And what would you do?” she’d asked, her eyes twinkling. “Stay at home and play pat-a-cake with Ginny all day? That I’d love to see.” She had chuckled at the mental image before adding, “You know you’d go out of your friggin’ mind within a week. Right? You’re a cop’s cop, Dad. You live to be a detective, and don’t argue with me,” she’d warned, wagging a finger at him. “You know it. You love the chase and live for the arrest, sending all those bad boys up the river. Otherwise you would have given up before.” She’d held his gaze. “You fought hard to win back your badge after the Valdez incident.”
“Not an ‘incident,’ Kristi,” he’d reminded her. “I killed a kid.”
“Who you thought was aiming a gun at your partner.”
“Nonetheless—”
“Nonetheless nothing. You didn’t quit then and you’re not quitting now. Face it, Dad, you’d curl up and die reading Pat the Bunny and Goodnight Moon for the ten thousandth time. Give it a rest.” She’d flashed him that incredible smile, the one that reminded him of his first wife. “You can retire when you’re old. I mean really old.”
He’d let the subject drop. Until now, when Montoya brought it up again.
“Not sure what I’m going to do.” He tapped a knuckle on the window and considered his future as they sped past a lowland farm.
“Well, let me know, would you?” Montoya gunned the car, speeding around a slow-moving hay truck with bales that looked as if they might topple at any second. “If you’re really going to quit, give me a heads-up, okay, so I can request a new partner. Damn, but I’d hate to get hooked up with Brinkman.”
Bentz didn’t blame Montoya. Brinkman was a pain in the ass and a know-it-all at that. A decent enough cop who had been with the department for years, Brinkman was a loudmouth who always knew the worst off-color jokes and never passed up a chance to put the screws to his fellow officers. Yeah, Brinkman had all the social skills of a water moccasin on a bad day. “You could request someone.”
“Sure.” Montoya squinted through the bug-spattered windshield. “Because you know if I ended up with Brinkman, I might just kill the son of a bitch.”
“You’d be doing the department a favor.”
“That I would.” Montoya laughed. “And end up in jail. Look, just stick around, Bentz. Come on, man, now you have a real reason to stay. Father John. We need to take him down. Whether you like it or not, the sick bastard just made our job a lot more interesting.”
Montoya made a grim point. Lately, things had been quiet. Aside from the usual domestic violence cases and gang-related or booze-fueled fights, the city had been calm. Not since a killer had stalked St. Marguerite’s Cathedral had there been any unusual homicide cases. Which had suited him just fine. Or so Bentz had told himself. But, as proven by Bentz’s obsession with the tape of Father John murdering the woman prisoner, Montoya was right. Bentz’s investigative juices were definitely flowing again.
How sick was that?
Frowning, he heard his partner swear as Montoya turned onto an overgrown lane leading to the remote bayou. Dry grass and weeds scraped the undercarriage of the low-slung car as Montoya followed the twin ruts that marked the old driveway.
By the time they reached the area of the bayou where Father John had once lived, the mosquitoes were out in full force and the midday heat shimmered in waves. Tall cypress trees gave a little shade, but the air was still and humid. Oppressive. Sweat collected around Bentz’
s neck and he tugged at his collar as they walked down the overgrown path toward the water. The dilapidated dock listed to one side, its rotting boards bleached from the intense sun. The brackish water stretched wider here.
Squinting, Bentz stared across the expanse to the thicket of trees that used to shelter a cabin set upon pilings. A killer’s lair where, over the drone of insects and croak of bullfrogs, Father John had tuned into Dr. Sam’s show as he sharpened the stones of his rosary and plotted his next grisly crime. Years had passed, long years that had lulled Bentz into believing the killer who had cloaked himself as a man of God had died in this very swamp.
Bentz swiped at the sweat beading at the back of his neck and wondered if Father John’s cabin still existed.
Maybe Montoya was right about this after all.
Maybe this trip to the bayou was all a huge waste of time.
CHAPTER 7
Brianna pushed the speed limit. With Selma fighting tears and nearly collapsed against the passenger door, they tore up Highway 10.
Brianna’s Honda was fifteen years old, had nearly two hundred thousand miles on the odometer, and was in serious need of detailing, but it responded without complaint. The trip to All Saints should take a little over an hour and a half, but Brianna hoped to shave time off the length of the journey. Time was of the essence because the more Selma had talked about her daughters’ disappearance, the more Brianna feared that the 21 Killer was at large here in Louisiana.
She thought back over her recent trip to California, where she’d run into so many dead ends. The LAPD hadn’t been responsive, the officer who had arrested Donovan Caldwell for the crime having retired, and the DA who had prosecuted the case was no longer with the department. His replacement, a stern woman of around fifty, was not interested in anything about the case other than keeping the convicted man known as the 21 Killer behind bars. The LA bureaucracy saw Brianna as some relative of the convicted killer who wouldn’t accept the truth.