Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  She inhaled a calming breath.

  The animals’ neuroses were infecting her and she wished she could just climb into her car and take off after Abby.

  She touched her numb nose. Nope, she didn’t dare drive. Instead she’d call Abby, see that she was okay. Insist that she phone Montoya; that would work. She thought of the detective with his black hair, dark eyes, and bad-boy smile. He was way too sexy for his own good. Or Abby’s. Maybe Zoey should phone him and tell him what her sister was up to. Surely Abby had to have his number somewhere around here . . .

  Don’t do it.

  Don’t call him.

  Remember what happened with Luke?

  You nearly lost your sister over him. Don’t get involved.

  The dog was still barking its fool head off. Zoey peered out the window cut into the door and saw Hershey barking and pacing around the edge of the house, near the laundry room. Whatever creature the Lab was stalking had probably darted under the house.

  Great. What if it was a skunk?

  She walked to the living room and found her purse. Scrounging through her bag, she glanced at the television. The Pope was on the screen, standing on some balcony and waving to a crowd of people filling a city square and spilling into the side streets.

  She found her phone.

  Creak!

  What the hell was that? A door opening?

  Zoey speed-dialed Abby’s cell. She would not freak out. Would not!

  She heard the connection and a second later a musical ring tone within the house. Had Abby forgotten her phone? Oh, no . . . Still holding the cell to her ear, she walked into the hallway. The music was coming from the laundry room.

  “Oh, Abby,” she muttered as she walked through the open door and spied the ringing cell on the sill of the open window . . .

  Open?

  Just outside that same window Hershey was growling and barking and . . . oh, God.

  Every hair on the back of Zoey’s neck rose. She clicked off her phone and turned.

  Fear shot through her.

  She nearly fainted.

  A big man dressed in black filled the doorway!

  She started to scream and saw the weird gun.

  This is it! He’s going to kill you.

  Reacting on sheer instinct, she flung herself over the top of the washer and through the open window. She fell to the mud outside. Quickly, not daring to look back, she scrambled to her feet and began to run.

  Where? Oh, God, where could she go? The rental car! She’d left the keys under the seat. She was sprinting by now, heading to the front of the house, realizing she still held her cell phone.

  With trembling fingers, she disconnected the call and hit the middle button for 9-1-1. She heard a door open behind her.

  Run, run, run!

  She rounded a corner, the dog racing beside her.

  The rental was parked to the side of the driveway. She heard the phone ringing on the other end.

  Answer! she thought wildly, her bare feet sliding on the gravel. Oh, God, where was he? She glanced over her shoulder and saw him, not ten yards away.

  Panic pounded through her.

  “Nine-one-one Dispatch. What is the nature of—”

  “He’s here! The killer’s here! In Cambrai. I’m at Abby Chastain’s—”

  She was at the car, saw the weapon rise again.

  “Hurry!” Her fingers pulled on the handle of the car door.

  And then he fired.

  Montoya parked his car at the end of the lane where a police barricade was already being manned by two deputies he didn’t recognize. He flashed his badge, wending his way through the other parked cars, avoiding the first news crew to arrive as he headed along the side of a narrow dirt and gravel road. This area of swampland was so deep in the forest that it was already as gloomy and dark as midnight, though there was still an hour before sunset.

  The crime scene was orderly chaos. Officers were stringing tape around the perimeter and setting up lights; others were collecting evidence or taking pictures of the grounds surrounding an abandoned, single-wide trailer. A rusted-out car of indecipherable lineage lay in ruins beside the gleaming finish of Asa Pomeroy’s Jaguar.

  He knew he’d get some flack about being here, but he walked into the area as if he belonged. If someone challenged him, he’d deal with it. All he wanted was a look. Nothing more.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe his aunt was a victim; he just had to see for himself what the psycho had done.

  Near the Jag, Brinkman was talking with a couple of sheriff’s deputies while Bentz and another guy from the Sheriff’s Department were examining a path leading to a rickety dock. It looked as if the FBI hadn’t arrived yet, but that was just a matter of minutes.

  Right now, everyone was distracted.

  It was now or never.

  He walked up the steps leading to the yawning open door and stepped into the bowels of hell.

  The interior of the old trailer was lit by the weird blue glow of klieg lamps and on the filthy floor were two bodies, entwined as previously: his aunt, in her nun’s habit, draped over the naked body of her son, Billy Ray Furlough. If there was blood present, it was well hidden under the splatter of red and black paint thrown over the victims. On one wall, in violent red was painted:

  THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH.

  Bonita Washington, gloved and examining the bodies, looked over her shoulder. “You’d better sign . . . Montoya?” Her eyes rounded. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He didn’t answer, just turned and walked out. He was halfway down the lane when Bentz caught up with him.

  “Hold up!” he ordered and there was an edge to his voice Montoya didn’t like.

  He stopped. Turned. Glared at the older man. “What?”

  “You know what,” Bentz said tautly. “What the fuck are you thinking?” Montoya didn’t answer and Bentz’s eyes narrowed in the coming dusk. “Damn it. I’ll have to report this.”

  “So do it. Do your job.”

  “Crap, Montoya, don’t do this! We want this one by the book so we can nail this son of a bitch’s hide to the wall. I thought we were clear on that.”

  “Crystal.”

  “Then get the hell out of here and don’t come back.” A muscle worked in his jaw as Montoya held his gaze. “Hey. I know this is hard, but let it go. We’ll get him.”

  Not if I get him first, Montoya thought, his mind’s eye sharp with the memory of his aunt’s waxen lifeless face, the paint poured all over her body.

  Montoya strode back to his car, anger pulsing through him. He thought about the message scrawled on the inside of the trailer: THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH.

  That’s right, you sick bastard, he silently agreed. And you’re one helluva sinner.

  Get ready.

  CHAPTER 27

  “God help me.” Abby stared up at the old hospital and felt a chill as cold as the arctic sea settle into her bones. Twilight was beginning to steal over the land, dark shadows fingering from the surrounding woods, mosquitos buzzing loudly, crickets softly chirping, and as she stood near the fountain with its crying angels and cracked basin. She felt a presence, an evil malevolence, as if the building itself were glaring down at her.

  It’s just your imagination.

  The dilapidated old building that appeared so menacing was just brick and mortar, shingles and glass. It wasn’t haunted with the souls of those who had lived inside. It wasn’t glowering down upon her, silently warning her that she was making the single worst mistake of her life. Nonetheless her pulse drummed in her ears.

  “You’re an idiot,” she told herself as she summoned up all her courage. She couldn’t back down now. Not when she was so close. Yet her heart was thudding, her nerves stretched to the breaking point.

  This is where it all happened, she thought, eyeing the spot on the weed-choked concrete where her mother’s life had ended.

  Go. Now. Don’t put it off any longer.

  She made
a quick sign of the cross, then hoisting one strap of her backpack over her shoulder, she skirted the building, cutting across lawns that had once been tended, where butterflies and honey bees had flitted, where a group of children about her age had stared at her as if she’d been sent from another solar system. She remembered their eyes following Zoey and her as they’d chased each other around the magnolia tree so fragrant with heavy blooms.

  She’d thought them odd then, those kids, and yet her father had always told her to pity them. “There but for the grace of God go I,” he’d reminded her . . . but she’d still thought they were weird. She glanced to the corner of the verandah where they’d always gathered and even now, when the flagstones were empty, she sidestepped the area and headed toward the back door.

  But the ghosts followed her, if not the teenagers, then a little blond girl who never spoke and drew odd shapes in chalk over the rough flag stones; the boy who watched her every move and was forever pulling out tufts of his hair; the old lady who listed in her wheelchair, one arm dragging, her mouth often agape, her eyes wide and wondering behind thick glasses. She’d been a former beauty queen, Abby had been told, reduced by age and dementia to a hollow shell. Then there had been the boy on the threshold of manhood who had eyed both her and her mother in a way that had made her want to wash herself. How often had he with his dark hair and brooding eyes been in the hallway, near her mother’s door squeezing one of those stress relieving balls so slowly and methodically as he’d looked into Abby’s eyes that she’d felt dirty? The sexual message had been clear; he’d been kneading a malleable ball, but he’d wanted to do so much more with his big hands.

  She shuddered as she thought of all the tortured souls who had resided here, cared for by doctors, nurses, social workers and staff yet left adrift. Her mother was supposed to have been safe here; this hospital was to have been a place of healing, of comfort. Not pain. Not horror. Not molestation.

  Abby rounded a vine-draped corner and sent up a prayer for her poor fragile mother. “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry,” she said aloud, her heart heavy.

  I forgive you. Faith’s words seemed to float from the heavens and Abby nearly stopped dead in her tracks. Is that what she’d meant? An icy finger of understanding slid down her spine. As she hurried along the broken sidewalk to the back of the building she thought of the monster who had abused Faith, the doctor who had slipped into Room 307, and under the guise of helping and healing had brought with him perversion and pain.

  “I hope you rot in hell,” she muttered into the gloom of dusk.

  Light was fading fast, the sun disappearing behind thick clouds as it settled behind the trees, the threat of rain heavy in the air. Hurrying, she followed a broken sidewalk to the back door, which didn’t budge. It was locked tight, just as it had been on her previous visit. But the window she’d hoisted herself through before was still unlatched and partially open. Sister Maria hadn’t remembered to close it nor told the caretaker to see that it was locked. But then the nun hadn’t had much time, Abby thought ruefully as she didn’t doubt for a second that Sister Maria was already dead.

  She stared at the partially open window.

  A stroke of luck?

  Or a bad omen?

  There was a part of her that was still afraid; still hesitant about this.

  Her father’s mantra whispered through her brain. When the going gets tough . . .

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Enough already!” She gave herself a mental shake and pushed back her fears. Nervously she dropped her backpack inside the window then heaved herself over the sill and landed on the floor.

  * * *

  She was here!

  Deep within his sacred room he heard the quiet thump of feet hit the floor overhead. His heart rate accelerated and he took in a deep breath. He’d known she’d come. Lured by the past, Faith’s daughter would return to the place where all her pain had begun. He licked his lips and blinked.

  His pain, of course, had started much earlier.

  As he stared at the walls of his room, he saw the writing he’d worked so diligently to create. Passages of Scripture, words of the great philosophers on sin, his own personal theories formulated by his own mother, reinforced at the strict Catholic schools that had eventually all kicked him out.

  He listened hard. Heard footsteps. Of the daughter.

  Deep inside he felt that stirring again, the lust he’d experienced for Faith Chastain, the wrath he’d felt knowing she was giving herself to the doctor as well.

  The wages of sin is death.

  How many times had he heard that from his mother as she’d sat by the window, Bible lying open on her lap, cigarette burning neglected in the ash tray, ice cubes melting in her drink. “He’ll pay,” she’d told her only son often enough. “Your father and his whoring new wife are sinners and they’ll both pay.” She’d taken a sip of her drink, her little tongue licking up a drop that lingered on her lip. “We all do.” She’d looked over at him and there had been no hint of motherly love in her gaze. “You will, too. You’ve got his blood in your veins and you’ll pay.” Another sip before she rained on him that twisted sarcastic smile he’d grown to hate. “But then you already are, aren’t you? The nuns at school have told me.”

  Now, he felt the same pulsing shame run through him as she’d ranted about the sins that had been pounded into her own head while growing up. Lighting another cigarette in fingers that had shaken, she’d focused on his transgressions. The nuns had told her he’d cheated in school, which had been a lie, of course, but she’d believed the sisters and to punish him, to make him consider his sinful ways, she’d locked him in a closet.

  It hadn’t been the first time.

  Once before he’d been caught kissing a girl at school. Upon returning home, he’d faced a fierce, embarassed and angry mother. That time he’d been stripped naked, locked away for three days, left in his own urine and feces without water. He’d been ordered, as penance to write on the walls, the wages of sin is death. For the three days of his imprisonment he’d believed he would die in that empty closet that had once housed his father’s guns.

  He’d been released of course. Just as he always had been when his mother, reeking of alcohol, had finally decided he’d been punished enough. Then, always she would cry and beg for him to forgive her, bathe him, offer up new clothes, an expensive toy and kiss him . . . all over . . . while gently tending to the bruises and cuts that covered his body, scars from his efforts of trying to break free.

  She’d been tender then, lovingly caressing him, assuring him that if he would repent and atone for his sins, he would find favor with God. With her.

  Once after a particularly long stay in the closet, he’d felt not only fear, but rage. When he’d heard the locks click and seen that first blinding crack of light, he’d stood and walked past her, refused to let her touch him, and thrown her gifts of atonement back in her face. He’d threatened to leave her, to tell his father what she’d done. She’d shaken and cried but admitted that the man who had sired him had never wanted him in the first place. His father had paid for an abortion she’d refused. And later, after she’d given birth, had his father stuck around? Oh, for a few years, but after less than a paltry decade, the marriage had unraveled, his father had strayed and had abandoned them both.

  At the time when she’d told him about this father wanting an abortion when she was crying and quaking, unable to hold her cigarette in her trembling fingers, he realized that this once she’d been telling the truth. His father had, indeed, abandoned them both for the whore.

  He’d known then it was his mission to set things right, his own personal atonement for being unwanted.

  And he’d eagerly taken up that sword of vengeance.

  Hadn’t the new wife died?

  Hadn’t he been looked upon suspiciously?

  Hadn’t he ended up here . . . locked away permanently until the hospital had closed and he’d been shuffled from one facility to the next, always a private institution, a
lways peppered with nuns and priests and rosaries and crucifixes, always knowing his every sin was being observed and catalogued, never forgotten and never forgiven. He’d tried to stay true to his mission and not to follow his own urges. He’d tried to fight his own desires.

  And yet . . . with Faith . . . he’d risked it all, condemning his soul to the depths of hell just to touch her and lie with her, to feel her sweet, warm body wrapped over his.

  And now the daughter, who looked enough like Faith to be her twin, was here.

  He glanced again at the words etched into the walls of this room. Above the passages he’d scratched into the walls, he carefully painted fourteen simple words for the fourteen victims, the sinners and the saints, those who would be punished, those who would do the punishing.

  If only Faith were here . . . she would understand. She would soothe him. She would love him. But that was not to be. The lazy doctor had killed her. Fucked her, then, upon being found out by the daughter, pushed Faith, beautiful Faith, through the window.

  His body convulsed as he remembered her scream, the sound of her body thudding against the concrete. Tears burned the back of his eyes. White-hot rage roared through his veins.

  Faith’s death hadn’t been an accident as so many believed.

  He knew.

  He’d been there.

  And so the doctor would pay for his sins.

  Tonight.

  Inside the hospital, the rooms were shadowy and still, twilight seeping through the windows that weren’t boarded, the air stagnant with a thin rank odor. Abby felt the temperature drop, the atmosphere thicken.

  No way, you’re just freaking yourself out. Keep going!

  She unzipped the pack and pulled out her flashlight. A part of her brain screamed that what she was doing was just plain nuts, that she was as crazy as some of the people who had once lived here, that if she had any sense at all, she would turn and make tracks.