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The still waters and smell of the earth, vegetation decomposing, the sounds of insects humming, and fish jumping were balms to his nerves.
But not tonight, he thought as he polished the stones of his special rosary, handcrafted with love, dedication, and skill. The stones glittered a bloodred in the candlelight, the edges honed razor sharp.
Perfect.
Of course.
His radio was tuned to a classical station, but he’d change it soon. So he could hear her voice, the clear, dulcet tones of a jezebel, they called to him like a siren’s song.
It had been years since he’d had serious contact with her—the murderess who had killed his sister. He’d sought to put an end to her before, and his attempt had ended badly, with him nearly dying. If not for the good graces of a man who poached alligators for a living and the healing powers of his wife, he might not have survived. The couple, always at odds with the law, had refrained from taking him to a hospital, nor had they questioned the bullet wounds in his body, for they themselves had a few hidden scars they’d received compliments of the local authorities. And the woman, Maizie, had believed him to be a true priest, a man of the cloth.
Their cabin, hidden deep in the swamp, downstream from where he’d been shot, had proved the perfect cover, a hiding space no one had found. The man had connections and secured himself a new identity in exchange for the work of smuggling poached alligators to butchers and skinners and tanners of the beasts’ thick hides. He’d learned skills of healing from Maizie and from Willard, how to do trade in an underground community, to work the system from the shadows, to learn new skills that would only help him to reach his ultimate goal.
From the illegal alligator trade, he’d moved on, adopted several aliases, and roamed around the south. From Tampa and Jacksonville, to Richmond and other points north, he’d spent his years, but eventually, lured by that siren’s song, he’d returned to New Orleans, and Willard and Maizie of course, paying them one last visit. And he’d found his way back to reside here, in a cabin built much like a child’s tree house, upon thick gnarled limbs reaching over the water. The floor was uneven, planks nailed deep into the limbs, mosquito netting hung over the two windows. This was not his only place of residence, of course, but the one spot in the world where he felt completely free and unfettered, the place where he could let down his carefully crafted guard. The place where he could be himself. Glancing at the wooden walls where his disguises were hung carefully on pegs, he eyed the gray wig, the brown beard, the old man’s suit pants and jacket draped over a folding walker. He had many disguises to go with his multiple personas for those times when he had to be out in public and couldn’t risk anyone recognizing him.
He checked the time, still several hours before she was on the airwaves throwing out bogus, evil advice to strangers, people who called in to the station with serious problems, life-altering problems on which she spent two to five minutes, in between commercial breaks, handing out her own kind of witchcraft, the untested psychobabble of a would-be celebrity shrink.
It was hokey.
It was false.
It was all for show, for money.
And it was evil.
She needed to be silenced.
Forever.
And not just retired from radio land to the newer, more fashionable mode of a podcast where she could reach even more innocents. Oh, no.
He would do it, he thought, breathing on one sharp bead and polishing it until it shined bright in the candlelight. And at the same time, he’d get back at Rick Bentz, that dirty cop. Father John knew all about Bentz’s sordid past, about his sins in LA, how he killed a kid, mistaking a toy gun for the real thing, before the New Orleans Police Department hired him. What kind of a detective does that?
Bentz had run Father John to the ground once before, but wouldn’t get a second chance.
His jaw was so tight it ached. He could almost taste the sweet flavor of satisfaction when both Dr. Sam and the dick-wad cop were dead. He looked around his small lair, lit by candles, the sound of water lapping and mosquitoes buzzing, the night calming as he prayed for patience. He would bring her here to sacrifice her.
Her own home was far too dangerous.
Finally, after all the long years, she would pay for her sins.
In her own blood.
He rocked back on his heels.
First, though, he needed to play a little mind game with her.
Perhaps tonight?
He hadn’t waited all this time to have it end without her understanding the extent of her sins, her knowing what she’d done, even if his patience was growing paper thin.
Just be patient,he told himself. He would lie low, wait for the final show, and then make his move.
Surprise them all.
Not just Samantha, but that dirty cop who’d dogged him forever, too.
And the woman who had profited off his story—the filthy cop’s daughter.
