Shiver

by Lisa Jackson

  Bawling like a damned baby isn’t going to help! Do something! Do it, NOW!

  Using all her strength, she scooted toward the metal door, which, of course, was closed. She figured that if she could get herself to her feet and stand with her back to the door, she might be able to work the handle. Her wrists were strapped together and her shoulders hurt like hell, but she had no other option that she knew of. The thick iron door was the only way out of this room.

  Slowly, she inched across the short span…she thought about the lantern, knew she could kick it over and maybe cause a fire, but how would that help? And nothing in the austere room appeared flammable. She would be trapped in this cell, with no one to come and save her.

  No. That wouldn’t do.

  She inched over the filth.

  Ignored the dirt.

  Finally she was at the wall. She tried to climb to her feet, to push herself upright, planting her feet about a foot in front of her and pushing upward.

  Once she fell.

  Skinning her forearm, new pain searing upward.

  Don’t let this bastard get the better of you.

  Cursing silently, she tried again. Only to slide down the wall, burning her arm.

  Do this, Zoey. Try harder. Don’t give up.

  Her feet were bare, so she curled her toes, trying to dig into the cold cement of the floor, and managed to squirm her body up the door. Balanced, she attempted to push it open. To no avail. The slim handle didn’t budge. Was locked tight. She tried again, hoping the old latch would give way.

  Nothing.

  Again, setting her jaw, she forced all of her strength into the handle, willing it to move.

  It didn’t.

  Damn, damn, damn and double damn. She wanted to fall into a heap and cry.

  She was trapped!

  The madman had locked her up and would either leave her here to die a horrid, lingering death or would return for some other gruesome end.

  She couldn’t give up. Her only hope, she decided, was the lantern. If and when someone opened the door, she could kick the lantern with its kerosene, burning wick and glass base at whoever unlocked the door.

  Other than that, she was a dead woman.

  “God damn you, Montoya!” Bentz growled holstering his weapon. What the hell was his partner thinking? And where the hell was he?

  Upon receiving Zaroster’s call, Bentz had peeled off from the crime scene where Billy Ray Furlough and Maria Montoya were the victims. Leaving Brinkman in charge, Bentz had driven like a bat out of hell to land here at Simon Heller’s house, a two-storied Greek Revival style home with huge white pillars, topiary in the front yard and a sweeping verandah.

  Zaroster was already inside when he’d arrived, but the house had been empty. Bentz had barged in, shouting he was with the police and found Lynn Zaroster alone in the graceful old home.

  “Something’s definitely up,” she’d told him and led him into a downstairs study where there were signs of a struggle.

  A desk chair had been kicked over.

  The computer monitor had been knocked to the floor and the screen had cracked.

  Blood splattered a leather easy chair, where, it appeared someone had been working a crossword puzzle. The newspaper had scattered across polished floors, a pencil, too, had rolled up against the marble hearth of a fireplace, wire-rimmed glasses broken and sprung over a folded piece of the newspaper, a third of the answers to the puzzle had been filled in.

  Zaroster had already checked the rest of the house, but Bentz, too, looked things over. Nothing in any of the other rooms appeared, at least at their first, peripheral search, to have been disturbed. The beds were made, dishes washed, no sign of anyone in the house. And Heller’s vehicle was missing, a white Lexus SUV with California plates according to the DMV, not parked anywhere outside. Not in the single car garage, not in the alley, and definitely not on the oak-lined street. Bentz had checked.

  But how had Montoya known about Heller?

  That cocky forget-the-rules son of a bitch was a maverick. Montoya had enough balls to show up at his aunt’s crime scene against orders, then had managed to sneak his way past all the guards to view the gutted mobile home where Sister Maria and Billy Ray Furlough had been killed and left. Then with barely a word to Bentz, Montoya had taken off on some personal vendetta. Not confiding in anyone.

  Except, it seemed, Lynn Zaroster.

  “Where’s Montoya now?” he demanded, once he’d searched for the Lexus and had returned to Heller’s den.

  “At Our Lady Of Virtues Hospital,” Zaroster said and quickly recapped her conversation with Montoya and his theory about the killing spree being tied to the Seven Deadly Sins and Seven Contrary Virtues to Bentz. “But that’s not all,” she continued, “Montoya thinks everyone involved is connected either loosely or directly to that old hospital. We thought Heller was the killer, but—” she glanced around the mess in the doctor’s den, “—it looks like he’s another victim.”

  “Your theory is that the vics are killed using their name associated with a sin or…?”

  “A contrary virtue. In Heller’s case, Simon Thaddeus Heller, I’m betting Sloth as the sin.”

  Bentz looked around the house. Other than the den, it was neat as a pin. “Doesn’t look lazy to me.”

  Zaroster lifted a shoulder. “I’m just tellin’ ya.”

  “I know.”

  “And this guy, he could have a wife or girlfriend or boyfriend or maid to clean up after him.”

  “Or the theory could be just a load of bull,” Bentz thought out loud, but he was starting to buy it as he stared around Heller’s house. Heller, who had worked at the asylum. Something about the way everything was falling together made Montoya’s sins/virtues M.O. ring true. Still, Montoya had no business acting on his own, bending the rules to the breaking point. Possibly compromising the case.

  As if you haven’t, his mind nagged.

  He ignored it.

  They walked to the front door of the graceful old house with its expensive furnishings and original pieces of art, trappings that wouldn’t help Heller now. “If Montoya’s right, then our killer isn’t finished.”

  “Not by a long shot. Let’s go.” She was already on her way to her car.

  “Wait! You stay here. Secure this scene. Get backup. I’ll go to the hospital. Call Montoya and tell him what’s up. He won’t pick up my calls but no way is he to go inside that place. Especially not alone!”

  “You think I can convince him?”

  “You’d better damned well try.” Bentz was already across Heller’s clipped lawn and at the curb where his cruiser was parked on the street. “Are you familiar with the riot act?” he threw out as he opened the car door and glanced over his shoulder through the rain.

  Cell phone to her ear, Zaroster stood in the huge entryway of Heller’s house. She looked up at him expectantly.

  “You might want to bone up, cuz I’m going to read it to you letter by letter when I get back. You knew what Montoya was up to, so you, too, may have thrown this whole case in jeopardy. There is no room, do you hear me?—no room for this rogue cop shit.” He slid behind the wheel, slammed the car door shut, fired up the engine, turned on the sirens and gunned it down the quiet street.

  “Idiot,” Bentz growled as he picked up his cell phone to call for backup and punched in the number for the station. He understood Montoya’s motivations, just didn’t like them. What the hell was the younger cop doing, messing up the goddamned case?

  Zoey started edging toward the flickering lamp when she heard something outside the door. Footsteps!

  God, please, let it be the police! Someone to save me.

  Her heart pounded wildly, fear spurting through her blood as she heard the lock click loudly. Groaning, the door swung open.

  Looming on the other side, his features shadowy in the thin light, appeared the embodiment of Satan.

  Oh God! Please help me!

  She scooted as far and as fast as she could
from him, shrinking away until her back was pressed against the gritty tile and she had no where to go.

  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 glass. “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 damned 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.

  “Hell.” 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 back up 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. “Heller’s place is empty and there are signs of a struggle.”

  “Shit!”

  “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 Heller 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 glasses smashed and broken, an identical pair to the ones in a picture of Heller that was on the mantel.”

  Montoya didn’t like it. He’d thought Heller was the killer. If not Heller 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.”

  “Damn.” He knew the truth. Her car was 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?

  A for Abby. A for…Avarice?

  Nope. Already used with Asa Pomeroy.

  Chastain. C. Chastity?

  Again, if his theory was right, Chastity was represented by Courtney LaBelle, the virgin…wrong again.

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

  His heart skidded to a stop. That was it! But what about Heller? Simon T. Heller, 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 damned bad!”

  “Bentz was clear about—”

  “Bentz can cram it. I know what he said. You warned me. Your ass 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 Montoya 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 Berman. Hannah! H for Humility! Shit!

  For once he hoped to God 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 bastard if you have to!

  Kill him even if you don’t.

  He passed 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 Heller’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.

  Damn it all to hell!

  Time was running short. He could feel it passing and with it Abby’s chances of survival. He had to find her. Had 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, passed 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 c
ase.

  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 Heller 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 Heller 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. Damn!

  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.