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Soon.
“Very soon,” he whispered under his breath, though he hated this departure from his regular routine. Though necessary as they had to get out of the city quickly, it didn’t feel right, like a scratchy sweater that rubbed and chafed.
“What?” his terrified captive asked, quaking in her fear again as the lights of the city disappeared behind them. She was twisting in her seat, looking back through the rear window as New Orleans faded into darkness. “What will come very soon?”
“You will see, my child,” he said, telling himself that a change of plan, an altering of routine was good, would keep those who would thwart him guessing. He just had to get his mind around it and he would. They were close now and he could feel that special little thrum in his veins, the twitching of his cock as he contemplated what was to come.
The darkened countryside loomed around them. A car passed, speeding rapidly in the opposite direction, headlight beams washing through the bug-spattered windshield to cast her face in a weird unworldly light, and in that nanosecond he saw her fear and a flash of something else . . . determination? In the set of her jaw.
But that was wrong.
She was so meek.
Again he felt her tremble, caught just a glimpse of a quivering lower lip. Whatever he’d thought he’d caught sight of was his imagination. This one would be easy, despite the change in venue. He would take her into the swamp, kill her, and dispose of her in the dark water . . . no, wait. The cabin. Where two other bodies were rotting. He’d leave her there along with his trademark hundred-dollar bill because he’d want the cops to know if and when they found her remains, that it was his doing.
Yes . . . it would be difficult. He’d have to kill her, then haul her in the canoe through the winding, treacherous waters of the bayou, deep into the thickets of cypress and muddy, mounded alligator nests, but it would be worth it.
Turning off the main road, he rained on her what he hoped was a beatific smile, and adjusted his reflective sunglasses even though it was the dead of night.
CHAPTER 26
Bentz followed Samantha Wheeler to her house. She’d refused to call her husband, insisting that she would be all right, that she didn’t want to wake him or bother her sons, and Bentz had relented. In his Jeep, he’d kept a close tail on her Prius as they eased through the night-dark streets of the city that still pulsed with life in the French Quarter.
She drove through the gates of her home near the lake without incident, but Bentz followed her through.
Ty Wheeler greeted his wife at the back door, a black dog at his side. Wheeler’s dark hair was rumpled, his jaw covered in a day’s worth of stubble. He was wearing a faded T-shirt from a Nirvana concert and equally washed-out navy pajama bottoms, but his eyes were sharp and intense as Samantha explained about her last caller and Bentz confirmed that he believed Samantha’s stalker was alive and back in New Orleans.
“I thought he was dead.” Dark eyebrows slammed together. Still standing in the kitchen illuminated at this hour by under-cabinet lights, Ty glared at Bentz. “You shot him. He died in the swamp.”
“That’s what we all thought,” Bentz said, not admitting he’d always had a niggle of doubt because no part of Father John’s body had ever been located. “We were wrong.”
“Seriously?” Wheeler’s gaze moved from the detective to his wife.
Samantha nodded. “Looks like.” Her fear had abated somewhat now that she was home, her husband’s arm around her, and she appeared to have come to terms with her new reality. “Anyone want something to drink? I could use a glass of wine.”
Bentz imagined the taste of a smooth burgundy, or better yet, a smooth double malt scotch, but shook his head. “No, thanks.”
Wheeler held up a hand. No. But she found a bottle of white in the fridge, uncorked it, and poured herself a glass. Chardonnay, it appeared. She corked the bottle again, returned it to its spot to chill, and leaned a hip against the center island.
To Bentz, Ty demanded, “So what’re you going to do about it—about him, this Father John or whoever he really is?”
They all knew the fake priest’s identity, but no one uttered his name. Bentz assured him, “We’re gonna bring him to justice.”
“Justice.” Wheeler snorted. “I liked it better when I thought he was dead and gone.”
“I know.”We all did,Bentz thought, but didn’t say it, and took a seat at the built-in banquette when Samantha motioned him to sit down. She then snapped her fingers and pointed the dog in the direction of a large dog bed tucked into a corner near the back door. Rambo sauntered to his spot and lay down, though his dark eyes remained alert.
“So what happened? Where has he been? How has he survived?” Wheeler asked, sliding onto the bench opposite Bentz.
Bentz lifted a shoulder. “Unknown. That’s what I intend to find out.”
“It’s been . . . God, years and years and years!” Wheeler pointed out. “Why the hell would he lie low for so long? And why show up now? Because Samantha’s radio program is going off the air? Or because he—what? Just happened to be back in New Orleans? Awoke from a decade-long coma, suddenly remembered he wanted to kill her? What?” And then, hearing himself, held up a hand. “Okay. I’m going off the deep end here.”
“Understandable,” Bentz said.
“No, it’s not. I’m just—shocked, I guess is the right word. Shocked and really sick that he’s back.” He blew out a long stream of air. “God damn it.”
Samantha intervened. “So now what?”
