Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 36

CHAPTER 27.

CHAPTER 28.

CHAPTER 29.

EPILOGUE.

PROLOGUE.

THE KILLING GAME.

Montoya had just stepped onto the porch when Abby grabbed his arm impulsively. "Detective."

He paused. Glanced down at the fingers surrounding his forearm, then looked up at her face.

"Look," she said, but didn't let go. "Off the record, despite any amount of money I might inherit from Luke, he was a jerk, okay? I wasn't in love with him any longer and I did want to get away from here, from him." Her fingers tightened a bit. "But I didn't kill him and I'm sorry he's dead." She held his gaze and inched her chin up a fraction. "And your link to the victims, through the hospital, that's pretty d.a.m.ned thin."

"Maybe the link isn't the hospital," he said in a low voice. "Maybe it's you."

"What do you mean?"

He wasn't smiling. "Be careful, Abby. Lock your doors. Set your alarm, if you've got one. If you don't, then call a security company and have one installed."

She felt herself pale.

"You think I'm I'm the link? the link? Me? Me? No." She shook her head. "That's crazy, Detective." No." She shook her head. "That's crazy, Detective."

"Just be aware." He touched her shoulder and then he was gone, climbing behind the wheel of his cruiser and driving off, taillights disappearing at the end of the drive.

Abby shut the door and leaned against it, Montoya's warning echoing through her mind.

She stood there, frozen, for a very long time . . .

Books by Lisa Jackson

See How She Dies Final Scream Wishes 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

Published by Zebra Books

For Jack and Betty Pederson, incredible parents, great friends, and people who believed I could do anything.

Thanks Mom and Dad!

Acknowledgments.

There were many people involved in getting this book to print, all of whom were intregral. I want to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio for his insight, vision, input, support, and ultimate patience. Man, did he work hard on this one. As did my sister, Nancy Bush, who was not only my cheerleader and personal editor, she picked up the other b.a.l.l.s of my life and juggled them effectively, never once losing her cool. Thanks, Nan.

Also, I have to thank my incredible agent, Robin Rue, and everyone at Kensington Books, especially Laurie Parkin, who also worked very hard on this one.

In addition, I would like to mention all the people here who helped me: Ken Bush, Kelly Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Alexis Harrington, Danielle Katcher, Marilyn Katcher, Ken Melum, Roz Noonan, Kathy Okano, Samantha Santistevan, Mike Sidel, and Larry Sparks.

If I've forgotten anyone, my apologies. You've all been wonderful.

Author's Note

For the purposes of the story, I've bent some of the rules of police procedure and have also created my own fict.i.tious police department.

This book was written pre-Hurricane Katrina, before the incredible city of New Orleans and the surrounding Gulf Coast were decimated by the storm. I hope I've captured the unique essence of New Orleans, what it once was and what it will be again.

PROLOGUE.

Twenty years earlier Our Lady of Virtues Hospital Near New Orleans, Louisiana

She felt his breath.

Warm.

Seductive.

Erotically evil.

A presence that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to lift, her skin to p.r.i.c.kle, sweat to collect upon her spine.

Her heart thumped, and barely able to move, standing in the darkness, she searched the shadowed corners of her room frantically. Through the open window she heard the reverberating songs of the frogs in the nearby swamps and the rumble of a train upon faraway tracks.

But here, now, he was with her.

Go away, she tried to say, but held her tongue, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't notice her standing near the window. On the other side of the panes, security lamps illuminated the grounds with pale, bluish light, and she realized belatedly that her body, shrouded only by a sheer nightgown, was silhouetted in their eerie glow. she tried to say, but held her tongue, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't notice her standing near the window. On the other side of the panes, security lamps illuminated the grounds with pale, bluish light, and she realized belatedly that her body, shrouded only by a sheer nightgown, was silhouetted in their eerie glow.

Of course he could see her, find her in the darkness.

He always did.

Throat dry, she stepped backward, placing a hand on the window casing to steady herself. Maybe she had just imagined his presence. Maybe she hadn't heard the door open after all. Maybe she'd jumped up from a drug-induced sleep too quickly. After all, it wasn't late, only eight in the evening.

Maybe she was safe in this room, her her room, on the third floor. room, on the third floor.

Maybe.

She was reaching for the bedside light when she heard the soft sc.r.a.pe of leather against hardwood.

Her throat closed on a silent scream.

Having adjusted to the half-light, her eyes took in the bed with its mussed sheets, evidence of her fitful rest. Upon the dressing table was the lamp and a bifold picture frame; one that held small portraits of her two daughters. Across the small room was a fireplace. She could see its decorative tile and cold grate and, above the mantle, a bare spot, faded now where a mirror had once hung.

So where was he? She glanced to the tall windows. Beyond, the October night was hot and sultry. In the panes she could see her wan reflection: pet.i.te, small-boned frame; sad gold eyes; high cheekbones; l.u.s.trous auburn hair pulled away from her face. And behind her . . . was that a shadow creeping near?

Or her imagination?

That was the trouble. Sometimes he hid.

But he was always nearby. Always. She could feel feel him, hear his soft, determined footsteps in the hallway, smell his scent-a mixture of male musk and sweat-catch a glimpse of a quick, darting shadow as he pa.s.sed. him, hear his soft, determined footsteps in the hallway, smell his scent-a mixture of male musk and sweat-catch a glimpse of a quick, darting shadow as he pa.s.sed.

There was no getting away from him. Ever. Not even in the dead of night. He received great satisfaction in surprising her, sneaking up on her while she was sitting at her desk, leaning down behind her when she was kneeling at her bedside. He was always ready to press his face to the back of her neck, to reach around her and touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, arousing her though she loathed him, pulling her tightly against him so that she could feel his erection against her back. She wasn't safe when she was under the thin spray of the shower, nor while sleeping beneath the covers of her small bed.

How ironic that they had placed her here . . . for her own safety.

"Go away," she whispered, her head pounding, her thoughts disjointed. "Leave me alone!"

She blinked and tried to focus.

Where was he?

Nervously she trained her eyes on the one hiding place, the closet. She licked her lips. The wooden door was ajar, just slightly, enough that anyone inside could peer through the crack.

From the small sliver of darkness within the closet, something seemed to glimmer. A reflection. Eyes?

Oh, G.o.d.

Maybe he was inside. Waiting.

Gooseflesh broke out on her skin. She should call out to someone, but if she did, she would be restrained, medicated . . . or worse. Stop it, Faith. Don't get paranoid! Stop it, Faith. Don't get paranoid! But the glittering eyes in the closet watched her. She felt them. Wrapping one arm around her middle, the other folded over it, she sc.r.a.ped her nails on the skin of her elbow. But the glittering eyes in the closet watched her. She felt them. Wrapping one arm around her middle, the other folded over it, she sc.r.a.ped her nails on the skin of her elbow.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

But maybe this was all a bad dream. A nightmare. Wasn't that what the sisters had a.s.sured her in their soft whispers as they gently patted her hands and stared at her with compa.s.sionate, disbelieving eyes? An ugly dream. Yes! A nightmare of vast, intense proportions. Even the nurse had agreed with the nuns, telling her that what she'd thought she'd seen wasn't real. And the doctor, cold, clinical, with the bedside manner of a stone monkey, had talked to her as if she were a small, stupid child.

"There, there, Faith, no one is following you," he'd said, wearing a thin, patronizing smile. "No one is watching you. You know that. You're . . . you're just confused. You're safe here. Remember, this is your home now."

Tears burned her eyes and she scratched more anxiously, her short fingernails running over the smooth skin of her forearm, encountering scabs. Home? This monstrous place? She closed her eyes, grabbed the headboard of the bed to steady herself.

Was she really as sick as they said? Did she really see people who weren't there? That's what they'd told her, time and time again, to the point that she was no longer certain what was real and what was not. Maybe that was the plot against her, to make her believe she was as crazy as they insisted she was.

She heard a footstep and looked up quickly.

The hairs on the backs of her arms rose.