Cold Blooded by Lisa Jackson
I’ll just bet you could.
“Wally’s a real go-getter.”
“I’ll let you know,” she said, standing abruptly to end the conversation and help disguise the fact that she was lying through her teeth. She wouldn’t give any associate of RJ Dodd the time of day much less any business.
He shrugged the shoulders of his too-tight suit as if it were no matter, but Olivia sensed his disappointment. No doubt he would have gotten a kickback for any referral that panned out.
“Thanks for all your help.”
“My pleasure.”
She shook his sweaty palm and dropped it.
Her grandmother could usually smell a con man six miles away. How in the world had she ended up with this snake? Because his services come cheap, was the obvious answer. Aside from that, RJ was a nephew of one of Grannie’s friends.
“Just one thing that troubles me,” RJ said as he forced himself from his squeaky chair.
“What’s that?”
“How come you ended up with the house and contents, and your mama, she only got the insurance money?”
“You’re the lawyer. You tell me.”
“Virginia would never say.”
Olivia offered him a weak smile. He was fishing and she didn’t understand why. “I guess Grannie just liked me better.”
His fleshy jaw tightened. “That could be, I suppose. I didn’t know her very well, just enough to figure out that she was an odd woman, you know. Some people around these parts claim she was a voodoo priestess. That she read fortunes in tarot cards and tea leaves and the like, you know. ESP.”
“Well, you can’t always believe what you hear, can you?” she said, trying to change the subject. It touched a little too close to home.
“They say you inherited it.”
“Is that what you want to know, Mr. Dodd? If I’m psychic?”
“It’s RJ,” he reminded her, grinning and showing off the hint of a gold molar. “No reason to get your back up. I was just makin’ conversation.”
“Why don’t you ask my mother about all this?”
“Bernadette claims she didn’t inherit the gift if that’s what you want to call it, but that you did.”
“Oh, I see … it skips a generation. Of course.” Olivia smiled at him as if to say only an idiot would believe such prattle. There was no reason to confirm or deny the rumors. She knew only too well how true they were. It just wasn’t any of Ramsey Dodd’s business. She hoped it would never be.
“Listen,” he suggested, stepping more agilely around the desk than a man his size should have been capable of. “A word of advice. Free.” He seemed to drop his usual pomposity. “I know your grannie thought a lot of you. I also know that she was … an unusual woman, that because of her visions, she was considered odd. Some people trusted her with their lives. My aunt was one of ‘em. But others, they thought she was into the dark arts or crazy or both. It didn’t make her life any easier, so if I was you, I’d keep my mouth closed about any of that vision shit.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Do that … It would have behooved your grandmother.”
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Nope. That’s it. You take care.”
“I will. Thanks again for all your help.” She stuffed the manila folder he’d given her into her backpack.
“It’s been a pleasure workin’ with you. Now, if you change your mind about Sellin’ the place, just give me a jingle and I’ll have Wally call ya …”
She didn’t wait for him to escort her to the door, but showed herself out through the paneled reception area where a single secretary was poised at a desk situated on a shabby carpet that stretched between three offices, two of which looked vacant as the name plates upon the doors had been unscrewed, leaving telltale holes in the thin veneer. Grannie sure could pick ‘em.
Outside, she crossed a parking lot where the potholes had been patched and climbed into her truck. So RJ knew about her trips to the police department. Great. It was probably all over town, would probably get back to her boss at the Third Eye and even to the University, where she was taking graduate classes.
Wonderful. She rammed the old Ford Ranger into gear and roared out of the lot. She didn’t want to think about the visions she’d had, the glimmers of evil that she sometimes felt rather than saw. Disjointed, kaleidoscopic shards of horrid events that cut through her brain, made her skin rise in goose bumps, and troubled her so much that she’d actually visited the local police.
Where she was considered a nutcase and had been practically laughed out of the building.
Heat climbed her neck at the thought. She flipped on the radio and took a corner a little too fast. The Ranger’s tires screeched in protest.
Sometimes being Virginia Dubois’s granddaughter was more pain than it was worth.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” the naked woman whispered, unable to speak loudly, unable to scream because of the tight collar at her neck. On her knees, chained to the pedestal sink, she obviously didn’t begin to recognize the magnitude of her sins or the reason that she was being punished, that he was actually saving her.
“Tell me,” The Chosen One whispered. “What sins?”
“For … for …” Her terrified eyes bulged and blinked as she tried to think, but she wasn’t penitent. Just scared. Saying what she hoped would convince him to set her free. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “For all my sins,” she said desperately, trying to please him, not knowing it was impossible; that her destiny was preordained.
She was quivering with fear and shivering in the cold, but that would soon change. A bit of smoke was already beginning to waft into the tiny bathroom through the vents. Flames would soon follow. There wasn’t much time. “Please,” she rasped. “Let me go, for the love of God!”
“What would you know about God’s love?” he demanded, then, tamping down his anger, he placed a gloved hand upon her head, as if to calm her, and from somewhere outside, through the cracked window he heard a car backfire on the wintry streets. He had to finish this. Now. Before the fire attracted attention. “You’re a sinner, Cecilia, and as such you will have to pay for your sins.”
“You’ve got the wrong woman! I’m not … her … I’m not Cecilia. Please. Let me go. I won’t say a word, I promise, no one will ever know this happened, I swear.” She clutched at the hem of his alb. Desperate. And dirty. She was a whore. Like the others. He turned his attention to the radio sitting on the windowsill and swiftly turned the knob. The sound of familiar music wafted through the speakers, fading to the sound of a woman’s sultry voice.
“This is Dr. Sam, with one last thought on this date when John F. Kennedy, one of our finest presidents, was killed … Take care of yourself, New Orleans. Good night and God bless. No matter what your troubles are today, there’s always tomorrow … Sweet dreams …”
He turned the dial, switching stations, and heard the static and chirps of announcers’ voices until he found what he wanted: pipe organ music. Full. As if echoing in a cathedral.
Now it could be done.
As the whore watched, he withdrew his sword from behind the shower curtain.
“Oh, God. No!” She was frantic now, pulling at the chain as the collar tightened even further.
“It’s too late.” His voice was measured and calm, but inside he was shaking, trembling, not with fear but anticipation. Adrenalin, his favorite drug, sang through his veins. From the corner of his eye he noticed flames beginning to lick through the screen of the vent. The time had come.
“No, please, don’t … oh, God …” She was clawing at her tether now, vainly trying to hide behind the pedestal as the collar tightened, her wrists and ankles bleeding and raw from her bonds. “You’ve got the wrong woman!”
His pulse throbbed, pounded in his brain. For a second he felt a tingle against the back of his neck, like the breath of Satan. He glanced at the mirror, searching the shimmering surface, looking beneath
But that was impossible.
Sweat slid into his eyes as he lifted his sword so high his arm ached. Smoke burned in his lungs. Blood lust ran through his veins as he grabbed a fistful of hair in his free hand. He stared down at her perfect neck surrounded by the choke collar. He was hard between his legs, his erection nearly painful. Oh, how he would love to thrust into her body, to taste of her before absolving her of her sins. But that was not his mission. Denying himself of such wicked pleasure was his own act of martyrdom.
“For your sins, Cecilia,” he said, biting out the words as ripples of pleasure passed through him, “and in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I commit your soul to God.”
Chapter Two
“No!”
Olivia’s eyes flew open.
Her own scream echoed through her small bedroom. The dog gave up a sharp “Woof!”
“Oh, God, no.” Her heart was a drum, her body drenched in sweat, the vivid dream lingering as clearly as if she’d just witnessed a murder. Again. Oh, God, it was happening again.
The vision was so damned real. Her nostrils still stung from the smell of smoke, her ears rang with that eerie pipe organ music, her mouth was dry as cotton, her throat raw from her scream. A blinding headache started at the base of her skull and moved upward.
She glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen. Her hands shook as she pushed the hair from her face.
At the foot of the old bed, her grandmother’s mutt lifted his head and was staring at her. Yawning, he emitted another warning bark.
“Come here, you,” she said, patting the pillow as Hairy S stretched. He was all scraggly bits of fur, mottled gray and brown with splotches of white, heavy eyebrows that hinted of some schnauzer hidden back in his bloodlines. He whined, then belly-swamped up to the pillows next to her. Absently, she pulled him close, needing something to cling to. She ruffled his coarse coat and wished she could tell him it would be all right. But it wouldn’t. She knew better. She buried her face in his fur and tried to calm down. Maybe it was a mistake … maybe it was just a dream … maybe … no way. She knew what the images meant.
“Crap.”
She scooted up to a sitting position. Calm down. But she was still shaking, the headache beginning to pound. Hairy S wriggled out of her arms.
“Damn you, Grannie Gin,” she muttered as the sounds of the night floated in through the open window, the rustle of the wind moving through the trees underscored by the hum of traffic, eighteen-wheelers on the distant freeway.
Dropping her head into her hands, she massaged her temples. Why me? Why? The visions had started at a young age, before she could really remember, but they had been less defined then, and rare. In the off-and-on-again times when her mother had lived with them, the times between husbands.
Bernadette had never wanted to believe that her daughter had inherited her grandmother’s psychic gift.
“Coincidence,” Bernadette had told her child often enough, or, “You’re making this up. It’s just a cheap attempt to get attention! Now, knock it off, Livvie, and quit listening to Grandma. She’s touched in the head, you know, and if you aren’t careful … You hear me?” she’d said sharply, shaking her daughter as if to drive out the monsters in her brain. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll be touched too, not by some ridiculous gift of sight as Grannie claims, but by the devil. Satan never sleeps. Do you hear me? Never.”
Once Bernadette had pointed a long red-tipped nail at the end of her eldest daughter’s nose. They had been in the kitchen of this very house where the smells of bacon grease, wood smoke, and cheap perfume had adhered to pine cabinets yellowed with age. A fan had sat near the ancient toaster, rotating on the corner of the countertop and blowing hot air around the tiny, sparse room.
As Olivia recalled, Bernadette had just gotten off the day shift down at Charlene’s restaurant at the truck stop near the Interstate. She was standing on the cracked linoleum floor in bare feet, a white blouse, and the ever-present black skirt of a waitress. One strap of her bra was visible and a tiny gold cross hung from a chain around her neck and lay nestled in that deep cleft between her breasts. “Listen, child,” she’d said seriously, her expression intense. “I’m not kidding. All this mumbo jumbo and hints about voodoo are just bullshit, you hear me? Bullshit. Your grandma has delusions of being some damned voodoo priestess or some such nonsense, but she’s not. Just because way back when there was some octoroon blood mixed in with the rest, doesn’t make her a … a … damned fortune teller, now, does it? She’s not a psychic and neither are you. Okay?”
Bernadette had straightened, adjusted her short black skirt, and sighed. “ ‘Course it doesn’t,” she’d added, more, it seemed, to convince herself than Olivia. “Now, go outside, will ya, ride your bike or skateboard or whatever.” She picked up an open pack of Virginia Slims on the counter, shook out a cigarette, and lit it quickly. With smoke seeping out of her nostrils, she stood on her tiptoes and reached into an upper cabinet, where she pulled out a fifth of whiskey.
“Mama’s got herself a whopper of a headache,” she’d explained as she found a short glass, cracked ice cubes from a plastic tray, and poured herself a healthy drink, which she’d explained was her reward for a hard day’s labor while enduring the leers, winks, and occasional pinches at the truck stop. Only after taking a sip and leaning her hips against the counter did she look at her daughter again. “You’re an odd one, Livvie,” she’d said with a sigh. “I love ya to death, you know I do, but you’re different.” With the cigarette planted firmly between her lips, she’d reached forward and grabbed Olivia’s chin, moving her head left, then right. Narrowed eyes studied Olivia’s profile through the smoke.
“You’re pretty enough,” Bernadette finally allowed, straightening and flicking ashes into the sink, “and if you use your head and don’t go spouting off all this crazy talk, you’ll land yourself a good man, maybe even a rich man. So don’t go scarin’ ‘em off with all this weird talk, y’hear me? No decent man’ll have you if ya do.” She’d rolled the drink in her hands and watched the ice cubes clink together. “Believe me, I know.” A sad smile had curved her lips, which showed only a hint of lipstick applied much earlier in the day. “Someday, honey, you’re gonna git yerself outta this dump”—she fluttered her fingers to take in all of Grannie Gin’s cabin—“and into a fancy house, just like Scarlett Damned O’Hara.” She managed a wider grin, showing off straight, impossibly white teeth. “And when you do, you’re gonna take care of your mama, y’hear?”
Now, thinking back, Olivia sighed. Oh, Mama, if you only knew. Olivia would have done anything to make the demons in her mind be still. But lately, those dreams she’d repressed had come back with a vengeance.
Ever since she’d returned to Louisiana.
She had to do something about the visions. She had to do something about tonight.
The woman’s dead, Olivia. There’s nothing you can do for her and no one’s going to believe you. You know that. You’ve tried to contact the authorities before. You’ve tried to convince your family, your friends, even your damned fiancé. No one believed you then. No one will now.
Besides, it was a dream. That’s all. Just a dream.
Slowly she edged off the bed, dragging her grandmother’s quilt with her, then unlocked the French doors to the verandah. The dog trotted after her as Olivia stepped into the cool winter of early morning, the floorboards smooth beneath her bare feet. The bayou was quiet, mist rising slowly, huge cypress trees guarding the sluggish waters that lapped near the back of the house. She leaned a hand against the rail, worn smooth by the touch of human hands over the past hundred years. Some creature of the darkness scuttled through the brush, rustling dry leaves and snapping thin branches on its way into the swamp. Goose bumps sprouted on Olivia’s arms. As she gazed across the still, dark waters, she tried t
It was more than a nightmare.
Olivia knew it with horrid certainty.
It wasn’t the first time she’d “witnessed” someone’s death. They had come and gone over the years, but whenever she was here, in this part of bayou country, the visions had preyed upon her. It was one of the reasons she’d stayed away so long.
Yet, here she was. Once again in Louisiana. And the nightmares had already begun, back with a blinding, soulscraping fury that scared her to death. “It’s your fault,” she muttered as if Grannie Gin, bless her voodoo-lovin’ soul, could hear her.
Olivia’s fingers gripped the railing. As clearly as if she’d been in that minuscule bathroom, Olivia saw the murder again. Smoke rose as the masked priest lifted his sword and swung downward, not once, but three times….
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, but the vision wouldn’t go away. A priest. A man of God!
She had to do something.
Now.
Somewhere tonight a woman had been murdered. Violently.
By rote Olivia sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest. She rubbed her arms and pulled the quilt more snugly around her as a soft November breeze sighed through the trees overhead and the dank smell of the swamp filled her nostrils. She couldn’t pretend this hadn’t happened even though no matter what, no one would believe her.
Turning quickly, she hurried inside, Grannie’s quilt billowing after her. Hairy S was right on her heels, toenails clicking across the hardwood floor as she made her way to the desk. Flipping on a small lamp, she scrounged through the dusty cubbyholes, discarding pens, note cards, thimbles and rubber bands until she found the scrap of paper she’d been looking for, a tattered piece of newspaper. It was an article that had been in the Times-Picayune after the latest rash of murders in the Crescent City had occurred. According to the report, a detective by the name of Rick Bentz had been instrumental in solving the bizarre killings. He’d been the man who had discovered the link in the crimes and how they were related to Dr. Sam, Samantha Leeds, host of the talk-radio program Midnight Confessions.