Devious - Lisa Jackson [65]
Montoya’s heart swelled with an emotion he’d never thought he would feel.
“Hey!” Bentz popped his head into the office. “I’m going to have another talk with Father Father. Thought you might want to come.”
“Now?” He glanced at the clock on his desk.
“He’s a busy man.”
“Aren’t we all. Is that what you’re calling O’Toole? Father Father?”
“Yeah, premature, I guess. We don’t really know yet.”
Montoya rolled his chair away from his desk and reached for his jacket. “Guess we’ll find out soon.” The blood work was being processed. No DNA results back yet, but the blood sample Frank O’Toole had reluctantly deigned to give would soon reveal whether he was a potential candidate.
And if he wasn’t, Montoya thought, checking his sidearm and sliding it into his shoulder holster, they were back to square one.
In the darkness, with candles burning, a solitary window open to allow in a breath of night, I hang my robes on a peg. I take my time, heat the oil, then slowly rub the silky liquid upon my nakedness, anointing my body, feeling my hands run over my own muscles. Solid and sinewy beneath my skin, the muscles work smoothly as I massage them.
Shoulders and abdomen, rigid and strong.
Hips and thighs, muscular and glistening in the candlelight. Buttocks round, flexed.
I see my reflection in the narrow mirror.
Tall.
Handsome.
Nearly perfect.
But there are flaws.
One in my shoulder where a bullet had lodged, buried in the tissue until I had the strength to extract it. There is still a depression, a dimple marring the skin, but it is small, barely visible now. No real damage had been done.
The other imperfection was more severe.
My right leg.
Beneath the kneecap, where calf muscles should bulge, there is a tangle of flesh and scarred skin. I smooth oil over the battered flesh, reminding myself that this is my battle scar, a war wound for a greater cause.
The reason I suspended my mission.
I spent years rehabilitating my leg, determined that I would walk flawlessly, run smoothly, hide my imperfectness from the world.
Until the time is right.
I run my fingers along the jagged scar, kneading the tortured flesh below my knee, oiling the old wound.
I have waited.
Been patient.
But now I know I am being rewarded.
God is calling.
The waiting is over.
I kneel, facing the mirror.
Taking a deep breath, I think of the women.
All of the women with their flirty smiles, come-hither glances, glistening lips, and dirty talk. Seductresses and whores, sirens and harlots, all thinking they would be the one special enough that I would break my vows....
If only they knew.
Would they tingle with excitement?
Pursue their need to baptize themselves in murky waters?
Of course they would.
Smiling in the darkness, remembering their sins, carnal and warm, flesh pulsing, the scent of want mingling with perfume and sweat simmering in the air.
I feel a tightening in my groin.
Warmth slips into my blood.
My maleness rises, beginning to throb.
I think of all those glorious rounded mouths, surprise and desire flickering in their long-dead eyes.
And then I pray.
CHAPTER 22
Father Frank was conveniently MIA.
And Bentz was burned. Montoya saw it in the set of his jaw as the older detective stared through the gate at Sister Charity.
Then again, the reverend mother, who had answered the buzzer herself, wasn’t pleased. Not at all.
“Father Frank is at the hospital,” she said, her lips tight, her eyes, magnified by her glasses, filled with quiet scorn as she stared through the wrought-iron bars. “You should have made an appointment.”
“I did,” Bentz insisted.
Her gray eyebrows knitted. “He was called away to the hospital.” She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her habit, as if waiting for them to leave.
Bentz stood his ground.
“Since we’re here, we might as well talk with the other people on our list.”
“But it’s late, at least for us here at the convent, and you can’t speak to Father O’Toole. So why don’t you come back tomorrow,