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“It just doesn’t all fit,” Montoya insisted. “The Rosary Killer always left his calling card.”
“The hundred-dollar bill with Ben Franklin’s eyes blackened,” Bentz said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Yeah, I know. But the rosary beads.”
“Glass beads. Not sure if they were from a rosary.”
“And the priest’s garb.”
“Again, just a black robe or coat. And most of Father John’s crimes happened inside—at the vic’s place.”
“Maybe that didn’t work this time. For whatever reason.” Bentz raked a hand through his hair, more than a few strands of silver visible. “Let’s just follow this and see where it takes us.”
Montoya shot him a look as he drove across the bridge, the Mississippi flowing steadily and slowly beneath the wide span, boats of all sizes on the river, the city fading behind them. “Okay, but just for the record, I think you’re forcing this.”
“And I think you’re ignoring the obvious.”
“Maybe.” Still watching the taillights of the Ford pickup, Montoya reached for the pack of cigarettes he’d kept in the console, but found it crumpled and empty.
“You back on those?” Bentz asked.
“No. I slipped up.” He dropped the pack.
“Easy to do,” Bentz said, and turned away, staring through the side window, avoiding the questions in his partner’s eyes while tapping his fingers on the armrest. No doubt about it, Bentz was fighting his own demons.
Hell, weren’t they all?
He turned off the main road where the houses faded and the swamp encroached, then took several turns. Finally, the pickup parked on a wide spot in the gravel shoulder. He tucked in behind the truck. “Show us the way,” Bentz said to the fishermen, who led them along a thin trail, through thickets and tall grass, deeper into the bayou.
Here in the swamp where the air was thick and earthy, the water was still. Mist was rising, the cypress trees jutting out of the dark water, Spanish moss moving in a bit of wind that breathed across the bayou. As they stepped through the wetlands, Montoya batted at mosquitoes, cattails brushing against his legs, a dragonfly sweeping the surface of the water. Birds chirped from the brush and a great blue heron snapped up a small fish from the water, swallowing it and flying off, feathers glinting through the fog.
A rotting dock jutted into the water, the step to it broken, some of the boards waterlogged and splintered. It was roped off with yellow tape.
“Is this where you found her?” Bentz asked the two men following.
“Oh, yeah.” Bobby-Dean was nodding and scratching at his thin beard. “This is the spot. We caught sight of her, right there.” He pointed a big-knuckled finger at the edge of the dock. “He was trying to haul her up or somethin’. It was dark, y’know, and we couldn’t really tell what was goin’ on, but we knew it wasn’t right.”
They explained again exactly what they’d witnessed and Montoya saw it in his mind’s eye, the woman being dragged from the water, the man above all in black, she fighting for her life, he intent on ending it.
But why here?
“You said no one lives around here,” Montoya said to the men.
“No one we know.”
“Was there a boat here?” he asked. How was the assailant planning to leave?
“Nope.”
That didn’t make any sense.
“Welllll . . .” Bobby-Dean said, drawing out the word. “There’s that old rowboat—we seen it last night, a quarter of a mile up the swamp. It’s never been there before.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed. “You think it has somethin’ to do with this?”
“Let’s check it out,” Bentz said. “How do we get there?”
“I can go get my boat. Easiest way to reach it.”
“But, if it was used by our guy, then he had to walk here, along the shore,” Bentz said. To Jones: “Go get your boat, but we’ll walk. You”—he motioned to Bobby-Dean—“show us the way.”
