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Knowing he couldn’t sleep, he slipped back into the house and grabbed his laptop, brought it out to the porch, and sat in the porch swing where he heard a truck rumbling by on the street and farther off the sound of a train gathering speed. There was an occasional voice and he saw, through the slats in the fence, his neighbor’s yard cast in flickering shades of gray from the old man’s television, which was always on, day or night, muted, thankfully, as he kept his curtains and windows open.
He Googled recent homicides of women in the western states, concentrating on the day Cruz first called him and the week before that. Then he started filtering down the news reports, Googling Cruz’s name, and got nowhere. Sadly, too many people were the victims of homicide in this country.
Rocking gently back and forth on the swing, he thought about it. Where would Cruz be in the West? Why had he gone there? The last time Montoya had seen him, years ago, he’d been burned by a woman who’d stolen his motorcycle and had left him stranded here, in New Orleans.
But he’d taken off after Lucia Costa, a woman who had been a nun at St. Marguerite’s, a girl he’d known in school years before.
When Montoya cross-referenced her name with the recent murders, he found the headline:
WOMAN FOUND SLAIN NEAR TRASK RIVER
BOYFRIEND WANTED FOR QUESTIONING
Boyfriend?
Montoya skimmed the story. Yes, the body of Lucia Costa had been found on the banks of the Trask River in a remote part of Oregon. She was the apparent victim of homicide and Cruz Montoya was being sought as a person of interest.
The story ran at the end of last week, an earlier one several days before, but Cruz had called him over a week before that. So he’d known about Lucia’s death.
And was involved.
Enough to be on the lam.
Shit!
Montoya stopped rocking and felt the knot in his stomach tighten. The police department involved would certainly be looking into Cruz’s family, everyone remotely connected with Cruz, including his brother, a cop in the New Orleans Police Department.
Great . . . just fuckin’ great.
He knew that as bad as things seemed now?
They were sure to get a helluva lot worse.
* * *
It’s not enough, I think as I slip into the vestibule of the old church, the door creaking on rusted hinges before closing behind me with a soft, almost final thud. Kristi Bentz’s pain wasn’t enough.
In the narthex, I pause to stare through the sanctuary to the altar, now dark of course, and I think of the funeral I attended, that of Jay McKnight. I watched the mourners from my vantage point, my eyes drawn to Kristi Bentz. I witnessed her tears, the tremble of her chin, the way she fought to stand tall but eventually crumpled against the strong, straight form of her father.
At the thought of Rick Bentz, my stomach curdles, and it’s all I can do to tamp down my burning need for revenge.
At the cemetery I was a ghost, hiding behind the tombs and sculptures, observing from a distance, trying to wring out the last drop of satisfaction from seeing the pain on Kristi’s white face, the hard expression of her father, whose lips had been tight, his jaw set, his hands balling in frustration.
Yes, that had been satisfying.
For the moment.
And seeing that she’s nervous, worried about me, that is exciting! I feel a sizzle of adrenaline in my blood at that thought. I watched as that moron from the security company worked on her house, fiddling with sensors and cameras and alarms.
Rudimentary.
I will have to be a little more careful, but that’s not a problem.
Slipping through the tombs as the mourners gathered in the cemetery was more than a little exciting, I’ll admit it. I enjoyed watching Kristi Bentz grieve. And since then, viewing her from a distance and witnessing her falling apart had great appeal, but little satisfaction.
It’s not enough.
As I walk to the altar through the ancient pews of the empty church, I think of the torment I’ve put her through, but it’s still not enough for all that she’s taken from me. The scales are far from even. Yes, it’s good to see her pain, I think while absently tightening the cincture more securely around my cassock. But I need more. As I always have.
