Shiver

by Lisa Jackson

  “Come on, let’s go back to bed and see if we can get a few more hours of sleep.” The clock on the mantel showed that it was after five. Abby groaned. Sleep now would be nearly impossible and she had a nine o’clock consultation at the office, so she’d have to be up by seven-thirty at the latest. She headed off to bed again but Hershey, following after her, stopped short at the French doors.

  “You need to go out?”

  The dog just stared and slowly the hackles on the back of her neck rose. She growled low in her throat.

  “Oh, don’t do this,” she whispered, Montoya’s warnings running through her brain. Had she locked the door behind her when she’d returned to the kitchen?

  Abby turned off the lights so that the house was in darkness. She, too, peered through the window, but all she saw was the dark, dark night.

  “It’s just a raccoon,” she said and the dog growled again. Low. Rumbling. A warning.

  “Come on, Hersh, you’re freaking me out.” She thought of the gun in the bedside table and wondered if she would ever have the nerve to use it, to blow some intruder away.

  Without snapping on a single light, she returned to the door leading to the studio and found it locked. She was safe. Right? She stared through the glass panels toward her studio and saw a shadow slip beneath the pooling light from the security lamp near the smaller building.

  Her heart nearly stopped.

  She froze, half expecting a man’s face to appear in the window on the door, the barest of inches from hers, only a thin pane of glass separating them.

  But nothing happened. No face appeared. No dark figure scuttled through her line of vision. The shadow she’d seen didn’t return.

  Get a grip, Abby.

  No one’s out there.

  No one at all.

  The dog growled again and she felt a fear dark as the night.

  And with it came a sense of foreboding.

  A knowledge that whatever had begun with Luke’s death was far from over.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Pedro!” Sister Maria called, smiling and waving upon sight of her nephew.

  Montoya was already feeling out of place in the foyer of the convent; hearing his confirmation name only made him more so. “Tia Maria.”

  “What a surprise!” She slipped her arm through his and hugged him. She’d aged since he’d last seen her, and her once vibrant skin was now lined, her lips thin, her hands spotted, but she still had a strength to her, a vitality that snapped in her dark eyes. “Come on, come on, let’s sit in the garden and you can tell me what it is that brings you here. Though I’d love to think that you were just missing your old aunt, I have the feeling that there’s something more to your visit.” She patted his arm as she teased him, just as she had for as long as he could remember.

  She led him through the long hallway, past mullioned and tracery windows that allowed the gloomy day to seep inside. At the bottom of a carved wooden staircase she pushed open a door to a courtyard where flowers in large cement pots had begun to fade. A center fountain sprayed water upward only to cascade down on an angel holding two vessels from which streams of water poured into a large square pool. Water lilies floated on the surface and goldfish swam in the shimmering depths.

  Maria sat next to him on a stone bench under the protection of the cloister roof. In her profile he caught a glimpse of the girl she’d once been, a frightened teenager who, he’d overheard from gossiping family members, had found herself pregnant before she was twenty. Whoever had been her lover had remained her secret, guarded for nearly forty years, and what had happened to the baby, Montoya had never learned through the whispers of his mother and her sisters. Maria had never married. Instead she had joined this order of nuns where she’d sought refuge, solace, and, he supposed, forgiveness.

  As clouds collected in the sky and the wind buffeted the Spanish moss draping from tall oaks rising on the outside of the cloister walls, they shared small talk about the family for a few minutes, catching up on relatives and sharing a laugh about the time when Sister Maria had caught him with his first girlfriend.

  “But you’re all grown up now,” she said, angling her head to stare at him, the hem of her whimple falling over her shoulder. “And have you finally forgiven yourself for what happened to your…friend?”

  “I’m not here about Marta,” he said quietly as a cloud passed over the sun.

  “No? Why did you come here, Pedro? Is it something to do with the hospital being torn down?”

  “Maria, my name’s Reuben, or sometimes I go by my middle name, Diego. No one calls me Pedro.”

  “Just me,” she said with a smile. “And I’m not going to change. It’s a good name, you know. Pedro—Peter—is my favorite of all the saints.” She grinned. “You know what they say about old dogs.”

  “I think you could learn new tricks if you wanted to.”

  She laughed. “Okay, maybe. Just, please, don’t ask me to dance.”

  “It’s a deal.” He relaxed a little. He’d always loved being around her.

  She touched his knee. “So what is it? What do you want to know?”

  “I’m not here specifically about the hospital’s demolition,” he said, “but I do have some questions about it. You worked over there, didn’t you?” He hitched his chin in the general direction of the sanitarium. “Around twenty years ago?”

  Plucking at her sleeve, she nodded and watched the birds, a flycatcher and titmouse fluttering near the fountain. “I had an office there, yes. Shared it with a social worker.”

  “Virginia Simmons?”

  His aunt turned to face him. “She was one of them. Ended up quitting and marrying one of the doctors. Dr. Heller, I think it was.” She frowned at the mention of Heller, as if the very thought of him was distasteful. “No…I’ve got that wrong. It was Dr. LaBelle.” Her face registered her surprise as she put two and two together. “Oh, my stars. She’s the mother of Courtney Mary LaBelle, the girl who was killed the other night!”

  “That’s right.”

  Sadness touched Maria’s eyes. “I heard that she’d been murdered,” she said softly, resting her hands over the black folds of her skirt. “Such a shame. So that’s why you’re here. You’re investigating her murder. I think you should probably talk to Mother Superior. She knows more about Mary becoming a novitiate. I didn’t realize…how silly of me…I’d heard her name, met her, but it never registered that she was Virginia’s daughter.” She smiled sadly and said, “Sometimes…well, sometimes I forget.”

  This wasn’t a surprise. He’d heard from his own mother that she was worried about her sister’s “confusion” or her “forgetfulness” and there was a question, though no one said it aloud, of Alzheimer’s disease or some other form of dementia.

  Clearing her throat, Maria fingered the cross hanging from her neck and looked up when a gate on the far side of the cloister opened and a tall man with broad shoulders walked inside. He pushed a wheelbarrow while balancing a rake and broom across the empty pan.

  “Who’s he?” Montoya asked, eyeing the man who wore dark glasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Around his neck was a headset for listening to music. A long, looping wire attached it to his pocket, where a small CD player or iPod lay hidden.

  “The groundskeeper. Lawrence.” She patted her nephew’s hand as Lawrence, plugged into his music, began sweeping leaves from the courtyard. “Don’t tell me you’re suspicious of him?”

  “I was just surprised to see a man here.”

  She chuckled. “Well, they do come in handy now and again, you know. As self-sufficient as we are here, most of us aren’t as young as we used to be and there are some duties that are more suited for men than a bunch of old nuns.” She grabbed his hand. “Sometimes, Pedro…er, Reuben, I think the world has become a very ugly place. Then I remember the words of the Father and they are a balm to me. Settle me down. Give me back my faith in humankind. That might be difficult for you, I know, because of what you do for a li
ving.”

  “Is that the reason?”

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “You look like you could use a little of that faith now.”

  “Probably,” he said, thinking he could use more than a little, but then faith for him was in short supply these days. He turned the conversation back to the path he was interested in: Abby Chastain’s mother. “Let’s go back about twenty years ago. You remember a patient named Faith Chastain?”

  Maria’s face seemed to fold in upon itself. The lines in her forehead deepened. She locked her fingers. “A few days ago was the twentieth anniversary of her death,” she said, surprising him that her memory of the tragedy was so clear. “I’ll never forget it. I was the first one at her side. I’d been just starting out the door to the convent when I heard the sounds of groaning metal and shattering glass. And then the scream. That horrible, soul-jarring shriek of pure terror.” Maria rubbed her throat. “Faith’s family had just pulled up in their car. One of the girls was already inside, perhaps even up the stairs, yes, I think I passed her on the landing as I was coming down. The other daughter and Faith’s husband were still outside, fussing with a present for her, I think…though it was so long ago…” Her eyes clouded, and though she looked across the courtyard to the groundskeeper busy with his broom, Montoya knew she was seeing something else in her mind’s eye.

  Her skin seemed paper thin. Softly, she said, “It was awful. I heard screams and shouts as I was just coming out the front door and there she was…poor thing, lying all twisted and broken on the concrete.” She quickly made the sign of the cross over her bosom. “The girl was there and the husband…Jacques. It was awful, so awful.” She shuddered and blinked rapidly against suddenly glistening eyes. “One of the girls had brought a gift. It was Faith’s birthday, that day. A strange thing, you see, to come into this world and leave it on the very same day of the year.” She frowned. “And it was the one birthday of one of the daughters as well, the younger one, I think, but I’m not really certain.”

  “What can you tell me about Faith?” Montoya asked.

  “About her condition? Not much, I’m afraid. Patient records are confidential.”

  “I know, but she’s dead, Tia. Has been for a long time.”

  “Nonetheless, I can’t release any information to you.”

  “I could get a court order.”

  “And if I defy it, would you send me to jail?” She pushed herself upright and walked to the eave of the porch, from which a mossy basket hung. Flowers and fern fronds spilled over the edge. With her thin fingers she began plucking the dead, brown fronds and leaves from the basket.

  “Tia Maria, please,” he said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Help me here, I’m trying to catch Courtney’s killer.”

  “By asking questions about Faith Chastain?” She clearly didn’t believe him.

  “Everything you say will be held in confidence, you know that.”

  “There are laws protecting patients and doctors,” she said, keeping her voice low as she, crushing the dead leaves, walked back to the bench. She bit her lip and let the dry pieces of foliage fall from her fingers. Across the way the gardener kept sweeping, his head down, as if he hadn’t noticed them seated together on the bench.

  She sighed. “I guess it’s no secret that Faith was in and out of the hospital several times. Different doctors diagnosed different conditions. Of course, it all happened years ago and the medical profession didn’t know as much about mental illness then as it does today.” She dusted her hands. “I can tell you my opinion: Faith Chastain was a very misunderstood and disturbed woman. That’s not a professional, medical diagnosis, but it’s the truth. As for her disease? Schizophrenia? Possibly. Paranoia? Certainly. It was as if she were fighting some inner demons. I tried to help her through prayer, and hoped she would find some consolation, some peace through God. Did she? I don’t know…” Maria’s eyes clouded over.

  “What happened to her? What forced her to leap to her death?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure that anyone does. It’s one of the great mysteries surrounding the hospital. But Faith is with God now. She’s no longer plagued and tormented by the demons in her mind. That’s all that matters.”

  “Except that Courtney LaBelle and Luke Gierman were murdered and the obvious link between them is that they each had family members who were associated with the hospital.”

  “Luke Gierman? The radio disk jockey? He had family here?” She frowned, thinking hard.

  “Not him. His ex-wife is Abby Chastain. Faith’s youngest daughter.”

  “Oh…I didn’t realize.” She looked off into space. “That poor girl. What she saw that day…”

  “You see why I need your help.”

  She glanced at him, touched his cheek with her cool hand. “I appreciate what you’re doing. I know your job is difficult. You often see the gruesome and gritty side of life, but I don’t know anything more that would help you.” She smiled. “I’m sorry, Pedro.” She glanced at her watch and stood. “I have kitchen duty in a few minutes, but it’s been so good to see you again. Give my best to your mother.”

  “I will.”

  “And here.” She reached into her deep pockets and came up with a rosary, the decades made up of blood-red beads. “Take this.”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  She folded the rosary into his hand. “Of course you can. Use it, Pedro. Remember the saint you were named for. Capture his strength, his conviction.” She wrapped her hand around his. “You’ll be surprised at the power of God.”

  “‘The power of God’?” he repeated. “Wait a minute, Maria, you’re starting to sound like one of those born-again preachers. You know, like what’s his name?” He snapped his fingers. “Billy Ray Furlough. Isn’t ‘the power of God be with you’ his catchphrase?”

  She looked away. “Is it?”

  “I think so. You’re scarin’ me, Tia. I’d hate to think that you were straying from the order and starting to watch one of those fire-and-brimstone televangelists.”

  “That’s highly unlikely.” But she didn’t laugh as he’d expected and the lines of worry around her eyes seemed to grow deeper rather than lessen as they walked out of the courtyard.

  Montoya left the cloister and, with his aunt as his usher, wended his way through the dark, hushed hallways to the parking area. He drove through the gates of the convent but, rather than continue to the main road, turned at the fork in the road and onto what was the left of the driveway that had been the entrance to the hospital.

  He could get no farther than the fence. The old iron gates were closed, reinforced with a rusted chain and padlock, but he let the cruiser idle as he climbed out. With the damned alarm dinging a gentle reminder that he hadn’t bothered to close the door, he walked to the barricade to peer through the iron bars and toward the decrepit building beyond.

  The cement driveway was buckled, weeds growing through the cracks. The lawn was knee high and above it all the brick building rose a full three stories. The roof was missing some tiles and many of the windows had been boarded over. In the center of the edifice, squarely over the front door and above the broken fountain, a dormer with a round, colorful window jutted out from the otherwise unbroken roof line. What had once been a wide veranda with short stone walls flanked one side of the building. It was now covered with vines and brambles, and on the other end antiquated, rusted fire escape stairs began creaking as a gust of wind rattled through.

  This was the link between the murder victims?

  This tired, dilapidated building?

  He thought of Abby as a young girl coming here to visit a mother who was out of touch with reality, a “troubled” woman fighting her own inner “demons,” if Maria’s estimation was to be believed. He considered his own family: poor, but united and, for the most part, happy. Five hellions of brothers and two sisters. His family had struggled against poverty and all the temptations and frustrations lack of money caused, but the family unit h
ad been strong, his parents firm in their faith and determined to make the most of their lives. He’d been encouraged to become an athlete, and his soccer skills and street-smarts had helped him get through college.

  All of the class struggles and racial barriers that he’d overcome seemed small in comparison with dealing with a weak-minded mother who had ended up flinging herself from an upper-story window to land on the cement in front of her daughter. What a helluva thing for a kid to witness.

  No one was paying attention.

  The police were running around like rats in a maze.

  The reporters had found other stories to keep them busy, and though there were occasional mentions of the “bizarre double murder” involving Luke Gierman and a coed, the story had slipped off page one and was beginning to go unnoticed.

  Which was just not right.

  Didn’t they understand that this was a matter of importance? That finally, retribution was being had?

  He slid through the corridors of the old asylum, for that’s what it had been no matter what fancy, kind, reverent, or even lofty name the building had been christened. He walked swiftly, running his gloved fingers intimately over the walls, trying to find some peace of mind. But even here, in his sanctuary, as he crept silently through the dark hallways, he felt no comfort, no calm. And the high that he’d experienced, the rush of blood and adrenalin that had come with the killings, was fading.

  He moved onward, easing through rooms few remembered and those who did would rather forget. The smell of dust and misuse clung to the walls and settled upon the chipped tile floors. The ceilings leaked but he didn’t care.

  This was where he would work.

  This would be his home.

  This was the place he had always remembered.