Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 87

His grin was twisted.

Evil.

Leering.

She nearly fainted in fear as he stepped into the tiny cell.

"I thought you'd finally wake up," he said, his voice as smooth as oiled gla.s.s. "Good. I want you to know what's going on."

That sounded bad. She braced herself for another shot with the stun gun, but he walked into the room, hauled her roughly to her feet, then before she could react, threw her over his shoulder and held her by her bound ankles. Again she heard that hiss of pain as he straightened and she knew instinctively that he had a vulnerable spot somewhere. She just had to find it. To use it. To wound this psycho and somehow bring him to his knees.

As he carried her, his gait uneven, as if walking caused him pain, she squirmed, fighting and struggling, but her efforts were useless. He handled her easily, packing her in a firefighter's carry through dark, smelly corridors, past rooms where lanterns glowed. Her head was dangling behind his back, her hair falling over her face, but through the tangled strands she caught glimpses inside the rooms, quick looks at instruments of torture-electrical prods, surgical scalpels, straight jackets, hypodermic needles.

This place was a d.a.m.ned house of torture.

So she'd guessed right. The pervert had brought Zoey deep in the bowels of the sanitarium where Faith Chastain had been abused and molested, the asylum where she had died so horribly.

Now, Zoey feared, it was her turn.

Montoya slammed on the brakes in the parking lot of the convent.

Right next to Abby's little Honda.

"h.e.l.l." He'd instigated a Be-On-The-Lookout-For on the vehicle, but no one, as yet, had checked the private lot of the convent. He hadn't called for backup and had ignored his cell whenever he'd seen Bentz's number appear on the screen. He didn't need a lecture. Or a command that he would have to ignore.

He wanted to confide in his partner, but couldn't drag him into this. Not until he was certain. Bentz would have to wait.

But Abby's car was a big clue.

A major clue.

He cut the engine and he slid from behind the wheel, then doubled-up on his weapons by strapping a second small pistol to his ankle. He had a can of pepper spray with him and found a flashlight in the glove box. Once armed he started jogging for the gate.

His cell phone blasted and he checked the screen for the caller's number. Zaroster.

Dread grabbed hold of his heart. What if it were news about Abby? What if he was too late? He clicked on as he ducked behind the dripping hedge of arborvitae. "Montoya."

Zaroster's voice was hard. "h.e.l.ler's place is empty and there are signs of a struggle."

"s.h.i.t!"

"My sentiments exactly."

"What about his car?"

"Missing. A white Lexus SUV. From the looks of this house and his car and everything, I guess life is good for the doctor. Or was. Bentz was here and we think h.e.l.ler might be another victim. Why else the struggle in his own house? Looks like he was attacked in his den. We found blood and a pair of gla.s.ses smashed and broken, an identical pair to the ones in a picture of h.e.l.ler that was on the mantel."

Montoya didn't like it. He'd thought h.e.l.ler was the killer. If not h.e.l.ler then who?

"Bentz is on his way," Zaroster continued as he eased through the gate. "With backup. And he's on the warpath. He told me if I got hold of you, you weren't to go inside the hospital."

"Too late. I'm already here. Abby Chastain's car is parked at the convent and my guess is she isn't planning on joining the order. I've tried calling her and she's not answering her cell phone. Did anyone get to her house? Check on her?"

"Not that I know of. Not yet."

"d.a.m.n." He knew the truth. Her car was here. She here. She was here. He only prayed she was alone and not with the deadly psychopath who had already killed so many. Six victims that they knew of. Potentially eight more. Abby Chastain . . . What sin or virtue could she and her name possibly represent? was here. He only prayed she was alone and not with the deadly psychopath who had already killed so many. Six victims that they knew of. Potentially eight more. Abby Chastain . . . What sin or virtue could she and her name possibly represent?

A for Abby. A for . . . Avarice?

Nope. Already used with Asa Pomeroy.

Chastain. C. Chast.i.ty?

Again, if his theory was right, Chast.i.ty was represented by Courtney LaBelle, the virgin . . . wrong again.

C for Charity? The virtue opposing the sin of Envy? The virtue opposing the sin of Envy?

His heart skidded to a stop. That was it! But what about h.e.l.ler? Simon T. h.e.l.ler, another victim . . . S . . . for . . . sloth. But that didn't fit. The contrary virtue for sloth was humility.

Zaroster was still on the phone, trying to rationalize why he should wait for another cop to come along. ". . . local Sheriff's Department can send a deputy in a few minutes, I'd guess."

Montoya had heard enough. "Send them. Fast. But I'm not waiting. If Bentz doesn't like it, that's just too d.a.m.ned bad!"

"Bentz was clear about-"

"Bentz can cram it. I know what he said. You warned me. Your a.s.s is out of the sling."

"It's not that, Montoya."

He didn't wait for her explanation. Didn't care. "I'll call as soon as I know what's up." He hung up, pocketed his cell phone, turned the ring-tone to vibrate, then followed the wet path. He ran, feet sinking into the soft loam, the smell of the earth heavy in his nostrils. Fear urged him onward. Dread caused every muscle in his body to tighten. He thought of Abby and what he might find.

Was the killer with her?

Was he already too late?

Or was this all a false alarm?

C for Charity . . . C for Chastain.

No!

What was her middle name? He'd heard it or seen it. Abigail Hannah Chastain Gierman. Hannah! H Hannah! H for for Humility! Humility! s.h.i.t! s.h.i.t!

For once he hoped to G.o.d that his instincts were wrong as he jogged softly through thick brush and ever-increasing rain. It poured from the sky, drizzled down the tree trunks, plopped in fat drops from the branches.

He wondered if he'd ever see her alive again, then refused to think of the alternative.

You can't lose her!

Kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d if you have to!

Kill him even if you don't.

He pa.s.sed through a copse of sourwood, then spied, through the branches, the imposing, sinister-looking building of crumbling mortar and cracked bricks.

What atrocities had it housed?

What malignancies had resided in the dark hallways?

What heinous crimes had been committed in the interests of making raging patients docile, of keeping those who suffered from misunderstood diseases under control, or, in h.e.l.ler's case, of making patients weaker and more malleable so they would submit to his lecherous needs?

With rain running down his collar and dripping from his nose, Montoya checked the doors.

Locked.

He tested the windows. Latched. Or boarded over.

And yet, he sensed someone was inside.

d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l!

Time was running short. He could feel it pa.s.sing and with it Abby's chances of survival. He had to find her. Had Had to. He searched the building again. to. He searched the building again.

He didn't dare break a window.

Needed the element of surprise on his side.

Once more he jogged around the perimeter of the huge edifice, pa.s.sed by the fountain where rainwater was collecting in the dirty basin, ignored the graffiti still visible through the plywood panels and eased to the back of the building, near what appeared to be the kitchen.

The door was locked, but close by, adjacent to a cracked cement porch was a partially opened window.

And footprints.

Small footprints.

His heart nosedived.

Abby!

Without a second's hesitation, he levered himself over the sill and landed softly inside.

He prayed she was alone, but didn't call out, didn't let anyone know he was near.

Just in case.

CHAPTER 29.

Abby could barely breathe. Trapped in the closet, her mouth taped shut, her ankles bound and her wrists pulled roughly behind her, she was forced to stare through the crack in the closet door just as Pomeroy had all those years before.

Why?

And why hadn't she remembered him?

Because you blacked it all out . . . you didn't remember h.e.l.ler and you didn't remember Christian Pomeroy . . . get over it and figure out how to save yourself!

Night had settled into the room and Pomeroy before leaving had rigged up black blankets that he'd drawn over the window so that no light could seep inside or out. A small lantern had been left in the fireplace, burning quietly, giving off little light, just enough luminescence to bathe the room in a eerie, flickering glow.

She wasn't alone. Pomeroy had stretched Simon h.e.l.ler upon the bed and chained him there, spread eagle upon his back.

Abby shifted. Pain exploded in her shoulders. She couldn't move much. He'd tied her to a hook in the back of the closet and it was rigged in such a manner that the more she struggled, the tighter her arms were wrenched behind her.

She thought of her pepper spray, useless in her backpack, or the crowbar that now rested against the wall. Out of reach. d.a.m.n!

Don't give up. Think, Abby. Find a way out of this. He's not here. Now's your chance!

The closet was small with only one hook that held her bound and little else as far as she could tell. She'd felt the interior as best she could with her bound hands. There had been no other hooks, no nails protruding, but there was a board that ran around the inside of the closet, as if it had once been the base for a shelf. And it had a sharp edge. If she stood on her tip toes and rubbed her wrists back and forth along the ridge, she might be able to cut through the tape. Maybe.

It was a longshot, but all she had.

Ignoring the burn of her shoulders and the fact that her calves quivered as she stood on her toes, she worked. Fast. Hard. Rubbing. Feeling the heat of friction.

Keep at it, Abby.

Rain pounded against the windows while the wind, picking up speed, screeched through the rafters. She rubbed harder. Faster. Her calves were on fire, her shoulders screaming in agony.

Don't stop!

Sweating, breathing hard behind her hated mask, she worked. Slid the tape back and forth chafing her wrists.

Then over her own racing heart and the rush of the wind she heard the sound of heavy tread upon the stairs, footsteps climbing to the third floor.

No!

Her heart, already beating out of control, kicked into overdrive.

Rub, rub, rub!