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Nothing at all.
* * *
Bentz was jazzed.
He felt his blood flowing through his veins, the way he always did when he knew he was about to bring a scumbag to justice. On the drive back from the bayou he was putting the pieces of the case together in his mind. Some clicked neatly into place, others he had to force, but he knew he was on the right track. Soon they’d nail Father John, the fake priest.
Once he’d parked his Jeep in the station’s lot, he and Montoya headed inside. It might be a long night ahead of them, but Bentz didn’t care. The long hunt was coming to an end. Finally.
The station was still buzzing with cops coming and going, talking and laughing, passing through the metal detectors, swapping stories, most in full uniform, boots loud on the floor.
Stripping off his jacket as he walked past the draped plastic curtains of the area of the station that was being renovated, he saw workmen putting lids on paint cans and folding ladders to be stacked in the corners, Bentz said, “I’m telling you we’re dealing with that same fuckin’ maniac.”
Once inside their shared office, Bentz eyed the map of the bayou he’d mounted on the wall. Taking a pen from his desk and uncapping it in his teeth, he surveyed the area and marked the spot where they’d found the remains of Maizie and Willard Ledoux. Though the bodies still needed to be formally identified, Bentz believed the two fishermen.
“Maybe.” Montoya wasn’t completely on board.
“No ‘maybes’ about it,” Bentz said, tapping the map of the bayou with his finger. “Father John is back.” The location of Maizie and Willard Ledoux’s bodies and home only added to his conviction that somehow Father John had survived all these years. “And dollars to donuts he killed the Ledoux couple. Don’t know how or why or if he knew them, but he did it. We need to find out how long they’ve been dead—Jesus, has Father John been here all these years?” He traced his finger around the bayou. “My guess is that he’s here—somewhere in the swamp. It’s where he feels most comfortable, but now that we’ve got a victim who survived and the spot where she was attacked, he might move.” He sat in his chair and leaned back, tenting his hands and thinking. “But my guess is he won’t go far.”
“What about Dr. Sam?” Montoya asked as he fired up his laptop.
“I still think she’s in jeopardy. Otherwise he wouldn’t have had Stacy Parker call in to her show before he took her out to the swamp.”
“Uh-oh.” Montoya was reading the screen on his computer.
“What?”
“Records was able to locate all the info on the Rosary Killer in the archives.” He was frowning, the screen reflecting in his eyes.
“And—?”
“And his medical records indicate his blood type was O positive.” He met Bentz’s concerned gaze. “The blood that was found at the scene where Kristi was attacked and McKnight was killed—found on the cathedral walls—was B neg.”
Bentz thought about it. “Father John is our guy. We know that.”
“You know that. He could be a damned good copycat.”
“Don’t think so.”
Montoya met his gaze. “Then we’ve got ourselves two killers now, don’t we? The one killing prostitutes and the person who killed Jay McKnight.”
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” Bentz said as his cell phone rang. He recognized Kristi’s number and clicked on. Before he could say a word, she said, “I think you’d better get over here, Dad. And bring someone with fish and wildlife or whatever. Somebody left me a cottonmouth as a little gift.”
“What?” he said, reaching for his jacket. “We’re on our way! And, Kristi, don’t mess with it.”
“No worries there, Dad.”
He cut the connection. “Come on,” he said to Montoya.
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know. But get animal control on the phone and have someone sent over there who can deal with snakes. Send them to Kristi’s house. Let’s go!”
“Snakes—?”
Bentz was already out of the room. “I’ll explain on the way.”
And he did. While breaking the speed limit, his light on his dash blinking, he drove straight to the Garden District and pulled into Kristi’s drive. She was waiting near the garage and walked them along the side path to the gate and area where she kept her trash bin. “You don’t have to look,” she warned. “It’s a cottonmouth.”
