“It isn’t. It’s a great idea.” He yanked the damned nightgown over her head, tossed it to the floor, then quickly settled over her, his body stretching the length of her. “Don’t think for a second I would give up on us,” he said against her skin as she tore off his boxers, her fingertips skimming his tight buttocks and sinewy legs.
She wanted to believe him. With all her heart.
“Feel good,” he said, and she closed her eyes and gave herself up, body and soul, to his touch.
Later, she was still awake. The ceiling fan whirred above the bed, forcing the air to move.
God, she loved this man. Her heart ached with the burden of loving him. But she wouldn’t let that love destroy her.
She ran her fingers through his coarse hair and listened to him gently snore. His eyes were moving rapidly behind his lids, his body hardening, muscles tense rather than relaxed. “No,” he said aloud. “No…oh…God. Stop!”
“Shh,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”
“Stop! Please! Don’t!” He was frantic, his breathing wild. “Jennifer!” He yelled her name without waking, then settled into a troubled slumber.
But Olivia didn’t sleep a wink.
The sound of his voice yelling Jennifer’s name echoed through her mind. She slid from beneath the covers and walked downstairs. She wrapped a fuzzy blanket around her, stretched out on the couch, and let the dog curl into her lap as she stared out the window at the rising moon.
Olivia didn’t know what was going on with her husband, but realized that somehow, some way, Rick’s first wife was causing a rift between them.
It was ridiculous. She’d met Bentz long after Jennifer had died and though she suspected he carried some guilt for his young wife’s death, for living when she lost her life, he seemed to have handled it well.
Until he’d spent two weeks in a coma.
Something had happened in those lost days when he’d been unconscious. Rick Bentz had changed. Which wasn’t unusual, considering the circumstances. He’d nearly died.
No one could escape such a trauma without some emotional scarring. Withdrawal and introspection were normal. The man had faced death, for God’s sake, so Olivia had granted him ample time to heal, not just physically, but emotionally as well.
But what the hell did Jennifer Nichols Bentz have to do with it?
She must’ve dozed because she was surprised to notice dawn seeping over the horizon. Deep shades of magenta and lilac streaked the eastern sky and she couldn’t stand lying on the couch another second. Her head ached and she decided to start the coffee. Decaf, she reminded herself as she walked into the bathroom and pulled out the small wastebasket beneath the sink.
Lying on the top of a pile of wadded tissues was the remains of her most recent pregnancy test, the package unmistakable, the test stick with its pink line still giving a positive reading, indicating that yes, indeed, Olivia Bentz was pregnant.
“H
elp me.” Jennifer’s voice was as clear as it had been the last time he’d seen her alive. “Rick…help me.” She was lying in the car, her face bloodied, her body broken, unmoving. And yet he’d heard her voice.
“You’ll be okay,” he said, trying to move closer to her, but his legs were leaden, weighted as if in quicksand. The harder he tried to reach her, the more distant she was, her face disintegrating before him.
Suddenly, her eyes opened.
“It’s your fault,” she said as the flesh peeled away, revealing only a skull with damning eyes. “Your fault.”
“No!”
Bentz’s eyes flew open and he found himself in bed. Alone. His heart was thundering, pounding in his brain, but over it all he heard the rumbling of a truck at the edge of the drive, then the clatter of garbage cans being lifted.
What the hell time was it?
Sunlight burned through the windows and he glanced at the clock. After nine. He’d finally slept. Fitfully, but for a long while. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw and tried to dispel the nightmare of Jennifer.
Olivia had already left for the day.
Because she still has a life.
He curled a fist, angry at the world, then slowly straightened his fingers.
Oh hell, Bentz, get over your sorry self. This poor-pitiful-me act is wearing thin.
He gave himself a swift mental kick, used the john, then hobbled downstairs where coffee was still warming in a glass pot. She hadn’t left a note, but he knew she was meeting with a friend, a woman who worked with her in the shop. She and Manda had a standing date for café au lait, beignets, and gossip at the Café Du Monde on Decatur. They read the paper and people-watched as they sipped their steaming brews from outdoor tables.
Bentz poured himself a cup of coffee, let the dog outside and, while Hairy S sniffed around the edges of the veranda, he stared into the woods where only a few days earlier he’d been certain he’d seen Jennifer.
Or someone who looked so much like her it stole the breath from his lungs.
Of course she hadn’t been out there; he’d checked the spot where she’d stood between the two bleached cypress trees. There had been no footprints on the ground, no bit of trace evidence left to indicate anyone had recently been in the spot where he would’ve sworn on his daughter’s life he’d seen his first damned wife.
Ex
-wife. They hadn’t been married at the time of her death.
If she’d really been killed in that freak accident.
Bentz had always thought the “accident” had been Jennifer’s way of escape. A suicide, though it was a damned messy way to take care of things.
He figured she’d felt so guilty not so much about cheating on him—more than once—but because she’d been caught in bed with another man. Bentz’s own half brother. Even now, years later, he still felt the rage that had ripped through him as much from the sting of her infidelity as the fact that he’d been stupid enough to trust her again.
So she’d taken herself out, left him to raise their daughter alone. She’d even written a suicide note, explaining her actions, her guilt.
At the time Bentz had been certain that the woman behind the wheel of the battered van had been Jennifer, and he’d buried her as such. There had been no DNA tests, no blood taken. Just his word that his wife was the driver.
Now, as he stared at that area at the edge of the swampland where he’d witnessed his latest “Jennifer sighting,” he felt a little tickle upon the back of his neck, as if someone were silently observing him. He turned quickly, teetering slightly, his eyes trained on the windows of his home.
Nothing.
No one was watching him from inside the house.
Or standing behind a magnolia tree outside peering at him.
He let out his breath slowly.
Ignored the sense of panic that gripped him.
For the love of God, Bentz, pull yourself together!
Was he going completely around the bend?
He knew he’d seen Jennifer, not just a few weeks earlier in this very spot and at the hospital, but other times as well. Once when he was sitting in the front seat of Olivia’s truck, waiting while she was taking in the dry cleaning, he’d been certain he had caught a glimpse of her. There was Jennifer, handbag clutched to her chest, hair scraped back in a ponytail, hurriedly crossing the street and disappearing into an alley. He’d gotten out of the truck, hobbled to the entrance of the alley, but had only spied a white cat slinking through a rotted fence while trash cans stood overflowing behind an old garage.
Another time he’d been sure he’d seen her strolling through a park, walking slowly around a fountain as sunlight caught in her hair, firing up the dark strands to a rich auburn. She had turned and looked over her shoulder and a slow, steady smile had stretched across her lips.
Her eyes had twinkled with a catch-me-if-you-can dare. He’d stopped his Jeep, double-parked and, using his cane, followed after her past the fountain only to find that she’d once again vanished.
Then there had been the incident in the woods near his house.
She’d seemed so real.
He was cracking up. That was it. Or hallucinating from the drugs he’d been prescribed. Trouble was, he’d kicked those damned painkillers a month ago.
Long before he’d seen Jennifer standing just off the edge of his veranda.
Or her ghost.
No way.
He didn’t believe in ghosts or anything the least bit supernatural or paranormal. He’d even had trouble swallowing his wife’s visions at the time a serial killer known as The Chosen One had terrorized New Orleans.
Yet he was certain that he’d seen her.
Really? Then she hadn’t aged much in the last twelve years, right? What’s up with that? Come on, Bentz, face it, you’re losing it.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered under his breath, then took a long swallow before tossing the dregs of his cup into a flowerbed filled with flowers in shades of periwinkle and deep purple.
He was tired of thinking about Jennifer, sick of wondering why his subconscious was so determined to dredge her up again. He’d tried to ignore her. Told himself that he must’ve just caught glimpses of a woman who resembled her, that because he’d thought he’d seen her during the day, his dreams at night had been haunted by her.
But that didn’t explain catching sight of her in the woods the other day. Nor running into an alley or strolling through a park, but here, alone with him in his own backyard. The times he’d caught glimpses of her in public places might have been brushes with someone who looked similar, but the two times he’d seen her alone at the hospital and in the yard had been different—not a play of sunlight and shadow, not easily dismissed.
Was the woman who had been standing in his backyard a figment of his imagination? A product of wishful thinking? Misfiring synapses from an injured brain?
Who knew?
“Get over it.”
Whistling to the dog, he walked inside, showered, shaved, and, spying the exercise equipment in the den, promised himself he’d work out in the afternoon. Today he intended to drive into the city, to plead his case with Jaskiel again, get out of the ever-shrinking rooms of this cozy little cottage.
He brought his cane.
Melinda Jaskiel had asked for six more weeks and half that time had slowly passed. He didn’t think he could wait any longer. He was on his way to try to convince his boss that he was ready to work, at least part-time, but just as he was climbing into his Jeep, ignoring the pain in his leg, his cell phone beeped.
Caller ID said it was Montoya’s personal cell.
“Hey,” he said into the phone.
“Back atcha. You got a minute?”
Bentz waited a beat. No doubt his once-upon-a-time partner was being a wiseass. “Just one,” he said dryly.
“Can you meet me in…say…an hour?” No joking now. Montoya was dead serious.
“At the station.”
“No. How about the Cat’s Meow?”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“Good.” Montoya clicked off and Bentz was left with a gnawing in his gut. Something was up. Was there a rumor circulating that Bentz was going to be forced into retirement? “Shit,” he said and switched on the ignition.
The thought of turning in his badge soured his stomach. He wasn’t ready for retirement, damn it, and he didn’t see himself as a P.I. He threw his SUV into reverse, did a quick turn, and drove down the lane to the county road, where he stepped on it and headed to New Orleans and whatever bad news Montoya had to offer.
The Cat’s Meow was a bar off Bourbon Street that, after the hurricane, had been restored to its original lack of splendor. The brick walls, even newly scrubbed, looked as if they might crumble. Wood floors, though refinished, had the patina that comes with overuse and age. Surrealistic pictures of jazz singers hanging over the bar had been retouched to appear as if they’d collected decades’ worth of smoke. The end one, of Ella Fitzgerald, was still hung crookedly, as if the owner of the bar prided himself in all things in the world being imperfect.
The air conditioner wheezed loudly, ceiling fans slowly rotated, and smoke drifted upward from tables where groups of patrons huddled over their drinks.
Montoya was waiting for him in a booth with a cup of coffee sitting neglected in front of him. He gave Bentz the once-over as he tried not to wince while sliding in opposite the younger cop.
“What’s up?” Bentz asked without preamble, then ordered a sweet tea.
“Got some mail for you.”
“You did?” Bentz asked.
“Well, the department did.”
Montoya waited for the server to deposit Bentz’s drink before reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a manila envelope: Eight-by-ten with Bentz’s name written on it in block letters, the address listed as the Homicide Department of the New Orleans Police Department. Across each side was a stamp that pronounced the contents:
PERSONAL
.
The packet hadn’t been opened.
“This came today?”
“Mmm.” Montoya took a sip of his coffee.
“Scanned?” Meaning for explosives or foreign substances such as anthrax.
“Yeah.”
Bentz’s eyes narrowed. “By you?”
“That’s right. I spotted it in the mailroom, figured it was no one’s business but yours, so…” He raised a shoulder.
“You lifted it.”
Montoya wiggled a hand beside his head. Maybe yes. Maybe no. “It’s postmarked to you. Thought it would be best if you got it before Brinkman or some other jerk-off caught a glimpse.” He slid a glance at the envelope. “Probably nothin’.”
“If you thought that, you wouldn’t have bothered.”
Again a shrug of one leather-clad shoulder. “You gonna open it?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.” Another swallow of coffee.
“So that’s it, you’re curious.”
“Hey, I’m just covering your back.”
“Fine.” Bentz studied the postmark. It was smudged and the lighting in the bar was too dark to see much. But he had a penlight on his key chain, and as he shined its small beam over the postmark his gut tightened.
The name of the town was unreadable, but he recognized the zip code as the one in which he and Jennifer had lived before her death.
Using a house key, he slit the envelope open and gently tugged the contents within. A single piece of paper and three photographs.
He sucked in his breath.
His heart stilled.
The pictures, complete with dates, were of his first wife, Jennifer.
Dear God, what was this?
He heard his pulse pounding in his brain. First the “sightings” and now this?
“Is that—?”
“Yeah.” The photographs were clear and crisp. In color. Jennifer walking across a busy street. Jennifer sliding into a light-colored car, make and model undetermined. Jennifer sitting at a tall café table in a coffee shop. The last picture was taken from the street, her image captured through the window of the shop. In front of the window was a sidewalk with pedestrians passing by and portions of two newspaper boxes in the foreground. He recognized one as
USA Today
, and the other the
L.A. Times
.
Narrowing his eyes, Bentz looked for a reflection of the photographer in the large window, but saw none.
This was nuts.
“Old pictures?” Montoya asked.
“Not if the dates from the camera are right.”
“Those can be changed.”
“I know.”
“And with Photoshopping and image altering and airbrushing, pictures can be made to look like anything someone wants them to. Other people’s heads on someone else’s body.”
Bentz looked up from the disturbing photos. “But why?”
“Someone just fuckin’ with ya.”
“Maybe.” He turned his attention to the document and his jaw grew hard as granite. The single page was a copy of Jennifer’s death certificate. Scrawled across the neatly typed document was a bright red question mark.
“What the hell is this?” Montoya asked.
Bentz stared at the mutilated certificate. “A sick way of telling me that my first wife might not be dead.”
Montoya waited a beat, watching the expression on his partner’s face. “You’re kidding. Right?”
“Does this look like a joke to you?” Bentz asked, pointing at the death certificate and scattered pictures.”
“You think this is Jennifer? Nah!” Then eyeing his ex-partner, “You’re messing with me, right?”
Bentz filled Montoya in. Until this point only his kid, who had been in his hospital room at the time he’d awoken from his coma, had any idea that Bentz had seen his first wife. Kristi had dismissed his vision of Jennifer as the result of his coma and too much medication. After that first sighting, he’d kept his mouth shut and his daughter, caught up in preparing for her wedding, hadn’t brought up the subject again.
“Wait a second,” Montoya said when Bentz paused to take a drink. “You’re saying you believe she might actually be alive?”