Cold Blooded (14 page)

She was windblown, her curly hair unruly and damp, her face flushed, her perfect lips turned into a pout. She crossed herself as if anxious or troubled and she seemed out of place with the regulars, the parishioners who made their daily pilgrimage to the church. Even in the half-light he noticed that her eyes were a unique gold color, that her teeth worried a pouty lower lip. She seemed as if she were searching for something. Or someone.

Another lost soul who stopped long enough to sign the guest register he and Father O'Hara had placed near the front doors.

"Can I help you?" he asked, approaching.

"I think I'd like to speak to a priest." She was slightly breathless and he noticed a few sparse freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"You think?"

"Yes. No. I mean I'm sure I want to." She seemed a little rattled, but he was used to that.

"I'm a priest," he said, and she looked at him as if he had claimed he was from outer space or that she thought he was trying to pick her up in a bar. "Really. Father James Mcclaren."

Obviously she wasn't one of the flock.

"Oh." Her eyebrows knit, and she still hesitated, almost as if what he'd told her was somehow a bit frightening.

Strange. "I didn't think you were allowed to wear jeans in church," she clarified, still eyeing him with what? Suspicion?

"It's probably not a great idea," he admitted, indicating the faded Levi's,' ' I was just cutting through on my way to the cloister. I didn't think anyone would catch me and I'm pretty sure God won't mind."

She lifted an eyebrow. Obviously he wasn't what she'd expected. But then he never was.

' ' you here for reconciliation?" he asked, motioning to the confessionals positioned near the altar.' ' O'Hara is officially on duty and I'll round him up for you." "No," she said suddenly. "I'm not here to confess anything, I just need to talk ... to someone." She stared steadily at him with those whiskey-colored eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes and mounted over cheekbones that didn't quit She was, all in all, a gorgeous woman.

Women were the bane of his existence. Especially beautiful ones.

' ' I talk with you?" she asked, seeming to overcome her reticence a bit. "I mean, when you've got a minute."

"How about now?" He wanted to think that it was his sense of purpose, his calling, his pact with God and Church that made him accept her offer, though at the back of his mind he knew there was another reason, not quite as honorable, at play. "I'm not in that much of a hurry." He touched her

lightly on the arm and pointed her in the direction of the courtyard.' ' can talk now if you'll put up with me playing handyman. There's a clog in one of the down spouts in the cloister and the regular guy is laid up with the flu. Just give me a minute."

Olivia decided to trust him even though she felt a little nervous.

Hadn't she just witnessed a physically fit priest killing that poor woman?

You can't distrust every athletic-looking minister you run into. What would be the chances that this priest was the ogre of your vision?

Besides, she just wanted to talk to someone about her gift and the burden that came with it. She had no intention of telling the priest about the murders or that she'd seen another man of the cloth killing an innocent woman, but she wanted to touch the Church in some way, to speak

to a man of God, to make a connection.

Father James guided her past the last row of pews and through a door to the cloister, where the covered porch surrounded a square of marble and a center fountain and marble sculpture of the Virgin and baby Jesus.

Cold wind swept across the open area and dark clouds hovered above the city.

"This'll just take a minute," he said as he unlocked a door and retrieved a broom, pair of gloves, bucket, and ladder from the closet.

As she watched, holding her hair from her eyes, he positioned the ladder near a corner of the roof where a downspout spilled into a gutter.

Donning the gloves, he climbed onto the ladder and pulled soggy leaves and debris from the gutter. "Messy business," he said, and shoved the handle of the broom into the downspout

"But then God's work is never done." He looked down at her and smiled.

It was a great smile. White teeth against lateafternoon beard-shadow in a square jaw that could have been taken from the Marlboro man. The guy was way too handsome to be a priest.

She had a twinge of d£ja vu, as if she'd met him some where before. A silly idea. This guy, she would have remembered.

He finished with the gutter and she tried not to notice how the fabric of his jeans tightened over his butt as he climbed down and folded the ladder. What was wrong with her? Her libido, so long dormant, was suddenly all too alive.

For all the wrong men.

"If you're too cold, we can go inside, but I like it here.

Outside, but sheltered. Something closer to God about it."

He snapped the ladder closed and placed it, bucket, and gloves into the closet.

"If the priest business ever slows down, you can always get a job as a maintenance guy," she observed as he locked the door.

He laughed and rammed a stiff set of fingers through his near-black hair, pushing it off his forehead. "Not exactly a higher calling. So, tell me what's on your mind?"

"You won't believe it."

"Try me." Again the smile. "I've heard it all."

"Okay," she said as they walked the perimeter of the courtyard, under the overhang. The smell of the Mississippi wafted over the two-hundred-year-old walls of the church.

"My name is Olivia," she said. "Benchet. I moved here a few months ago to be with my grandmother before she died.

I inherited her house and something else. It's a gift, they say, kind of like ESP."

"Kind of?"

' ' see things, Father. Sometimes ugly things." She stuffed her hands into her pockets and wondered how much she should confide. Dry leaves danced across the stone floor of the cloister. "Sometimes things that make me doubt my faith." She slanted him a glance, but he was looking straight ahead, his brows knit, his nose a little red from the cold.

"We all have doubts now and again," he said. "Even priests."

"Do priests sin?" she asked.

"What do you think?" he asked and his lips tightened a fraction.

"Unfortunately we are human."

She wondered. The man she saw in her visions wasn't human at all. He was hideous. A beast. The embodiment of evil. All dressed up in fine vestments. The clouds opened up and poured rain from the sky and the thick drops tumbled down the sloping roof to gurgle in the eaves.

"So you believe that I have this "?"

"God works in mysterious ways."

"Come on, that's not an answer."

"No, I guess it's not. Kind of an overused cliche1." He stopped at the door to the chapel. "How about this? I think there are gifts God bestows upon all of us. Some we can see, or touch, or prove, if you will. Others are intangible, but gifts nonetheless. We're lucky if we recognize what we've got."

"What if I consider my particular gift a curse?"

"Then you should try to look at it another way. Turn it around. God wants us to use whatever gifts he bestows upon us to benefit mankind and to glorify Him. I bet if you look hard enough you can find something positive in your sight."

"That'll be tough."

"I'm sure you can do it," he said with an encouraging smile that touched his eyes.

If you only knew. She was tempted to confide in him, to tell him what she'd seen, but thought better of it. "I'll give it a shot," she promised, wondering if she was lying to a man of God.' ', are you and Father O'Hara the only priests here, at Saint Luke's?"

"For the moment. Sometimes we have visiting priests who conduct the service. And for the record, it's Monsignor O'Hara. Sometimes he's a little fussy about that."

"Oh. I'll try to remember. So do you know other priests in New Orleans, the ones who work in different parishes?"

"Of course." He smiled as if amused. "Why?" "Just curious," she said, and that really wasn't a lie.

As much as she wanted to trust this man of God, she knew that if she confided the horrid truth to him, she was bound to alienate him. Right now, she just needed a friend in the Church. Someone she could talk to. "Thanks for your time."

She offered her hand.
He wrapped chilled fingers around her palm.' ' back anytime you have
questions, Olivia. And ... you might want to attend mass once in a

while. Talking with me is fine, but maybe you need to speak to the
Father directly."
"I can do that from home, can't I?"
"Of course, but God's house is a welcome home." He smiled and she felt

better. "Here." He reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. From inside he pulled out a business card. "You're welcome to come, to call me anytime and the door to St. Luke's is always open." He pressed the card into her outstretched hand. "I'll look for you." Don't hold your breath, she thought, turning the card over.

"Don't tell me ... you didn't know priests carried business cards. Or
use e-mail, right? Well, not all do. I find it just makes things easier.
And making business cards with a computer is a snap."
She laughed, feeling more at ease, then tucked the card into her purse.
"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. There's a higher power at work here."
Father James held the door for her and watched her cross the parking lot
to a red truck. She was an interesting woman.

Troubled. Beautiful. And she'd lied to him. Well, if not lied at least hedged: he saw it in her eyes. He wondered why, but he tried not to judge. Never. For there was no man who should judge another.

He'd learned long ago that judgment should be left to God.
Didn't he know himself what it was to sin?
What it was to feel the pull of evil?
How hard it was not to transgress?

He'd have to be careful, he thought, remembering how easily sin had come knocking on his door, and how quickly, eagerly, he'd opened it. He'd promised God as well as himself that he'd never unlock it again.

He hoped he hadn't lied.

The Internet was a bust. Olivia clicked off her laptop and rubbed the kinks from the back of her neck. Seated on her grandmother's old couch in the living room, she picked up her now-cold cup of tea, and frowned.

Well, what had she expected? That all the priests in the state of Louisiana would have then* pictures and personal bios on a website?

WWW. Wearesouthempriests. com? And even if she had found photos and personal tidbits on the web, what would that prove? She couldn't pick the guy out of the crowd anyway. And maybe he wasn't even a priest.

Maybe he'd just donned an alb that he usually saved for Mardi Gras.

One that he let burn in the fire.

That made more sense.

"Give it up," she told herself, and carried her cup into the kitchen to deposit it in the sink. It was late afternoon, the sun sinking fast, darkness shading the bayou. The rain had let up, but the clouds still rolled across the sky, making the day dreary and glum. hairy was curled on a rag rug near the back door. He looked up and thumped his tail on the floor before yawning broadly and resting his chin on his paws again. Chia whistled softly, then tossed water from her dish over her head.

Olivia glanced at the caned-back chair where Rick Bentz had sat only hours before. The big man with the worldweary expression until he smiled, and then, look out. He transformed into a handsome, if determined male with intelligent eyes and a cutting sense of humor. She liked that He could take it as well as dish it out. An interesting man, but off-limits. He was a cop; his interest in her was purely professional and he thought she was a crackpot. She could read it in his eyes.

Then there was Father James Mcclaren. Hollywood handsome with intense

blue eyes and just enough gray at his temples to make him interesting. Talk about off-limits! He was a priest, devoted to God and a life of celibacy. What a waste, she thought, remembering him climbing the ladder and the way her gaze had strayed to his buttocks and thighs ... "You've been alone too long, Benchet," she groused at herself, disbelieving. Lately her libido seemed to be making up for lost time. She, who after the last broken engagement had sworn off men for good. And now she was thinking ludicrous, sexy thoughts about two men she could never even date, much less have a future with. "Bentz is right, you're a maniac," she muttered.

hairy jumped to his feet and growled.

"What?"

He began barking crazily and scrambled to the front door, making enough racket to raise the dead in the surrounding three parishes.

"Cut it out!" Olivia ordered and followed him to the front door, half expecting to hear the peal of chimes. She smiled inwardly. It had to be Bentz. Back with some clue or question.

But as she looked out the window, she saw no one. Hairy was still barking, jumping up to the window, acting as if there was someone on the other side of the door.

The hairs on the back of Olivia's arms rose. She moved, angling herself so she could look down the length of the front porch through the window.

But she saw nothing. Not even a shadow. She thought about her grandmother's shotgun tucked into the closet under the stairs. "Just in case," Grannie had said. "You just never know about people anymore.

I'm ashamed to say it, but I don't trust ' like I used to." Me neither, Olivia thought now. Remembering Bentz's warning, she went to the closet, pulled out the gun, and finding a box of shells on the shelf over the coats, loaded the darned thing, throwing the bolt. Then, telling herself that she would call the security people first thing Monday

morning, she walked to the front door and cracked it open.

Outside there wasn't a sound. Not a sigh of wind, not a croak of a

bullfrog, not the hum of insects. The world was still. As if everything had come to a halt. She stepped onto the porch and Hairy, sticking closer to her, began to growl, low and deep, as if he were afraid.

"It's all right," she said to the dog, but even to her own ears the words sounded false. Hopeful. Founded on nothing.