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* * *
Ty Wheeler’s voice was frantic. “It’s Sam,” he said from the other end of the wireless connection. “She didn’t come home.”
Bentz, already worried sick about Kristi, was driving home after dropping Montoya at the station and had gotten a call. He had answered hands free when he’d recognized Ty’s name as it appeared on his phone. “How long has she been gone?” He was driving through the heart of the city, traffic thick, pedestrians on every corner, streetlights turning night to day.
“I don’t know. Three hours, maybe. She went out. To have dinner with her friend, it’s a usual thing, but she texted she was on her way home, and she hasn’t shown up. I’ve called. I’ve texted. Nothing.” His voice was edged in fear. “Caroline—that’s the friend she had dinner with—I phoned her and Caroline said she left the restaurant first because she was running late. Sam was settling up—paying the bill, I guess. Anyway, I know it hasn’t been that long, but it’s just not like her. And she has work tonight. She wouldn’t be this late. She was gonna come home and help with the boys, then head to the studio.” He sounded beyond distraught and Bentz didn’t blame him. “So, of course, I called the restaurant. The waitress remembered her because there was some kind of commotion at her table as she was leaving. It was bumped and dishes went everywhere, so anyway, the waitress said she left about an hour and a half ago. There’s a time stamp on her credit card receipt.
“And here’s the real worry,” he said. “She has a locator on her phone. She and I each do, and hers is nowhere near the restaurant or home. It’s in the bayou.”
“Jesus,” Bentz whispered. “But we can track her, from the device.”
“I’m already on my way.”
“Whoa. Hold on. This is a police matter,” Bentz said, thinking of the brutality of the killer.
“Yeah, I know that. But it’s also my wife. Do any of you have an Apple watch or iPhone?”
“Yeah. This number.”
“I’ll link you up. All you have to do is accept.”
“Got it.”
A second later he got an alert.
“We’re on our way.”
Bentz flipped on his emergency vehicle lights and hit the gas. Ty Wheeler’s concern was infectious. “Keep trying to reach her!”
He disconnected, pulled over to the curb, and eyed the screen with its map of the area. “I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath. The pulsating red dot indicating the location of Samantha Wheeler’s phone was in the swamp and not far from Cyrus Unger’s place. Probably half a mile from where they’d come across the bodies, what were presumed to be the rotting remains of Maizie and Willard Ledoux, though there had yet to be an official ID.
Father John’s work.
Bentz was sure of it.
And now the maniac had Samantha Wheeler.
Bentz called for backup, and as he did, he added, “And a boat. We’re gonna need a boat.”
* * *
Through the old car’s windows, Sam saw the lights of New Orleans fade to darkness. The Chevy picked up speed; she heard the whine of the tires on pavement and the smooth rumble of the engine.
She didn’t want to think where they were going or what he was going to do to her when they got there.
Somehow, someway, she had to save herself. Her convulsions had stopped and the quivering in her limbs had lessened, but there was still a problem getting her muscles to do what her mind wanted. She was frantic, her breathing wild, her heart trip-hammering crazily.
Try, Sam! You’ve got to try!
Clamping her jaw tight, she concentrated. Attempted to move her fingers and kept one eye on the back of his head.
Come on, come on.
She gritted her teeth. Told herself she could do this.
Felt one finger move.
That’s it! Keep going!
