Cold Blooded (42 page)

The owner of the dogs probably just didn't bother with legalities or the DMV. Both parties felt better not having a clear view of the face of the other, and after the cash was exchanged for "one quality male and the meanest bitch this side of Arkansas," The Chosen One had driven the dogs here, then driven back to the college, parked the stolen car in a lot not far from where he'd found it, replaced the plates, and jogged to the spot where he'd tucked his own car. Then he'd driven back to his sanctuary.

He was proud of himself. Of his resourcefulness. He'd found the dogs through an ad in a local paper that was chock-full of cheap items for sale--everything from used mattress and springs to farm equipment and exotic pets. The animals had been described as "guard dogs--Doberman/ Rottweiler mix." They were perfect.

Except for their incessant howling from the basement.

This, of course, was not where he lived; just where he spent most of his time. He lived in a cramped space only a few blocks from the college.

His furnishings, books, and clothing were there. He'd left a few things
strewn about to make it seem as if he entertained women in those
quarters, and he found this the most exciting part for they were
earrings, or necklaces, or even scarves of some of the women he'd
immortalized.

Now, he untied his cincture and let his alb slide to the floor. He stood
naked before the altar, but he couldn't concentrate, the dogs were too
loud. Music didn't help and even the caress of the jeweled whip striking
his flesh wasn't enough to satisfy him. His prayers seemed empty and
unanswered, and when he fondled his braid, rubbing the plait slowly
between his fingers or upon his cock, he had only the hint of an
erection. Closing his eyes, he conjured up the image of St. Catherine of
Alexandria rotating on the wheel, her white body spinning and dripping
blood, the horror upon her face as he withdrew his blade ... but, no ...
he didn't get hard, didn't feel the presence of God ... began to doubt.

The barking continued. If one of the beasts quieted, it seemed the other
took up the call. He strode to the landing and screamed down, "Shut up!"

Spawn of the devil, that's what the curs were. His head began to pound
harder and harder with each yowl.

Perhaps he should beat them again. Take the leather straps and whip them
until they turned and snarled at him. They had water and a couple of
bones with tattered pieces of meat but he'd offered them no solid food.

He wanted them ravenous for St. Vivian.

As his head ached, he sensed, from somewhere in the back of his brain,
that he should repent. It was so confusing at times. God meant him to do
His will. Yes, of course, but ... the priest had insisted that he stop;
that his sacrifices were a sin ... but then the priest didn't
understand. Couldn't.

Pray the rosary and go to the police.

What kind of a priest was Father James?

At the altar The Chosen One slid to his knees and bowed his head. He
prayed until his knees ached, until his neck hurt, but it was no good.

He needed to confess and the phone wasn't good enough. No ... he needed to visit the confessional and hear Father Mcclaren's breath, feel the heat from his body through the thin partition ... yes ... it would be dangerous, but necessary.

God would expect no less.

Chapter Thirty-two.

"... a bar in Lafayette, one in Baton Rouge, two in New Orleans, and one
in Cambrai," the owner of Nick's Neon Lighting said from his office in
Montgomery. Seated at his desk with the phone receiver wedged between
his ear and shoulder, Bentz was scribbling notes. "Those are the only
places I've sold a neon sign like the one you described, with the pink
martini glass. I'd be glad to fax you over the information."

"Do that," Bentz said and gave him the fax number.

Irritated, he plowed stiff fingers through his hair. The case was
getting to him. He'd viewed every shred of evidence and was working with
the damned task force but he still felt as if his wheels were spinning,
they were getting nowhere.

Fast.

And now a neon sign of a pink martini glass could be linked to Baton
Rouge, only a few blocks from the campus where Kristi was attending
school. At All Saints. Even though there were other bars who had the
same signs dis played, Bentz focused on the one in the window of The
Dive. He didn't like it. Not one bit.

As soon as he got the fax, he'd give a copy to the task force, just as
he'd taken them a copy of the list of names Olivia had provided him
with. The team was sorting through it, locating those infants, comparing
the list to recorded births, Social Security numbers, DMV records, and
arrests.

They were sifting through class lists, faculty lists, alumni lists, and
employee records for the colleges the victims had attended, scouring the
information for a link. The FBI was comparing the murders to others in
the data base in the hope of finding similarities with other crimes that
had been committed across the country, just in case New Orleans wasn't
the killer's first or only hunting ground.

The task force had established a hot line and had given more facts to
the press in case anyone knew of anything suspicious.

In the matter of a week, evidence was being collected, sifted, and

classified, but so far the task force hadn't come up with dick and Bentz felt as if they were running out of time. More feast days loomed, each day bringing them closer to another murder. Loosening his collar, he read through the list of names on his copy of Olivia's list for the dozenth time ... He felt as if he were missing something, as if somewhere in those sixty-odd names, was the killer. "Who are you, you bastard?" he wondered aloud.

Had any of these newborns grown up to be priests? Had any attended the colleges in the area? How many now lived around New Orleans? The computers would sort this out.

If there were any matches ... A secretary rapped on his door, then dropped off the fax and some mail, all of which had been opened, none of which was valuable. He skimmed the fax from Nick's Neon Lighting, then shot a copy to the coordinator of the task force. None of the addresses for the bars was near the victims' homes, or then- places of employ, or from where they were assumed to have been abducted.

Except for The Dive in Baton Rouge. Only three blocks off the campus of All Saints College. Hell, why couldn't he shake his bad feeling about this one? He glanced at the bifold pictures of Kristi, then remembered seeing her buried beneath the covers of her bed on Thanksgiving morning.

Later he'd caught her kicking the hell out of his punching bag. At dinner she'd tried heroically to pretend that his miserable attempt at Thanksgiving dinner was fabulous.

He grinned. Kristi was right. He was paranoid. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost her. His daughter--and he'd beat the living tar out of anyone who even suggested she wasn't rightfully his--was the one constant in his life, the reason he'd quit booze and women.

He knew he had to let her go, and hell, he was trying.

Half the time she was pushing him away, telling him to "get a life." He glanced around the small, cluttered office where he spent more hours than he wanted to count. Case files and empty cups cluttered his desk.

Pictures of grizzly murder scenes had been tacked to his bulletin board.

Dust collected on the few pictures he had mounted on the walls.

This wasn't a life. When he went home, it was more of the same. Aside from watching sports or sometimes taking a few swings at the punching bag.

He threw down his pencil and closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. She was right. He did need something more in his life.

Something or someone like Olivia Benchet?

"Shit." He didn't have time for a woman. Especially not one who had somehow befriended Father James.

Why not? Hell, Bentz, she came here offering a damned olive branch and you treated her like dirt.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. He didn't want to think about a relationship with anyone right now, not even Olivia.

When this was all over, when the madman was either dead or behind bars, maybe then there would be time for a woman in his life.

Like Montoya's life? Bentz scowled darkly. Montoya's girlfriend still hadn't shown up. Disappeared without a trace.

An APB hadn't come up with the girl or her car. And she was a part-time student.

That was the connection ... but he was missing something ... something important. He reached into his drawer, found a pack of nicotine gum, and shoved the tasteless stick into his mouth. The schools, it all had to do with the schools.

He picked up the information sheet he'd put together on Brian Thomas. In less than twenty-four hours, Bentz had figured out that Thomas was thirty-one, estranged from his parents, had gotten into trouble when he was younger when an underage girl had cried rape, and gone to the army as well as been enrolled for a while in a seminary.

There were too many damned red flags waving around the guy. Olivia thought she'd seen a priest behead Stephanie Jane Keller in her vision and the guy was about the same weight and height as Thomas, athletic and

blue-eyed.

Thomas had been trained with all sorts of weapons while he was in the military and at one time had a deluded vision of becoming a priest. His days at the seminary had been numbered and somehow Thomas ended up at

All Damned Saints while victims were being slaughtered in accordance with saints' feast days.

And what if he was the killer? Why would he be dating Kristi? Is that how the killer got to know his victims--by cozying up to them, dating them? That MO seemed unlikely and dangerous; the killer would take a big chance of being seen with the women he eventually killed. So far no one had connected the murderer with the women who had been slaughtered.

That you know of. Maybe he was clever. Maybe Thomas had dated them in the past.

There were too many damned coincidences for Bentz's way of thinking.

Time to have a chat with Kristi's boyfriend. Behind his daughter's back.

If she found out and was pissed as hell, that was too bad.

At least she would be alive.

"So that's it, I have to face it. Leo wants a divorce and there's not a whole lot I can do about it except get the best damned lawyer in Tucson ... no, make that Phoenix," Sarah decided.

She'd returned around five that morning, had slept until two, then rattled around in the bathroom for ten minutes before appearing with her two bags in the kitchen. Her eyes were puffy and she looked as if she hadn't slept a wink, but she wasn't crying now. She appeared calm and determined.

"He wants to marry the bitch. Can you believe it? He's"-- she made air quotes with two sets of fingers--" ' love."

He didn't want this to happen, you know, it just did."

She took the cup of coffee Olivia handed to her. "It's such bullshit.

When I think of all the years I looked the other way, put up with his nonsense, figured that someday he'd grow up ... Jesus, I was a fool."

"You were married to him. Quit beating yourself up."

"Oh, and that's the best part. He and the bitch are already planning their wedding. As soon as the divorce is final. He's quitting his job in Tucson, well, they've probably fired him by now anyway, and moving in with her. They're ... "

Sarah's chin wobbled. She buried her nose in her cup and took a big gulp. "... they're even talking about having a baby together. Her kids are six and eight. Girls. They want a son."

"Oh, for crying out loud. Sarah--"

A solitary tear tracked from one of her eyes and she held up a hand, palm outward. "Here's the kicker. She's married, too. Her husband just found out last weekend and he's shellshocked.

Had no idea his wife was foolin' around on him."

"They deserve each other."

"I know ... " She set her half-full cup on the counter.

"Look, I've got to get home. I have a lawyer to see, a store to run, a cat to adopt, and I think I'll sign up for one of those dating services online."

"Are you sure? Cats? Dating services?"

"I'm not sure about anything except that I'm through sitting around and bawling my eyes out over that loser. The cat will be better company and I'm going to meet some men, damn it. Somewhere there's got to be a better guy out there." Again her chin trembled and her eyes filled.

"Damn it, why do I even care? Leo's a bastard. Always was."

' ' you're the winner. Keep reminding yourself of that ... call me anytime and ... are you sure you have to leave?" Olivia asked, touching

her friend on the arm. "I've got the extra room."

"Thanks, you're a love, but I have to put my life back together. And you
... figure it out with the cop and Father James."

"What? I'm not--"
" Sarah shook her head and held up a hand. "Don't lie to me. I know
you've got some kind of thing for the detective but I saw the way Father
James looked at you."

"If you remember, he's a priest."
"He's a man who just happens to be a priest And he's a hunk."
"You really have flipped."
A sad smile twisted her Mend's lips. "Maybe I have," she admitted.
"Maybe I should amend my earlier goals.
Make it that I have a lawyer to see, a store to run, a cat to adopt, a

dating service to join, and a shrink to visit. Is that better?" "Much," Olivia said, sad that Sarah was leaving. It had been nice to have someone in the house again. They hugged and sighed, then Olivia helped Sarah stash her things in the trunk of her rented compact. A squirrel scolded them both as she drove away. hairy whined as the little car disappeared over the bridge and through the trees. "She'll be back," Olivia predicted, glancing down at the dog. "And you be good.

She's not all that crazy about you. Come on." She whistled to the dog,
who took off after a squirrel.
"Hairy!"
The phone rang.
"Hairy, you get in here!"
The dog ignored her. Again the phone rang.

"Fine!" She left the door open and ran to the kitchen in time to hear

her own voice on the recorder. "This is Olivia.