Lisa Jackson - Devious
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- Book:Devious
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- Publisher:Kensington
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- Year:2011
- Rating:3 / 5
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Devious: summary, description and annotation
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The crime scene at St. Marguerites cathedral in New Orleans is shocking, even to seasoned detectives like Rick Bentz and Reuben Montoya. A novice nun named Sister Camille has been found dressed in a yellowed bridal gown and viciously garroted, her body covered with an altar cloth. Valerie Houston is devastated by her sisters death. For weeks, shed begged Camille to leave St. Marguerites, where she seemed determined to live as some kind of martyr. But Camille had a knack for making bad choices she joined the convent in part because shed fallen for Vals soon-to-be ex-husband, Slade. Convinced the police arent doing enough, Val begins to investigate. Slade, on a mission to repair their marriage, is determined to help her. But the deeper Vals inquiries go, the more twisted the case becomes. St. Marguerites is far from the tranquil retreat many believe, and everyone, from handsome Father Frank OToole to the mysterious Mother Superior, has their own agenda. Despite their closeness, even Camille had a hidden life Val never suspected. But someone knew about Camilles past and Vals, too. Now she has no choice but to catch a devious, depraved killer intent on purging St. Marguerites of all its sins before she becomes the next victim
Lisa Jackson: author's other books
Who wrote Devious? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
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Table of Contents
When I write a book, there are many people who help me pull it all together, whether its in editing or research, moral support, or technical advice. I trust many individuals and professionals who know far more than I about certain subjects, but any mistakes in the book are clearly my own.
I would like to thank those people who have helped me with Devious . There are more behind-the-scenes workers, of course, but the following people come to mind, and I cant say how much I appreciate their help and support:
Alex Craft, Ken Bush, Nancy Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Niki Crose, Wayne Kreitz, Carol Maloy, Arla Melum, Ken Melum, Trevor Melum, Roz Noonan, Robin Rue, John Scognamiglio, Larry Sparks, and Celia Stinson. Thank you, and if I forgot someone, my apologies!
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
SHIVER
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
ABSOLUTE FEAR
ALMOST DEAD
LOST SOULS
LEFT TO DIE
WICKED GAME
MALICE
CHOSEN TO DIE
WITHOUT MERCY
DEVIOUS
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
SHIVER
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
ABSOLUTE FEAR
ALMOST DEAD
LOST SOULS
LEFT TO DIE
WICKED GAME
MALICE
CHOSEN TO DIE
WITHOUT MERCY
DEVIOUS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
S ome deaths are worth great risk.
But they are necessary, if revenge is to be served.
It takes time, and patience, of course.
I had to wait for five months, had to be quiet, to tamp down the most basic of my urges while each night I listened to the radio and listened to her give out her pathetic advice.
But I did.
I waited.
I planned.
I checked schedules, shift changes, routines, and how one could get into the prison.
It wasnt as hard as I expected.
For priests still travel to other parishes, and they give counsel to inmates, so with false ID I was able to walk through the doors of the prison where Sister Devota, ne Darlene Arness, is incarcerated.
With the same ID and a confident smile, a little glint in my eye for the woman guard, and my hands folded over my Bible, its an easy matter to gain access to Devota, in her cell, where she wants to make confession.
Of course, its all on camera, but Im not worried. She opens her arms and heart to me, confessing all, even the murder of my beautiful and wicked Camille and the others. Shes not worried, as I am a priest; her confession is safe with me. She doesnt see the rage, the telltale tic beneath my left eye, the way my knuckles turn white as I hold the Bible. She not only murdered my child, but also the woman I loved. And I loved Camille, make no mistake. My love for that witch was insatiable.
But, of course, I try to look calm, to act the part of the understanding priest and hear her confession. Im here to mete out my own special justice, and when she explains about Camille and the baby she was carrying, my child, I feel the need rise.
I remember first spying Camille at St. Elsinores, when I was searching the old ruins for items I could use, and she mistook me for a traveling priest. I saw the glint of interest in her beautiful eyes, the tiniest of smiles, and I felt her desire, one quickly hidden but, over time, elicited. Even when she realized I wasnt a priest.
She never knew my true identity, of course, just thought I was a rogue priest, one who wanted women too much not to have been cast from church to church.
And she didnt ask too many questions, perhaps suspected and didnt want to know the truth. Besides she was too smart, had lived in New Orleans too long not to have speculated on my true identity.
But she didnt check; or at least she never told me she did. Maybe my sordid reputation, if she even considered it, only added fuel to her already unquenchable fire, the heat of her sexual needs.
The nunnery was not for Camille.
But I miss her, wretchedly so, and it is all I can do not to scream at this lump of twisted womanhood who so blatantly killed herusing my own technique, no less!
Insidious bitch.
Its all I can do to hear her confession and to know that after this night, I will have to submerge again, become invisible, tamp down my needs. Though this idiotic copycat has stolen my thunder, I will rise again, but not for a while, not until this night, too, has passed and I have become but a legend.
To everyone but Rick Bentz.
My teeth grit as I think of him, and the pain from his bullet seems to sear my flesh again as the pathetic nun mumbles her confession. Yes, I will become a ghost again, and only reappear when the time is right.
As Devota breathes her last vile words, I bless her, but then, before she looks up to my face again, as her head is bent, I place one hand over her mouth and quickly snap her neck.
I prop her up in the chair, and then, while the cameras are rolling, knowing Rick Bentz will review the footage, I slip out of the prison.
Im not far away when the sirens begin to screech, but its already too late.
I disappear into the thick, welcoming Louisiana night.
As ever, I have made some alterations to the facts, bending the rules a bit for the purposes of story.
Also, at the time of the writing of this book, the horrific accident in the Gulf Coast occured. The oil spill was fouling the incredible waters of that part of the world and threatening the wetlands of Louisiana, probably flowing its way to New Orleans. As I write this, the spill (really an explosion like an unending volcano) is still pouring out of the seabed, and Im sick with worry for not only the Gulf states and countries surrounding the area, but also for the entire world, ecologically, financially, and morally.
New Orleans, and all of Louisiana, is very dear to me. Though Ive never lived in the South, my characters do, and Ive spent many happy hours in the beauty and vibrance of that incredible part of the world.
I did not address the oil spill in this book but will in later Bentz/Montoya novels, when I know more about how this whole catastrophe plays out. My heart goes out to the people who reside and work in the areastrong, courageous people who stood on the soil they loved and fought the devastation and disaster of Hurricane Katrina only to face this new, unthinkable calamity, a tragedy for us all. It takes incredible and brave people to fight the battles of nature and man. I applaud you all.
Lisa Jackson
I ts time. The voice was clear.
Smiling to herself, Camille felt a sublime relief as she finished pushing the last small button through its loop. She stared at herself in the tiny mirror and adjusted her veil.
Youre a vision in white, her father said.
But he wasnt here, was he? He wasnt walking her down the aisle. No, no, of course not. Hed died, years before. At least that was what she thought. But then her father wasnt her father... only by law. Right? She blinked hard. Woozy, she tried to clear her brain, wash away the feeling of disembodiment that assailed her.
Its because its your wedding day; your nerves are playing tricks on your brain.
Your groom awaits. Again, the voice propelled her, and she wondered if someone was actually speaking to her or if she was imagining it.
Silly, of course its real!
She left the small room where shed dressed and walked unsteadily along the shadowed corridor, lit by only a few wavering sconces. Dark, yet the hallway seemed to glisten.
Down a wide staircase with steps polished from thousands of feet scurrying up and down, she headed toward the smaller chapel where she knew he was waiting.
Her heart pounded with excitement.
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