by Lisa Jackson
Come on, you bastard, he thought, climbing the steps to the second floor, I’ll be ready for you.
“You received an anonymous letter that said, Come home, Hannah needs you?” Abby repeated, staring at her sister as if she’d gone completely mad. They were seated in a restaurant on St. Charles Avenue, located not far from Sacred Heart Academy.
It had been Zoey’s idea to ride the streetcar and “get away from all this stress,” once she’d taken a two-hour nap. Abby had wanted to stay home. She was tired and drained after Luke’s funeral. But she also wanted to get to the bottom of the “secret” Zoey and her father seemed to share about the night her mother died, and Zoey had promised she would tell Abby everything she knew.
In the end, Abby had driven them into town, where they’d hopped on the streetcar, ridden down the oak-lined avenue, and ended up in this quaint Victorian home–turned–dining room. It was early evening. They’d been seated at a table near the window, where a view of the garden showed off a million tiny white lights winking in the lush vegetation and along the fence. As the waitress delivered a tall glass filled with bread sticks, Zoey dropped the bomb about the note.
“Here, I’ve got it with me.” Zoey leaned over to scrounge in her purse. She came up with a plain white envelope. The postmark was NEW ORLEANS, but there was no return address.
Though the late afternoon was warm, Abby’s skin turned to ice. “Didn’t you think this was odd?”
“Yeah, a little.” Zoey reached for a bread stick.
“A lot, Zoe. No one ever called me Hannah but Mom.”
“Well, obviously she didn’t send it.”
“Precisely. So who did? Who wanted you here?”
“I thought maybe you sent it to me.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I figured it was your way of getting me here without, you know, you having to swallow your pride.” Zoey dipped her bread stick in a tiny butter rosette.
“If I had needed you here, I would have called. You know that.”
“Then maybe…I don’t know…maybe Dad sent it.”
“Dad?” Abby picked up the note and shook it in front of her sister’s face. “How would he mail it?”
“Maybe Charlene did it for him.”
“Then why not just sign it himself? Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Better yet, why not just phone? You know, like a normal person.”
“Then I don’t know,” Zoey said defensively, but little lines of concern sprouted between her eyebrows. “Look, let’s not worry about it right now. We’ll talk about the damned note later.” She snagged the paper out of Abby’s hands and slipped it into the envelope just as the waitress reappeared.
“Are you all ready?” she asked pleasantly. She was plump, with rosy cheeks, her order pad at the ready. She glanced at Abby and added, “Or would you like a few more minutes to decide?”
Zoey, who had somehow scanned the menu, said, “I’ll have the iceberg lettuce wedge, with shrimp, caramelized onions, and blue cheese dressing on the side…oh, and maybe a cup of the shrimp bisque.”
The waitress turned to Abby, whose appetite was fast disappearing. She’d walked into the little restaurant famished and now her stomach was in knots. Who had sent Zoey the note?
“Abby?” Zoey said and glanced from her sister to the waitress. “Do you know what you want?”
I want an end to all these questions…all this secrecy…
Glancing down at the menu, Abby tried to focus. Was it her imagination or had several people at nearby tables stopped eating to stare at them? Pull yourself together, Abby. Don’t make a scene. You’ll get to the bottom of this. So Zoey received a note with your middle name on it the same week that your gun was stolen and people are turning up murdered… Her hands were shaking so she clasped them together in her lap.
“Maybe we do need a few more minutes,” Zoey said.
Abby cut her sister a look, then ordered the first thing she saw on the menu. “I’ll have the spinach salad, with barbecued shrimp. House dressing.”
She waited until the waitress had disappeared before she turned furious eyes at Zoey. “You should have told me about the letter earlier.”
“I wanted to wait until after the funeral.”
“So you knew I’d be upset?”
“More upset.” Zoey cast a glance to the ceiling, where paddle fans were gently pushing the warm air around.
Abby was finished with skirting the issue. “So when are you going to tell me about the day Mom died?”
Zoey stared down at the table.
“Zoe.” Abby leaned toward her.
Zoey closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. She let out her breath as she picked up her glass of sweet tea. “All right…I wasn’t supposed to tell you…”
“Why? What happened? Who said you shouldn’t tell me?”
“The doctors. Your doctors, Abby. The ones you saw right after Mom’s death.”
There was an echoing roar in Abby’s head, a sudden raging surf. She clenched her hands over her knees. “Tell me,” she demanded, her heart nearly stopping.
Spying Abby’s reaction, Zoey nearly changed her mind. “Maybe this isn’t the place.”
“Tell me!” Abby repeated more tensely.
“Okay, okay…You seemed to have had some kind of blackout that day. Because of the emotional trauma. Dad talked to the doctors who saw you after Mom’s death and they said it’s not uncommon. It’s emotional amnesia and sometimes your memory comes back after a while and other times…it just doesn’t.” She took a swallow from her tea.
“Like in my case.”
“Right.”
“And in the past twenty years, neither you nor Dad thought I needed to know?”
“We were advised against it,” she said simply.
“But it’s been two decades!” Anger burned through her, but she tried like hell to push it aside. “Okay, okay, so what was different, Zoe? What is so horrible that I’ve blacked it out? What am I forgetting?”
“I don’t know,” she said baffled. “It’s just your memory isn’t exactly right.” The waitress refilled their tea glasses and Zoey waited until they were alone again. “You weren’t just getting out of the car that day, Abby. You and I—we’d had a fight about who was going to take her present up to her. I won the flip of the coin. Dad was pretty angry that we were being so petty, as it was Mom’s birthday and all…your birthday, too, I know. Anyway, when we pulled up, you got out of the car before Dad had even shoved the gearshift into park. You took off up the steps into the hospital at a dead run and disappeared inside before either Dad or I got out of the car.”
Abby blinked hard, remembered that sultry twilight. “I wasn’t outside?”
“No. When Mom fell out her window, you were already in her room.”
The dull roar in her head grew louder. The restaurant’s chandeliers seemed to sway. The lights out the window twinkled and faded into stars. She looked past her memory of that day—her false memory, as it turned out. Vaguely she recalled running inside, through the dark building, past a boy in a wheelchair who watched her fly by, and around a nurse pushing a tray of medications down a hallway. She tore past the grandfather clock that was beginning to chime out the hour and ran up the stairs.
“I do remember,” she murmured in surprise. “I do.”
Zoey looked unsure of yourself. “Really?”
“Yes…”
She’d rocketed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, nearly plowing into the nun. She’d had to hurry. To be the first of Faith’s small family to say “Happy birthday.” It was their shared, special day. It belonged to them, and Abby, her heart pounding crazily from the exertion, couldn’t wait to tell her mother about the upcoming Sadie Hawkins dance.
Up, up, up she climbed, her shoes pounding on the stairs, past the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mother on the landing and up a final few steps to the third-floor hallway that was empty, the lights already dimmed.
Breathing hard,
Abby pushed open the door to 307 and raced inside. “Happy birthday, Mom…” she said, then stopped short, her good wishes dying on her tongue. Faith was standing near the window, not far from the rumpled bed. Half-dressed, her blouse open, her bra unhooked, a dark nipple visible, she wasn’t alone. A doctor in a white lab coat, his stethoscope swinging from his neck, his hair mussed, was trying to grab her.
As the door banged into the wall, he spun. His face was red, a vein jumping in his temple as he pinned Abby with his furious gaze. “Don’t you know this is a private room! You should knock before you just barge in!”
“But…” Abby, standing in front of the closet, looked past the doctor to her mother.
Faith was already rehooking her bra, swiftly covering up. Her fingers were working with the buttons of her blouse, but her gaze, looking over the shoulder of the doctor, was fixed on her daughter. Fear shone in Faith’s gold eyes, tears glistening. Without saying the words out loud, she mouthed, “Don’t please…”
Her mother wanted her to keep her silence. She wanted her to hold the secret safe. And Abby hadn’t breathed a word. Not ever. She hadn’t even remembered that she’d been in the room. Now, she was shaking, feeling with surprisingly sharp clarity her mother’s despair.
“Abby!” Zoey’s voice was like a slap.
The memory faded, withering away, and Abby found herself in the restaurant again, her salad sitting upon the place mat in front of her. Zoey stared at her anxiously across the table. Her face was strained, ashen. “The waitress asked you if you’d like ground pepper on your salad.”
“What?” Abby glanced down at the mound of dark green spinach leaves, pieces of mandarin oranges, bean sprouts, and succulent shrimp on the plate in front of her. She hadn’t even been aware that she was still in the restaurant, much less been served. Dear God, she was cracking up! Just like Mom.
No!
Quickly she looked up at the waitress holding the huge pepper mill poised over her platter. She forced a tremulous smile. She was not like Faith. Not weak-minded.
“Pepper?” the waitress asked, probably for the third or fourth time.
“No, thank you,” Abby managed, and with a last, curious look, the round little waitress moved on to the next table.
“What’s the matter with you?” Zoey hissed. “Get a grip, for God’s sake!”
“I remember…” Abby leaned over the table, whispering just loud enough for Zoey and Zoey alone to hear.
Zoey didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She slowly set down her butter knife. “What happened?”
“She wasn’t alone.”
“I know that, you were there.”
“No, not just me, Zoe. There was a doctor in the room and…and I think…Oh, Lord, I can’t believe this, but I think he was abusing her.”
“Abusing her?” Zoey stared at Abby as if she, too, had lost her mind.
“Molesting her.”
“Jesus, Abs!”
“I know, I know, but as I recall, her blouse and bra were undone and…” She hesitated. “I can see his face, but…” She tried to think, to roll back the years, to call up his name, but nothing came to her, just the start of a headache that pounded through her brain. She drew a calming breath and glanced across the table. “Do you remember who was treating Mom? What the psychiatrist’s name was?”
“There were lots of doctors and nurses.” Slowly, as if she were acting by rote, Zoey dipped the ends of her fork tines sparingly into the small cup of dressing, then pronged her bite of lettuce and shrimp. “I don’t know. She was in and out of the hospital a lot. The staff came and went.”
“I know, but I’m talking about that last stay. Who was seeing her right before she died?”
“I can’t remember, but Dad would know.” She shook her head. “But he’s so frail. I don’t want to drag him into this.”
“I don’t think we have a choice, Zoe. I have a feeling that whoever that doctor was, he not only abused Mom, he might have killed her as well.”
“Oh, now, come on…Now you’re accusing this man of…what? Sexual molestation and…murder? You think he pushed Mom out of the window?”
Abby squeezed her eyes shut, tried to hold on to the memory, but it was slippery, skimming in and out of her consciousness. “Go visit Dad tomorrow. See what he knows.”
“And what will you do?” Zoey asked suspiciously.
“Keep trying to remember.” She ran her hands through her hair and regarded her sister. “You should have told me. I don’t care what the doctors said. I needed to know. I still need to know.”
“Nobody wanted you to keep having those nightmares.”
“I had those nightmares because no one’s been honest with me!”
“Okay, okay…”
They drifted into uneasy silence. Abby chased her salad around her plate with her fork. She now knew what she had to do, but she couldn’t confide in her sister. Zoey would have a fit.
But armed with this new information, Abby was certain if she went back to the hospital, she would remember everything. If she wanted to learn the truth about what had happened to her mother, if she wanted to break the hold her mother’s death still had on her, then she needed to step back in time…she needed to force her way into Room 307 at Our Lady of Virtues Hospital.
Only then would she really know what had happened.
Montoya pushed the stack of photographs to one side of his desk, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. He’d been at the desk for hours. He’d been looking over each snapshot he’d taken at the Courtney LaBelle candlelight vigil, then later her funeral, and finally Luke Gierman’s service. He’d do the same thing when Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson were laid to rest.
So far he had a stack of photographs of people he hadn’t yet identified. He’d separated that pile down, pulling out the females, then weeding through the men until he found those who were big enough to wear a size twelve. Even so, this could be a wild-goose chase. Who was to say that the killer had attended either service?
Even if the psycho had shown up, he would probably disguise himself…he could even come as a woman…albeit a tall one.
Frustrated, Montoya ran a hand around the nape of his neck, then climbed to his feet to stretch his back and legs. He had too much restless energy to sit at a desk for hours.
They didn’t want him on the front lines till they knew more about his aunt. It was frustrating. Who better than he to search for his Maria? He knew he wasn’t objective, but so what? No one wanted to find her abductor more than he did. Just as no one else was more concerned for Abby Chastain’s safety.
“Crap,” he muttered.
His family was going nuts. From the time Maria had gone missing, every aunt, uncle, and cousin twice removed had phoned him, either demanding answers or sharing their deepest fears.
None of which were any deeper than his own. With each passing second that Maria and Billy Ray Furlough were missing, he’d grown more certain they were victims of foul play. Every time the phone rang, he gazed at it uneasily, half expecting to learn someone had stumbled upon their grotesquely entwined bodies.
So far, that phone call hadn’t come in.
Montoya expelled air from his lungs and tried to force the odd pieces of the murder puzzle into some sort of sane pattern even though he knew he was dealing with a deranged individual.
He reread the note from the killer.
REPENT
A L
Repent for what? What had Luke Gierman, Courtney LaBelle, Asa Pomeroy, and Gina Jefferson had in common? What sin had they all committed? And what the hell did it have to do with Our Lady of Virtues?
Again, he viewed the pictures of the crime scenes on his monitor. Why were the male victims stripped bare? Why the women fully clothed and lying over them? Why the precise staging? The FBI profiler hadn’t come up with anything more than the usual…if a killer could be described as anything near “usual.” The same old stuff, white male in his late twenties to early forties, from a middle-c
lass or lower-class family, someone who was probably abused as a child, someone who set fires and killed animals before escalating to humans, someone who had a fascination with the police and law enforcement…Montoya knew the drill.
But this guy, his gut told him, was different. This guy had taken the serial killing game to a new level.
Since Montoya was sidelined from the case, Bentz and Brinkman had returned to the convent as well as visited Billy Ray Furlough’s compound. The FBI—the agency in charge—was dealing with the worried wife and children, checking with friends, family, and members of the church, all the time waiting for a ransom demand that Montoya doubted would come through.
He leaned back in his chair and opened his desk drawer. He found a pack of Nicorette gum, unwrapped it, and popped a tasteless piece in his mouth. Craning his neck, he peered through the open door to Bentz’s office, then glanced out his window, where gray clouds were weaving their way inland from the Gulf.
Soon it would be night again.
And Montoya was afraid the killer would strike.
What if the son of a bitch took Abby’s gun?
He considered camping out at her house again, but he knew that, if he did, he’d end up in her bed. Their lovemaking had been hot, desperate, and addictive.
He reminded himself she wasn’t alone.
Her sister was staying with her. And anyway Abby had her dog, and Miguel had promised to install a security system ASAP.
But her ex-husband’s gun was missing and that made him crazy.
Maybe she’d misplaced it.
Or maybe someone had stolen it.
And maybe that thief was the killer.
He swore beneath his breath in frustration, changing the screen on his computer and studying a digital image of a map of New Orleans and the surrounding area. It was large enough to encompass all the places where the murders had occurred. Places where the bodies had been found were pinpointed in red. The places from where the victims had been abducted were marked in blue, and spots where their vehicles had been located were in orange. Also, each victim’s place of employment and residence had been color coded. Montoya stared at the map, but try as he might, he saw no correlation.
