Cold Blooded (33 page)

"No," she said, her heart drumming. He couldn't be at it again. Not after last night. A cold needle of fear pierced her brain. Glancing in the mirror mounted over the bookcase, she half-expected to see the priest's masked face again, to stare into his cruel blue eyes, but only her own reflection stared back at her, a pale, wild-haired woman who appeared as world-weary as she felt. It was a haunted look. Tortured.

hairy whined, but he didn't run to the door or the window as he usually did if he heard something outside.

Instead he cowered near her, shivering, as if he sensed some evil presence here, within the core of the house.

"Sssh. You're all right," she said, picking him up and holding him close. "We're safe." But he trembled in her arms and scrambled to get down. She set him on the floor and he ran, toenails clicking on the hardwood, to stand in the archway to the kitchen, turn around, and stare back at her. "Hairy, you're fine."

He whined plaintively.

"Oh, you can be such a goose sometimes," she said, but couldn't shake off the feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong. And not just in her visions, but here in her home. She thought of Grannie Guy's words, her faith in God.

Grannie's religion had been skewed a bit, a blend of healthy Roman

Catholicism flavored with a sprinkling of voodoo.

But harmless. Grannie had found solace in the Bible. This Bible that sat on the top shelf of the short bookcase. The thick, leather-bound volume that had been in the family for ages and rested beneath the antique oval mirror.

Hairy barked and backed up.

"Stop it."

But he wouldn't quit and was barking madly as she opened the Bible. It fell open to the Twenty-third Psalm. Grannie's favorite. Olivia read the familiar passage, and remembered Grannie whispering it to her at night when she tucked her into bed:

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." Olivia blinked back tears as she thought of her grandmother and how the old woman had pushed Olivia's hair out of her face as she'd whispered the words. Funny, she'd never read this Bible herself; it had been solely Grannie's domain.

Hairy growled. Obviously the passage wasn't calming him down.' '," Olivia teased and set the Bible down, but the front flap sprung open to a page where generations of Duboises had taken the time to record every birth, marriage, and death in the family for the past hundred and twenty years. Grannie Guy had been as careful as her mother-inlaw and the woman

before her.

Olivia traced her finger down the page, saw where her mother had been born and the mention of three other children Grannie had birthed only to bury as none of the others had lived over a week.

Bernadette had been the exception--strong where all of Grannie's other children had been born weak.

Beneath her mother's name were the listing of her marriages and the children Bernadette had brought into the world.

Olivia stopped short.

Her index finger was poised over the page. There she was, listed by her birth date. Chandra's short life had been recorded as well. But the entry above her name was the one that stopped her cold.

Baby boy. No name. Listed as Bernadette's son, the father being Reggie Benchet. If it was correct, this nameless brother was barely a year older than Olivia.

A brother? She'd had a brother? What had happened to him?
Her head pounded. She searched the notes, thinking she missed something

important, but there wasn't a record of the child's death. It couldn't
be. She'd never heard his name; he was never mentioned.
As if he had never existed.
Was it a mistake, a nameless baby written in the wrong spot? But no ...

the listing was in her grandmother's hand.
Grannie wouldn't have made that kind of error.
So if he hadn't died, where was he?
She felt that chill run through her blood again, and when she glanced

into the mirror, she saw the hint of something beneath her own
reflection, a shifting shape with no real form.
She dropped the Bible. Backed up. Nearly tripped over her own feet.

Her heart was a terrified tattoo, her hands sweating.
Deep in the reflection she caught a glimpse of something rare. Something
deadly. Something evil.

She backed up and told herself that she was letting her imagination run

wild, that she was allowing the dog's weird behavior to put her on edge.
But the hairs on the back of her arms had lifted and her heart was
jack-hammering. Get a grip, Olivia! You saw nothing, NOTHING. You're
letting your imagination run away with you.

Taking several deep breaths, she hurried to the phone, found her address

book in the top drawer, and ran her finger down a page where numbers had been erased and crossed out. Finally, she located Bernadette's number.

She dialed quickly, tried to fight the rising tide of panic that was overtaking her. Bentz had said there had to be a connection between her and the killer. Something in her genes ... could it be? Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

The phone rang. Once, twice, three times.

"Answer, damn it!"

After the fourth ring, voice mail picked up and she was instructed to leave a message.

What could she say?' ' ... this is Olivia. Would you please call me when you--"

"Liwie?" her mother's voice cut in and Olivia's knees threatened to give way. She braced herself against the counter. "What a surprise."

"I need to talk to you."

"As long as it's not a lecture about my husband. I was considering leaving him, but Jeb and I we're trying to work things out."

"Are you era--" Olivia bit her tongue and slowly counted to ten.' ' know how I feel about that," she said, "but it's not why I called."

There was a long, strained pause and Olivia wondered how she could ask the next question, how she could accuse her mother of harboring a lie for over thirty years.

"I was going through the Bible," she said, "you know the one. It belonged to Grannie."

"Yes."

"Well, it's the weirdest thing. I never knew there was a page dedicated to all the births and marriages and deaths in the family." Was it her imagination or had she heard Bernadette's swift intake of breath?

"Is there?"

There was just no way to sugar-coat her question. "I noticed that Chandra and I were listed as your children, but we weren't the only ones. There was a mention of another child. A boy. Not named and born about a year before I was. My older brother."

No response.
"Mom?"
A pause and then a long sigh. "Liwie, this is none of your business." "I

had a brother and no one told me and it's none of my business?" she
repeated, aghast. "Of course it's my business."
"What does it matter now?"
"Bernadette ... he's my brother. Is he still alive?"

Nothing.
"Is he?" Olivia demanded again, blood thundering in her head, her
fingers clenched over the receiver so tightly they ached.

"I ... I don't know."
"Why not?"
"It's complicated."
"For the love of God, Bernadette! Where is he? What the hell happened?
Who is he?"
"I said I don't know," Bemadette snapped, then lowered her voice. "I was

young, barely out of high school. Not married ... back then it was not so accepted to have a child out of wedlock. Not like today. I had to tell my mother and she ... she arranged a private adoption. I don't know his name, what happened to him. Nothing."

"But--" Olivia leaned against the wall. Her head was spinning with the lie. How many more were there?

"As far as I'm concerned, that baby never existed," Bernadette insisted but her voice shook with emotion. "I don't expect you to understand, Livvie, but I damn well expect you not to judge."

Olivia gasped. "I didn't mean ... I just want to know the truth."

"The truth's very simple and pretty common. I got pregnant while I was still in high school and your father was ... Well, he'd shipped out and I wasn't married, so I gave my baby up and I really haven't looked back.

I didn't want to. I suppose these days you would call it denial, but there it is."

And it explained so much.

"The only people who knew were your grandmother and me. It was a privat e adoption. I don't even know the attorney who handled it or the name of the family who adopted him.

I didn't want to know then and I don't want to know now.

I didn't tell your father."

"He's not my father."

"Now who's in denial?" Bernadette threw out. "Leave it be, Olivia. So you have a brother somewhere, what do you care?"

"Aren't you even curious about your son?"

"No, Liwie, I'm not. Now leave it alone." Olivia couldn't. One way or another, she thought, hanging up, she'd find out who the hell her brother was. Even if he turned out to be a vicious killer.

* * *

Seated at his desk in the station, Bentz glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. He had just enough time to get to Baton Rouge and pick up Kristi. Aside from the suggestion that "Saint Bernadette" had adopted out a son sired by Reggie Benchet, Bentz had learned nothing from Oscar Cantrell. Whatever love the man had once felt for his ex-wife had been killed when Bernadette had started "fucking around" on him. "She was a real slut. Couldn't keep a zipper up to save her life. ' that's what had attracted me to her in the first place, but I expect a wife to save it for her husband. Sheeiiit, she's a piece of work, Bernadette is," Cantrell had concluded.

Bentz figured there was more to the story, but so far hadn't sorted it out. And now he was late. He threw on his jacket, slid his Clock into its holster, and wended his way through the desks scattered throughout the department.

"Bentz!" Penny, one of the receptionists yelled. "I've got Montoya on the line. He says its important."

"Tell him to call me on the cell." Bentz was already halfway down the stairs. By the time he'd reached his Jeep, his cell was ringing like crazy. "Bentz," he said into the headset as he strapped on his seat belt.

"We found her." Montoya's voice was cold as death.

"Who?"

"St. Catherine of Alexandria."

"What?" Hand over the steering wheel, Bentz froze.

"What do you mean? Where?"

"That's just the half of it," Montoya said solemnly. "She isn't alone."

Chapter Twenty-seven.

Talk about a bad day!

This had to be the worst, Kristi thought as she came up with some bullshit answer for the last question on her essay test. This was supposed to be English 101. It was supposed to be a snap. But Dr. Northrup was rumored to be the hardest professor in the English Department, a real perfectionist, and in Kristi's estimation, a prick.

He was too precise, too wound-tight. He even dressed the part in his natty suits and perfect hair. She doubted he was more than thirty-five but he seemed older. Harder. Jaded.

Deciding she'd done the best she could, she carried her test paper to the front of the room and dropped it into the half-filled basket on his desk. He was putting on his coat and glanced up at her as she passed.

"Going home for Thanksgiving?" he asked.

Kristi was dumbfounded. The entire term he hadn't so much as called on her. Nor had he uttered one word to the kids who had dropped off their exams before she had.

"Yeah." She nodded and hitched her backpack onto her shoulder. "Today."

He flashed a bit of a smile, though it seemed pasted on, as if he did it because it was expected. It wasn't real. But then, the guy was as phony as a three-dollar bill. "Have a nice holiday, Ms. Bentz." He turned to give his T.A. some instructions.

' ', too," she muttered, starting for the door. She didn't even think he knew her name. Wasn't thrilled that he did.

The guy was more than a little weird, kind of stuck on himself. It was as if his Ph. D. made him something special, something that should be revered.

It was stupid, in her opinion, and way beyond odd, but then all her professors were a little off. As she pushed the door open and stepped into the cold November day, Kristi wondered if all the teachers at All Saints were weirdos. Or had she just lucked out this term and gotten all the eccentrics?

Rain was pouring from the dark sky. Drops peppered the ground, hitting hard enough to splash and puddle. As she had for three days running, Kristi had forgotten her umbrella.

Silently calling herself an idiot, she turned the collar of her jacket up and started cutting across campus, ducking her head against the sheets of cold drops and running through the gloom. Only a few other kids were making their way down the narrow paths that rimmed the tall brick buildings and bisected the lawns of the University. Nightfall was supposed to be several hours off, but the afternoon was dark as twilight.

She jumped over a puddle on the path, began jogging, and thought about her professors. Dr. Zaroster in Philosophy was a nervous, demanding man who barked orders at Brian and looked upon his undergraduate students with an air of superiority--not unlike Northrup.

Perhaps that better-than-thou attitude came with the territory of succeeding in academia.

Kristi's professor in bonehead math, his. Wilder, wore tons of makeup and too-tight sweaters, but other than that seemed okay. Dr. Sutler in Psychology tried to appear laid back, but there was something about him that made her think he wasn't quite as relaxed as he tried to appear. He seemed edgy at tunes. And he'd pulled her aside once to tell her that her paper hadn't been up to what he knew she could do. "I'm certain if you spent a little more time doing research, you would surprise yourself." Oh, yeah, like how did he know? Just because he had a doctorate in psychology ... could he psychoanalyze a person on the spot? Then there was Miss. Pratt, the PE teacher. A dyke. No two ways about it. Pratt kept trying to convince Kristi to try out for the swim team, but Kristi couldn't shake the feeling that the PE teacher was hitting on her. Sometimes Kristi even thought Miss. Pratt was a guy. It was just kind of creepy the way she was always hanging out at the pool or in the locker room, making herself appear busy but actually watching everyone and everything that went on around the physical education facilities.