Hot Blooded (38 page)

“Yes. She was pregnant.”

Just like Annie.
“Oh, God, no…not again…” Bentz drew in a deep breath as Sam sank onto the bottom step of the stairs. “She was wearing a red teddy when she was murdered. You said you were missing one, that it could have been taken, so I’d like you to come down to the station and see if it’s the same.”

Sam dropped her head in her hands and let the tears drizzle down her cheeks. Leanne was dead. And she hadn’t been able to reach her, hadn’t been able to help. “John” had murdered the girl, as well as others.

Bentz sat on the step next to her. “Are you all right? I know this is a shock, but I’m sure your life is in danger, and I wanted to warn you. Samantha, do you understand, this man is dangerous. He’s killed three women, possibly more, and we think that you might be his ultimate target.

” At that moment the phone began to ring.

“Answer it,” Bentz said, and Sam forced herself to her feet. The policemen followed her into the kitchen as she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?

“Sam?”

“Ty.” She nearly dissolved into a puddle on the floor and sank against the kitchen counter.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Sam?”

“It’s Leanne…one of the girls I work with. He killed her, Ty, and he called me and told me he’d made a sacrifice and the police are here…and I have to go down to the station and…” She took a deep breath, tried to pull herself together.

“Stay put,” Ty said. “I’m still in Houston, but I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll be back in a few hours. The police are there? Stay with them, don’t go out. Jesus Christ, I should never have left. He killed the girl?”

“And some others, I…I haven’t talked to the detectives
yet, they just got here,” she said, regaining a modicum of her equilibrium. “But Leanne…oh, God…and she was pregnant…just like Annie.”

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and then swore again. “Hang on, Sam, I’m comin’ home. Just hang on.”

“I will,” she said before hanging up and turning to find both police officers looking uncomfortable and out of place in her kitchen. “Now…could you please…just tell me what’s going on?” She swiped the tears from her eyes, but still felt numb inside. Leanne…oh, God, how could he have killed Leanne?

They sat around the small kitchen table and Bentz explained his theory that John was a serial killer, that somehow he was linked to Annie Seger, that Sam was his ultimate target. “We’re not here to scare you, just tell you what’s going on. I’ll talk to the Cambrai police about extra patrols, we’ll have someone watch the house and the station and we’ll put tracers on all the phones, here and at the office.” Guilt crossed his dark eyes. “We should have done it earlier, but we hadn’t connected him to the murders. We have two eyewitnesses, one a hotel clerk, the other a girl we think he tried to assault who got away. They came up with a description.” He reached into his pocket, unfolded a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. “Do you know this man?”

Staring at the sketch, Sam felt cold as death. The drawing was clear, but the features weren’t defined. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to marks on the drawing of the suspect’s left cheek. “A scar?”

“Scratch marks. The potential victim who got away clawed at him.”

“Good,” Sam said as she stared at the composite. “I—I don’t think I know this man,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “This guy could be anyone.”

“With Type A positive blood. We’re double-checking.”
Charon, eyeing the detectives warily, had hopped onto Sam’s lap and she petted him absently as they talked. They questioned her about phone calls, had she seen anyone lurking around? Had she been approached? Was her alarm system working? Did it scare intruders off, or was it connected with a service? All the while the sketch was on the table, staring at her through dark glasses. He seemed familiar and yet not.

Once the preliminary questions were over, the detectives offered to drive her into New Orleans, to the station to view and possibly identify the red teddy, the single garment Leanne was wearing when she was killed. It made Sam sick to think of it, to imagine that she had anything to do with Leanne’s death. She imagined the girl’s terror, her fear, her pain.

If only she could have interceded, taken Leanne’s calls for help, she thought again as she sat in the back of the cruiser. Montoya drove. Bentz, one arm over the backrest, twisted so that he could see Sam. The air conditioner roared, and the police radio crackled.

“We think he dresses them up to look like you,” Bentz said, as Montoya drove around the edge of Lake Pontchar-train. Through the window, Sam glanced at the darkening water. A few sailboats were visible, the first stars were winking high overhead and the calm water seemed somehow foreboding and dark. Sinister. Like the evil that lurked in all the shadows, the evil that was somehow linked to her.

“We’re confiding in the media, handing out composites and descriptions, hoping someone will recognize him. “We won’t mention you or the calls to the station, nor will we bring up anything about Annie Seger or Houston, but we hope to flush him out.”

“Or drive him to kill again.”

Bentz didn’t say a word.

“He will anyway,” Montoya offered as he switched lanes.
“We have to stop him before he does,” she said, as the lights of New Orleans glittered ever more closely. Montoya was a lead-foot; the cruiser sped past other vehicles driving into the city. Sam hardly noticed. “We have to do anything we can to end this.”

“That’s the idea,” Bentz said, and stuffed a stick of gum into his mouth. “The department’s doing everything in its power—”

“Screw the ‘department,’” she bit out. “How many women are dead? Three, you said, maybe more? Because of me and my show and God only knows what else? The ‘department’ hasn’t saved any lives so far, right?” She was thinking hard. “And I’m the connection to him? Then we should use that. Try to reach him through my program.”

“This is a police matter.”

“Like hell, Detective. This is personal. To me. ‘John’s’ made it personal. He’s called me, sent me threats, broken into my house and now he’s killed someone I care about. It’s personal to me.” By the time Montoya had parked on the street and Bentz had shepherded her into the building and up a set of back stairs to his office, she was furious. At the killer, at the police, at herself and at Leanne for going with the creep. Why had she decided to hook again? Turn a trick?

She tried to reach out to you, Sam, but you weren’t there for her, were you? Just like you weren’t there for Annie, and now she and her baby are dead.
Dead!
Because you weren’t there.

She marched into Bentz’s airless office and waited while he unlocked a cabinet and retrieved a plastic bag. Inside was her red teddy. There was no doubt. She recognized the pattern of lace that covered the breasts, saw the remainder of the tag that she’d cut off when she’d first purchased the flimsy garment, and felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

Leanne had been wearing it when she’d died. Why? Oh, poor confused baby. Leanne had only been a teenager.

But someone had stolen the teddy from Sam’s house. Probably on the night she’d been with Ty on the boat. Who had walked in and taken something so personal? Leanne? Or “John”? Or an accomplice?

She sank into one of the visitor’s chairs in the hot little office and felt as if the blood had been drained from her body. “It’s mine,” she whispered, dry-eyed, but screaming inside.
No, no, no! Leanne, please…Dear God, let this be a nightmare. Let me wake up!

“He’s getting closer to you,” Bentz said, and she shuddered inside. “But we’re going to get him.”

“I believe you.” She met the detective’s determined gaze with her own. “Let’s find that son of a bitch, toss him into jail and throw away the key.”

“That’s too good for him.” Bentz walked to the fan behind his desk and switched it to its highest setting. “In this case I’d like to see him drawn and quartered.”

“But first we have to catch him,” Montoya pointed out. He rested a hip on the edge of Bentz’s desk and leaned closer to Sam. “For that, we’re gonna need your help.”

“You’ve got it,” Sam said, her jaw setting. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

The bitch had scratched him.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror he’d nailed over a basin on a stand. Sure enough, despite two days’ growth of beard, the wound was visible, three distinct gouges from the cunt’s claws. He shouldn’t have let her escape. That had been a mistake, one his instructor would never have made.

Don’t think about him. You’re in control now. You. Father John.

But he felt desperate. Angry. Restless. He glanced around the cabin, his only real home now, not much by his old standards, and yet a place where he felt he belonged. Only on the bayou did he feel some peace, some respite from the thrumming in his brain.

He’d grown up privileged and somehow ended up here…cast out of his own family…he thought of his mother…his sister…his father…shit, he didn’t have a family anymore. Hadn’t for years. He was on his own. Even his mentor had abandoned him, the very man who had helped him deal with the monster within him, the one who had shown him the way….

Yes, he was truly alone.

If Annie had lived…

Whoring cunt—she deserved to die. She asked for it…Betrayer…Jezebel…How could she have been with another man?

He reached into his shaving kit and found a tube of salve and a small bottle of face makeup. After coating his wounds with the ointment, he carefully dabbed concealer over the discoloration on his skin. Squinting in the light from his lantern, he added mascara to his beard-stubble until the wounds weren’t visible.

A low moan from the corner caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder to the corner cot and saw his prisoner. A pathetic specimen, bound and gagged, drugged into oblivion, only roused when it was necessary for the victim to realize the magnitude of their sins.

Haunted eyes opened, blinked, then, as if unable to accept their fate, closed again.

Father John looked into the mirror again, stared into his own gaze and inwardly cringed. His eyes had seen too much, and now accused him of crimes he’d committed, sins that he could never repent. And yet the thought of those sins…the hunt…the capture…the terror of his prey…and
the ultimate bloodlust…the kill…brought a rush to his veins, a tingle of anticipation flowing through his blood.

He reached into his pocket and found his special rosary…cool, cold beads, sharp against the pads of his fingers and thumb. Such a wicked, lovely weapon, the symbol of good and purity and capable of such a hellish death. That’s what he liked about it—the cruel irony of it.

He thought of the women he’d killed…Annie, of course, but that was before he’d learned from the master, before he understood his mission, before he’d perfected his method and employed his treacherous, beloved noose. He’d watched her blood flow, so slowly it seemed now…and then there had been the first whore…he’d planned that after he’d been betrayed by the one woman he’d trusted…the one woman who should have been there for him forever.

He’d heard Dr. Sam’s voice one night…here…away from Houston…away from Annie…and he’d known he had to set things right, that Samantha Leeds was the reason Annie was dead. He’d been forced to kill Annie because of Dr. Sam.

The nerve of the bitch to start up again, broadcasting her meaningless, psychological mumbo-jumbo. Messing up people’s lives.

But soon she would stop. He would see to it.

He thought of the women who had paid for Samantha Leeds’s sins. The first victim had been random, the hooker who had been hanging out on Bourbon Street, luring men, offering up her body…and it had been such a rush, such a turn-on to watch the terror in her eyes when she’d realized he was going to strangle her with the rosary.

He grew hard at the thought, and he remembered the second victim, another prostitute who had approached him down by the brewery. She’d been tough, hadn’t wanted to
wear the wig, but had eventually complied, and he’d slowly killed her just like the first. Seeing her horror, watching her struggle while growing so hard he nearly came in his pants.

But the best, the very best, had been the Jaquillard girl. He hadn’t meant to kill her that night—but the other one, the bitch he’d found near the universities, the girl dressed like a hooker who had clawed him had gotten away had left him empty.

Then he’d set his sites on the Jaquillard girl, followed her. It had seemed fitting that the girl closest to Samantha die on Annie’s birthday. It was only after the frustration of losing one victim that he’d taken the streetcar to Canal Street, walked to the Jaquillard girl’s apartment and waited for her in the dark. She’d left the apartment after nightfall and had walked to the river, looking edgy. He’d followed her, approached her as she’d sat on the bench looking at the dark, slow-moving water of the Mississippi. She’d been lost in thought, but eager to score some quick money when he offered the deal.

The rest had been easy. As easy as stealing Sam’s teddy had been.

He wondered how Dr. Sam had taken the news about the girl…they’d been close, he’d seen them together, heard from his source that Leanne Jaquillard had been special to Dr. Sam. Oh, he would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Dr. Sam found out about Leanne’s death.

Samantha would have known, deep down, that the girl was dead because of her.

He remembered the kill. How she’d begged.

His blood turned hot.

Molten.

Roared through his veins.

His cock pressed hard against his pants as he thought of Samantha with her red hair and green eyes. Soon he would
have the pleasure. He reached down, felt himself, closed his eyes and imagined taking Leanne Jaquillard’s life—

His cell phone rang jarring him out of his fantasy, causing the pathetic worm on his cot to jump. Angrily, he crossed the stark living area and picked up. “Yeah?”

“Hi!” Her voice was perky, expectant. He smiled. She was a pretty thing and ambitious, willing to do just about anything he wanted. “I’m not working tonight and I thought maybe we could get together.”