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“It might be good if you went away for a while,” Bentz suggested. “Take your family and—”
“No!” she cut in. “This is my home. I won’t let some freakoid terrorize me into uprooting Ty and the boys. They’re in school and we don’t really know that the caller was the same psycho. I mean, it sounded like him, but it could have been some kind of digitalized recording or an imposter—a copycat, or—”
“Or he just could be back,” Wheeler reminded her, cutting it short. It was as if he’d processed what had happened, got his bearings, and his reporter’s instincts had returned. He leaned back in the banquette. “Could this have anything to do with the attack on your daughter? Your son-in-law’s homicide? Geez—look, I’m sorry about all that.”
“Me too,” Bentz said. “Yeah. Me too.” Then, “Are all the events connected? Possibly,” Bentz hedged, then added, “We’re looking into that angle of course, along with several other theories.”
“Such as?”
“Nothing real concrete at this moment.”
“Damn it,” Wheeler said, suddenly darkly serious. “My wife was threatened tonight. She and I—we need to know what we’re dealing with.”
“As soon as we know anything certain, we’ll let you know,” Bentz said. It wouldn’t help to have Wheeler going off half cocked on information that hadn’t been verified. “All I can tell you is that we are looking into all kinds of possibilities, but I’m working under the assumption that the Rosary Killer is back. He’s contacted you, Dr. Sam, the way he did in the past, and so the threat is very, very real. I would suggest, just to be on the side of caution, that you and your family take a few days away from the city, just until we sort this all out.”
“Agreed,” Wheeler said, then looked at his wife. “I think this is nonnegotiable. We’ll take the kids over to Disney World. We’ve been promising them for ages.”
“Wait . . . what? No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not upsetting the whole family, and my job with my new podcast, and yours, Ty. You were supposed to go to Washington tomorrow—wait, I mean today, it’s after midnight. So you’ve got a plane reservation for this afternoon.”
“It’ll keep.”
“But the boys have school and sports and what’re we going to do about Rambo? I might not be able to find a kennel for him at the drop of a hat.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Ty said. “Plans can be shuffled. Nothing’s set in stone.”
“Some things are.”
“Nothing that important.” His jaw was rock hard, his lips compressed. He pushed himself out of the banquette and walked up to his wife. “I’m not taking a chance on losing you to that psycho, okay? And I don’t want the boys here, anywhere close to danger.”
She nodded, acquiescing slightly at the mention of her sons and their safety.
“Nothing is worth that.”
“You’re right. Okay . . . okay.” She finished her wine in one long gulp. “We’ll go.”
Wheeler gave his wife a squeeze. “Good.” To Bentz he said, “Just keep us informed. About every damned thing.”
“I will,” Bentz promised, standing. “And we’ll get him. I promise.”
“Don’t just get him,” Wheeler said, his eyes hard. “This time when you find him and take aim and shoot? Don’t miss. I want that prick dead.”
* * *
God help me.
Luna’s silent prayer reverberated through her head.
Petrified, she moved, the “priest” prodding her forward, through the thickets and bracken, the tall grass, and marshy ground. Tall cypress rose like pale ghosts and the air was heavy with the scent of earth and rotting vegetation. She shivered. Darkness surrounded them, the only glint of light from the small beam of his flashlight that he swung in front of them where reeds and brambles grew, rough scrub brushing against her bare legs, causing her to shiver. “I want to go back,” she said for what had to have been the fiftieth time. “I didn’t agree to this—”
“Shut up!” he snarled, and her skin crawled as if a thousand snakes were sliding over her. “I paid for you and you do what I say.”
“No—no—I—”
“Don’t argue, Luna!” he warned, reaching forward, grabbing her shoulder, and squeezing so hard she let out a yelp of pain. “Just keep going.”
This was wrong.
So, so wrong.
