AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Poised at the door, she spotted a black Jeep pull into the drive. Detective Bentz was at the wheel, his partner, Montoya, in the passenger seat. As the cops climbed out of the SUV, she opened the door and Rambo came scrambling back, his claws clicking on the tile floor.
“Stop,” she ordered the dog. “Sit.”
Rambo slid to a halt and waited as the men arrived on the porch. No introductions were necessary. She asked them inside and they all went through the foyer where the staircase wound upward to the back of the house, which, over the years, had been remodeled to an open-concept kitchen and family room with French doors leading to the enclosed garden. A squirrel was scolding from the low-hanging branch of a magnolia tree, so Rambo lost interest in the visitors and was laser-focused on getting outside. She opened the door and the dog shot through, barking, the hairs on his nape stiff, his eyes on the squirrel.
She offered coffee or water or even sweet tea, but the cops declined as they took seats on stools at the island and she cradled her own steaming cup on the other side, her back to the stove.
Bentz got down to it. “Have you heard from Father John? Called into the show? Sent you anything?”
She was already shaking her head. “We’ve been over this before,” she said, remembering the night the cops had come by with the devastating news that another woman had been killed in the same manner as had Father John’s victims so long ago.
“I thought he was dead. That he died in the swamp. That you shot him.”
Montoya said, “His body was never recovered. And we talked to you about the recent homicides that we think hemighthave committed.”
Bentz flinched.
She knew that many had been fascinated by all news of her attacker, had pored over reports of the search of the bayou where the killer had been shot. The cops had done their due diligence, the theory being that the murderer had been eaten by alligators or other swamp creatures or washed out to sea. “He hasn’t contacted me.”
Bentz raised an eyebrow, his stare intent. “You’re sure?”
“Yes—well, no, not a hundred percent, but I don’t think so.” As a radio psychologist, she accepted on-air questions during her program,Midnight Confessions,and that’s where Father John first connected with her. Since that time security had been beefed up, every phone call, e-mail, text, or other communication double-checked, and then there was the chilling fact that she was certain she would recognize his voice, that it was forever etched in her memory, that she would never forget it.
“So what happened?” she asked, but knew with dead certainty that someone had been killed, probably another prostitute strangled by a rosary. Sam’s blood curdled at the thought, her heartbeat accelerated. He had to be dead. The monster had to have been killed in the bayou that night; he couldn’t be alive. Her lungs constricted and she clenched her coffee cup so hard her fingers began to ache. “Another murder?” She set her cup onto the counter.
Montoya was nodding. “Yeah, but we’re not sure it’s connected to the Rosary Killer,” he said.
Bentz’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly while Montoya explained about the homicide in Pirate’s Alley.
“I read about that,” she said, and to Bentz, “I’m sorry for your loss. That’s rough. Is your daughter okay?” What a dumb question. She saw the answer in Bentz’s eyes. Could almost hear his thoughts:No. Of course not. Who knows if she’ll ever be “okay” again. She lost her husband and nearly her own life in a brutal attack. So, no, she’s definitelynotokay.
But he said, “She’s still working through it.”
“She’s been through a lot of trauma,” Samantha said, silently adding,and so have you, Rick Bentz.So have you.“She’ll probably need grief counseling. I can recommend someone.”
“I’ll let her know,” Bentz said as the dog scratched at the door and she let him in. Rambo, the traitor, sidled up to the spot between the two bar stools where the cops were sitting and, nose in the air, hoped for attention, or more likely some morsel of food to drop.
“You here alone?” Bentz asked.
“Kids are in school. Ty’s out of town.” She explained that her husband, a freelance journalist, was often away, sometimes on the other side of the country, sometimes the other side of the world. Currently he was in Canada, but was due back the following week. “So it’s just the boys and me. Well, and Rambo.” She glanced at the dog. “He’s great company but, as you can see, not much of a guard dog.”
At the sound of his name, the animal’s ears pricked forward.
“Well, nothing’s changed. He hasn’t called into the program. And it’ll be a moot point soon.”
Montoya asked, “How so?”
“The station just sold. A deal’s been in the works for months, but just two weeks ago it was signed and everything’s changing. All prerecorded playlists and the like. It’s a whole new world, you know. No moreMidnight Confessions,at least not the way it has been.”
“Meaning?” Bentz asked.
“That I’ll be doing podcasts. Some of the most interesting cases I’ve worked on.”
“Including Father John?” Bentz asked, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“Of course,” she said. “He’s my first.”
“That might not be a good idea.”
