Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 82

Hershey, spying her loading the car, whined and stood at the door, ready for a "ride." Abby hesitated. Should she take the dog? "Later," she said, patting Hershey's head. "Promise . . . or maybe 'Aunt Zoey' could take you for a walk."

"I'm not the dog's 'aunt,' okay? When you have kids, then sure, I'll be Auntie Zoe, but not for the dog."

"Whatever. I'll see you later. Build a fire, and have another gla.s.s of wine," Abby suggested. "If I don't show up in three hours, send the cavalry."

"I'll call Montoya."

"Even better," she said, thinking about calling him herself. But if she told him what she was doing, he would have a fit. Like Zoey, he wouldn't understand. Only he would be much more adamant that she stay home. Besides, he was busy-a detective trying to solve several murder cases, for crying out loud. His own aunt was missing.

Abby climbed into the Honda and backed out of the garage. What was the old saying?

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

For her, it was the other way around. Today was the last day of her previous thirty-five years. Today was the last day of her previous thirty-five years.

Tomorrow would be the first day of her new life.

" . . . that's right. Double-check Lawrence DuLoc's alibis and find out what you can on a Simon Thaddeus h.e.l.ler. I've got his social," Montoya said, rattling off Simon h.e.l.ler's social security number while driving one-handed and bringing Zaroster up to speed. "He was involved with Faith Chastain when she was a patient at Our Lady of Virtues. Let go, because of it. Then moved west, supposedly. Check with the FBI, they might have faster access to his records."

"Will do," she said before hanging up.

He cracked open the window and stared through his bug-spattered windshield. Had h.e.l.ler returned? Was he wreaking his own personal h.e.l.l on victims who had been close to Faith Chastain? . . . If so, how were Asa Pomeroy and Luke Gierman involved . . . or was it just a loose connection in their cases? Asa had a son who had been in the hospital, and Luke Gierman had married Faith Chastain's daughter, who'd just happened to be in the room when Faith died. Mary LaBelle was the daughter of people who had worked at the hospital. Gina Jefferson had been a social worker there.

When h.e.l.ler had practiced at Our Lady of Virtues.

When DuLoc had been a patient.

He was closing in on the truth, he knew it, but it was still tantalizingly just out of reach.

He was nearly to the city when the phone blasted. He picked it up while negotiating a final turn before the country road became a highway. "Montoya."

"Zaroster."

"That was quick."

"It's not about h.e.l.ler or DuLoc. I don't have an answer on either of them yet." She hesitated as Montoya watched the lanes separate into a split highway. "Look, I know you're off the case, but I thought you should know. Asa Pomeroy's car has been located, parked in the swamp south of the city."

Montoya braced himself; he knew what was coming.

"The car was spotted by a guy giving helicopter rides to tourists over that section of swamp land. He saw the car, knew it was out of place, then remembered the police reports and called it in. The first officers to arrive were from the local Sheriff's Department. Two dead bodies on the scene. Male and female, tentatively identified as Billy Ray Furlough and Sister Maria Montoya."

"d.a.m.n it," he growled, his stomach wrenching. Though he'd expected the news, it was still a blow, a kick in the gut.

"I'm sorry."

"That G.o.dd.a.m.ned b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Rage tore through him. Tears burned the back of his eyes. Memories of his aunt, pictures frozen in time, slid behind his eyes. He recalled her as a young woman, full of hope and happiness, working with children, laughing at her nieces' and nephews' antics. There had been an underlying sadness to her, he'd thought, but she still had enjoyed her cloistered life.

"We'll get him," Zaroster was saying.

Montoya had no doubt. He would spend the rest of his life tracking down this psycho if he had to. Nothing would stop him. The monster would go down.

"Give me that address." He floored his car, turned on the lights, and drove as if Lucifer himself were breathing down his neck.

A flat?

Her tire was flat now? now?

"Great," Abby said, staring at the front pa.s.senger wheel of her little Honda. She glanced to the heavens and saw that it would soon be dusk. Great. Nothing to do but change the tire. Hopefully she'd get to the hospital and still have some daylight to work with. She could either change the tire herself-which would take a minimum of half an hour and G.o.d knew if the spare was any good-or she could call roadside a.s.sistance. That would probably take longer. Or she could take off cross-country. Though she was five miles from the hospital by road, she was probably less than a mile if she walked a straight line across farmers' fields and ignored the NO TRESPa.s.sING signs. But then she'd have to stow her gear in her backpack, which wouldn't hold all the tools she wanted to take.

"Looks like Door Number One," she told herself as she found the jack and the instruction pamphlet about how to use it.

Maybe you should call the tow company and go back home-take this as one of Zoey's signs that you're not supposed to break into the hospital.

"Nope," she said aloud. Turning back now was not not an option. She had to know the truth and she d.a.m.ned well had to know it tonight. an option. She had to know the truth and she d.a.m.ned well had to know it tonight.

She should have gone with Abby.

Working on her third gla.s.s of wine and watching a sci-fi flick that she'd seen several times already, Zoey realized she'd made a big mistake. What had she been thinking, letting Abby return to that G.o.d-awful sanitarium by herself? She should have insisted that she ride along.

But she hadn't wanted to. The place was just creepy. She'd never liked it. Never wanted to go back there.

The dog, lying by the fireplace, raised her head and let out a soft little "woof."

Zoey looked up expectantly. Her heart lifted. Maybe Abby had thought better of her plan and had returned.

Hershey was on her feet. A low growl emanated from her throat.

No . . . not Abby. Something else. Zoey felt a shiver chase down her spine. "What is it?" she asked, turning down the television's volume. The dog, hackles raised, walked from window to window, looking outside. "Cut it out," Zoey commanded. What had Abby said, that Hershey was edgy . . . or was that the cat? Both of the animals seemed a little neurotic to her. "You're fine," she muttered and drained her gla.s.s of Riesling. "Give me a break." She pushed the volume b.u.t.ton upward, flipped through the channels, and found an all-news station that was reporting on the serial killer terrorizing the citizens of New Orleans.

Who the h.e.l.l was that guy and what was his deal? She thought of Abby and felt a jab of guilt. No one, especially a woman, should be out alone, especially after dark. She glanced to the windows and frowned. It was still daylight, but the sun was sinking fast.

"c.r.a.p," she muttered as the news switched to trouble in the Middle East.

The dog was still whining and growling.

"Fine. Go outside! Knock yourself out." Zoey pushed herself to her feet and felt a little tipsy, not drunk by any means, but she definitely had a serious buzz going. Driving was out. So was another gla.s.s of wine. The truth of the matter was that she was still tired, and the wine had only exacerbated the jet lag that had been with her ever since her red-eye flight.

By now the d.a.m.ned dog was going ape-s.h.i.t at the back door. "Enough already," Zoey muttered. "Believe me, no squirrel is worth it." She unlocked the door, opened it, and the dog, barking and growling, bounded outside. Ansel, hiding on one of the bar stools near the counter, hissed in agitation, nearly giving Zoey a heart attack. She hadn't seen the cat. "Jesus. Give it a rest." Her heart was beating like a drum and from the hallway area she heard a clunk.

She was instantly wary. Was it the TV? She didn't think so.

The noise hadn't seemed to come from the living room.

Ansel hissed again and shot toward the dining area.

It's a d.a.m.ned zoo in here, she thought, unnerved. She listened hard, every nerve ending instantly stretched tight. But she heard nothing but the dog's angry barks and noise from the television. she thought, unnerved. She listened hard, every nerve ending instantly stretched tight. But she heard nothing but the dog's angry barks and noise from the television.

She inhaled a calming breath.

The animals' neuroses were infecting her and she wished she could just climb into her car and take off after Abby.

She touched her numb nose. Nope, she didn't dare drive. Instead she'd call Abby, see that she was okay. Insist that she phone Montoya; that would work. She thought of the detective with his black hair, dark eyes, and bad-boy smile. He was way too s.e.xy for his own good. Or Abby's. Maybe Zoey should phone him and tell him what her sister was up to. Surely Abby had to have his number somewhere around here . . .

Don't do it.

Don't call him.

Remember what happened with Luke?

You nearly lost your sister over him. Don't get involved.

The dog was still barking its fool head off. Zoey peered out the window cut into the door and saw Hershey barking and pacing around the edge of the house, near the laundry room. Whatever creature the Lab was stalking had probably darted under the house.

Great. What if it was a skunk?

She walked to the living room and found her purse. Scrounging through her bag, she glanced at the television. The Pope was on the screen, standing on some balcony and waving to a crowd of people filling a city square and spilling into the side streets.

She found her phone.

Creak!

What the h.e.l.l was that? A door opening?

Zoey speed-dialed Abby's cell. She would not freak out. Would not! Would not!

She heard the connection and a second later a musical ring tone within the house. Had Abby forgotten her phone? Oh, no . . . Still holding the cell to her ear, she walked into the hallway. The music was coming from the laundry room.

"Oh, Abby," she muttered as she walked through the open door and spied the ringing cell on the sill of the open window . . .

Open?

Just outside that same window Hershey was growling and barking and . . . oh, G.o.d.

Every hair on the back of Zoey's neck rose. She clicked off her phone and turned.

Fear shot through her.

She nearly fainted.

A big man dressed in black filled the doorway!

She started to scream and saw the weird gun.

This is it! He's going to kill you.

Reacting on sheer instinct, she flung herself over the top of the washer and through the open window. She fell to the mud outside. Quickly, not daring to look back, she scrambled to her feet and began to run.

Where? Oh, G.o.d, where could she go? The rental car! She'd left the keys under the seat. She was sprinting by now, heading to the front of the house, realizing she still held her cell phone.

With trembling fingers, she disconnected the call and hit the middle b.u.t.ton for 9-1-1. She heard a door open behind her.

Run, run, run!

She rounded a corner, the dog racing beside her.

The rental was parked to the side of the driveway. She heard the phone ringing on the other end.

Answer! she thought wildly, her bare feet sliding on the gravel. Oh, G.o.d, where was he? She glanced over her shoulder and saw him, not ten yards away. she thought wildly, her bare feet sliding on the gravel. Oh, G.o.d, where was he? She glanced over her shoulder and saw him, not ten yards away.

Panic pounded through her.

"Nine-one-one Dispatch. What is the nature of-"

"He's here! The killer's here! In Cambrai. I'm at Abby Chastain's-"

She was at the car, saw the weapon rise again.

"Hurry!" Her fingers pulled on the handle of the car door.

And then he fired.

Montoya parked his car at the end of the lane where a police barricade was already being manned by two deputies he didn't recognize. He flashed his badge, wending his way through the other parked cars, avoiding the first news crew to arrive as he headed along the side of a narrow dirt and gravel road. This area of swampland was so deep in the forest that it was already as gloomy and dark as midnight, though there was still an hour before sunset.

The crime scene was orderly chaos. Officers were stringing tape around the perimeter and setting up lights; others were collecting evidence or taking pictures of the grounds surrounding an abandoned, single-wide trailer. A rusted-out car of indecipherable lineage lay in ruins beside the gleaming finish of Asa Pomeroy's Jaguar.

He knew he'd get some flack about being here, but he walked into the area as if he belonged. If someone challenged him, he'd deal with it. All he wanted was a look. Nothing more.

It wasn't that he didn't believe his aunt was a victim; he just had to see for himself what the psycho had done.

Near the Jag, Brinkman was talking with a couple of sheriff's deputies while Bentz and another guy from the Sheriff's Department were examining a path leading to a rickety dock. It looked as if the FBI hadn't arrived yet, but that was just a matter of minutes.

Right now, everyone was distracted.

It was now or never.