The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  “That’s a pretty general statement.”

  “But true.”

  He lifted a shoulder and she saw the amusement in his eyes, the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, the intelligence etched in the features of his face. “Okay, Doctor, what do you want to know?”

  “First of all. Have you ever been married?”

  The smile tightened. “Once.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It was brief. A long time ago. As I said before, no kids.”

  “You ever see her?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Any steady girlfriend?”

  “At the moment?” He shook his head. “No. Remember, I just got into town.”

  “But I thought there might be a woman waiting for you at home.”

  “In the Midwest? No. No woman waiting.”

  “I thought you might have been running from something; some deep, dark, shady past, and that’s why you’re here.”

  “Maybe I was running to something.”

  “What?”

  “That remains to be seen now, doesn’t it?” he teased, his smile stretching more widely now that they were out of dangerous conversational territory. “Maybe it was kismet, or fate, or the alignment of the planets.”

  “You think?” she asked, amused.

  “Who knows, but I am here and right now I think it might have been one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. I mean, how great is it to be sitting outside in Savannah, eating fabulous food and spending time with a fascinating, beautiful woman?”

  “One who told you she can’t remember if she was involved in her husband’s death,” she reminded him, and some of the magic of the evening seemed to dissipate.

  “Hey—for the rest of the meal, let’s put that aside.”

  “It’s not as easy as that.”

  “Try.” He motioned to the waitress and ordered the pie with ice cream and two forks. “Just a few more minutes.”

  “Okay.” And she did her best. Laughing, joking, letting him feed her a bit of the sweet confection, looking into the dark square across the street and trying not to imagine hidden eyes staring at her from inky hiding spots. She was safe with Adam. She trusted him, and when he paid the bill and refused to let her help, she didn’t fight him. Together they walked to his office, and when he took her hand as they cut through a back alley she didn’t fight him. They reached her car, and she felt a little disappointed that the evening was over.

  “Maybe you should come by tomorrow,” he suggested. “We can discuss anything you want. And you have my home number, right?”

  “On your card in my purse.”

  “Good. You can call me any time.” They were standing beneath a security lamp for the small parking area. He squeezed her fingers. “Any time.”

  “You might regret those words.”

  “I don’t think so.” His teeth flashed white against his dark skin. His eyes found hers, and her breath stopped short in her lungs. He was going to kiss her. She was certain of it. A tingle of excitement swept up her spine, and he leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Take care.” He opened the car door for her.

  “You, too.” Ignoring the open door, she stood on her tiptoes and put her face next to his. “Thanks for a lovely evening.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and then slid into her Lexus. While he was still standing there, looking stunned, she slammed the door shut, jabbed her key into the ignition and put the car in gear. She backed up, waved, then nosed into the alley. She was grinning at her reflection in the rearview mirror when she glanced back and saw him standing just where she’d left him under the street lamp. Kissing him had been a bold move. Unlike her. But, then, she was doing a lot of things that weren’t like her these days.

  And she loved it.

  Berneda opened a bleary eye. For a moment she was confused by the quiet surroundings. The only light was from a few backlit fixtures in the outer hallway. Then, slowly, she remembered that she was in a hospital, sleeping on an uncomfortable bed, tubes running in and out of her body. Her mind was sluggish, her thoughts not running in any particular order, except that she wanted to go home. To the big plantation home that spoke of more genteel times, to her own room, her own bed.

  She wanted Lucille to wait on her. Lucille was patient and kind, unlike some of the snippy young things that poked and prodded her all in the name of health care.

  What was she doing here in this private room? Another spell? Yes . . . that was it. Or was it? Her brain was moving at far less than light speed. She reached for a tissue on the stand but couldn’t make her hand obey her mind. She realized that her vision was distorted, that the shiny fixtures in the room were out of proportion, stretched to impossible shapes. She licked her lips, and her tongue was thick. Whatever they’d given her was powerful.

  She needed more sleep. That was it. She started to close her eyes when she noticed a movement near the door. Without a sound, a figure appeared as if on cat’s silent paws. A woman. Maybe another nurse. More torture. Berneda half expected some pert young thing to try and take her temperature or blood pressure, but as the silhouette of the woman loomed closer, her face in shadows, Berneda sensed something was wrong. Squinting against her blurred, distorted vision, she started to say something, but as swiftly as a cottonmouth striking, the woman pulled something from behind her back. A pillow. Berneda opened her mouth just as it was covered. She tried to scream, but only managed to flail like a marionette. The woman was strong, surprisingly so, and Berneda was weak and drugged.

  Help me, she silently screamed as her lungs burned, feeling as if they would burst. Pain screamed through her body and the angina kicked in, the heavy oppressive weight on her heart reminding her of her condition. She tried to gasp for air and felt the cotton cover of the pillow pushed down her throat. No! This couldn’t be happening! Who was trying to kill her?

  The edge of the pillow partially covered her eyes and her eyesight was already warped, but as her attacker pressed harder on her chest, shoving the horrid pillow over her nose, as her lungs turned to fire, Berneda caught a death’s-eye vision of her murderess. A familiar if distorted face.

  “I am Atropos,” the killer whispered harshly against Berneda’s ear. “And you have met your fate.”

  Twenty-Three

  He woke up covered in sweat. His cock was rock-hard, his skin drenched, his breathing erratic. Adam threw off the covers and walked into the bathroom, where he found a washcloth and wiped it over his face. He’d been dreaming, and in the dream he’d been with Caitlyn, kissing her, touching her, nearly making love to her. He’d wanted her as badly as he’d ever wanted a woman.

  But it was only a dream.

  The vision of her lying on a chaise longue on the deck of a sleek cabin cruiser had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination. She’d been naked aside from a pair of sunglasses. Her skin had been gleaming in the hot tropical sun, and she’d looked up at him with a sly, seductive smile. He’d been walking on the oiled teak planks. He, too, was naked, ready and knowing that she wanted to make love to him.

  He’d reached her and knelt, kissing her belly button as she’d moaned and arched upward. Her skin had tasted salty; her flesh had been warm. He’d slid upward and run his tongue over a hard, expectant nipple.

  “Ooohh,” she’d moaned and he’d looked up to her face, watched as she’d languorously removed her sunglasses and stared at him in amusement. Except that when she’d uncovered her eyes, she was no longer Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux, but Rebecca, and the smile that had curved her lips had turned to stone, her eyes growing glassy, her features waxen, her body as cold as marble.

  Now, as he stared into the mirror, he faced what he’d feared for weeks. That Rebecca wasn’t off on one of her flighty sojourns, that she hadn’t even left him to find a new lover, that, in fact, there was a very real possibility that she was dead.

  And the answer was tied to Caitlyn.

  From all the notes Rebecca had written, he’d pieced together t
hat Caitlyn Bandeaux was Rebecca’s most fascinating client, that she was planning to do more research on her and her twin sister Kelly, but the information was spotty. Tantalizing, but incomplete. Pages and pages were missing.

  Wrapping a towel over his neck, he walked into the den. It was four in the morning, but he wasn’t tired. He pulled out his desk chair and turned on his computer. Caitlyn’s image came to his mind as the machine whirred to life. He imagined her dark hair spread upon a pillow, her face turned up to his, her skin as soft as silk . . . oh, hell, it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Way too long. Turning his thoughts away from the provocative image, he checked his e-mail. He was hoping for word that the hard drive he’d taken to a private company could be reconstructed, that any information that had once been stored on it might be retrieved. So far his friend at the company had not responded.

  So he’d have to wait.

  But he was running out of time.

  Soon he’d have to come clean with Caitlyn. With the police. With himself. Because he was getting in far too deep. His involvement with Caitlyn had already gone past the bounds of professionalism; he was skating on thinner and thinner ice. Soon it would break and he’d be plunged into the black oblivion, a whirlpool of emotions dragging him under.

  He found her intriguing. Extremely so.

  And it wasn’t just because of her circumstances.

  It was because she was a damnably sexy woman; one he couldn’t pigeonhole. She was shy one minute, bold the next. Her worries seemed real—or were they a part of a deeper psychosis?

  I’m afraid . . . oh, Jesus . . . I’m afraid that somehow I’m responsible for my husband’s death.

  A murderess?

  Nah.

  So how did she get the slashes on her wrists?

  What about all the blood she said had been in her bedroom ? Real? Or hallucination?

  And which was worse?

  He dabbed at his forehead with the end of his towel, then walked to the kitchen and pulled a beer from his refrigerator. He could not get involved with Caitlyn Bandeaux. Could not. He popped the tab on his Millers and took a long pull. Who the hell did he think he was kidding? He was involved. Big time.

  It was already too late.

  Atropos rowed silently through the water; the boat skimmed across the current and even though she was tired, she smiled. Her car was tucked away, and with the light of the moon to guide her, she’d hurried down the path to the river. Her canoe was where she’d left it and she pushed off into the dark current. She’d always felt at home on the water and thrilled to the night; like a vampire, she thought, rowing steadily against the pull of the river. Looking up at the moon, she was reminded of her task. It had been unclear once, but now she knew her path. Sensing a storm brewing, she guided her sleek craft to the dock. Quickly she cut up the path. She was tired and exhilarated at the same time. The killings were always exhausting as well as replenishing, but she needed a little time to rest. To consider what she’d done. To reflect.

  Quietly she slunk through the shadows to her private space, then hurried down the stairs. She didn’t have much time. Soon it would be dawn. She found the flashlight where she’d left it and shined it on her captive. Cricket blinked hard, and her gaze moved from the flashlight’s beam to the jar of spiders. She blanched and squirmed, trying to shout through her gag. She’d have to be subdued again.

  “I took care of another one,” Atropos said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a life cord.

  Cricket froze.

  “Berneda. You know, the mother.” Atropos sighed and shook her hair over her shoulder. She could use a cigarette . . . but not yet. Cricket was squirming away on the dirt, trying to put distance between herself and the milk jug. Pathetic. Such a brazen girl turned to jelly—all by a few little spiders. How easy it was to know their fears.

  Haunted eyes looked up at Atropos. “That’s right. She’s dead.”

  The eyes rounded and there was a gasp, a muffled intake of breath. “How? Oh, she had a bad heart and then . . . well, a little trouble breathing.”

  Why waste her breath? The pitiful illegitimate spawn of the father would never understand. “But don’t worry. You won’t have to wait long.” She touched the cord surrounding the neck of the milk jug. “See.”

  She didn’t, of course. Cricket just stared up at her as if she were insane. Her! A little niggle of doubt, the fear that was always just under the surface, wormed its way up and for a heartbeat she questioned her own sanity, but then she pushed that scary idea far back in her brain, past the pain beginning to pound. She glanced down at the frightened piece of filth bound, gagged and shivering with fear. “It’s almost your turn,” Atropos said, just to keep Cricket in her place.

  She trained her light on the bookcase and found the hidden lever. She flipped off the flashlight and heard Cricket’s mewling again. It was enough to make her break the rules and kill her before her time.

  Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

  Patience is a virtue.

  Yeah, whoever came up with that stupid saying?

  Atropos had learned early on that a person had to make her own way; she couldn’t wait for it to be handed to her.

  She stepped into her surgical slippers and slid into the clean white room, her sanctuary, away from nasty spiders, nastier white-trash prisoners, and into the coolness where she could regroup and find inner peace.

  For a while she could bask in her accomplishments.

  Until the next time.

  Which, she knew, would be very, very soon.

  “. . . oh, God, Caitlyn, she’s dead. Mother is dead!” Hannah’s voice quivered, and deep, heart-wrenching sobs tore from her throat as she wailed into the phone.

  Caitlyn froze at her desk. She’d been working, trying not to freak out about her meeting with the lawyer scheduled for this afternoon and pushing aside all her jumbled thoughts and conflicted emotions about Adam Hunt. “Wait a minute,” she said. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Steadied herself against her desk. “Just calm down.” There had to be some mistake. Had to. Maybe Hannah was tripping out again. She’d already overdosed on LSD once before; there was a chance that she was hallucinating, having a really bad trip. “Mom’s in the hospital. Remember? She’s getting the best care available and—”

  “And she’s dead! Don’t you get it? Dead!”

  Caitlyn couldn’t believe it. Yes, her mother had been frail, but Berneda was in the hospital where she was monitored as she recovered. “This can’t be true.”

  “It is, for God’s sake! Someone probably killed her.”

  “Whoa. That’s a pretty big leap.” Caitlyn was still trying to sort fact from fiction.

  “Is it, Caitlyn? You really think so? Haven’t you been paying attention to what’s been happening?” Hannah was frantic, her voice rising. “Look, I know she was okay, stable, that’s what the doctors and nurses at the hospital said and then . . . and then . . . Troy got a call from Eastside this morning, the doctor in charge, I can’t remember his name, and he claims that Mom died in her sleep. Why? How could that happen?”

  Stunned, Caitlyn leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know. You’re sure?”

  “Call the damned hospital yourself, if you don’t believe me.” Hannah was crying again, and for the first time Caitlyn started to believe her, to think that her mother had died. The pressure on her chest doubled. Berneda—dead? Was it really possible? “She . . . she was sick. Maybe she just passed away.”

  “Oh, yeah, right!” Hannah sniffed loudly. “I think someone helped her along. Why didn’t the fucking nitro pills work at home, huh? And Amanda—someone just happened to run her off the road the week after Josh was killed. No, this is being done on purpose. Someone’s picking all of us off, one by one.”

  A chill settled into Caitlyn’s blood. Wasn’t Hannah just verbalizing what she herself hadn’t wanted to face? Hadn’t she, alone at night, suspected that someone was systematically killing off the members of her fa
mily? But who? Who would want to kill them all?

  What about you, Caitlyn? You’re the one who has trouble remembering. You’re the one who found blood all over your room the morning after your husband was killed.

  “What does the hospital say?” Caitlyn demanded, shutting off the accusations running through her mind.

  “I don’t know. Troy’s calling the doctor in charge as well as Doc Fellers, but I think they’re probably scurrying around at Eastside General trying to cover their asses.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah—unless you count Lucille.”

  “She counts. How’s she handling this?”

  “She’s already packing her things,” Hannah said, her voice shivering with disapproval.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. The first thing she did was buy herself a one-way ticket to Florida. Said she had no reason to stick around here. No family left. Her daughter never calls or shows up even when she’s supposed to, and now that Mom’s gone, Lucille’s going to move in with her sister.”

  “Already?”

  “I think she’s been planning for it for a long time. She knows that Mom left her a nice little inheritance, so she’s outta here. Her plane takes off tomorrow. How about that? She didn’t even wait and get a cheaper fare by planning a couple of weeks in advance.”

  “But the funeral . . .” Caitlyn murmured, beginning to accept everything Hannah had told her. “I’d think she’d want to attend.”

  “Who knows? She’s an odd duck. Weird, always talking about the ghosts hanging out here. I say it’s high time she goes. Good riddance.”

  “But that leaves you alone in the house.”

  “Just me and the ghosts,” Hannah replied, some of her old sarcasm returning. “Christ, I can’t believe this.” She paused and Caitlyn heard the sound of a lighter clicking.

  “I can be at the house in half an hour.”

  “No. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Troy’s already on his way, and he said he’d call Amanda. I’ll see you there!”