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Of course that was impossible, but she gritted her teeth and told herself she would no longer be a victim. She would take the bull by the horns and be proactive. She’d never in her life run from a fight and had the scars to prove it, so yeah, she’d been handed a helluva blow with Jay’s murder, but it was time to quit licking her wounds and find out who the hell was behind this—who left the damned cards? Who the hell wanted her traumatized?
Who wants you dead?
It’s not just the cards.
Whoever is behind this attacked you and wants you dead.
“Not without a fight,” she muttered, up in her office again.
She fired up her laptop.
Her father thought the Rosary Killer was behind Jay’s death, had sent the cards with their twisted meanings.
She couldn’t get her head around that theory.
Why would Father John return? Why would he target her? Not Dr. Sam, who had been his original and ultimate target? Had the bullet in the bayou changed his thinking? After all these years, having somehow survived a grisly near-death in the swamp, would he really show up in New Orleans again? Where had he been? Recovering and lying low—but for years? Or had he been incarcerated for another crime—no, if that had been the case, her father would have known about it, the police in whatever jurisdiction where he’d been captured would have gotten in touch with the New Orleans PD and the FBI if a known serial killer had been located.
The questions pounded through her brain.
And remained without answers.
None of it made any sense.
She thought about Montoya’s theory that the killer could be one of the killers she’d written about, someone who was now free.
Who would hate her so much?
Who lived within the area?
She thought of the hate mail she’d received over the years, of the interviews that had turned sour, of the angry threats. One in particular, at the end of an interview, seared through her brain.
Ned Zavala, the Bayou Butcher, had glared at her as the interview had ended. A big brute of a man with stringy, dishwater-blond hair, deep-set small eyes, and crooked yellowed teeth that seemed too small for his wide face with its off-center nose, the result of a recent fight. He’d abruptly stood, towering over her, the table between them suddenly seeming minuscule. His hands had been cuffed, chained to the leg of the table, so he was hunched a bit, like a lion poised to pounce. He’d pinned her with his watery gaze.
“You better tell the truth, missy,” he’d said, spittle gathering at the corner of his mouth. “You better stick to the facts. Don’t you lie about me. My family’s already fucked up, so don’t you add to it.”
She’d gathered her things quickly. “I just write the truth.”
“Don’t you twist it. Don’t even think about it. Corrin. You look at my stepdaddy. He’s the one who done this. Corrin Hebert. You talk to my ma. She’ll tell ya!” His meaty fingers had opened and closed rapidly, as if he’d wanted to choke the life out of her. “You tell it straight or I’ll come lookin’. Ya hear? And I’ll catch ya. And, believe me, you won’t like it when I do.”
She believed him and had left the tiny, claustrophobic room as he’d yelled, “Jest cuz I’m locked up, don’t mean I can’t find ya. I got friends, y’know. Lots of friends. You cain’t hide.” His voice had taken on an oily, threatening quality and chased her down the hallway as she’d walked quickly down the locked corridor and finally out of the prison.
She already knew he lived in the area, in a small house on the bayou, the place owned by his mother, the woman who had changed her testimony and pointed her finger at her dead husband, just as Ned Zavala had predicted. And now, he was taking care of her as she was dying from some sort of cancer. At least that’s what Zavala claimed.
However, as Kristi thought about the night she was attacked, the murderer cloaked in a wet poncho, she didn’t think Zavala was the killer. When she’d seen him he’d been immense, a thick layer of fat over hard muscle. Her assailant hadn’t been that big; she’d had no memory of bulk.
Zavala could have trimmed down over the years.
And remember his final threat. About his friends.
Still, it didn’t seem right. Her book had been printed as Zavala had been arrested and convicted for the homicide. In the book Kristi had suggested law enforcement should take a hard look at him for the other women who had disappeared from the area over the years that he’d been a free man. Why else would the disappearances have stopped once he’d been locked away? So, she had to consider that Ned Zavala was still carrying a grudge and was somehow triggered into attacking.
But why?
Because of the resurgence of interest in the case? Because during Murder Month on cable TV, the case of the Bayou Butcher would be available on cable and streaming?
* * *
The swamp usually calmed him.
