by Lisa Jackson
Montoya stepped inside and, for a second, felt as if he’d been propelled into another world. “What the hell is all this?” he asked, flipping on the light and staring at the walls. One side of the room was painted stark white and covered with crucifixes, pictures of the Holy Mother, Mary, and portraits of Jesus upon the cross. The other side was painted black as night and was starkly bare. No wall hangings, no pictures, nothing to reveal anything about the occupant. The desk on the white side of the room was littered with Lucite cubes and framed pictures of Courtney Mary LaBelle along with an open Bible and a rosary that hung from the knob of her closet door. The other side of the room was nearly empty aside from a small printer and several books on a bookcase, novels by Anne Rice and others about vampires, werewolves, and the paranormal.
“I don’t get it,” Brinkman said, and for once, Montoya agreed.
“This room belongs to Courtney LaBelle”—Dr. Usher motioned toward the cluttered side of the room—“as well as Ophelia Ketterling.” The dean’s hand waved toward the stark black walls.
“Roommates?” Brinkman said.
“We encourage our students to be individuals and some of them, well, they take it to the max.” To prove her point more clearly, Dr. Usher snapped down the window shade, allowing no fading light into the room, flipped on a single lamp that sat on the desk in the dark side of the room, then turned off the overhead light.
“Holy shit,” Brinkman said as the dark room transformed instantly. Instead of flat black, the wall was suddenly crawling with designs that were only apparent when the black lightbulb glowed with its eerie purple light. Weird, nearly abstract pictures of gargoyles, vampires, and creatures with long teeth, tails, and tongues appeared as if they’d erupted from the very bowels of hell. “Jesus H. Christ,” Brinkman muttered. “Would you look at this.”
“Ophelia is an art student. A talented one, though some question her subject matter.” Usher snapped on the overhead again and the grotesque images disappeared.
“How did Courtney get along with her roommate?”
“They didn’t.”
Big surprise, Montoya thought.
“She, uh, complain about the weirdo decorations?” Brinkman asked.
“Not to me, nor the resident advisor,” the dean said, biting her lower lip. “It’s fall term, actually the year has barely started. I only heard about this”—she motioned toward the black walls—“after word of the tragedy hit.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around her slim waist, the key ring jingling in her fingers. “It’s all so horrible.”
Amen to that, Montoya thought. “Did the two girls know each other before they came to All Saints?” Montoya asked.
“Courtney and Ophelia? Oh, no.” She shook her head.
Montoya believed it. “Then how did they get together?”
“Computer random pairing,” the dean said.
“As different as they are?” Montoya asked.
“Maybe not so different. Both into art, both nonsmokers, both come from religious families, Courtney from New Orleans, Ophelia from Lafayette. Both their mothers went to college here, both from the upper middle class. Both went to private Catholic high schools. Yes, they’re very different, but they had a lot in common.” Her smile was wan. “Obviously, it didn’t work out.”
“Can we talk to Ms. Ketterling?” Montoya asked.
“She’s downstairs in the office.”
Brinkman was already poking around. Montoya said, “We’ll just be a few minutes.”
“I’ll be there as well.” The dean clipped off in hard-soled shoes that echoed through the tile floors of the hallway and down the stairs.
“What a freak fest,” Brinkman muttered. “The weird art . . . the vampire books, the black walls. This chick is disturbed. Extremely disturbed. We might want to find out where she was on the night her roommate bit it.”
“Lots of people read vampire books. It’s cool these days.”
“Just cuz it’s considered cool, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
Painstakingly they searched the small room, barely speaking to each other, finding nothing of interest. Courtney Mary’s side of the room held textbooks, a few pairs of jeans, T-shirts and sweaters, one dress, and a drawer for her bras and underwear. Crammed onto the desk was typical college stuff: iPod, notebook computer, cell phone, makeup, and toiletries. It was odd she hadn’t taken her cell phone with her, Montoya thought, and bagged it. He eyed the religious symbols. Pictures of angels, reprints of religious paintings—some Montoya recognized—crucifixes and statues of the Madonna. One rosary was looped over the handle of her closet door, another draped over her bedpost. Saints cards and medals were kept in a special box.
He wondered about her obsession. Had being forced to live with a girl who seemed more interested in the dark arts than getting into heaven cause Courtney to take an even deeper interest in her religion? She’d already thought she’d been called, had heard God’s voice. What had being with this roommate done to her?
“Weirder and weirder . . .” Brinkman finally said. “Isn’t that from an old book?”
“I think it’s ‘curiouser and curiouser.’ From Alice in Wonderland. ”
“Close enough.” Brinkman hooked a thumb to the dark side of the room. “And speaking of Wonderland. This chick is off.” Then he glanced at Courtney Mary’s side. “Well, they both are.”
“Maybe that’s why the computer connected them,” Montoya said. “Yin and yang.”
“Whatever. I need a smoke.” He was already scrounging into the inside pocket of his jacket. “How about we finish here, I go outside, and I meet you in the office?”
“Works for me.”
The dog would be a problem.
They always were.
He mentally berated himself as he stood in the woods, darkness closing in, the smell of the swamp thick and dank in his nostrils. Through the dripping Spanish moss and swamp oak and sycamore trees, he stared at the cottage with its broad bank of windows.
Rain gurgled and ran in the gutters as the wind gusted away from the house, carrying his scent in the opposite direction. From these ever-darkening shadows he could, as he had before, follow her movements as she walked through her home. He knew where she kept her hand cream, in the small bathroom near the stairs. He’d seen her coming out of that doorway, rubbing her hands together. He’d watched as she stretched upward to a top shelf in the hallway where her holiday decorations were stashed and seen a flash of smooth hard abdomen as her knit shirt had risen upward, away from the waistband of her jeans. And he knew that in a drawer near the bed, the side of the bed where she didn’t sleep, there was a gun in the drawer; he’d seen her pull it out, study it, then replace it and shut the drawer quickly.
Her husband’s father’s service weapon, he’d learned from Luke Gierman’s last radio broadcast.
Now, she was inside. He caught her image as he stared through her windows, where the warm patches of light were like beacons in the gathering twilight. She’d made herself a pot of coffee and was sipping from a cup as she moved from one room to the next, talking to her animals, turning on the television, working at the table where she’d laid out negatives and pictures. Though he’d barely heard the ringing of her phone, he’d watched as she’d picked up the kitchen extension and talked without a hint of a smile.
The conversation was probably about her dead husband.
Studying her, he wondered how she could have married a man as base as Gierman, a man who had publicly cheated on her and had belittled her on the air.
Mary did you a favor, he thought, remembering the feel of the gun blast in the girl’s hand as she’d killed Gierman, who had been frantic, his eyes bulging in fear, his head shaking wildly as if in so doing he could stop the inevitable.
Gierman’s body had jerked when the gun had gone off. Instantly blood had begun to pump the life from him. Yes, Mary, the virgin, had done the world a favor in taking Gierman’s life. And then she’d made the ultimate sacrifice herself
.
He felt a little buzz in his blood as he remembered the feeling of power, of justice, that had swept over him.
From his hiding spot he saw Abby throw out a hip and wrap one arm under her breasts as she cocked her head and held the phone against her ear. Curling, red-gold hair fell to her shoulders, not the dark mahogany color of Faith’s, but just as inviting. Hot. Fiery.
He swallowed hard as rain caught in his eyelashes and dripped down his nose.
She twisted her head, as if rotating the kinks from her neck, and his erection sprouted as he looked at the column of her throat, the circle of bones at its base.
He rubbed the tips of his gloved fingers together in anticipation and licked his lips, tasting his own sweat and the wash of rainwater. God, she was beautiful. So much like Faith. For a second, he closed his eyes, let the ache within, the wanting control him; felt the rain, God’s tears wash over him, bless him on his mission.
I will not fail, he silently vowed, then opened his eyes to look at her beautiful face, but she’d moved. She wasn’t framed in the living room window any longer.
Where was she?
Panic jetted through him as he checked every window . . . no sign of her. Had she decided to step outside? But he wasn’t ready. He reached into his pocket, felt the handle of the hunting knife and wondered if he’d have to use it.
Heart pumping, his fingers surrounding the hilt, he started to move.
Suddenly she appeared, walking toward the windows from an interior room near the central hallway. He relaxed a second. She was heading into the dining area, but she abruptly stopped, as if she’d heard something. She turned, her eyes staring straight at him. A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. Her eyebrows drew together. She walked unerringly to the window and stared into the darkness.
He froze.
Caught his breath.
Ignored the thrum through his body as she squinted, gold eyes narrowing.
She was utterly beautiful. He watched as she bit the corner of her lip, her eyes trained on the very spot where he was hiding. Had he moved? Caught her attention somehow? Then maybe it was time . . . her time . . .
No, no! Stay with the plan! You’ve worked too many years to change things now. Do NOT follow your instincts . . . not yet.
But she was so like the other one; nearly a replica of Faith. He stared straight into her intense eyes, willing her to see him. Daring her.
Absently she scratched her nape and he studied the movement, thought of the soft skin at her hairline. He considered what she might taste like, what she would feel like, face-down, unaware until his weight pressed her deeper into the mattress . . .
She moved and his inward vision died. Now, she was walking the length of the house, talking to someone, heading toward the door that led to the little walkway separating the main house from her studio. As she passed the French doors, he understood. The damned dog was trotting eagerly beside her, nose upward as if the blasted animal were listening and understanding every word. In a few seconds she’d be at the back door and would probably let the fool dog out. The stupid beast would come barking and leaping after him.
He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew the stolen cell phone, and knowing that he’d blocked caller ID from any transmission, hit speed dial. For her number. The number he’d programed in earlier after lifting the phone out of an unlocked car. He was already moving away from the house, cutting through the heavy cypress, pines, and underbrush, not checking to see if she was going to pick up.
One ring.
Sweating, he hurdled a small log in his path.
Two rings.
Oh, fuck, was she letting the damned dog out?
Three rings.
She wasn’t answering. Damn it, she was probably already at the door. He increased his speed.
Four rings.
Shit!
Click.
His heart nearly stopped.
“Hi, this is Abby. Leave a message.”
He slapped his phone shut, jammed it into his pocket, and silently raced through the dense foliage. He was swift, his body honed from exercise, but he didn’t want to blow his cover by allowing an idiot dog to find him. He’d parked the car over a mile away behind the shed of an abandoned sawmill.
Even in the gathering darkness he didn’t need a flashlight; he’d traveled this way many times. At the fence of the Pomeroy property, he slowed, carefully walking the perimeter, past a small utility gate far from the road. Breathing hard, he half expected Asa’s damned Rottweiler to charge at the fence.
Another stupid dog to deal with.
But there was no growling, no barking, no thundering paws, no snarling, drooling jaws snapping at him from behind the iron bars sealing off Pomeroy’s acres. He turned on the speed again, crossed the road, and slipped onto a deer trail that cut behind the old mill.
Minutes later he vaulted the rusted chain-link fence and landed behind the dilapidated drying shed where his truck was parked.
By the time he slid behind the steering wheel, he was soaked from running through the damp underbrush and his own sweat. His head was pounding, his breathing irregular, not from the run, but from the knowledge that he had come close to being discovered.
Not yet. Oh, no, not yet.
As he switched on the ignition, he let out his breath. Pulling out from behind the old drying shed, he flipped on his wipers to push aside the drops that had collected. He didn’t bother with headlights. Just in case anyone was nearby.
The truck bounced and jostled over the pitted road. He had to stop to open the gate, drive through, then stop and close the gate behind him again, securing the hiding place for another time. He even secured the damned thing with his own lock. He’d already dispensed with the original one by snipping it with bolt cutters a few weeks earlier.
Because this was the perfect location to hide his vehicle.
Once inside the King Cab again, he eased toward the main road and, seeing no car coming, eased onto the highway and turned on his headlights. His heart was still pounding out of control, his nerves stretched to the breaking point. He rolled a window down to help with the fog inside, then once he’d put a few miles between himself and Abby Chastain’s cottage, he switched on the radio and hit the button for WSLJ.
“. . . continuing our tribute to Luke Gierman tonight. All of us here at WSLJ, well, and I’m sure everyone in New Orleans, too, is outraged and saddened by what happened to Luke and we urge everyone who’s listening, if they know anything that might help the police solve this crime, to call in. We don’t have a lot of details as to exactly what happened yet, but it seems that the murder-suicide theory has been scrapped, and that the police believe the double murder was staged to make it appear as if the female victim, Courtney LaBelle, shot Luke then turned the gun on herself. Local, state, and federal authorities are now searching for the killer of both Luke Gierman and Courtney Mary LaBelle. The minute we get any more information about this sick crime, we’ll let you know, of course.
“Now, we’ve got several of his personal favorite shows and we’ll run them back to back with a half an hour between each one where you, the listeners, Luke’s fans, can call in with your comments, or if you’d rather, e-mail them to the station and we’ll read them on the air. The first show will be taken from last summer, right before the Fourth of July and it will be replayed at nine P.M. . . .”
Satisfied, he snapped off the radio. The tribute to Gierman was pathetic, but it also kept the public aware of Gierman’s death and that was important. So the citizens of New Orleans were “outraged and saddened.” Good. It was time. Long past.
Tune in tomorrow, he thought as he considered his next act of retribution, his next victims.
They were out there.
Just waiting for him.
CHAPTER 7
Montoya locked the door to the dorm room, then he and Brinkman clomped down four flights to the main reception area of Cramer Hall. While Brinkman peeled off to go outside and light up, M
ontoya found the small office behind the bank of mailboxes where Dean Usher sat behind a wide oak desk. A heavyset girl with obviously dyed black hair and a bad complexion that was partially hidden by white, ghoulish makeup glowered from a side chair. She was wearing a long black dress, black lacy gloves without fingers, black boots, and a bad attitude as she sat cross-legged, one booted foot bouncing nervously.
“Ophelia, this is Detective Montoya.” Usher looked past him to the doorway, obviously expecting Brinkman to follow. “Detective Montoya, Ophelia Ketterling.”
“Just O,” the girl corrected without a hint of a smile. “I go by O.”
Montoya took the only remaining chair, near the girl. “Detective Brinkman will be here in a second,” he explained. “But we should get started. I’ll be recording this interview. That okay with you?”
A lift of one shoulder. As if she just didn’t give a damn and was waiting for the ordeal to be over. “Whatever.”
“Good.” He set the pocket recorder on the corner of the big desk.
Dean Usher eyed the tiny machine with its slow-moving tape as if it were a rabid dog, but she didn’t argue. “Both detectives are with the New Orleans Police Department and want to ask you some questions about Courtney.”
“You mean ‘Mary,’ don’t you?” the girl shot back, coming to life a bit. “She was pretty insistent about her name.”
The dean’s irritation was visible in the tightening of the corners of her mouth. “Just answer the questions.”
“What are they?” Looking past layers of mascara, she managed to appear bored to tears.
“First of all, was she dating anyone?”
Ophelia snorted derisively and folded her arms across her chest, thus increasing her cleavage. Which, he figured, was intentional. Montoya had seen dozens of kids with the same kind of attitude as this girl, so hung up on being “bad” and “different” he could read her like a book. “No one, okay?”
“No boyfriend?”
She rolled her expressive eyes, as if she thought him a thick-headed idiot. “Not unless you count Jesus.”
