The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  Reed glanced at Morrisette.

  “I’m already all over it,” she said, then took a big swallow from her glass. “We’ll check all the local markets and the Internet.”

  Diane Moses said, “You already know about the other blood there, and we found some other hairs in the vacuum bag. Hair that we’re comparing to Bandeaux and Naomi Crisman along with some kind of animal hair. Looks like dog. We’re still checking.”

  “Bandeaux and his girlfriend didn’t have any pets,” Reed said, sipping his beer.

  “The ex-wife does.” Morrisette finished her second drink. “Maybe she’d been playing with the pooch and he’d shed on her and before she could grab one of those sticky rollers they have to clean your clothes and upholstery from pet hair, she visited Josh and dropped the hairs on his carpet.”

  “Or it could be that they had the dog together when they were married and she took the mutt over to visit. The neighbor seems to think she was over there a lot.” Reed swiped a napkin over his lips. “Or maybe it’s another dog. Either way I think it’s time to get a search warrant, see if the missus has any weapons around.” He didn’t think they’d have trouble getting the warrant. Caitlyn’s blood type had been found at the scene, a car like hers had been spotted at Bandeaux’s place that night, she was going through a messy divorce with the deceased and things had gone from bad to worse with Bandeaux’s threat of an unlawful death lawsuit over the kid’s demise. Caitlyn Bandeaux also had a history of mental problems, as both Morrisette and Naomi Crisman had mentioned. Reed wasn’t certain the dog hair meant anything, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that Caitlyn Bandeaux was smack-dab in the middle of it. He just had to figure out how.

  It had been a long week.

  But it was nearly over.

  Thank God.

  Amanda stepped on the throttle of her little convertible and the TR-6 sprang forward, buzzing along the highway, past the marshes where snowy white egrets were visible in the long grass and gators hid in the murky water. The wind tore at her hair, and she felt some of the tension from the office and the mess with Josh Bandeaux ease from her shoulders.

  Shifting, she passed a guy in a BMW, left the guy standing still and it gave her a rush. She glanced in the rearview mirror and grinned at herself. Ian would be home tonight and she might just cook. Something with lobster, his favorite. And crusty French bread. And wine.

  It would be good to see him, she thought as she spied the sign for her exit. Her marriage was far from perfect. Ian could be as big a jerk as any man, but then she wasn’t exactly a piece of cake to live with either. For today, she’d forgive him his faults.

  She roared off the exit and braked for the turn.

  Nothing happened.

  She sucked in her breath. Adrenalin pumped through her blood. She hit the brakes again, the corner rushing at her ever faster. “Shit!” She shifted down, stood on the useless brakes and swerved, her tires hitting gravel. Hard. The car tried to spin out. She fought the wheel and blew through the stop to squeal around the corner, swinging wide into the oncoming lane. Her heart was pounding like crazy, but fortunately no one was speeding toward her, no head-on collision imminent. “God help me.” With all her strength she pulled hard on the emergency brake, then shifted into a lower gear. The little car flew off the shoulder, bounced down a slight slope and headed straight for the small sapling she passed each day on her way to work. Amanda braced herself. Here it comes, she thought wildly, holding fast to the steering wheel, bracing herself for the collision. It was the only tree near the highway. And it was small. Surely she’d survive. If only she didn’t hit it squarely.

  Wham!

  The little car bucked.

  Amanda flew forward, her head bouncing on the steering wheel.

  Her seat belt snapped tight.

  Glass shattered. Metal crunched.

  Pain erupted behind Amanda’s eyes. She groaned, looking into the cracked rearview mirror, where she thought she saw a vision . . . one of another woman advancing upon her, a woman she should recognize.

  Then there was nothing, no woman, no pain, nothing at all as her consciousness slid into darkness.

  Eighteen

  “It looks like someone tampered with her brakes,” Deputy Fletcher said from his end of the telephone connection. “I’ve had a mechanic take a cursory look at the undercarriage of Amanda Drummond’s sports car. We’ve impounded it, and it’s here at the police lot if you want to take a look.”

  “Tampered with them?” Reed repeated, slipping into the sleeves of his jacket and juggling the phone. He was still in his office, working a few extra hours, when the call had come in. “So you’re saying the brake line was cut? That sounds like something straight out of an old movie. A bad old movie.”

  “Come on over here and take a look for yourself.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  He walked out of the station, climbed into his cruiser and rolled out of the city. He made it to the lot in twenty-five minutes, where Deputy Fletcher met him and walked him to the garage. Amanda Montgomery’s mangled Triumph was inside, elevated by a hoist. The front end was bashed in, the cherry-red hood crumpled, the wheels twisted on the axle. “It looks as if she’s lucky to be alive,” Reed observed, though most of the damage was sustained on the passenger side.

  “Yeah. If she would have hit the tree dead-on, it would’ve been a whole lot worse.” As it was, the driver’s side looked relatively unscathed. “Now, take a look at this,” the deputy said, pointing to a long tube running from under the engine. The undercarriage was filthy with grease and dirt. “See right here, this is the brake line.” He pointed with the tip of a pen he pulled from his pocket. “It’s runnin’ right out of the reservoir and it’s been snipped.”

  “Cut.”

  “Yep.”

  “Couldn’t it have happened in the accident?”

  “Maybe, but we don’t think so. We figure someone cut the brake fluid line and when the fluid drained out, she lost her brakes. Cutting the line is relatively easy.” His expression was sober. “Someone wanted to mess up the car and whoever was driving it real bad. She’s damned lucky she wasn’t worse off.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Ambulanced to Our Lady of Hope Hospital. She’d passed out, had a few scratches and probably a bruise from her seat belt, but she woke up as the EMTs were putting her into the ambulance and had a fit. Said she was fine. I was at the scene, and we convinced her to go in and have herself checked out for a possible concussion.”

  “Who called in the accident?”

  “A witness. She was following Mrs. Drummond as she turned off the highway and saw her start to have trouble. When the Triumph tore off through the field, she called 911. She was waiting at the scene, and that’s when things got a little dicey. Mrs. Drummond woke up, took one look at the witness and started screaming at her.”

  “Who was she?”

  “A woman by the name of Christina Biscayne. Goes by Cricket.”

  Reed’s radar went up. “She was following Amanda Drummond?”

  “Yeah, on her way to a friend’s house when she saw the accident.” Reed made a mental note to speak with Cricket Biscayne, talked a few more minutes with Fletcher and didn’t learn anything new. From the police impoundment lot, he drove to Our Lady Of Hope, a small private hospital, but the closest one to the accident scene. As luck would have it, Amanda was about to be released. She was seated in a wheelchair, a few cuts on her face, her hair a little mussed as she waited near the door. “What’s the hangup?” she asked, glaring at the nurse.

  “Just getting the doctor’s signature on the release,” the RN told her.

  “I thought you had that all done.”

  “So did I.”

  “And what’s so hard about getting his signature? He said I could be released, didn’t he?” Amanda demanded, her fine features pulled into a don’t-give-me-any-crap expression.

  “Yes, he did. I’m sure it’ll be just a few minutes. We�
��re busy tonight. There are other patients,” the nurse replied with a long-suffering and extremely forced smile, then looked at the pager strapped to her belt. “Just wait here.” She walked across the blue carpet to a house phone and picked it up while her patient seethed in her wheelchair.

  “Mrs. Drummond?” Reed asked, flipping open his wallet to show his badge. “Pierce Reed, Savannah Police Department.”

  “I know who you are,” she said impatiently. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Heard you had a mishap.”

  “A mishap? Is that what you guys call it? Jesus, my damned brake line was cut, or so the officer at the scene said when he phoned my husband. If it’s true my brake line was cut, then someone deliberately tried to kill me.” She shoved her hair out of her eyes. “Again.” Angling her head up to get a better view of him, she asked, “You do know about that, right? That I was nearly forced off the road about six months ago? No one seemed to care then, but now, after I almost die, you show up.” She folded her arms over her chest. “So it wasn’t a mishap, Detective. It wasn’t even an accident.” She started to rise to her feet. “Someone tried to kill me!”

  “Please, Mrs. Drummond, stay in the wheelchair. It’s hospital policy,” the nurse said.

  “I don’t need a wheelchair, I just need to get out of here,” Amanda snapped. She was on her feet now, her gaze never once leaving Reed’s face. “And I need police protection. Someone’s taking potshots at my family and it seems like I’m next on the list.”

  “Do you have any idea who?”

  “Isn’t that your job? You’re the detective.”

  “I’d like to take a statement about what happened,” he said and wondered why her jabs got under his skin. Pampered, rich bitch.

  “Good. It’s time you guys took what’s happening seriously. Before the rest of the family ends up like Josh Bandeaux!” She watched as a car slid into the patient loading area near the double doors. “If you’ll excuse me, my husband’s here.” She cast a disparaging look at the nurse. “I’m leaving, with or without the release.”

  “No problem. Dr. Randolph just signed it.” The nurse handed her an envelope just as a tall, thin man in a pilot’s uniform approached.

  “What the hell happened?” he demanded, then, more quietly, asked, “Are you okay?”

  “What happened is that someone tried to kill me and I ended up totaling the TR. And . . . no . . . I’m not okay.” Amanda seemed to soften a bit, even blinked and cleared her throat as if she were near tears. Somehow she managed to pull herself together and find that razor-sharp tongue of hers again. “This is Detective Reed, Ian.” She motioned to Reed. “He’s going to nail the bastard who did this before he gets another crack at me. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “Mrs. Drummond. Please sit down.” The nurse was firm, and reluctantly Amanda dropped into the wheelchair. The nurse began to push Amanda through the automatic doors. “I hope you do your best,” Amanda said to Reed as she left the hospital. “Because the next time I might not be so lucky, and you’ll find yourself in the middle of another unsolved homicide.”

  Caitlyn couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She was in her office, working on a project she’d pushed aside for nearly a week. Her desk lamp and monitor provided soft light, and smooth jazz was playing from the speakers. Standing, she squinted to look through the lacy curtains, searching for hidden eyes. It was night; the street lamp in front of her house illuminating the fenced gardens in an eerie blue light. A fine mist was falling, fogging up the windows a bit, softening shadows, glistening on the street. From the corner of her eye, she noticed movement, a darker shadow in the shrubbery.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs.

  Leaves moved. She could almost hear the rustle of footsteps.

  That’s because you’re paranoid. There’s no one out there. No one.

  She swallowed hard and saw the gleam of two beady eyes, low to the ground.

  She tensed. The shrubbery shivered. A possum waddled into the lamplight, and Caitlyn, feeling foolish, breathed a little easier. Now she was jumping at shadows.

  Still, she felt the weight of some unwanted gaze, and she snapped the shade down and leaned back in her desk chair. Maybe the police were following her; she wouldn’t be surprised. Whether Detective Reed said it or not, he’d zeroed in on her as Josh’s killer, and the trouble was, she wasn’t able to defend herself. Or maybe someone else was silently stalking her, the same person who had been in her bedroom on the night of Josh’s death, the one who was in some way responsible for all that blood.

  You, Caitie. You’re responsible.

  “No,” she whispered, trying to concentrate on her work, refusing to believe the horrid thought. Maybe she should call Adam. She was so restless, and it felt right talking to him.

  As a patient, or as a woman? Face it, Caitlyn, you just want to see him again.

  “Damn.” She was tired of listening to her nag of a conscience that sounded so much like her twin’s voice.

  She glanced at the computer monitor. On the screen an image she’d been working on, a vampire bat in flight, mocked her. The deadline for the artwork to be submitted for approval to the local zoo’s board was only a week away and she was behind.

  She adjusted the bat’s movements, trying to concentrate, hoping that the image of the creature flying over a silvery disk of moon and through iron gates would help draw in the website’s visitors. She wanted this opening page to be intriguing, hinting at all the old myths and superstitions while being scientifically accurate. She was tired, the muscles of her back beginning to ache from sitting so long in the chair, her nerves jangled as they were every night. She stood up and stretched, still staring down at the screen, and Oscar, who’d been sitting at her feet, barked.

  “Yeah, and what do you want?” she asked, managing a smile.

  Another bark. Oscar jumped up at her, then settled back on his haunches and looked up at her with eager, dark eyes.

  “You okay?” He twirled in one spot. “You want to go outside?”

  Another bark and his tail brushed the floor.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “I get it. Finally. Come on, then.”

  The dog was already hurrying down the stairs. “Why do I think I’m being conned, that you saw the possum and want a piece of him?” she muttered, trailing after her dog.

  Oscar was leaping at the back door by the time she reached the kitchen. She unbolted the lock and he shot through, barking like mad and running to the fountain in the corner. The verandah was shadowed but warm, and Caitlyn stood at its edge, waiting for the dog to settle down, listening to the insects humming and noticing the faint hint of cigarette smoke in the air. It was warm. Humid.

  “Caitie?” a voice called from behind her.

  “Jesus!” She nearly jumped out of her skin. Turning quickly, she looked into the shadows as she recognized the voice. “Kelly?”

  But there was no one there . . . the verandah was empty. Other than Oscar nosing in the flower beds and the gurgle of the fountain, not a sound. She glanced at her dog and noticed that he hadn’t looked up, didn’t come wiggling over to have Kelly pat his head.

  Caitlyn was jumpy. That was it. Imagining sounds.

  She let out a long breath, tried to slow her heart rate. Maybe she really was cracking up. Losing it. God, no. “Come on,” she said to the dog as he sniffed the base of a magnolia tree. “Oscar. Now.” He hesitated, glanced over to the dark corner from where she’d thought she heard Kelly call her name, and he let out a whimper. Caitlyn looked again. No one. Nothing . . . just her overactive imagination.

  “Get a grip,” she told herself, but threw the dead bolt once she’d closed the door. From the kitchen she stared into the dark backyard and felt a another sliver of doubt. Had someone been outside with her . . . or not? Was someone watching the house, lurking in the shadows . . . stalking her, for crying out loud?

  She backed away from t
he window and tried to shake off the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Halfway up the stairs, she heard the phone blast.

  Taking the remaining steps two at a time, she flew into the den. The rudimentary drawing of the vampire bat was still floating on her monitor. She clicked off her computer and slid out the compact disc, silently counting to ten before taking a chance that the caller wasn’t a reporter. “Hello?”

  “Caitlyn?” Troy’s voice crackled over the line. She nearly melted with relief to hear him. “Can you go out to Oak Hill? His voice was serious. Grim.

  “Now?” She glanced at the digital clock glowing in the semi-dark room. It was nearly ten.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Caitlyn asked, her heart pounding with dread. “What’s wrong?”

  Troy hesitated a second, then said, “Amanda was in an accident. Single car. A few hours ago.”

  “Oh, my God!” Caitlyn braced herself for the worst. “Is she all right?”

  “I guess so. Ian’s picking her up now. A good samaritan phoned 911 when she saw her go off the road, and I don’t have all the details, but I think she blacked out. Anyway, the EMTs arrived and hauled her by ambulance to the ER. She’s already seen a doc, had a couple of tests and she’s insisting that she be released. She was lucky. But Mom’s not taking it well. You’d better get out to the house.”

  “I’m on my way,” Caitlyn said, hanging up and scooping up her purse. She had her keys in her hand and nearly tripped over Oscar as she raced down the stairs.

  The ghosts were talking again. Whispering between themselves as they dashed through the old house and outside. Lucille trembled as she stared out the window, looking past the trees lining the drive to Oak Hill. She rubbed her arms, tried to shake off the chill, but she couldn’t.

  Evil was coming.

  Riding fast on a black horse with hooves aflame.

  Coming straight for her.