Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 40

Abby pushed the speed limit. She was running late and trying to make up time as she drove into the city.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

Jacques Chastain's personal credo ran through her head as the windshield wipers sc.r.a.ped rain from the windshield of her Honda. She turned on her headlights to cut through the sheets of water and the darkness of the storm.

She had tried to adopt her father's att.i.tude, just as Zoey had, but the truth of the matter was she'd just never been as strong as her father or older sister . . . Again, she was more like her mother, not only in looks but in temperament.

Now, however, as she eased onto the freeway toward New Orleans, she was stupidly listening to the radio and her ex-husband's show. She'd warned herself not to, but tuning into the program was a test for her. How much could she stomach, she wondered and decided she could use a little of her father's toughness just about now.

True to his word, Luke had centered his call-in show on bitter ex-wives, women who, he contended, had never gotten over the despair and anger of their rejection. They were "losers" in the matrimonial game, females who were desperate to marry again but didn't have a s...o...b..ll's chance in h.e.l.l of doing so. Fat women. Ugly women. Type-A b.i.t.c.hes who didn't know their place in the world.

Luke was obviously still p.i.s.sed by their conversation the night of her birthday and was on a roll, really going for the jugular today. He didn't seem to care who he offended. Divorced women bashing was the mode of the day.

Seething, Abby itched to call in, to tell him how wrong he was, but deep down, he knew it. His "viewpoint" was all about gaining listeners, and both he and the radio station didn't care if his audience liked him, hated him, or was merely fascinated with his outrageous opinions.

It made her sick.

Yep, it sure as h.e.l.l was time to get out of New Orleans. Way past time. She just had a little unfinished business in town and then she was outta here.

Her tires sang over the wet pavement. A flock of pelicans flew across the steel-colored clouds as the skyline of New Orleans became visible.

She was only listening to the program today to witness him make an a.s.s of himself over the airwaves. Since he'd warned her in their phone conversation that he was going to rake her over the proverbial coals, she wanted to hear the program herself rather than have some friend phone her with the ugly play-by-play.

For the life of her, she couldn't figure out the appeal of his show, but supposedly his audience was growing by exponential numbers. Luke Gierman was a household name in New Orleans, his radio program soon to be syndicated, if the rumors she'd heard were true. Inwardly she groaned. She could now be humiliated not only at a local level, but nationally as well.

It was a sad commentary on the American public's taste.

You've tuned in, haven't you? She chastised herself. Since the divorce, she had studiously avoided listening to Luke the Liar. In the past year, she'd only heard his rants a few times while surfing through the stations. She chastised herself. Since the divorce, she had studiously avoided listening to Luke the Liar. In the past year, she'd only heard his rants a few times while surfing through the stations.

"Yeah, my ex is a real piece of work," he was saying, the tone of his voice incredulous. "She makes Mata Hari look like the Virgin Mary."

More uproarious laughter.

"You're so funny, Luke," Abby growled, her fingers gripping the wheel until her knuckles showed white. How could she have ever thought she loved the creep?

"She really took me to the cleaners in the divorce and then had the nerve to be bitter about it! What's up with that? I guess ninety-eight percent of the a.s.sets weren't enough."

"She wants your a.s.s, too," his side-kick, Maury, chimed in.

She should sue the son of a b.i.t.c.h for slander, but he'd just make a circus of that as well, somehow get more publicity for himself, paint himself as a victim and, in the process, mortify her.

She glanced down at her purse and considered grabbing her cell phone, calling in and defending herself. She'd always been able to verbally handle him, and she wanted like h.e.l.l to stand up for herself and every other divorced woman or man on the planet who had dealt with a cheating, lying spouse.

The wheels of her Honda slid a little as she took a corner a bit too fast. "Don't let him get to you." She was more angry with herself than anything else and yet Luke's voice, the one that had once whispered endearments, cracked funny jokes, even risen in heated political debates for the downtrodden, was now loud and cra.s.s.

". . . you know," he was saying to the audience, "I think all divorced people go crazy for a while. And women are worse than men. Some of them, like my ex, become sociopaths or else extremely delusional. Paranoid."

Maury the Moron laughed.

"You won't believe what my ex did."

Here it comes. Her gut tightened. "She had the gall to get rid of everything I cared about. Guy stuff. Skis-Rossignols, no less, my golf clubs, a handcrafted surfboard from Hawaii . . . and she gave them all to the Salvation Army." Her gut tightened. "She had the gall to get rid of everything I cared about. Guy stuff. Skis-Rossignols, no less, my golf clubs, a handcrafted surfboard from Hawaii . . . and she gave them all to the Salvation Army."

"No!" Maury breathed into the mike. Abby pictured the short, balding guy throwing a hand over his heart in mock horror.

"Yep. And it worries me, you know?"

Yeah, right. Abby looked in her rearview mirror, saw a cop car, and felt her heart sink. She'd been so into the show, she hadn't known that she was speeding, but one glance at the speedometer told her that she was nearly ten miles over the limit. She slowed just as the cop hit his lights and siren. Abby looked in her rearview mirror, saw a cop car, and felt her heart sink. She'd been so into the show, she hadn't known that she was speeding, but one glance at the speedometer told her that she was nearly ten miles over the limit. She slowed just as the cop hit his lights and siren. Great. Great. Just her luck!. She pulled into the right lane, searching for a place to pull over. The police car, colored lights flashing, siren wailing, screamed past. Just her luck!. She pulled into the right lane, searching for a place to pull over. The police car, colored lights flashing, siren wailing, screamed past.

She lucked out. Let out a long breath.

That's what you get for listening to Luke's stupid program!

She started to switch stations when Luke said, "Don't get me wrong. She's a beautiful woman. s.e.xy as h.e.l.l. And smart. But sometimes I think she's got more than one screw loose."

"She married you, didn't she?" the co-host joked, all in good fun.

"Idiots," Abby muttered as she increased her speed.

Luke laughed. "Well, yeah, there's that, and her mother was certifiable, you know. No kidding."

"You cheap, sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Abby was stunned. This was beyond low.

"Okay, how about this, and you listeners, call in and let me know if your ex has ever done anything this nuts. When I called my ex the other night to wish her happy birthday and tell her I was going to pick up the things I'd left there . . . guess what? That's when she told me she'd given it all away! Including my Rossignol skis . . . now she knew I was planning a ski trip this winter, so how's that for vindictive?"

"Ouch." Maury was in his element, adding a little punch. "Aren't you taking your girlfriend on that trip?"

"Of course."

"Isn't she about twenty years younger than your ex?"

"Fifteen."

"Double-ouch."

Abby's hands clenched on the wheel.

Luke continued, "So the deal was, we had an agreement that she would store some of my things, including the skis, until I got a bigger place since, in the divorce, she ended up with the house, the car, the studio, and just about everything else we ever owned."

"You lying son of a b.i.t.c.h," Abby said through gritted teeth. She'd paid him for his share of the house and studio and she had the t.i.tle to her her car, this little Honda, while he owned a Lexus SUV! Just about everything had been split right down the middle. She gnashed her teeth and fumed. If she had any brains, she'd turn off the radio or find a station with smooth jazz or some calming cla.s.sical music. car, this little Honda, while he owned a Lexus SUV! Just about everything had been split right down the middle. She gnashed her teeth and fumed. If she had any brains, she'd turn off the radio or find a station with smooth jazz or some calming cla.s.sical music.

"So, get this, my ex claims she gave everything she was keeping for me away, including a family heirloom, which just happens to be a handgun. She says she donated it all, lock, stock, and barrel so to speak, to a charity."

"A charity?" More mock horror on the moron's part.

What a crock!

"Like I'm supposed to believe that any charitable organization would take a gun. Of course it was a lie. But how safe does that make me feel? Knowing that my psychotic ex-wife is literally gunning for me with my father's sidearm, the weapon he was issued from the police department."

"You'd better change your address."

"Or start packin' my own heat," Luke said as Maury cackled uproariously.

Abby couldn't stand it another second. She scrounged in her purse, dug out her cell phone, flipped it open, and quickly dialed the station, the direct line to the radio show.

An even-toned female voice answered the call, "WSLJ. Gierman's Groaners Gierman's Groaners."

Abby caught herself just in time. Before she said a word, she snapped the flip phone closed. Don't engage him. Do not let him know that you heard the show. Do Don't engage him. Do not let him know that you heard the show. Do not not listen to that pathetic drivel he calls entertainment or social commentary. Otherwise he wins. listen to that pathetic drivel he calls entertainment or social commentary. Otherwise he wins.

Muttering under her breath, she turned off the radio in disgust, then realized she'd missed her exit off the freeway. She simmered all the way into the city, where she was scheduled for a consultation for a wedding. Having to backtrack made her nearly ten minutes late by the time she pulled into the driveway of a gracious two-hundred-year-old home in the Garden District. Painted a soft green, accented by black shutters, and surrounded by flowerbeds still ablaze with color, the house stood a full three stories amid its tended grounds.

As she was climbing out of her car, her cell phone rang and she looked at the luminous display. Another real estate company. Probably the twentieth who had contacted her since she'd placed her For Sale by Owner For Sale by Owner advertis.e.m.e.nt in the paper and hammered her sign into her yard two nights earlier. advertis.e.m.e.nt in the paper and hammered her sign into her yard two nights earlier.

She let the call go to voice mail, and turned off the phone. Then grabbing her portfolio from the backseat, she ducked her head against the warm rain and headed up the brick walkway to the front door to meet with the bride, groom, and no doubt the bride's mother.

How ironic, she thought, that she'd burned her own pictures while she carefully staged, planned, and snapped pictures of dozens of other newlyweds.

Who said G.o.d didn't have a sense of humor?

Where was he taking her?

Bound, blindfolded, and gagged, Mary LaBelle sent up prayer after prayer to G.o.d.

For help.

For freedom.

For salvation.

Tears rained from her eyes, soaking the cloth wrapped tightly over her head, and lower still onto the gag that had been thrust so violently into her mouth. She felt as if she might retch, her stomach heaved, but somehow she managed to force the urge back. She didn't want to drown in her own vomit.

It was dark. She couldn't see a thing. She sensed she was in a vehicle of some kind, a truck she guessed from the ride and sound of the engine. She hadn't seen it, but he'd managed to push her into a cramped backseat that was covered in plastic. The driver, the guy who had jumped her from behind as she'd been jogging on the trails of the All Saints campus, had appeared out of nowhere, leaping from behind a hedge running from the commons just as the rain had really started to pour. Anxious to return to her dorm, Mary hadn't seen him, had never caught so much as a glimpse of his face, just felt his weight as he'd tackled her from the back, thrown a bag over her head, and subdued her by twisting her arm upward and dropping her to her knees. She'd tried to scream, but he'd held a gun to her temple; she could still feel the cold round impression against her skin. She'd closed her mouth and accepted her fate.

G.o.d would save her.

He always did.

If not, then it was because He was calling her home. Her faith would sustain her . . . and yet as she listened to the tires hum against the pavement and splash through water, she sensed that she was doomed.

Please, Father, not yet. I'm young . . . I have so much to offer. So much of Your holy work to do.

She bit back sobs when she thought of her mother and father. She loved them both so much. She couldn't die tonight. No! She was a fighter and, though small, was athletic. She had been on the tennis team in high school and kept herself in shape. Hence the jogging.

But as the truck drove farther into the night, her hopes died. Where was this lunatic taking her? Why had he singled her out? Or had it been random? Had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? All her parents' warnings, all their suggestions about safety, she'd ignored them because she'd known G.o.d would take care of her. And now . . . now what?

She wasn't naive enough not to understand what he probably wanted, that he intended to rape and kill her. And she couldn't allow that. Wouldn't. Fighting tears and panic, she quietly struggled against the tape that bound her hands behind her back and held her ankles together. If she could only get free, she'd find a way to reach over the top of the front seat and wound him, maybe strangle him with the tape he'd used to subdue her.

But murder is a sin, Mary . . . remember. And if you try to harm him, he might lose control of the car. You, too, could be injured.

So what if they wrecked, she thought wildly. And if she killed a man in self-defense, surely G.o.d would understand. Please, Jesus, please.

Even risking injury and a collision was better than what he had planned.

Mary was certain of it.

But her bonds wouldn't move, not so much as shift a fraction of an inch, no matter how much pressure she put on them, how desperately she struggled.

Panic rose inside her.

She was running out of time. He wouldn't drive forever. She kept at it, straining against the rope and tape while the miles, the d.a.m.ning miles, rolled past beneath the wheels of this big truck. They were driving farther and farther away from Baton Rouge. Farther and farther away from any chance she would be saved.

Fear chilled her to the bone.

Her arms ached, her legs were cramped and useless.

Mama, I love you, and I'd wanted to make you proud by joining the order.

Daddy, forgive me for being stupid and letting this maniac grab me. You warned me to always take my cell and never run after dark. You gave me a weapon and I refused it . . . I'm sorry . . .

She felt the truck slow as he exited off a main road, probably a freeway, and so, he was, no doubt, getting closer to his ultimate destination. New terror surged through her and she frantically tried again to slide one hand from the grip of the duct tape. Her heart was knocking, sweat running down her body, fear sizzling down every nerve ending.

Free yourself, Mary. G.o.d helps those who help themselves!

"It's no use," he said, jolting her. He hadn't said a word since the attack. Not one. His voice was surprisingly calm. Steady. Creating a fear that cut straight to her heart. "You can't get away."

Again she thought she might throw up. Who was this madman? Why had he chosen her? His voice was unfamiliar, she thought, and yet she wasn't certain of anything anymore. She was barely staving off full-blown panic.

"Only a few more minutes."

Dear Father, no. Please stop this. Intervene on my behalf. If you want me with you, please let me come to you some other way, not by the hand of a s.a.d.i.s.t, not so cruelly, not by a madman.

Trembling, she thought of all the martyred saints, how horridly they'd died for their beliefs. She tried to steel herself, to find her faith. If this was a test, or truly G.o.d's will, then so be it. She would die stoically, putting all her faith in the Father.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .

She felt the truck slow, then turn quickly, as if maneuvering off a smooth road. The wheels began to jump and shimmy, as if going over stones or cracked pavement. She strained to hear over the grind of the engine, hoping for the sounds of traffic, for signs that they weren't as isolated and alone as she feared. But the familiar rush of pa.s.sing cars, of shouts, or horns had disappeared, and any hope she had left sank like a stone.

Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .

For what seemed like hours, but was probably less than five minutes, he continued to drive, and finally, at last, he braked hard and the big rig slammed to a stop. She slid forward, then back.