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But, despite all the warnings clamoring through his brain, he stepped down the rungs of an old ladder built onto a sturdy tree with thick branches that hung over the water, and dropped lithely into his waiting craft. It rocked slightly as he landed and he quickly untied its mooring rope, grabbed an oar, and began navigating the still, black waters of the swamp. He felt unseen eyes upon him, the creatures of the night watching from the shore, or those more deadly, peering just over the surface of the water, the gators’ eyes catching in the glare from his single light, mounted over the prow. Some were huge, massive creatures with sharp-toothed jaws longer than a man’s arm, others smaller, still deadly, and staring at him with hungry fascination as he glided past.
So intent was he on his quest, he was heedless of their interest or intent, barely noticed the mosquitoes who wanted to feast on him, was unwary of the snakes coiled in the limbs of cypress trees as he passed below. He refused to listen to the alarm bells clanging through his head.
He paddled on, his oars dipping into the water, the canoe skimming through the bayou, the clink of rosary beads in counterpoint to the deep tonal notes of a lonely frog. A dark, slithering shadow slid past, just beneath the surface of the water. He watched it move, so silky, so strong, so deadly.
He kept stroking.
Sculling.
Moving silently.
No creature of the night would deter him.
No human would stop him.
Not even Detective Rick Bentz.
Especially not that fucker.
CHAPTER 25
Dr. Sam felt more than a twinge of nostalgia as she took the last calls of the night. For the most part those who had phoned her at the station were wishing her good luck, telling her how much they enjoyed the show, a couple having regaled her with how her advice had helped them over the years, still others saying they would miss her as they’d listened for years, that hers was the last voice they’d heard before closing their eyes for the night.
So tonight the show had been upbeat, only two serious calls. She’d talked one teenager into seeking professional help as she was dealing with an ex who hadn’t been able to accept the breakup and was to the point of stalking her. “Tell your parents, make them talk to the police, even if he’s underage, and never be alone until he gets the message and gets help,” she’d said, before offering a little more advice and wishing the girl good luck. The other was a man who had lost his partner and was grieving, embarrassed that he’d never come out to his family and acknowledged that he was in love with Gary before he’d passed on. Again, she’d suggested groups the caller could meet with and asked him to have faith in his family’s love.
The final call before her sign-off came in. Every call was screened, and through the glass of the soundproof booth, she caught the tech’s eye. Jeff, a red-haired twenty-eight-year-old forever wearing a slouchy beanie, caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up as he put the call through. Information flickered on her computer monitor: the caller’s first name—Stacy—then the caller’s phone number, and in the final field, a short message indicating what the caller wanted to discuss. In this case it was much like most of the others: Thanks and good luck, Dr. Sam.
There was just enough time for this last quick conversation and then she would sign off. The closing music was already playing lightly in the background.
“Hello, Stacy,” she said calmly. “What do you want to talk about tonight?” But instead of a woman’s voice filtering through her headphones, she heard a deep male voice, one she instantly recognized, and one that caused the hairs on her nape to stand on end.
“Hello, Samantha,” Father John said in a chilling tone that seemed to reverberate through her brain. Her breath caught in her throat and she nearly gagged. “Remember me?”
* * *
“What the—?” Bentz stared at his radio as if it had grown ears. He heard Father John’s voice clear as a bell. The same bass tone he would recognize for the rest of his life as he’d listened to the recorded calls that had come into Dr. Sam’s show all those years ago, when the fake priest had rained terror and caused chaos in the city. He yanked off his headphones and rolled out of bed, waking Olivia.
“What’s going on?” she asked groggily, blinking awake.
“Work.”
“I know—I figured that, but . . . ?”
“Father John’s called in to the station. Dr. Sam’s show.”
“What? You mean—?” She was starting to wake up.
He was already stepping into jeans and a pullover. “Just what I’ve been telling you for the past months. He’s back. That mother—he’s back.” Bentz found his keys and walked to the closet, punched in the private code of the wall safe before retrieving his sidearm.
“Where are you going?”
“To the radio station.”
“Didn’t it sell?” She scooted up in the bed, the old T-shirt she’d taken to wearing to bed outlining her breasts.
Tonight he didn’t care.
“This was one of her last programs.”
