Cold Blooded (8 page)

He closed his eyes, listened, and through his straining ears he heard

the voice of God meting out his penance.

After whispering a nearly inaudible "Amen," and deftly making the sign of the cross, he stood and slowly walked to the closet where his albs hung ... one less today. His favorite. Left to burn. Because of the whore.

Her picture was there as well. He took it from the closet and carefully taped it on the calendar he kept on the wall, carefully covering the space for the date, November twentysecond, the Feast Day of Saint Cecilia. Ah ... she'd been so trusting ... until it had been too late.

He didn't think of that now. Couldn't. He had penance. He strode back to the closet With gentle fingers, he slid the vestments aside and turning the combination lock, opened his most private of places, the spot where he kept all that was valuable and worldly to him.

He added a long lock of golden hair to his other treasures, other bits of hair and fingernails, then sifted through the medals and chains until his fingers encountered the weapon.

Ah.

A tiny, featherlight whip with sharp stones embedded in the ribbon-like lashes, sparkling gems that cut with razorsharp slits, nice, neat little cuts that barely scraped the surface, not enough to cause much bleeding, just enough to create sufficient pain to remind him that he, like all mortals, was born in original sin.

The Chosen One slipped out of his clothes and, naked, knelt at the altar once again, bowing his head, murmuring a prayer of atonement Not for the killing. Now he understood. That had been necessary. As always. God's will. Even the violence, had it not been preordained?

Had he not followed the Holy Father's ; commands to rid the earth of the vile sinners on the day God had selected?

Yes, but he'd felt lust, that vibrant raw hunger that even now stole through his bloodstream. Hot. Dark. Wanting.

He could not be weak. He drew in a deep breath. Readied I himself.

Held his weapon high, then cracked his wrist.

| Slap!
The leather fingers bit into his shoulder and he stiffened.
Pain, glorious pain, swept through him. His blood rushed through his

veins. Heat centered in his groin.
He drew back the whip and snapped his wrist again.
Slap!
\ The sharp little stones stung. Like the bite of a hundred wasps. He

sucked in his breath. Felt the ooze of a bit of blood. Enough to wash him of his sins. Again. He flicked his hand. Hard. Slap!

His erection began to throb. Painfully. Deliciously. He thought of the woman. The way her pale curls fell upon her smooth white neck. Cecilia. Whore. Daughter of : Satan. She was so fine ... her body perfect ... that smooth neck beckoning ... for his blade, or his mouth? He imagined ' mounting her as she knelt, her body quivering, her lips begging forgiveness, his teeth catching hold of her nape as he thrust inside her. Hot. Moist. Slick. Even now he envisioned her heavy breasts hanging downward, rosy nipples nearly scraping the floor. How he would have liked to have stroked them, pinched those nipples, heard her cry out as he plunged deeper inside her.

Sinner! Defiler! You are weak with your want of her!
He cracked the whip harshly.
Slap!
Pain tore through his flesh. He sucked his breath through his teem.
Again! The leather fingers sizzled in the air.

Slap!
His body jerked.
Yes! The whore deserved to die.
He drew back. Braced himself. Cocked his wrist.
Slap!
Tears ran from his eyes as he felt the holy light bathe him. He would

fight his lust, his weakness, and he would kill again to rid the earth
of Satan's whores.
It was God's will.

Chapter Eight.

Olivia heard the crunch of tires on the drive and glanced out the window facing the lane just as Rick Bentz stretched out of his cruiser. Even beneath the moss-bearded oaks, he appeared the big man that he was, muscular, nearly stocky, with deep-set eyes and an Fve-seen-it-all expression. He was wearing a jacket that fit loosely around his waist but stretched over his shoulders, casual slacks, and a white shirt.

And a shoulder holster. She caught a glimpse of smooth leather and the butt of a gun.

Some women might find him handsome, she thought grudgingly.

He had a certain appeal with his square jaw and thick brown hair. His face was lined and craggy enough to be interesting, the bit of gray at his temples not unattractive.

But besides the gun, it was the glint in his flinty eyes and the set of his jaw--all hard-edged determination--that reminded her he was a cop.

And off-limits.

Not that she was looking. But she'd noticed he didn't wear a wedding ring and she'd read somewhere that he was divorced, and that his ex-wife had died.

She'd sworn off men after the last near-miss at the altar.

Besides, Bentz wasn't her type.

She opened the door before he knocked, and hairy rounded the corner from the kitchen to start barking like crazy. "Stop it!" Olivia commanded, and the dog, for once, actually shut up. Olivia met Bentz's eyes. "You found her, didn't you?"

"We found someone."

Oh, God. Deep inside she'd harbored the tiniest shred of hope that she'd been wrong. That, as this detective had thought, she'd just experienced a really bad nightmare. But of course, even that iota of hope had been

misguided. "It's the woman I told you about. The one in the fire."

"I'd like to talk to you about her."

About time. "Come in." She pushed the door open further and the dog bolted through.

"Thanks." Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he walked into her house, his gaze skimming over the bookcase, potted plants, lumpy couch, and scattered chairs. "We'll have to backtrack some, go over some of the things you said earlier."

"No problem. I've got most of the afternoon, then I've got to meet my professor around four."

"That late on a Friday?" He seemed even bigger in the kitchen, taking up space in this little cabin with its low ceilings and yellowed pine walls. Pushing six-two or three, he ducked around a hurricane lantern that hung from the ceiling, a fixture Grannie Guy had refused to replace just in case the electricity was ever cut off. From her cage, Chia shrieked as she moved from one end of her perch to the other, warily eyeing the intruder.

"Hush, Chia!" she ordered. "Another of my grandmother's orphans. Chia doesn't like to go unnoticed. Has to have her say."

"Typical female."

"What?" Olivia's eyes narrowed.

"It was a joke," he explained.

"A poor one."

"Right. So, you have to meet with your professor later."

"Yes. Dr. Leeds at Tulane."

She felt it then, as surely as if she'd turned on the airconditioning, the atmosphere in the room got suddenly colder. It was as if Bentz's sense of humor evaporated.

Something glinted in his steely eyes.

"You know him?" she asked.

"We've met." From his pocket he withdrew the same small recorder he'd used earlier. "This shouldn't take too long." He set the recorder on the kitchen table, where a Thanksgiving cactus was trying to bloom. Speaking into the small microphone, he said that he was continuing the interview, gave the date and time, and after spelling Olivia's name, indicated that he was in her house with her. But he didn't sit down at the table, instead stood resting his hips on the counter.

"You said you moved back to Louisiana recently. When was that? Last summer?"

' '. I came in late July when my grandmother got sick."

She pointed to one of the framed photographs she'd hung on the wall near the back porch.

"This is a picture of us. A long time ago." In the shot, Grannie, gray hair braided in a single plait, was swinging a bare-footed Olivia off the ground. Olivia was dressed in ragged shorts and a T-shirt, had been around five at the time, and her head was thrown back in pure delight.

Sunlight streamed through the trees and dappled the dry grass. In the background a hedge was in full bloom, showing off pink blooms, and the only dark spot in the photo was the hint of a shadow creeping from the bottom of the frame.

Bentz noted it as well. "Who took the picture?"

The muscles in the back of Olivia's neck tightened. "My father. One of the few times he deigned to show up."

"He didn't raise you?" Bentz asked.

She took in a deep breath. "My father? He wasn't exactly the Ward Cleaver type of model dad. He didn't hang around much. For the most part, Grannie Guy raised me." She didn't like talking about her family.' '" didn't begin to describe it. "Oh ... I'm sorry ... could I get you some coffee ... or, God, I don't think I

have anything else."

"Only if you want it."

"Desperately," she admitted. "This is ... nerveracking." her surprise, he actually smiled, showing off just a hint of white teeth. "I know. Sure. Coffee would be great."

She knew he was just trying to calm her, but that was fine. She needed to be calm. Standing on her tiptoes, Olivia stretched to reach onto the top shelf of one of the few cupboards, the one where she kept the "good" dishes she never used. Bentz came to the rescue and retrieved two porcelain coffee cups.

"Thanks." She set the cups on the counter and checked the glass pot of hours-old coffee still warming in the coffeemaker.

"Okay ... you asked about my family, which isn't my favorite subject. My grandfather was killed in the war.

My grandma never remarried. She spent most of her time taking care of everyone else."

"Who's everyone else?"

"Basically me. My mother when she was around. My sister, Chandra, until she died. She was only two. Wading pool accident," Olivia said, using the same phraseology she always did when anyone asked about her family.

Accident.

So simple. But it hadn't been. Maybe death never was.

"Where's your mother now?"

"Good question." She poured the coffee. "Actually, I think she's in Houston with her husband, Jeb Martin, who, for the record, is a real SOB."

"You don't like him." Lifting a shoulder, she said, "He's as good as any of them, I suppose, but no, I don't like him, and I really don't see what all this has to do with what happened this morning."

"Maybe nothing. But it's not every day someone charges into my office claiming to witness a murder the way you did."

She didn't argue. At least he was listening. She handed him a cup. "I've got milk, no sugar."

"Black's fine."

' ' inherited this house and haven't decided how long I'm staying."

As the tape recorded, Bentz walked to the window and stared at the bayou, sunlight filtering through the trees, murky water stretching away from the cabin and small yard.

"What about your father?"

She closed her eyes. May as well get it over with. "I haven't heard from him in years. He ... he's in jail--prison in Mississippi, I think. The last time I saw him, I was in grade school." She expected more questions about her father, but thankfully he let the subject drop.

"So what about Tucson?"

"What about it?"

"Why'd you leave?" "I thought I explained that. My grandmother was sick, and I'd already applied for grad school. I got accepted at Tulane, and I decided it was fate, or destiny, so I moved back. My partner bought out my interest in the shop."

The dog whined at the door to the porch and Olivia cracked it open to let him in. hairy shot through, a streak of scraggly fur. "My grandmother's," Olivia explained before Bentz asked. "I inherited him.

hairy ... named after Grannie Guy's favorite president, only spelled a little differently."

"Not much of a watchdog."

"Au contraire, Detective. This guy's tough as they come, aren't you?" she asked, scratching the dog's ear.

"I usually advise a rottweiler or pit bull."
"Thanks, but I'll keep Hairy."
"And the bird."
"Definitely the bird."
He glanced around the little house. "You're a long way from the

neighbors and you have pretty damned scary nightmares.
Aren't you afraid? You reported that you sensed the killer caught a

glimpse of you somehow. It's so isolated out here. Aren't you nervous
that he might come after you?"
"I don't think he knows who I am."
"Yet"
She remembered the feeling that someone had been watching her through th

e

windows, the cold sensation that had run through her blood. "I try not

to live my life in fear.

I've got the dog, my grandmother's shotgun, and I keep the place locked.

I'm careful," she said. "You have to remember.

I grew up here. It's home."

"A security system wouldn't hurt."

"Maybe you're right," she agreed. "I'll mink about it."

"Think hard." Bentz scooted out one of the cane-backed chairs at the

small table. "Okay, let's talk about last night," he suggested,
retrieving a small pad from his jacket pocket.
"Can anyone confirm that you were here?"

"Here, at the house ... no ... I was alone ... hey, wait a minute," she

said, disbelieving. "Now ... what are you saying? Do I need an alibi?"

"Do you?"

"No. I'm the one who brought this to you, remember? I just told you I live alone. With my dog."

"I'm just establishing what happened. You went to bed as usual and ... "

"And I was asleep for about three hours, I guess." She glared at him as she took a chair on the opposite side of the table. "Look, I don't know how to explain it, okay? I used to get these ... dreams or visions as a little kid ... things that were happening ... but it wasn't all the time and it was ... different, I suppose." She glanced out the French doors and frowned. How many times had she tried to explain what she saw? How many times had she been disbelieved or laughed at or called a freak?

Rick Bentz, detective or not, was just the same as all the others she'd tried and failed to convince.

Gray eyes assessed her.

"I came to the station to try and help you. I assume you're here for the same reason, that after you found that woman, you actually want my help. I can't tell you any more than I already did."

"What about the killer? Tell me about him." "I've thought about that," she said, trying to tamp down her anger. The nerve of the man, even to suggest ... She took a deep breath and told herself to just get through this.