Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) by Lisa Jackson Page B

when you’re old. I mean really old.”
    He’d let the subject drop. Until now, when Montoya brought it up again.
    “Not sure what I’m going to do.” He tapped a knuckle on the window and considered his future as they sped past a lowland farm.
    “Well, let me know, would you?” Montoya gunned the car, speeding around a slow-moving hay truck with bales that looked as if they might topple at any second. “If you’re really going to quit, give me a heads-up, okay, so I can request a new partner. Damn, but I’d hate to get hooked up with Brinkman.”
    Bentz didn’t blame Montoya. Brinkman was a pain in the ass and a know-it-all at that. A decent enough cop who had been with the department for years, Brinkman was a loudmouth who always knew the worst off-color jokes and never passed up a chance to put the screws to his fellow officers. Yeah, Brinkman had all the social skills of a water moccasin on a bad day. “You could request someone.”
    “Sure.” Montoya squinted through the bug-spattered windshield. “Because you know if I ended up with Brinkman, I might just kill the son of a bitch.”
    “You’d be doing the department a favor.”
    “That I would.” Montoya laughed. “And end up in jail. Look, just stick around, Bentz. Come on, man, now you have a real reason to stay. Father John. We need to take him down. Whether you like it or not, the sick bastard just made our job a lot more interesting.”
    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.

C HAPTER 7
    B rianna 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