Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  Where once there had been lush, clipped hedges and clear ponds covered with water lilies, there now was only ruin and disrepair. The ornate red brick building with its gargoyles on the downspouts and windows was now crumbling and dark, a desiccated skeleton of a once great lady.

  He closed his eyes for a second, remembering the sights and smells of the hospital with its grand facade and filthy, wicked secrets. Prayers had been whispered, screams stifled, a place where God and Satan met.

  Home.

  Opening his eyes, he walked swiftly along a weed-choked path that was, no doubt, long forgotten.

  But not by him.

  Twenty years was a generation.

  Twenty years was a lifetime.

  Twenty years was a sentence.

  And twenty years was long enough to forget.

  Now, it was time to remember.

  From his pocket he withdrew a ring of keys and quickly walked to a back service door. One key slid into the rusted old lock and turned. Easily. He stepped inside and, using a small penlight, illuminated his way. He was getting used to it again, had returned nearly two months earlier. It had taken that long to establish himself, to prepare.

  Silently he crept through a hallway to a locked door leading to the basement, but he passed it and turned right, walking two steps up to the old kitchen with its rusting industrial sinks and massive, blackened and ruined stove. Over the cracked tiles, he made his way through a large dining hall and then into the old foyer at the base of the stairs where a grandfather’s clock had once ticked off the seconds of his life.

  It was dark inside, his penlight giving off poor illumination, but in the past few weeks he’d reacquainted himself with the dark, musty corridors, the warped wooden floors, the cracked and boarded-over windows. Quickly he hurried up the stairs, his footsteps light, his breathing quick as he reached the landing where the old stained glass window was miraculously still intact. Shining his light on the colored glass for just a second, he felt a quiver of memory, and for the briefest of seconds imagined her dark silhouette backlit by the stained glass Madonna.

  He couldn’t linger. Had to keep moving. Swiftly, he turned and hurried up the final flight of stairs to the third floor.

  To her room.

  His throat closed and he felt a zing sizzle through his blood as quick shards of memory pierced his brain. He bit his lip as he remembered her lush auburn hair, those luminous golden eyes that would round so seductively when he surprised her, the slope of her cheeks and the curve of her neck that he so longed to kiss and bite.

  He remembered her breasts, large and firm, as they stretched the blouses she wore, straining the buttons, offering glimpses of rapturous cleavage. She wore slacks sometimes, but she had a skirt, in a color that reminded him of ripe peaches. Even now he recalled how the hem danced around her taut, muscular calves, hitting just below her knees, as she climbed the stairs.

  He felt himself harden at the thought of the curve of her legs, the sway of that gauzy fabric, the way she would look over her shoulder to see him watching her as she ascended the old staircase, the fingers of one hand trailing along the polished banister as the old clock tick, tick, ticked away his life.

  His lust had been powerful then.

  Pounding through his blood.

  Thundering in his brain.

  He’d never wanted any one thing the way he’d wanted Faith.

  He felt it again, that powerful ache that started between his legs and crawled steadily up his body. Beads of sweat emerged on his forehead and shoulders. The crotch of his pants was suddenly uncomfortable and tight.

  He pressed on, to the upper level, his heart racing.

  Room 307 was in the middle of the hallway, poised high over the turn of the circular drive, an intimate little space where his life had changed forever.

  Carefully and quietly, he unlocked the door. He slipped inside to stand in the very room where it had all happened.

  Starlight filtered through the window, adding an eerie cast to the familiar room. The heat of the day settled deep into the old crumbling bricks of a building that, in its century-long lifetime, had been the stage for many uses. Some had been good, others had been inherently and undeniably evil.

  Not that long ago . . .

  Closing his eyes and concentrating, he conjured up the sounds that had echoed through the corridors, the rattle of carts, scrape of slippers, the desperate moans and cries of the tormented souls who had unwillingly inhabited Our Lady of Virtues Hospital. Those noises had been muted by the chant of prayers and echoing chimes of the clock.

  But Faith had been here. Beautiful Faith. Frightened Faith. Trembling Faith.

  Again his memories assailed him.

  Sharp.

  Precise.

  Not dulled by the passage of two decades.

  In intricate detail, he recalled the scent of her skin, the naughty playfulness of her smile, the sweet, dark rumble of her voice, and the sexy way she walked, her buttocks shifting beneath her clothes.

  His jaw tightened. The ache within him heated his blood, stirring old desires, pounding at his temples.

  He shouldn’t have wanted her.

  It had been a sin.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her.

  It had been a sin.

  He shouldn’t have pulled her shirt down to expose her bare breasts.

  It had been a sin.

  He shouldn’t have lain with her, his muscles soaked in sweat, her hands gripping his shoulders as she’d cried out in pleasure and pain.

  It had been heaven.

  And hell.

  Now, his fists balled at the agony of it all. To have wanted her so badly, so achingly, to have tasted the salt upon her skin, to have buried himself deep into the moist heat of her and then to have all that sweet, sweet paradise wrenched away so violently, had been excruciating. His teeth gnashed to the point his jaw ached.

  He walked across the room, his hands at his sides, the tips of his gloved fingers rubbing anxiously together. Faith. Oh, Faith. You shall be avenged.

  Carefully, almost reverently, he ran his fingers along the swollen wood casing of the window and looked at the spot where her bed had been. He remembered how this small room had smelled faintly of lilacs and roses, how sunshine had streamed through the tall, arched window where gauzy curtains often fluttered in the warm Louisiana breeze.

  Now, the small space was bare.

  He ran his penlight over the rusted grooves where the metal castings of the bed had dug into the floor. Tiny brittle carcasses and droppings of dead insects littered the floor or were caught in ancient webs. Dust covered every surface and the paint around the windows and baseboards had peeled. The floral wallpaper had faded and begun to curl away from the walls, deep brown stains running from the ceiling and down the separating seams.

  So much pain. So much fear. Still lingering. His lip curled as he sensed silent recriminations where vile acts had occurred between these four walls. So many wrongs had taken place here, so many evil deeds.

  Anger, deep and dark, stole through his veins.

  Finally, he could right all the wrongs.

  Take his own revenge.

  And it would happen.

  Starting tonight.

  CHAPTER 2

  Abby pushed the speed limit. She was running late and trying to make up time as she drove into the city.

  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

  Jacques Chastain’s personal credo ran through her head as the windshield wipers scraped rain from the windshield of her Honda. She turned on her headlights to cut through the sheets of water and the darkness of the storm.

  She had tried to adopt her father’s attitude, just as Zoey had, but the truth of the matter was she’d just never been as strong as her father or older sister . . . Again, she was more like her mother, not only in looks but in temperament.

  Now, however, as she eased onto the freeway toward New Orleans, she was stupidly listening to the radio and her ex-
husband’s show. She’d warned herself not to, but tuning into the program was a test for her. How much could she stomach, she wondered and decided she could use a little of her father’s toughness just about now.

  True to his word, Luke had centered his call-in show on bitter ex-wives, women who, he contended, had never gotten over the despair and anger of their rejection. They were “losers” in the matrimonial game, females who were desperate to marry again but didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of doing so. Fat women. Ugly women. Type-A bitches who didn’t know their place in the world.

  Luke was obviously still pissed by their conversation the night of her birthday and was on a roll, really going for the jugular today. He didn’t seem to care who he offended. Divorced women bashing was the mode of the day.

  Seething, Abby itched to call in, to tell him how wrong he was, but deep down, he knew it. His “viewpoint” was all about gaining listeners, and both he and the radio station didn’t care if his audience liked him, hated him, or was merely fascinated with his outrageous opinions.

  It made her sick.

  Yep, it sure as hell was time to get out of New Orleans. Way past time. She just had a little unfinished business in town and then she was outta here.

  Her tires sang over the wet pavement. A flock of pelicans flew across the steel-colored clouds as the skyline of New Orleans became visible.

  She was only listening to the program today to witness him make an ass of himself over the airwaves. Since he’d warned her in their phone conversation that he was going to rake her over the proverbial coals, she wanted to hear the program herself rather than have some friend phone her with the ugly play-by-play.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out the appeal of his show, but supposedly his audience was growing by exponential numbers. Luke Gierman was a household name in New Orleans, his radio program soon to be syndicated, if the rumors she’d heard were true. Inwardly she groaned. She could now be humiliated not only at a local level, but nationally as well.

  It was a sad commentary on the American public’s taste.

  You’ve tuned in, haven’t you? She chastised herself. Since the divorce, she had studiously avoided listening to Luke the Liar. In the past year, she’d only heard his rants a few times while surfing through the stations.

  “Yeah, my ex is a real piece of work,” he was saying, the tone of his voice incredulous. “She makes Mata Hari look like the Virgin Mary.”

  More uproarious laughter.

  “You’re so funny, Luke,” Abby growled, her fingers gripping the wheel until her knuckles showed white. How could she have ever thought she loved the creep?

  “She really took me to the cleaners in the divorce and then had the nerve to be bitter about it! What’s up with that? I guess ninety-eight percent of the assets weren’t enough.”

  “She wants your ass, too,” his side-kick, Maury, chimed in.

  She should sue the son of a bitch for slander, but he’d just make a circus of that as well, somehow get more publicity for himself, paint himself as a victim and, in the process, mortify her.

  She glanced down at her purse and considered grabbing her cell phone, calling in and defending herself. She’d always been able to verbally handle him, and she wanted like hell to stand up for herself and every other divorced woman or man on the planet who had dealt with a cheating, lying spouse.

  The wheels of her Honda slid a little as she took a corner a bit too fast. “Don’t let him get to you.” She was more angry with herself than anything else and yet Luke’s voice, the one that had once whispered endearments, cracked funny jokes, even risen in heated political debates for the downtrodden, was now loud and crass.

  “. . . you know,” he was saying to the audience, “I think all divorced people go crazy for a while. And women are worse than men. Some of them, like my ex, become sociopaths or else extremely delusional. Paranoid.”

  Maury the Moron laughed.

  “You won’t believe what my ex did.”

  Here it comes. Her gut tightened. “She had the gall to get rid of everything I cared about. Guy stuff. Skis—Rossignols, no less, my golf clubs, a handcrafted surfboard from Hawaii . . . and she gave them all to the Salvation Army.”

  “No!” Maury breathed into the mike. Abby pictured the short, balding guy throwing a hand over his heart in mock horror.

  “Yep. And it worries me, you know?”

  Yeah, right. Abby looked in her rearview mirror, saw a cop car, and felt her heart sink. She’d been so into the show, she hadn’t known that she was speeding, but one glance at the speedometer told her that she was nearly ten miles over the limit. She slowed just as the cop hit his lights and siren. Great. Just her luck!. She pulled into the right lane, searching for a place to pull over. The police car, colored lights flashing, siren wailing, screamed past.

  She lucked out. Let out a long breath.

  That’s what you get for listening to Luke’s stupid program!

  She started to switch stations when Luke said, “Don’t get me wrong. She’s a beautiful woman. Sexy as hell. And smart. But sometimes I think she’s got more than one screw loose.”

  “She married you, didn’t she?” the co-host joked, all in good fun.

  “Idiots,” Abby muttered as she increased her speed.

  Luke laughed. “Well, yeah, there’s that, and her mother was certifiable, you know. No kidding.”

  “You cheap, sick bastard!” Abby was stunned. This was beyond low.

  “Okay, how about this, and you listeners, call in and let me know if your ex has ever done anything this nuts. When I called my ex the other night to wish her happy birthday and tell her I was going to pick up the things I’d left there . . . guess what? That’s when she told me she’d given it all away! Including my Rossignol skis . . . now she knew I was planning a ski trip this winter, so how’s that for vindictive?”

  “Ouch.” Maury was in his element, adding a little punch. “Aren’t you taking your girlfriend on that trip?”

  “Of course.”

  “Isn’t she about twenty years younger than your ex?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Double-ouch.”

  Abby’s hands clenched on the wheel.

  Luke continued, “So the deal was, we had an agreement that she would store some of my things, including the skis, until I got a bigger place since, in the divorce, she ended up with the house, the car, the studio, and just about everything else we ever owned.”

  “You lying son of a bitch,” Abby said through gritted teeth. She’d paid him for his share of the house and studio and she had the title to her car, this little Honda, while he owned a Lexus SUV! Just about everything had been split right down the middle. She gnashed her teeth and fumed. If she had any brains, she’d turn off the radio or find a station with smooth jazz or some calming classical music.

  “So, get this, my ex claims she gave everything she was keeping for me away, including a family heirloom, which just happens to be a handgun. She says she donated it all, lock, stock, and barrel so to speak, to a charity.”

  “A charity?” More mock horror on the moron’s part.

  What a crock!

  “Like I’m supposed to believe that any charitable organization would take a gun. Of course it was a lie. But how safe does that make me feel? Knowing that my psychotic ex-wife is literally gunning for me with my father’s sidearm, the weapon he was issued from the police department.”

  “You’d better change your address.”

  “Or start packin’ my own heat,” Luke said as Maury cackled uproariously.

  Abby couldn’t stand it another second. She scrounged in her purse, dug out her cell phone, flipped it open, and quickly dialed the station, the direct line to the radio show.

  An even-toned female voice answered the call, “WSLJ. Gierman’s Groaners.”

  Abby caught herself just in time. Before she said a word, she snapped the flip phone closed. Don’t engage him. Do not let him know that you heard t
he show. Do not listen to that pathetic drivel he calls entertainment or social commentary. Otherwise he wins.

  Muttering under her breath, she turned off the radio in disgust, then realized she’d missed her exit off the freeway. She simmered all the way into the city, where she was scheduled for a consultation for a wedding. Having to backtrack made her nearly ten minutes late by the time she pulled into the driveway of a gracious two-hundred-year-old home in the Garden District. Painted a soft green, accented by black shutters, and surrounded by flowerbeds still ablaze with color, the house stood a full three stories amid its tended grounds.

  As she was climbing out of her car, her cell phone rang and she looked at the luminous display. Another real estate company. Probably the twentieth who had contacted her since she’d placed her For Sale by Owner advertisement in the paper and hammered her sign into her yard two nights earlier.

  She let the call go to voice mail, and turned off the phone. Then grabbing her portfolio from the backseat, she ducked her head against the warm rain and headed up the brick walkway to the front door to meet with the bride, groom, and no doubt the bride’s mother.

  How ironic, she thought, that she’d burned her own pictures while she carefully staged, planned, and snapped pictures of dozens of other newlyweds.

  Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor?

  Where was he taking her?

  Bound, blindfolded, and gagged, Mary LaBelle sent up prayer after prayer to God.

  For help.

  For freedom.

  For salvation.

  Tears rained from her eyes, soaking the cloth wrapped tightly over her head, and lower still onto the gag that had been thrust so violently into her mouth. She felt as if she might retch, her stomach heaved, but somehow she managed to force the urge back. She didn’t want to drown in her own vomit.

  It was dark. She couldn’t see a thing. She sensed she was in a vehicle of some kind, a truck she guessed from the ride and sound of the engine. She hadn’t seen it, but he’d managed to push her into a cramped backseat that was covered in plastic. The driver, the guy who had jumped her from behind as she’d been jogging on the trails of the All Saints campus, had appeared out of nowhere, leaping from behind a hedge running from the commons just as the rain had really started to pour. Anxious to return to her dorm, Mary hadn’t seen him, had never caught so much as a glimpse of his face, just felt his weight as he’d tackled her from the back, thrown a bag over her head, and subdued her by twisting her arm upward and dropping her to her knees. She’d tried to scream, but he’d held a gun to her temple; she could still feel the cold round impression against her skin. She’d closed her mouth and accepted her fate.