“I know pronounce you man and wife. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Tyler Wheeler.” The minister held up his hands as the couple turned and faced a small gathering of friends and family. In a long cream-colored gown, Samantha looked radiant as she walked through the guests sitting in the huge open courtyard of the St. Suzanne Hotel nestled deep in the French Quarter. Her new husband, in black tuxedo, was tall and handsome, a man whose book on the Rosary Killer would be in the stores within the next year.
The setting was perfect, Olivia thought.
It was the Saturday after Christmas and the centuries old brothel-turned hotel was still dressed in garlands and wreaths. Millions of lights spiraled through the foliage while outdoor heaters hummed as they warmed the courtyard and the friends and family of Dr. Sam and her new husband.
Olivia glanced through the jeweled fronts of palm trees and ferns to a dark sky where stars twinkled and a crescent moon hovered. Next to her, tugging at his tie, Rick Bentz watched the ceremony. It had been nearly a month since the horrid night at The Chosen One’s lair, but Bentz, true to his vow that night, was trying to make things better and giving their relationship another shot. Olivia had been a hard sell. They’d spent hours talking and she wasn’t sure she was ready to trust him again, but she did care about him; probably loved him, fool that she was. At that thought she smiled.
Things were far from perfect. Sarah Restin was in serious counseling and on anti-anxiety drugs, Kristi, too, was traumatized, but, it seemed would be able to go back to school after the winter break. Olivia had mended fences with her mother, but the specter of The Chosen One hadn’t quite died. The press kept him alive long after he should have been buried.
Slowly the case had unwound. The Jane Doe laid at the foot of St. Joan of Arc had been identified as a transient woman from El Paso. No family had come forward to claim her remains. St. Philomena had been a runaway teen from Detroit. Their IDs had been found in The Chosen One’s lair, an indecent, deranged shrine in the upper floor that had once been living quarters in the loft of the old barn. Eventually there had been a connection made to the universities as both women had at one time or another been seen by other students on the campus of All Saints. The transient had worked one week as a maid, the runaway had shown up uninvited to a party.
The only person missing was a woman named Marta Vasquez. She’d been Montoya’s girlfriend and she’d vanished. Apparently into thin air.
Bentz worried that she’d been taken by The Chosen One and killed elsewhere, her remains not yet located, but so far, thank God, no one had been able to make that link. Everything Dr. Warren Sutter had ever owned or touched had been gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Including his personal lair, the small farm in the middle of nowhere that Sutter’s family had bought years ago. He’d turned it into his sanctuary, complete with an altar. And a torture chamber.
Olivia shuddered as she thought of it. Not only had the police found a horrific calendar with Polaroid pictures of The Chosen One’s victims in the upper room, but also they discovered a closet of vestments and trophies, including an obscene braid he’d plaited from the hanks of hair he’d scalped from his victims.
Bentz speculated that the killer had found his other killing grounds by snooping around and discovering vacant buildings—even ones in the middle of the city like the shotgun house at Bayou St. John.
But Olivia didn’t want to dwell on the past. Her visions had died with her brother and she was now taking tentative steps in this new relationship with a very wary man. He seemed to have believed her that she and James, though close, had never actually made love, though she was certain, at this point, Bentz wouldn’t have held it against her if she had slept with his brother. For her part, Olivia had forgiven Bentz for pushing her away during the course of the investigation.
It was all water under the bridge.
They were starting over. Or at least trying to. She watched the dance floor and recognized the people that Bentz had pointed out. Everyone from Samantha’s workplace, WSLJ, had attended and had blended into the sprinkling of Ty and Sam’s family, friends and neighbors. One woman had even had the audacity to bring her tiny dog—a pug named Hannibal—though he’d been kept in a kennel at the desk. Samantha’s father had given his daughter away, but, Bentz had explained after talking to the bride, Sam’s brother, Peter, hadn’t shown up, nor had her best friend, Corky Griffith, dealing with her own mother’s recent heart attack, been able to fly to New Orleans.
Nonetheless Sam was radiant; her red hair gleamed under the tiny lights, her dress sparkled and as she danced, she whispered something to her groom. Ty tipped back his head and laughed, then swung Samantha off her feet.
“We should dance,” Olivia suggested.
“I don’t dance.”
“Never?”
“Don’t tell me, another one of your rules.” She rolled her eyes.
“That’s right,” he said, pulling at his tie as he winked at her. “But for you, I’m willing to bend a few.” With that, he took her into his arms and warned her, “Just don’t you dare complain if I step on your toes.”
“Have I so far?” She laughed. “I have a feeling that for as long as I know you, you’ll be stepping on a lot of toes.”
“I guess you’ve figured me out.”
“Oh, Bentz, that’ll take a lifetime. Maybe two. But I’m trying. I think you just may be worth it. May be.”
“Has anyone told you you’re a sick woman?” he asked as he spun her with surprising agility.
“Just you, Bentz,” she said with a smile and winked at him. “Just … you.”