Never Die Alone

“Thanks,” Samantha Wheeler said from the other end of the telephone co

“I listened to your show last night.”

“Then you know that he didn’t call in. Maybe he’s not interested in me any longer.”

I wouldn’t bet on it. The killer had blamed Dr. Sam and her advice for causing the death of someone dear to him years before. He had targeted Dr. Sam, plotting out his revenge step by step, taunting the radio psychologist, teasing her and ultimately nearly killing her. The fact that he’d been thwarted should have only intensified his rage.

Unless he’d fixated on someone else.

“Don’t worry, Detective,” Samantha said. “I’m pretty sure I would recognize his voice. It made an impression.”

She seemed certain, but it had been years since Father John had called into her talk show and stalked her as steadily as a hunter searching out prey. Now, as Bentz ended the call, reminding her to be careful, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling. Still holding his cell phone, he stared at the screen of his computer where the frozen image of Father John leered up at him.

“I thought that bastard was gator bait,” Montoya said, eyeing the monitor as he cruised into Bentz’s office.

“So did I.”

“Maybe he tasted so bad the gator spat him out.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Bentz said sarcastically, then reached for his shoulder harness and sidearm. “I thought I’d run out to his place on the bayou. See if there’s any indication that he’s moved back in.”

“You think there’s a chance?”

“Probably not. But, you know. No stone unturned.” He slid the harness into place. “You comin’?”

“Why not? I’m in.”

No surprise there. Montoya was always “in.” Though he’d mellowed a bit over the years, settled down, married, even had a kid, Reuben Montoya would always be the same cocky kid Bentz had been partnered with for years. Montoya still sported a goatee, diamond stud earring, and black leather jacket despite the thick New Orleans heat. No strands of gray had yet dared invade his black hair, and his body was fit and toned due to regular gym workouts and a regimen of ru

Together they walked down the stairs and out of the building where the Louisiana heat hit them full force. As it was late June, the temperature was hovering near ninety. Only the barest of breezes rustled through the leaves of the live oaks planted near the parking lot.

“I’ll drive,” Montoya said, as if he’d ever missed a chance to sit behind the wheel, foot to the floor, fishtailing around corners.

Bentz didn’t argue. It was useless. Together they crossed the parking lot. “I’ve already called for a boat to meet us at the old pier near the spot where Father John camped out. You remember where it is?”

“Like it was yesterday.” Montoya’s face was grim, his voice low as he slid into the driver’s seat of his Mustang.

Bentz took the passenger seat. Before he could pull the door shut, Montoya fired up the engine and threw the car into Reverse.

“I can’t believe that bastard is still alive,” Montoya said as he wheeled out of the parking lot.

Bentz clicked on his seat belt and cracked his window as Montoya merged into traffic. “If I hadn’t seen his face, I wouldn’t have bought it either.”

“But there he was, big as fuckin’ life.”

“Yep. Not a copycat. Not this time.” Bentz glowered out the window and slipped a pair of shades over his eyes. So far, the headache that had been his companion all morning hadn’t abated. Last night, his one beer had slid into two, then three, and so on until the six-pack he’d picked up at the local convenience store had been downed, full bottles replaced with empties. Reaching into his pocket, he found a travel-sized bottle of ibuprofen, tapped out two capsules, and tossed them back. Dry.

“Feelin’ rough?” Montoya asked as he drove out of the city, leaving the sluggish Mississippi and the skyline behind. He, too, had slid a pair of sunglasses over the bridge of his nose, but Bentz figured the colored lenses were more for effect than to cut the glare—all part of the Detective Reuben Montoya too-cool-for-school image.

“I’m okay,” Bentz said, and thankfully his partner didn’t press the issue. Bentz had been sober going on twenty years. Aside from a couple of slips, one of which had been last night, the worst yet, he hadn’t even been tempted. He decided to clamp down on himself. Just because a serial killer that he’d thought he’d taken care of had returned was no reason to start sliding. If anything, he needed to be smarter than ever, at the top of his game. Booze, even light beer, was out.

“Give any more thought to turning in your resignation?”

“Not much.”

“Good.”

Bentz could retire. Between his years with the LAPD and his time here in New Orleans, he’d be okay financially. But he wasn’t old enough to completely throw in the towel, and he felt younger than his age. He watched the city disappear through the passenger window. From time to time he’d considered leaving the force. He’d suffered through some near-fatal injuries and put himself and his family at risk, which wasn’t good. And now he was the father of an infant.

Olivia was all for him quitting; she claimed it would give them more time together with the baby. But his grown daughter Kristi thought the idea preposterous. “Oh, yeah? And what would you do?” she’d asked, her eyes twinkling. “Stay at home and play pat-a-cake with Gi

“Not an ‘incident,’ Kristi,” he’d reminded her. “I killed a kid.”

“Who you thought was aiming a gun at your partner.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Nonetheless nothing. You didn’t quit then and you’re not quitting now. Face it, Dad, you’d curl up and die reading Pat the Bu