Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle
Chapter 95 : But no.... He couldn't think this way. He had to have faith. Faith in the Voice, i

But no.... He couldn't think this way. He had to have faith. Faith in the Voice, in what It told him, in Its ultimate wisdom.

Quickly he rolled off the cot and onto his knees. Deftly, from years of practice and sacrifice, he sketched the sign of the cross over his naked chest. Beads of perspiration collected on his scalp as he prayed for guidance, begged to be His messenger, felt a thrum from antic.i.p.ating that it was he who had been sought out. He was G.o.d's disciple. "Show me the way," he whispered urgently, licking his lips. "Tell me what I must do."

Kill.

The Voice was clear.

Slay them both.

Sacrifice the man and woman.

He frowned as he prayed, not completely understanding. The woman, Eve, he understood. Oh, how long he'd waited to do just what the Voice commanded. He envisioned her. Heart-shaped face with a strong, impertinent chin. The faintest hint of freckles bridging a short, straight nose. Intense eyes as clear and blue as a tropical lagoon. Fiery, storm-tossed hair.

So beautiful.

So headstrong.

And such a wh.o.r.e.

He imagined what she let men do to that athletic body.... Oh, he'd seen her before, peeked through the slit between her curtains and seen taut skin stretched over feminine muscles, skin that moved fluidly as she bathed. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small, firm, and tipped with rosy-hued nipples that tightened as she stepped into the bathwater.

Yes, he'd watched her, spying upon her as those long legs slipped over the edge of the tub, unknowingly flas.h.i.+ng him just a glimpse of the pink folds and red curls at the juncture of her thighs.

Thinking of her, he felt that special tingle that only she could entice from him, the hot run of blood that flushed his skin and caused his c.o.c.k to thicken in antic.i.p.ation.

If only he could run his fingers inside her legs, lick those tight little b.r.e.a.s.t.s, f.u.c.k the h.e.l.l out of her. She was a wh.o.r.e anyway. In his mind's eye he saw himself mounting her, his toned body taut over hers, his c.o.c.k driving deep into that hot, wanton wasteland where others had spilled their seed.

He was breathing hard.

Knew what he was thinking was a sin.

But he wanted to ram deep into her just once.

Before the killing.

And he had the opportunity. Hadn't the Voice instructed him to prove what a wh.o.r.e she was?

But what of the man man ? ?

As if the Voice had heard his thoughts, It whispered, You are the Reviver. The One I have chosen for this task to revive the souls of the weak. Do not fail me. It's up to you who will live and who will die. Now, go! You are the Reviver. The One I have chosen for this task to revive the souls of the weak. Do not fail me. It's up to you who will live and who will die. Now, go!

Realizing he was still on his knees, he made another swift sign of the cross and felt a jab of shame that G.o.d might have read his thoughts and learned of his weakness where she she was concerned. He had to fight the l.u.s.t. Had to. was concerned. He had to fight the l.u.s.t. Had to.

And yet, as he stood, stretching his honed muscles, he felt needles of antic.i.p.ation piercing his skin, desire causing his groin to tighten almost painfully.

The Reviver. The Voice had given him a name. He rolled it around in his head and decided he liked it, enjoyed the thought that he was the decider, the one who ultimately chose who lived and who died. It was a good sign, wasn't it, that the Voice had decided to name him? Kind of like being anointed, or knighted. The Reviver The Reviver. Yes!

He dressed in the dark, pulling on his camouflage pants and jacket, ski mask and boots, the uniform he hung from a peg near the door. His weapons were already stowed in his truck, hidden in a locked drawer in the false bottom of his toolbox. Knives, pistols, silencers, plastic explosives, even a peashooter and darts with poisoned tips....

And something special, just for her.

He slid out of his dark room and stepped into the deep, mist-laden night.

He was ready.

Eve checked her watch.

Ten forty-five.

"Great," she muttered between clenched teeth.

She was running late.

Despite the fact that the night outside the winds.h.i.+eld of her Camry was thick with fog, she stepped on the gas. Her dented Toyota had nearly a hundred and twenty thousand miles on the engine but still leapt forward, ever reliable.

So she wouldn't be on time. So what? A few minutes one way or the other wouldn't hurt.

She took a corner a little too fast, cut into the inside lane, and nearly hit an oncoming pickup. The driver blasted his horn and she jerked on the wheel, slowing a little, her heart jack-hammering.

She forced herself to relax her grip on the wheel and take a deep breath. Roy could wait, she decided, thinking of the frantic phone call she'd received less than half an hour earlier.

"Eve, you've got to come," he'd said in a rush, his voice tense. "To the cabin-you know the one. Where we used to go in the summer as kids. My uncle's place. But hurry. I'll...I'll uh, meet you at eleven."

"It's late," she protested. "I'm not going to-"

"I've got evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. Just come. Alone."

"h.e.l.l, Roy, you don't have to go all cloak and dagger on me. Just tell me what's going on!"

Her answer was several clicks and dead air. He'd hung up.

"No, wait! Roy! Oh for G.o.d's sake," she growled, poking a few b.u.t.tons on her phone, hoping to capture his number on caller ID and return the call. But her screen had come up with the phrase "Unknown Caller," and she was left gnas.h.i.+ng her teeth in frustration, her heart pounding with a case of nerves. What "evidence" had Roy found? What was he talking about? Half a dozen possibilities, none of them good, had run through her mind as she'd hurried to meet him.

Maybe she shouldn't have come at all. Cole hadn't wanted her to. In fact he'd practically barred the door, completely infuriating her. In her mind's eye she still envisioned his taut, worried face, and she recalled every angry word. He'd wanted to come with her, but she'd insisted on going alone. She'd hurried out the door into the cold, foggy night before he could bully his way into her decision making.

This was something she had to do by herself.

So now she was driving, in the middle of a moonless Louisiana night, toward the swampland where Roy's uncle, Vernon, owned an old fis.h.i.+ng cabin. If it still existed. The last time she'd been there, over ten years earlier, the place had already been going to seed. She couldn't imagine what it might be like now.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the worry in her eyes. What the h.e.l.l was going on?

She hadn't spoken to Roy in over a year.

Why would he call now?

He's in trouble again, of course. You know Roy. He's a prime example of borderline paranoia. The man's got his own special brand of neurosis.

So why do you always come running when he calls, huh?

What kind of pull does he have over you?

What's your your own special brand of neurosis that you have to bail him out over and over again? own special brand of neurosis that you have to bail him out over and over again?

"Oh shut up," she muttered tightly. The problem with being part of a post-grad psychology program was that she was always psychoa.n.a.lyzing herself.

It got old.

She snapped on the radio. Notes from the tail end of some country ballad about a love triangle trailed into a commercial for the latest weight-loss program. Not much help. Switching stations and listening with half an ear, she peered through the rising mist. Vernon's place was nearby, she thought. Squinting, she spotted a faded No Hunting sign that had been nailed to the trunk of a tall pine tree and blasted with a shotgun several times over, the letters nearly obliterated by buckshot.

Only one other vehicle pa.s.sed by her as the road wound through the swampland. She s.h.i.+vered, though the night was far from cool. Finally her headlight beams splashed upon a burned-out snag of a cottonwood tree, and just beyond was the entrance to Vernon Kajak's property. A rusted gate hung drunkenly on one hinge; the old cattle guard was still intact, causing her tires to rumble and quake as she entered the private acres.

The drive was little more than twin ruts. Where there once had been gravel, there was now only scattered stones and mud. Weeds sc.r.a.ped the Camry's undercarriage. The car shuddered and bounced over the potholes and protruding rocks, and she was forced to slow to a creep as she picked her way through the bleached trunks of the cypress trees and brush.

G.o.d, it was dark. Eerie. The stuff from which horror films are made.

Eve had never been faint of heart, nor was she a coward, but she wasn't an idiot either, and driving around in the middle of the Louisiana swamp on a gloomy night seemed like a bad idea. Years of practicing tae kwon do and a small canister of pepper spray tucked inside her purse didn't seem like enough firepower to fight whatever evil might lie in the dense undergrowth. "Oh, get over yourself," she said aloud.

She clicked off the radio and picked up her cell phone, only to note that it was receiving no service.

"Of course," she said beneath her breath. "Wouldn't you know..."

Her car edged forward, and she narrowed her eyes, straining to see the cabin.

Everything that had happened today was out of sync, just not quite right, and it had culminated in that fight with Cole.

How had that happened? Okay, so she'd been p.r.i.c.kly after a visit from her father, but had that warranted the kind of cold fury that had been unleashed upon her by the man she planned to marry?

The call from Roy had sent her out here...into this seeping, clinging fog. Everything about this day and night felt a little out of kilter, and Eve gave herself a shake, trying to dispel the heebie-jeebies.

She checked her watch again.

In a few minutes it would be over.

The cabin was less than a quarter of a mile ahead.

The Reviver waited.

Trembling.

Antic.i.p.ating.

Ears straining.

Every nerve ending stretched to the breaking point.

But the Voice was silent.

There was no praise for his act; no recriminations for not completing the job.

His heart raced, and he turned his face skyward as a cold spring wind rattled through this part of the bayou. The moon, nearly obscured by the rising fog, offered only a chilling slice of illumination in the night.

Senses heightened, he smelled the metallic odor of blood as it dripped from the fingertips of his gloves.

Talk to me, he silently begged the Voice. he silently begged the Voice. I have done Your bidding as best I could. She wasn't there, not where you said she'd be. I couldn't kill her. Should I track her down? Hunt her? I have done Your bidding as best I could. She wasn't there, not where you said she'd be. I couldn't kill her. Should I track her down? Hunt her?

His breath quickened at the thought of stalking her, cornering her, witnessing her fear, then taking her.

But the night was deathly quiet.

No frogs croaked.

No cicadas hummed.

No crickets chirped.

There was nothing but silence and the sound of his short, rapid breaths-visible breaths that mingled with the fog in the still air.

The Voice of G.o.d, it seemed, had grown mute.

Because he'd erred.

Horribly.

And now he was being punished.

He tried to concentrate. Had he been mistaken? Hadn't the Voice told him there would be two inside? Two to sacrifice? Yes, he was certain of it. A man and the woman, Eve, were both supposed to be inside, and yet he'd found only the man.

"Forgive me," he whispered in agony. What would his penance be this time? He thought of the scars upon his back from flagellation, the burns on his palms from hot coals. He shuddered to think what was to come.

And yet...

His heart was still beating erratically, his blood still singing in his veins from the kill. Oh, how exquisite had been that first slice of his blade as it separated the soft tissue of the throat. And the thin, pulsing seam of red as the blood began to flow.... He closed his eyes and felt the rush all over again.

Nervously, he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Disappointment gnawed at his guts.