Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 127

Deep into her chest.

She gasped, gurgled, toppled to her knees. Her mind swirled, pain burning deep in her soul. Who would do this? She tried to see his face, but the darkness hid it. Her voice failed her, and she watched, unable to move, unable to warn anyone of the hideous terror that was to come.

He slipped through the open door of the convent as she felt her lifeblood ooze onto the smooth, timeworn stones.

He wasn't finished.

There would be more killing.

And the secrets she'd tried so desperately to conceal would be exposed.

Father, forgive me, she silently prayed as the fog and darkness pulled at her consciousness, she silently prayed as the fog and darkness pulled at her consciousness, for I have sinned. for I have sinned.

The sounds of the night, the lapping of a slow-moving stream, the rush of wind through the leaves of the trees, the rattle of a train rumbling on tracks not far away, were obscured by the thrum of blood rus.h.i.+ng through his veins and the exhilarated pounding of his heart.

He'd killed the old nun, just as the Voice had said. He'd had to leave her bleeding out while he entered the convent because he thought he'd heard someone approaching, had expected to have to take care of the intrusion, but the hallways of the convent were empty. Quiet. Still.

a.s.suring himself that he was alone, he returned to the body and, using the old woman's finger, wrote upon the cloister wall in blood then pulled out his portable tattooing machine and quickly embedded a number in her forehead. He hated having to do such a rough job. He needed more time, but time was never a luxury. He could only do his best work, his artist's work, on his own body.

He finished quickly then crept through the undergrowth, following the footpath, his blood still singing through his veins. He wasn't done with his mission; there was still another to deal with, but the head nun, the Mother Superior, had been dispatched.

Her spirit released.

Her body not revived.

Now, for the ritual...

Once inside, with the door bolted behind him, he lit the fire despite the warmth of the night, stripped off his clothes, washed his boots and clothes, then spread his plastic tarp in front of the fire. Once he'd arranged his mirror to the right angle, he showered beneath the pulsing spray, cleansing his body and mind. Afterward, naked, he lit the candles slowly, one by one.

Holding his rosary, he prayed long and hard. Then finally, once his soul was as cleansed as his body, he retrieved his kit and began his work.

He chose red ink and worked in an area not far from the scab still formed on one hundred one. Carefully he drew a new number upon his skin, one so similar to the other it was nearly identical. One hundred eleven for Sister Rebecca. Once he was satisfied with the look of the new number, he switched on the machine, watched the red ink flow. He felt the first little sting of the needles and gritted his teeth, his lips curling in a grim smile, for there was always pleasure in pain, tranquility in torment.

As for the Reverend Mother, there had been no reviving her, oh, no. Her black soul was on its way straight to h.e.l.l.

Where it belonged.

CHAPTER 21.

The phone call came at four-thirty. Montoya opened a bleary eye, groaned, and, rolling over, away from the warmth of Abby's naked body, he grabbed his cell. "Montoya," he mumbled, his voice low, nearly guttural with sleep. The d.a.m.ned cat, which had inched onto the bed during the night, hissed and slithered away.

"We got another one." Bentz sounded irritatingly awake.

"Another what?" But he knew. As he sat up in bed, he understood.

Abby groaned, turned over, and rubbed her eyes. "Now what?" Hershey, another late-night visitor who'd found a way to sleep between Abby and the edge of their bed, lifted her head then let it fall between her paws again.

"Another DB, same as the others," Bentz was saying. "Only this time it's a nun."

"A nun nun?"

"Sister Rebecca. The Mother Superior at-"

"Our Lady of Virtues," Montoya finished, all thoughts of slumber, or even morning s.e.x with Abby, pushed from his mind. He'd met with Sister Rebecca Renault more than once and liked the little woman who was in her eighties. G.o.d Almighty, who would want to kill her? He threw off the thin sheet and scrounged in the dark for his jeans.

"The officer who responded said her throat was slit and a tattoo inked into her forehead. Different, though. This time it's one hundred eleven."

"A hundred eleven?" Montoya dragged on jeans, not bothering with his boxers.

Abby hit the switch to her bedside lamp and the small bedroom was instantly awash with light. She pushed herself to a sitting position and squinted up at him. Her face had paled, and she looked as if she might break down altogether.

"I think we'd better go check out the scene," Bentz said.

"I'll be ready in five."

"I'll be there in three."

Montoya hung up. "It's the Mother Superior. Killed like the others," he said as Abby reached for her rumpled nightgown and tossed it over her head. Her beautiful face was stone-cold sober, her burnished curls falling into her eyes.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "I don't believe it. Not Sister Rebecca..."

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it.

She swallowed hard, her eyes filling with tears. She glared up at Montoya, some of her shock and grief morphing into anger. "I don't get it. Why?"

"Yes, why?" he repeated grimly. He looked around. "Where the h.e.l.l is my wallet?"

"Over there." She pointed to the dresser, and Montoya snapped up his wallet, badge, and keys then threw on a s.h.i.+rt.

"Get this guy," Abby said as he slid into his shoes. "I mean it. Get him."

He met her angry gaze as she rolled out of the bed and walked up to him, all s.e.xy and sleepy and d.a.m.ned irresistible.

He kissed her just hard enough to let her know that no matter what, he thought she was hot.

"I will," he promised. "I'll nail his a.s.s." He slapped her on the b.u.t.t. "Go back to bed."

"I can't sleep."

"I'll call later."

"Good." She yawned and sat on the edge of the bed, searching for her slippers.

Montoya took off, walking quickly down the short hallway and past the wall of plastic sheeting in the living room. He snagged his jacket from a hook by the door and heard the dog's feet hit the floor as if Hershey intended to shoot past him and out the door. He didn't have time for the dog this morning. Abby could deal with her.

Stepping outside, he pulled the door shut and cut across the lawn. A police cruiser was already in his driveway, Bentz at the wheel. Montoya climbed in the pa.s.senger side and found a cup of coffee in the holder.

"How'd you manage this?" he asked, picking up the cup and sipping.

"All-night convenience store." Bentz backed out of the drive, put the car into gear, and flipped on the lights as he stepped on the gas.

"For crying out loud, how long have you been up?" Montoya asked, swallowing some of the hot brew and noticing that Bentz's hair was wet.

"Long enough to have worked out with the punching bag and showered."

"And stopped for coffee." Montoya frowned as dawn began to streak the sky. "You morning people bug the s.h.i.+t out of me." He took another drink as Bentz sped past a delivery van double-parked near a restaurant and headed toward the freeway. "So tell me what happened."

"I got a call from Sister Odine at the convent. She found Sister Rebecca in the cloister."

"d.a.m.n." Montoya stared into the coming dawn, noticing that even at this hour traffic flowing into the city was picking up, the stream of headlights seeming endless. "I suppose the press is on to the story already."

"It wouldn't surprise me." Bentz shot his partner a look. "If not now, then soon."

"Same with the Feds. The FBI will be all over this like stink on s.h.i.+t. At least they can take some of the heat."

Bentz grunted his agreement as he edged over a lane, ready to exit. "I finally connected with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum."

"Who?" Montoya said, irritated. It was too d.a.m.ned early for word games.

"The brothers. They're still both in town. I've got a meeting scheduled with them later this morning. I'm interested to hear what they have to say about dear old dad."

"Amen to that." Montoya grimaced. "They both called you? Individually?"

"Within half an hour of each other."

"They're together?"

"Seems like. And the Mrs., Anna Maria, the one married to Kyle? I don't think she likes it much. She's called me a couple of times, asking if he's been in to see me."

"Communication breakdown."

"My guess is they want the body released so they can stuff the old man in the ground and divvy up his estate."

"You haven't even met them yet," Montoya pointed out.

"I'm just saying that's what it feels like to me. The type of questions they asked didn't lead me to believe there was any love lost between Renner and his sons."

"Adopted sons. Have we ever located their old man, the one that gave 'em up?"

Bentz shook his head. "Still MIA. Has been for over twenty years."

"Be interesting to see what became of him."

Bentz angled the cruiser along the fields and forests of the country road leading to Our Lady of Virtues. The police band crackled and the stars faded with the coming day and Montoya tried to wrap his mind around this case. Another person murdered. Not half a mile away from the old hospital. "You have any idea when the DNA on Eve Renner will be processed?"

"I called Jaskiel because I figured the DA had a lot more influence than I did. She told the lab to put a rush on it, whatever that means."

"Yeah," Montoya agreed, frowning to himself. "But it's better than nothing."

The road forked, one stretch angling off toward the abandoned hospital, the other toward the convent. As they pa.s.sed the split, Montoya looked through the window, unable to see the asylum from the car.

But it was there.

And he knew in his gut that this latest spate of killings revolved around whatever secrets it hid.

Deified!

The Voice had promised he would be deified deified if he finished his tasks. if he finished his tasks.

He drove through the dark night, his blood thrumming through his veins, his pulse pounding in his brain. He barely saw the headlights of the vehicles heading in the opposite direction. No, in his mind's eye he replayed the sacrifice over and over again. He'd sensed the old nun's fear, saw the terror in her eyes as she'd recognized him, felt her surrender, for she'd known there was no escape from G.o.d's will.

Sister Rebecca.

Nun.

Mother Superior.

He held the steering wheel in a death grip, his hands sweating inside his thin gloves. Insects splattered against the winds.h.i.+eld of his pickup as he headed northeast along the freeway away from New Orleans.

He was nervous.

Baton Rouge was far afield from his usual hunting grounds, All Saints College unfamiliar. But he knew his next victim, the other liar and false innocent, was there.

He kept his speedometer two miles below the limit, never drawing attention to his dark vehicle but never veering from his path.

G.o.d had told him where she would be.

What she would be doing.

How he could abduct her.

He must have faith.

"Never even, never even, never even...," he whispered, calming himself, using the mantra that forced all doubts from his mind. The Father had told him to whisper it whenever he felt as if Satan were luring him from the path of righteousness.