Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  Why not come back in the morning?

  In full daylight?

  With an attack dog, Montoya and a gun?

  Because she wanted answers now.

  Because momentum was propellng her forward.

  Because she couldn’t bear the thought of waiting one more instant.

  Because it was now or never.

  She lifted the backpack to her shoulder again. The fingers of one hand were curled around a crow bar, the fingers of the other hand gripping a flashlight. She swept the thin beam over the dusty floor boards, shining it on the windows. She spied rotted, peeling wallpaper and cobwebs draped from the corners of old chandeliers as she walked softly through the first floor. Every scary movie she’d seen where the kids split up and start inching their separate ways down dark hallways played through her mind.

  Never had she felt more alone.

  Never had she been more determined.

  You have to do this. You have to remember.

  The building groaned softly.

  Abby bit back a scream.

  It’s nothing, just the settling of old timbers. You hear the same thing in your house.

  She took two steps into the kitchen and heard another noise. Her heart lurched.

  Scrape, scrape, scrape.

  The scratch of tiny claws. She whipped the flashlight around, its beam jumping across old counters and the stove top to the rusted sink where she saw the furry back end of a rat sliding into the drain, its tail slithering like a tiny black snake as it disappeared.

  “Jesus,” she whispered, her heart knocking crazily.

  Abby walked slowly, hearing her own footsteps, her own heartbeat.

  She closed her eyes, thought she heard a soft cry.

  Don’t do this to yourself. No one’s here. Don’t let your fears run wild. Do not fall victim to your mother’s paranoia.

  Taking in a long, shuddering breath, she gripped the crowbar as if it were her only salvation. She swallowed back her fear but swore that if she listened really hard, she could hear the muted sobs and wails of despair from the patients who had suffered here.

  Stop it. There is no one in this damned building, no one moaning or sobbing, for God’s sake. Now, get going! It’s nearly dark. Come on, Abby, get this over with!

  Montoya floored the accelerator, ignoring the speed limit. He passed other cars and trucks, his jaw set, his pulse pounding in his temple. The image of his aunt’s body laid upon Billy Ray’s corpse burned through his mind and his fingers curled more tightly over the steering wheel. What if the monster had gone after Abby? “Fuck,” he growled, shifting down and passing a flat bed truck, spraying gravel as his back wheels hit the shoulder.

  At a straight stretch in the road, he grabbed his cell phone and speed dialed her home.

  He counted the rings, his dread mounting. “Come on,” he urged. “Come on!” But no one answered.

  Fear pounded through his brain.

  So what? She could be out.

  Rapidly he punched in the number for her cell.

  The call went directly to her damned voice mail.

  He didn’t like it. There could be a million reasons she wasn’t picking up, none of which had to do with the murders that had taken place, but he was still nervous as hell.

  In his gut he knew that Faith Chastain’s death had somehow led to the recent turn of deadly events. He just didn’t know how, couldn’t yet connect the dots. All he was certain of was that Abby was involved.

  The countryside blew by in a blur of farmland and forest as he tried to keep panic at bay.

  What the hell was the connection between Faith Chastain’s tragic plunge from the third floor window of a sanitarium and the deadly events that were happening now?

  The wages of sin is death.

  Why that message? What did it mean?

  Scowling through the windshield, his eyes narrowing on the burgeoning purple-bellied clouds that scraped the horizon, he thought of the first message received at WSLJ.

  Repent.

  For what? A sin? What sin? Slowing for a corner, ignoring the crackle of the police radio, fear chasing through his bloodstream, he tried like hell to piece it together. The second message played through his head.

  Atone.

  As in make amends? For what? More transgressions? What were they? What was with all the religious references? Think! Put it together. You have to. Time is running out. And the killer is telling you something . . . it has to do with sin . . .

  Why were the two victims posed together?

  What were their sins?

  A muscle worked in his jaw and his head ached he thought so hard. He was close to the answer, he could feel it. Each victim had been picked for a reason . . . for his or her transgression. Against whom? The killer? Mankind? God?

  Jesus, Montoya figure this out!

  He slowed as he spied the narrow bridge dead ahead. A motorcycle sped in the opposite direction, headlight glowing like one bright eye, exhaust pipes roaring as they passed mid-center on the span.

  Montoya’s brain was still focused on the damn notes from the killer.

  The missives had been signed by Al W . . . no, A. L. W. There was a clue there. There had to be. What was the killer trying to say?

  The obvious answer was simple:

  L for Luke.

  A for Asa.

  W for William.

  Why not the female victims?

  No C for Courtney.

  No G for Gina.

  No M for Maria.

  Why the bridal dress on the Virgin Mary? Why all the cash strewn around Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson? Why the blood red and black paint, the angry inscription on the wall of the scene with William and Maria, mother and son?

  What were their sins?

  And why was there so much rage evident at the last scene, so much anger? Such violence? When not at the others?

  “Damn it all to hell.” He flipped on his blinker and pulled into the oncoming lane, flooring it as he passed an old truck with a bumper sticker that said, Honk If You Love Jesus.

  As he swung into the right lane again, he picked up the phone to try and call Abby one more time. He needed to hear her voice, to assure himself that she was all right.

  Punching her speed dial number, he glared through the bug-splattered windshield, listening to the phone ring on the other end of the connection while his mind grappled with the puzzle of the case. Uneven pieces, sharp clues, poked at him, prodding him, taunting him that he couldn’t put it together. What the hell was the twisted son of a bitch trying to convey?

  What was the significance of yin and yang? Light and dark? Good and evil?

  No!

  Not necessarily good versus evil. More like sinner and saint!

  He nearly stood on the brakes, skidding to the side of the road. As he pulled over, the pickup that had been on his bumper honked loudly as it tore by. Montoya’s heart was beating like a jackhammer. Wildly. Crazily. Sinner and saint . . . Luke Gierman, the loud-mouthed adulterer and Courtney LaBelle, the virgin. Asa Pomeroy the greedy industrialist and Gina Jefferson, the philanthropist. Billy Ray Furlough, not Maria’s son . . . no, that was only icing on the cake. He was an angry, fire-and-brimstone preacher, railing on the wrath of God, while Maria was a soft spoken, true believer, a woman who trusted in a gentle, caring deity.

  Could that be it?

  That simple?

  His phone was still connected to his last call and Abby’s voice, instructing him to leave a message filled his ears. Oh, God, he hoped she was safe. He still felt as if she was somehow intimately involved in this horror.

  As his Mustang idled at the side of the road, he instructed Abby to call him immediately, disconnected and speed-dialed the homicide department instead.

  Seconds ticked by.

  “Zaroster.” Lynn answered on the second ring.

  “It’s Montoya. Are you near a computer?” he demanded, his mind running in circles as the first drops of rain hit the car’s windshield.
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  “Yeah, right here. At my desk. Why?”

  “I need a Google search. Or whatever search engine you use.”

  “Google. Sure . . . just give me a sec.”

  He heard her typing and about went out of his mind while he waited.

  “Okay, got it,” she said. “What do you want to search?”

  “Start with the Seven Deadly Sins.”

  A pause. “The Seven Deadly Sins . . . Okay. . .”

  The rain was picking up, splattering on the hood of his mustang, drizzling down the windshield. He flipped on the wipers as traffic rushed by. All the while he was impatiently listening to her type.

  “Okay, I’ve got a lot of options here.”

  “Just go to one that lists them . . . use a Catholic website, if you can. Read them to me.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.” More clicking. “Here we go. Got ’em,” she said.

  Adrenaline, fueled by dread, pumped through Montoya’s blood. His knuckles showed white where he gripped the steering wheel.

  “Let’s see,” she said. “We’ve got all the usual suspects here: Pride, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth and Avarice.”

  “Okay. Good,” he said, though his heart was drumming with fear. If what he was thinking was correct, if he’d finally understood what was happening, the worst was yet to come. “Years ago, when I went to Catechism, I learned about those sins. But there was more to it.”

  “Sorry, only seven.”

  “No, I mean, isn’t there something about . . . virtues that counterbalance the sins?”

  “Virtues?” she repeated. “You want to tell me where you’re going with this?”

  “As soon as I know,” Montoya gritted out, dreading the answer. He heard the clicking of computer keys. “There should be seven of them.”

  “Virtues . . . as in Our Lady of Virtues?” she said and Montoya’s fear only deepened.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, let’s see . . .” More typing and a pause of a few long seconds. He thought he might go out of his mind. “Oh, here it is. Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know they existed. Shit. Look at this.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a list of Seven Contrary Virtues listed here, one for each of the sins.”

  The heavens opened up and rain poured from the sky.

  “What are they?”

  “Well for pride, there’s humility, for wrath, we’ve got meekness, envy’s counterpart is charity, and chastity, of course for lust. Then there’s moderation for gluttony, zeal as opposed to sloth and generosity as opposed to-”

  “Avarice,” he said, throwing his car into gear again. Zaroster swept in a breath. “The letters. . . A, L, W? Avarice? Lust? Wrath?”

  “Bingo.” Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? The clues were all there, the killer taunting him with the letters, not only for the victim’s names, but because of their supposed sin or virtue. “I was just at the most recent murder scene and there was anger literally written all over that place. The other scenes showed no signs of rage. Just the opposite. Our killer is cold and clinical, so why the change? I thought maybe he was just unraveling, but then I remembered that Billy Ray Furlough was an angry minister and his given name, William, began with the letter W for Wrath. Contrarily, my aunt was the embodiment of meekness, her name was Maria—”

  “M,” Zaroster interrupted. “And Courtney LaBelle, our Virgin Mary was C, for Courtney and Chastity to Luke Gierman’s L for Lust. Jesus, how sick is that?”

  “Asa Pomeroy’s sin was Avarice,” Montoya said thinking of the greedy industrialist, “and Gina Jefferson was the epitome of philanthropy or generosity.”

  “A and G,” she whispered. “If you’re right about this, then he’s not even half way through. There are seven sins, seven virtues—”

  “Fourteen victims.” Montoya pulled a quick one-eighty, then floored the car again, the tires chirping as they hit the pavement. “And it all starts with Our Lady of Virtues Hospital.”

  “Shit! That’s where Simon Heller worked,” she said and he imagined the fury tightening the corners of her mouth. “He must be our guy. I just received a confirmation of his most recent address. Guess what? Heller moved back to New Orleans three months ago. Rents a place in the Garden District.”

  Montoya’s heart dropped. Anger rushed through his veins. “Send someone out there.” Maybe they could stop the bastard before it was too late.

  “I’m on my way,” she said and he imagined she was already reaching for her jacket and sidearm.

  “Take someone with you. And tell Bentz what’s going on.”

  “I will.”

  “Be careful, Lynn. This guy’s dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “So am I.”

  Rain pounded the roof of the asylum.

  Nerves strung tight as piano wires, Abby stepped past the stained-glass window at the landing where the gloom of the day hardly dared pierce the colored panes. Her throat was dry as sand, her pulse pounding in her ears. She strained to hear the slightest sound and squinted into the darkness that the weak beam of her flashlight barely pierced.

  Up the worn steps.

  Into the pitch black hallway of the third floor.

  Her mother’s floor.

  Where Faith’s life had ended.

  Outside the wind whistled, driving the rain, causing the skin at Abby’s nape to prickle. This was the very hallway where Heller had crept, where he’d lurked outside the doorway.

  In her mind’s eye, Abby recalled pushing open the door and finding him there, his big hands upon her mother, fondling her breasts, maybe pinching. Abby had gasped. He’d turned quickly, his face flushed and hard, his eyes glinting, a vein throbbing at his temple, his erection visible beneath his lab coat.

  Her stomach had twisted in revulsion and only her mother’s pleading eyes, looking over Heller’s shoulder kept Abby from screaming.

  Now, Abby brushed the beam of her flashlight over the hallway. Every door down the length of the inky corridor was open, either yawning wide, or slightly ajar. But unlatched. Except for 307. That door was shut snugly.

  It means nothing, she told herself, double checking as she slid the flashlight’s thin stream of illumination to the other dark paneled doors and finding them gaping.

  Just open the damned door!

  Hands slick with nervous sweat, her skin prickling in dread, she slid the crowbar under her arm, then grabbed the doorknob. Closing her eyes, she gave it a twist.

  The knob turned in her palm.

  Easily.

  Her pulse jumped. The last time this door had been locked. She pushed.

  The door swung silently inward, without so much as a sigh, as if the hinges had been recently oiled.

  Fear drummed within her.

  Something was wrong with this. Very, very wrong. Still, she took one step inside, the smell of antiseptic reaching her nostrils. She shined the beam of her flashlight over the floor of the familiar room, then swept the light over the walls and furnishings.

  Abby froze, disbelieving.

  Everything was exactly as she remembered it.

  The iron bed, painted white, pushed into one corner.

  The nightstand with a vase of fresh cut flowers.

  The bifold picture frame with faded snapshots of Abby and Zoey as children.

  The patchwork quilt in shades of rose and peach that Abby’s grandmother had hand-stitched.

  The crucifix mounted on the wall.

  Time had stood still in Room 307.

  “No,” Abby whispered taking several steps further into the room. Was that a hint of her mother’s perfume over the odors of cleaning solvents?

  It couldn’t be.

  Her mother wasn’t here . . .

  As if in fast rewind, her mind spun backward in time to that night when her life had changed forever.

  She remembered rushing into the room, eager to tell her mother about the dance and Trey Hilliard . . .

  “Mom?” Abby, br
eathless from racing up the stairs two at a time, nearly flew into the room. “Mom? Guess what?”

  Her mother was near the tall window, twilight thick beyond the sheer panes. But Faith, partially undressed, wasn’t alone. A doctor, Simon Heller, was grappling with her.

  Abby skidded to a stop and stared. “Mom?”

  Was Heller trying to push her through the glass, or save her from herself?

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Heller spun. His face was red and screwed into a furious knot, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you know this is a private room?” he demanded furiously, his eyes narrowing under bushy eyebrows, the nostrils of his hawkish nose flared. “You should knock before you just barge in!”

  “But . . .” Abby stared at her mother who was obviously embarrassed, working at straightening her clothes.

  Faith couldn’t hide her shame. Tears filled her eyes and her cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet. She gazed over Heller’s shoulder to meet the confusion and disgust in Abby’s expression. Mutely, she mouthed “Don’t please . . .” then out loud, “Abby Hannah, I’m so sorry.”

  Before Abby could reply, Faith spun, as if Heller had somehow whirled her and forced her to turn away. Her body hit the glass.

  The window cracked with a sickening, splintering sound.

  “No!” Abby rushed forward, trying to reach her mother, but Heller grabbed her arm, holding her back.

  To keep her from saving Faith, or to protect her from falling?

  “I forgive you . . .” her mother cried, her eyes wide and round.

  The window shattered, clear shards stained red with blood as Faith tumbled through, her terrified scream echoing in Abby’s brain.

  “No! Mom! No!” Abby cried. She tried to rip herself from Heller’s grip. She heard something—a swift intake of breath?—over the sickening thunk of her mother’s body slamming against the concrete.

  Horrified, tears streaming down her face, Abby stared through the broken glass to the cracked concrete and Faith’s broken body. “No!” Abby wailed, disbelieving, yanking herself out of Heller’s steely grasp. “No! No! Nooooo!”

  Blood pooled beneath her mother. Faith Chastain’s eyes stared sightlessly upward. The insects of the night continued to buzz and voices were suddenly yelling, screaming, barking orders but Abby’s mother was dead.