Montoya made a grim point. Lately, things had been quiet. Aside from the usual domestic violence cases and gang-related or booze-fueled fights, the city had been calm. Not since a killer had stalked St. Marguerite’s Cathedral had there been any unusual homicide cases. Which had suited him just fine. Or so Bentz had told himself. But, as proven by Bentz’s obsession with the tape of Father John murdering the woman prisoner, Montoya was right. Bentz’s investigative juices were definitely flowing again.

How sick was that?

Frowning, he heard his partner swear as Montoya turned onto an overgrown lane leading to the remote bayou. Dry grass and weeds scraped the undercarriage of the low-slung car as Montoya followed the twin ruts that marked the old driveway.

By the time they reached the area of the bayou where Father John had once lived, the mosquitoes were out in full force and the midday heat shimmered in waves. Tall cypress trees gave a little shade, but the air was still and humid. Oppressive. Sweat collected around Bentz’s neck and he tugged at his collar as they walked down the overgrown path toward the water. The dilapidated dock listed to one side, its rotting boards bleached from the intense sun. The brackish water stretched wider here.

Squinting, Bentz stared across the expanse to the thicket of trees that used to shelter a cabin set upon pilings. A killer’s lair where, over the drone of insects and croak of bullfrogs, Father John had tuned into Dr. Sam’s show as he sharpened the stones of his rosary and plotted his next grisly crime. Years had passed, long years that had lulled Bentz into believing the killer who had cloaked himself as a man of God had died in this very swamp.

Bentz swiped at the sweat beading at the back of his neck and wondered if Father John’s cabin still existed.

Maybe Montoya was right about this after all.

Maybe this trip to the bayou was all a huge waste of time.

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

Brianna pushed the speed limit. With Selma fighting tears and nearly collapsed against the passenger door, they tore up Highway 10.

Brianna’s Honda was fifteen years old, had nearly two hundred thousand miles on the odometer, and was in serious need of detailing, but it responded without complaint. The trip to All Saints should take a little over an hour and a half, but Brianna hoped to shave time off the length of the journey. Time was of the essence because the more Selma had talked about her daughters’ disappearance, the more Brianna feared that the 21 Killer was at large here in Louisiana.