by Lisa Jackson
Hundreds of students surrounded the chapel steps, each holding a candle, each listening raptly to the priest’s smooth, calm voice at this, the vigil for Courtney Mary LaBelle.
Chapel bells tolled softly as Father Anthony, a rapt, fervent individual, recounted the joy of knowing “Mary” and the tragedy that she, who had pledged herself to the service of God, was struck down, so young. So innocent. So trusting in God. Father Anthony’s white collar, a stark beacon in the night, stood in deep contrast to his black shirt and suit. The priest lifted his hands in supplication.
But he wore no vestments, Montoya noted, assuming the formal robes would be saved for the real funeral mass.
Wind rushed through the campus, causing the Spanish moss to dance from the branches of trees overhead, as Father Anthony warned that no one should be “heavy of heart” as Mary was with the Father now, she was safe and cared for, in a place far better than the rest of the crowd was.
Montoya listened with only half an ear.
The group of mourners prayed and cried, holding their candles in the darkness, and as they did, Montoya photographed them with a small, hidden camera. The pictures would be blurry at best, but they were at least something; he was certain Father Anthony would not approve a video camera with lights filming the students, faculty, and whoever else happened to stop by in his or her hour of grief.
Montoya only hoped that the killer would be hyped up enough to attend. Often times the murderer wanted to be a part of the investigation, to be close to the action, to revel in what he considered his superior intellect while the lowly police attempted to track him down. The killer would show up at the crime scene or the wake, or a vigil, joining with the others or hiding in the shadows, eager to be connected to the investigation and grief. It fed his ego to know that he was the mastermind behind the tragedy. It was usually only a matter of time before he showed his hand.
So, Montoya pretended to pray, to listen heedfully to the priest’s words of wisdom, but all the while he was checking out the faces in the crowd, noting which seemed out of place . . . not that appearances would matter. Some killers had the innate ability to blend in, to look more than normal, to appear so boring and bland that no one would suspect them of being able to slice their wife’s throat, or shoot the neighbor for scratching a borrowed lawn mower, or plan with meticulous detail the deaths of a string of victims.
At first no one had suspected serial killer Ted Bundy, a good-looking guy with a degree in psychology and a bright political future. Bundy had actually worked at a rape crisis center in Seattle. Then the BTK killer in Wichita was a compliance officer, a religious man who looked like an Average Joe. Closer to home there had been Father John and The Chosen One, neither of whom had raised anyone’s suspicions as they’d gone on their gruesome killing sprees. Dr. John McDonald, a brilliant young surgeon, was serving time for butchering his family, though he still vehemently protested his innocence.
No one, by looks alone, could identify a killer.
Meticulously Montoya photographed each and every individual who either genuinely or fraudulently expressed grief for Courtney Mary LaBelle. Someone who felt so fervently about the killings that they’d ventured out on this miserable, wet, blustery night.
As if to reinforce his thoughts, the wind gusted, causing candles to flicker and die, umbrellas to be whipped out of clenched hands, and in one case turned completely inside out.
“Let us pray to the Father,” the priest said, lifting his hands toward the heavens again, “and then come into the chapel for the rest of the service.” He folded his hands and bowed his head.
Everyone standing near the chapel did the same.
Except for Montoya.
“You said you’d call back,” Zoey accused as Abby answered the phone in the kitchen.
Abby’s gaze darted around the room. She was still creeped out by her experience at Our Lady of Virtues and couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.
Which was just plain paranoid.
No, not paranoid, just overly cautious.
The refrigerator door was hanging open, Hershey standing expectantly beneath it, while Abby, with her free hand, searched through the bottles of half-used salad dressing and sauces to find a container of yogurt.
“I waited for hours,” Zoey pouted.
Oh, get over yourself, Abby thought. “I know, I know, Zoe. I’m sorry . . . time got away from me.” She was irritated that she felt the need to explain herself and apologize to her older sister. She was thirty-five, for crying out loud, not a baby, not a recalcitrant kid, not Zoey’s child. “I was busy. And no, I haven’t heard a word about Luke’s funeral.”
“It has to be soon, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know when it ‘has’ to be. If his family decides to cremate him, they might hold a service later. Look, Zoey, I’m not sure what my role in this is. Or even if I have a role. Ex-wife isn’t particularly high on the food chain, y’know. It doesn’t exactly mean I have royal status or even real ties to the family. But that said, I’ll pay my respects. It’s just that I’m not sure I had any. Not in the end.”
Zoey sucked air in through her teeth. “That bites, Abby.”
“You didn’t hear his last radio program.” She opened the cap, then tugged off the plastic seal of her yogurt container. Her conscience twinging a bit, she decided there was no time like the present to fess up. “I went out there yesterday.”
“Out where?”
“To the hospital.”
There was a pause and the silence stretched thin. “Why?” Zoey finally asked.
“They’re going to tear it down and—”
“Good!”
“—and I thought I should visit the place.”
“Because some know-nothing shrink told you to?”
Abby felt her back bristle. She’d been to several psychiatrists since her mother’s accident, some better than others, but all, she assumed, knew what they were talking about. “Because it felt like the thing to do.”
Her sister mumbled something under her breath she didn’t catch, then louder, asked, “So? How was it, Abby? A grand old time?”
“Not funny, Zoe,” Abby said through her teeth. Why had she even brought it up? “To tell you the truth, it was weird as hell, okay? And spooky. Really spooky. The place is crumbling into total decay. I met a nun who used to work there. She saw me going over there because I had to park at the convent. Maybe you remember Sister Maria. She’s tall. Pretty. Latino, I think.”
“Yes, I remember her,” Zoey said a trifle tersely.
“She was there the day that Mom died.”
Zoey didn’t respond.
“It was weird. She got me confused with you, I think. She seemed to think that I’d run into the hospital ahead of you and Dad, at least I think that’s what she meant.” Abby pulled open a drawer and found a spoon. “That I was running upstairs while she was coming down and that she met you with Mom’s present . . . or something like that.” Abby felt her eyebrows pulling into a knot. “At least I think that’s what she was getting at. As I said, it was all weird.” She dipped her spoon into the yogurt and took a small bite. Zoey still hadn’t responded. “Zoe?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think of that?” The cool yogurt slid down her throat but she barely tasted it.
“I—I don’t know why she would say anything of the sort. She must be pretty old. Probably confused.”
“Most of the time she seemed pretty clear.”
“Most of the time,” Zoey repeated, seizing on her words. “It’s been twenty years, Abby.”
“Hey.” She held up her spoon and wagged it at the window, as if she were pointing at her sister. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re lying to me?”
“Because I’m uncomfortable discussing the hospital and Mom’s death, that’s why. I know you don’t have closure on it, Abby, but I do and I don’t need to revisit it every time you have a birthday on the anniversary of her death.”
<
br /> “And her birth,” Abby reminded her sister.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You had this special bond with her, this unique, God-granted karma or whatever you want to call it that no one but you understands. I get it. But I don’t get it, and as far as I’m concerned, we should move on.”
“To Luke’s funeral?” Abby’s voice was dry.
“Yes! Let’s get some closure there, too. And once he’s in the ground or cremated or whatever, then I say you and I, we have ourselves a couple of cosmopolitans, toast him—then bury him, the past, and the damned hatchet, okay?” She was talking faster and faster, her voice rising nearly an octave. When she’d finished, she was breathless.
“Okay. Fine.”
“So I’m coming to New Orleans.”
“Perfect,” Abby said with a false smile, “then Zoey, we can talk about a lot of things before we have that drink, okay? Including Mom and the day she died. I think you know more about it than you’ve ever said. If you won’t go back there with me, fine, but we’re going to discuss it.”
“Oh, Abby . . .”
“I need this, Zoe,” she said, then hung up, hard. She tossed her uneaten yogurt into the sink. Where had that come from? She’d always had a feeling that her sister and father hadn’t been completely honest with her about that day, but she’d never baldly questioned them. She’d been content to be wrapped in her little cocoon of innocence, afraid of what she might find if she ever emerged.
Sister Maria’s insistence that Abby had been inside the hospital when her mother had plummeted to her death had brought back pieces of her memory, a memory she hadn’t known had been shattered. Something about the way she’d recalled the accident was wrong—and had been for the last twenty years.
She had been inside the hospital. She remembered hurrying up the stairs, nearly running head-on into the tall nun who had warned her to slow down at the landing. But Abby hadn’t paid any attention to the woman in the black habit with her stern expression and rustling skirts. She’d raced past and up the final partial flight, focusing on the doorway to 307 . . .
After that, her memory failed her.
Now, closing her eyes, Abby tried to call up what had happened then and why, oh, why, did she see her mother’s broken body on the cement? A headache started in the back of her skull, pounding, warning her she wouldn’t like what she found. Still she fought to remember. Gripping the edge of the counter for support, she forced her thoughts backward. If she hadn’t been outside the car, on the hospital steps, not only had her memory failed her, but so had her family. Her father. Her sister.
For twenty years she’d felt something wasn’t right about that day, but she’d been afraid to ferret out the truth, unwilling to peel the blindfold from her eyes.
No more.
It was time to stop protecting herself, to unwrap the layers of lies, deceit, and guilt.
Zoey, whether she wanted to or not, was going to help.
The night had been a bust. Montoya had spent his time talking to the students attending the vigil, double-checking with Courtney LaBelle’s friends. Then he caught up with Father Anthony for a few minutes before the priest had to rush off, hell-bent, or perhaps heaven-bent in his case, to comfort Mary LaBelle’s family. But Montoya didn’t like him. Father Anthony Mediera was too smooth, too outwardly calm, too damned not-a-hair-out-of-place perfect for Montoya’s tastes. The priest’s faith felt worn like a badge.
Later, Montoya had stopped by Nia Penne’s apartment to find her with her new boyfriend. Petite, to the point of being elfin, with white-blond hair feathered around a face Montoya thought was reminiscent of Tinker Bell, she’d politely answered a few questions, but she hadn’t changed her story. Montoya noticed that the new man in her life was indeed sculpted, appeared strong, and for the most part, silent.
The boyfriend had stood near the fake fire, arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging beneath a too-tight black T-shirt that showed off a slim waist and what Montoya figured were “abs of steel.” His name was Roy North, his feet were a size twelve, and Montoya intended to check him out. There was just something about Roy that was very territorial and angry and all muscled up on his own testosterone that bugged Montoya. And he hadn’t been in Toronto last week with Nia and her friends.
As for Nia, she wasn’t exactly the grieving ex-girlfriend. In fact, when he’d noticed the boxes scattered around the living room floor, she’d grinned naughtily and admitted that she was giving up the apartment and moving in with Big-foot.
Tinkerbell and Sasquatch. What a pair.
So much for love eternal, Montoya figured, as he strode to his cruiser parked on a side street near Nia’s apartment. For a fleeting second, as he returned to his car, he thought of Marta . . . beautiful, vibrant, full of sass and charm. He’d thought she would be the one he’d settle down with and that chance had been ripped from him. And yet, the sadness he’d once felt, the blatant out-and-out anger that ate at him, had slowly faded, and now, not even nostalgia clung to him. It was hard to envision her face, her dark eyes and long, curly black hair. When he did, her features blurred, as if washed by the rain still falling from the sky.
Another woman’s face appeared.
A beautiful woman with whiskey-colored eyes, untamed red-blond curls, and a full mouth. Abby Chastain. Luke Gierman’s ex-wife, the woman right in the thick of this investigation. Hell. She was the last woman Reuben Montoya should be attracted to, the very last, and he knew it.
But wasn’t that the way it always went down? The whole forbidden fruit thing? How many married women in the past had attracted him? Flirted with him? How many had been engaged to other men? He’d never crossed that line, but he’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t been tempted. Sorely so.
But this, with Abby, was different. She didn’t flirt with him. She didn’t pretend to be innocent and flash him glimpses of her body, nor did she play the naughty vixen to intrigue him.
Hell, she hadn’t had the chance! He barely knew her. Had met her a few times under tense circumstances. He was just stressed out, that was it, and it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Too long.
Now, in the pelting rain, he unlocked the cruiser, slid inside, and pulled the door closed. Swiping the raindrops from his face, he turned on the ignition and wondered why he was already fantasizing about her.
She was out of reach and that was the end of it. He checked his mirror, found the side street deserted, and cranking on the steering wheel, pulled a one-eighty and drove into the wet, dark Louisiana night.
The damned gate was stuck!
How the hell had that happened?
Asa Pomeroy leaned out the window of his Jaguar and punched in the electronic code to open the gates to his estate. Again. Nothing happened except that he got wet. Again. Rain was coming down in sheets, sliding down the sleek windshield and drumming the top of his balding head. “Son of a bitch! Come on, come on.” He punched in the code a final time and swore loudly. Then he tried the remote again. Clicked it several times but the damned gate still didn’t move.
He had his cell phone with him, of course, but whom would he call? Vanessa was off at her mother’s for a blissful week, the maid was gone for the night, the gardener-handyman was twenty minutes away. And he’d been drinking too much to call a cop. Any of his friends would take a full forty minutes to get here and they, too, would be tanked up from a night of drinking at the club.
No, he was on his own.
Which was usually not a problem. He was nothing if not efficient and capable. Hell, he hadn’t spent two tours in Vietnam only to come back to the good old US of A to build, market, and ship a better weapon. He sold rifles, grenades, bazookas, ammo, and every weapon imaginable all over the planet and because of it was rich beyond his wildest dreams. All because of Yankee ingenuity from his father’s side of the family, Southern charm from his mother’s, and red-blooded American know-how, cast in iron from generations of his WASP ancestors.
Tonight, by God, no cheap-ass pi
ece of Japanese technology was going to thwart him. He grabbed his Stetson, rammed it onto his head, pulled a flashlight from the glove box and slipped his reading glasses onto his nose, then stepped outside his car. Rain was running in rivulets, soaking his goddamned Italian leather shoes, the ones Vanessa had insisted he buy on their last trip to Tuscany. Jesus, what a waste of time and money that had been.
He was leaning over, peering at the backlit keypad, when he realized the dog hadn’t come out to greet him. Without fail, Geronimo, upon hearing the Jag’s smooth engine, would run pell mell down the long driveway and be waiting, tongue hanging from his mouth, on the other side of the gate. Once Asa pulled through, the big dog always raced the car up the long drive. Asa, without fail, let him win.
So where the hell was he?
Water dripped from the brim of Asa’s hat. His half-glasses fogged as he stared into the darkness, through the iron gates and trees where, though the house was hidden, lights should glow.
Now, save for the glow of the Jag’s headlights, where mist rose and swirled in the twin beams, there was only darkness.
He whistled loudly.
Nothing.
Something was wrong, he thought, and was just starting to sense that he’d been set up when he felt something hard and cold against his back. He started to whirl, but it was too late.
Zap!
Three hundred thousand volts of electricity jolted through his body.
His hat flew off.
He dropped to his knees.
Gasping, he tried to reach into his pocket for the knife he kept hidden there.
But he was confused, his body and mind at odds and he couldn’t so much as raise a finger. His brain ordered his hands to stretch into his damned pocket, but he couldn’t move a muscle.
Disoriented, he saw a big man step out of the shadows to loom over him in the rain.
