by Lisa Jackson
“And so you shall pay, doctor. You were the epitome of sloth, you see, and the only way to fight the sin of sloth is with the virtue of zeal.”
Heller went still.
Sloth and zeal? Abby thought. What was he talking about?
“So I’ve brought you an angel of mercy. Someone who will destroy your sin of sloth with her virtue of zeal.” He glanced down at Zoey. “I admit she’s lost some of her zest for life, but that’s short-lived and my doing.”
Zoey looked dazed. Tried to raise her head but fell backward onto the floor, her muscles betraying her.
What kind of macabre, twisted fantasy was this whack job playing out?
In the closet, Abby worked at her wrists, ignoring the pain, sawing against the bracing board and all the while knowing they were fast running out of time.
He heard noises. Voices. Whimpers. Muted cries.
Montoya hated to think what he would find, but knew that the victims were still alive. Abby? Heller?
Up the stairs, not daring to make a sound, Montoya rounded a corner. He used his flashlight sparingly, quickly sweeping the small beam in front of him so that he wouldn’t stumble. In his other hand, his Glock was drawn, ready to fire.
Rain and wind lashed at the building and the hallways were dark as night. The noises emanating from the third floor grew more distinct as he passed a ghostly stained glass window on the landing. He didn’t pause, but climbed high enough on the steps to see the floor of the hallway, where he spied a ribbon of light beneath one door, the only closed door on the entire floor.
No doubt the thin line of illumination was seeping into the corridor from Room 307.
Where Faith Chastain had died.
Where he heard the rattle of chains and muted, petrified screams.
No time for backup.
As soon as he reached the doorway, he was going in.
The tape was giving way, fraying at the edges. Far away, over the sound of the storm, Abby thought she heard the thin, distant wail of sirens. Oh, please, please. In the dark, she kept running her wrists back and forth, silently moving the ever fraying tape over and over the sharp edge of the board.
Horrified, she watched as Pomeroy found a knife in the night table. Her heart froze in fear as he lifted the weapon, the long blade catching the golden light of the lantern.
She was certain he was going to slice Heller’s throat, but instead he turned on Zoey, the dish rag lying at his feet.
No! Oh, no!
Desperately she worked at the tape, praying she could break through in time. But Pomeroy was swift. He bent down to Zoey and with a quick motion, sliced through the tape binding Zoey’s wrists, then did the same with her ankles.
Why?
Was he letting her sister go? Because he had Abby? A woman who more closely resembled their mother?
Abby felt a second’s relief until she realized that Zoey wasn’t about to be freed. No, her sister, too, was a part of Pomeroy’s sick plan.
“It’s time to pay for your sins, Doctor,” Pomeroy said with ultimate, chilling calm.
On the bed, Heller went wild. Screaming behind his gag, he writhed on the bed, rumpling the comforter, rattling the bedframe so hard that it jumped. Metal against metal scraped and clanged through the room, rising over the rain pounding against the windows.
Pomeroy hauled Zoey to her rubbery legs. “You, Simon Heller,” Pomeroy said angrily, “are damned. You claimed to be a doctor, you swore by oath to help and heal. Instead you took the easy way out. You not only abused your patients but you suffered from one of the Seven Deadly Sins, the sin of sloth.”
Abby couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Seven Deadly Sins? Sloth? He was rationalizing his crimes? Playing God? How insane was he?
She watched in terror as Pomeroy wrapped one arm around Zoey’s waist. Roughly, he pulled Zoey’s buttocks close to his crotch and forced the long-muzzled gun into her hand. There was a smile on his lips, a satisfaction as he rubbed up against Zoey’s rump.
Bile rose up Abby’s throat. Pervert! Sick, vile, pervert!
Zoey rolled her eyes upward and caught Abby’s eye in a moment of clarity.
In the heartbeat that followed, Abby understood. Zoey wasn’t as far gone as she was pretending. But what could she do?
Nothing! You have to help her!
Abby worked furiously on the tape. Her arms were screeching in pain, but again she felt the thick tape loosening, the fibers within it fraying as her wrists chaffed.
Pomeroy said, “And you, Zoey Chastain, firstborn of Faith, have the virtue of zeal, so it’s your duty to rid the world of the slovenly.”
Heller stiffened.
Pomeroy focused his hot eyes on Abby.
She froze. Had he seen her trying to free herself? Her heart drummed a horrified tattoo.
“And you won’t be far behind, Hannah. You, who were humiliated by your lustful, adulterating husband.” He cocked his head to one side and frowned, his eyes clouding. “Faith?” he whispered in confusion . . . “Faith?”
She nodded, hoping he would believe her, but the clouds disappeared and he shook his head as if to rid it of fog. “No . . . Not Faith. Hannah . . . for humility.” He smiled suddenly as if all his synapses were connecting again. “Pride is certainly on his way.”
Pride? Humility? Sloth? Zeal? Sins and virtues? What was this all about? And who represented pride? Someone whose name started with the letter P? She remembered the sins and virtues from her youth in private Catholic schools. But what did they have to do with her mother?
Virtues!
Our Lady of Virtues!
Is that what this was all about? Not that it mattered. Nothing did. Only escaping. Somehow turning the tables on this bastard. She had to do something! Anything! She couldn’t stand by and end up a witness to cold-blooded murder.
“You know who I’m talking about,” Pomeroy said, rubbing hard against Zoey’s backside as he stared into the dark closet, searching for Abby’s eyes. How demented was he? How far gone? “Pride? Your lover? Pedro?”
Bells clanged through her head. Pedro! Hadn’t Montoya said that Sister Maria had called him Pedro?
“The cop,” Pomeroy snarled.
Oh, dear God, this monster was going to kill Montoya, too!
“Now,” Pomeroy said, and aimed the gun directly at Simon Heller’s heart. “It’s time.”
Zoey was totally limp. Useless. Or was she? Through the tangle of her disheveled hair, she peered again at her sister.
Pomeroy aimed the gun.
Heller screamed behind his gag.
The killer pulled the trigger just as Zoey crammed her elbow into the big man’s chest.
Bang!
The gun went off.
Heller shrieked horribly and went limp, blood pooling in his chest. At that second, Zoey rammed her elbow into Pomeroy’s chest again and the big man sucked in his breath in a loud hiss. She kicked at his shins and he yowled in pain.
“Bitch. Zealous, over ambitious bitch!” He turned the gun in her hand, forcing the muzzle to Zoey’s temple. “Now it’s your turn!”
Bang!
A pistol cracked, echoing through the hallway.
Muted screams followed.
Jesus, no! Abby! No!
Fear and anger rushed through Montoya.
He was too late!
Damn it, he was too late!
Weapon drawn, he flung himself at the door of 307.
The old lock gave way with a sickening crack and splinter of wood. Montoya shot through the door just as Pomeroy turned the gun toward Zoey’s temple.
“Police!” Montoya shouted. “Drop your weapon!”
A gun shot!
Hell!
Bentz didn’t waste any time.
Using the butt of his Glock, he broke a window on the first floor, cracking out the glass. He hoisted himself up, feeling razor sharp shards slice into his palms, then vaulted over the sill and landed on the parlor floor of the abandoned sanitarium.
&nbs
p; As soon as he hit the floor, he grabbed his cell phone and speed dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is the nature—.”
“This is Rick Bentz. New Orleans Police Department.” He rattled off his badge number and requested assistance, giving the name and address of the old hospital. “Gun shots at Our Lady of Virtues Sanitarium.” He clicked off, jammed the cell phone into his pocket, then weapon drawn, started through a decrepit old building that was dark as night.
* * *
Abby threw her weight against her restraints as Montoya burst into the room. The tape gave a little.
“Stay back!” Pomeroy warned, trying to hold onto Zoey, the muzzle pressed to her sister’s temple as Montoya took aim.
Zoey’s eyes were round with fear.
“Drop the weapon!” Montoya ordered. “Now!”
Pomeroy snorted. “Prideful to the end.”
On the bed Heller wheezed and bled out, the light fading from his eyes.
Abby worked at her bonds. Unafraid. Determined.
“It should have been you,” Pomeroy said sliding a glance to the closet, inching backward, toward the window using Zoey, who was, with the gun pressed to her head, his shield.
“Stop!” Montoya ordered.
But Christian Pomeroy’s eyes were trained on Abby and his lips quivered. “So beautiful.”
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Montoya’s face was set, his jaw hard, his eyes pinpointed on Pomeroy, his gun aimed at the tall man’s head. “It’s over.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Pedro,” Pomeroy said in a calm voice that turned the marrow of Abby’s bones to ice. “No matter what else happens, tonight is just the beginning.”
“You’re going down.”
“And so are you.”
Zoey flinched, throwing back her head and slamming her elbow into the killer’s chest again. Pomeroy yelped. The gun in his hand wobbled.
Montoya fired.
Bam!
The bullet from Montoya’s Glock ripped through the killer’s shoulder just as Pomeroy squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Zoey, blood gushing from her head, dropped to the floor.
The tape gave way, and Abby flung herself from the closet to the floor beside her sister.
Montoya fired again. Bang! And again. Bang!
Bullets ripped through the killer’s torso. Blood spurted.
Pomeroy threw himself through the blanket covering the window. Glass shattered and cracked, bloody shards flying outward.
The blanket and Pomeroy hurled into the wet, dark night.
Behind her gag, Abby screamed.
Thud!
She heard the crunch of bones as he landed on the wet concrete far below.
Abby scooted next to her sister, lying on the floor, blood streaming from a wound beneath her eye. “You’re going to be all right,” she said as Montoya dropped down beside her and felt for a pulse at Zoey’s neck. “You’re going to be all right, Zoey . . . You have to be. Hang on . . . please, please, hang on.”
Using Pomeroy’s knife Montoya cut Abby free. Then he was on his cell phone, barking orders.
Everything was a blur in Abby’s mind. Every muscle in her body ached and her mind spun as she had to fight to keep from blacking out. Through the open, broken window, wind and rain lashed into the room, the dark night warm with the scent of the bayou.
Sirens wailed, closer now and she thought she saw the strobe of colored lights on the walls of her mother’s room. People were shouting, footsteps thundering, and another man ran inside the room. She recognized him, she thought, maybe another detective? Bentz? But everything was surreal . . . trying to fade to black and Zoey . . . Zoey was lying unmoving, blood flowing down her face.
“Abby? Abby?” She heard his voice, looked into eyes as dark as obsidian . . . Montoya! Her heart swelled. He’d come for her. She forced a tremulous smile that fell away instantly. “She’s in shock.”
He held her close and said, “This is gonna hurt.” Deftly he pulled at the tape over her mouth. It ripped and tore at her skin, burning, but she didn’t care as she huddled over the still body of her sister.
“Zoey . . .”
“The ambulance is on its way,” he said holding her even more tightly. She drank in the scent of him, felt the power of his body.
“Zoey . . . not Zoey.”
“It’ll be okay,” he said into her ear and she wished she could believe him, but here in this room, nothing was ever okay, nothing ever would be.
“Do you know who the killer was?”
She blinked and when she spoke it was a whisper, her voice raw. “Christian Pomeroy.”
“Asa’s son?” Bentz asked.
“He was a patient here once. I saw his name on the list,” Montoya said, as she heard a lock being shattered somewhere on the floors below. Men filled orders, footsteps pounded and through the yawning hole of the window the whirl of helicopter blades could be heard.
“Life flight,” Bentz said and suddenly the room was filled with people. Police officers. EMTs.
“Sir?” an EMT said to Montoya. The emergency worker was hovering over Zoey, pushing past them to take vital signs, hook up an IV, and try to stanch the flow of blood. “Move back. Please.”
Another EMT, a tiny woman looked at Abby. “Is she all right?”
“I’m fine,” Abby insisted, clinging tightly to Montoya and silently praying for her sister’s life. She watched as Zoey was hoisted onto a stretcher and Heller’s body was zipped into a bag.
“What about her?” Abby asked motioning to Zoey. “My sister? Will she be okay?”
“Too early to tell,” the EMT said, “but she’s stable.” He took a second to stare at Abby. “We’ll do our best.”
“The guy outside? On the pavement?” Montoya asked.
“Dead,” an officer replied, then hooked his chin toward the body bag that held Heller’s body. “Like that one.”
Abby shivered in Montoya’s arms. Finally, the past could be buried. The future was no longer clouded by the unknown . . . or was it? What was it that Christian Pomeroy had said so cryptically, as if he had another secret, one that he hadn’t shared?
She frowned. Surely he’d been lying. This had to be the end and yet the killer’s words, said with such conviction echoed through her mind.
Tonight is just the beginning . . .
“It’s gonna be all right,” Montoya said, helping her out of the room where so much tragedy had occured.
“You’re sure?”
“Yep.” He kissed her crown. “Trust me.”
EPILOGUE
“I don’t think you need this anymore.” Montoya plucked the For Sale sign off the post, then tossed it into a pile of leaves near the trash basket.
“You don’t expect me to move?” Abby asked, teasing.
“Nah.” He wrapped strong arms around her. “Well, at least not far.”
He was right of course. In the past two weeks since the night that Christian Pomeroy had been killed, Abby had lost all incentive to move.
Her sister, Zoey, had spent a week in the hospital, then three days at Abby’s house before declaring that she had to return to Seattle. Zoey’s face still looked like she’d been beaten black and blue but the plastic surgeons had reconstructed the part of her cheek bone that had been shattered by Pomeroy’s bullet and passed through the soft tissue on the other side of her face. She was looking at several more surgeries and extensive dental work in the future, but she was alive and wanted to be home in the Pacific Northwest.
Abby hadn’t blamed her. She’d promised to visit and stay with Zoey during the next round of surgeries.
“Great. When this is all over, I’ll be so damned beautiful,” Zoey had insisted, refusing to let the thought of more reconstruction and recovery get her down, “Hollywood will be knocking down my door. I could even get a job with one of those entertainment programs, I’ll bet. Mary Hart, move over!” She’d laughed, then groaned with pain. “Well, eventually.”<
br />
As for Abby, she had no intention of moving away from Montoya who had been with her day and night. Hershey, of course, was thrilled that Montoya nearly lived at their house these days, though Ansel hadn’t budged in his out-and-out distrust of the detective.
Abby looked up at Montoya now, with the sunlight piercing through the canopy of branches overhead. Bright rays caught in his black hair and glinted in his eyes. Staring at him Abby felt her heart swell. And she no longer fought the attraction.
After Luke’s betrayal and her divorce, Abby had vowed she’d never fall in love again. But she’d been wrong. Dead wrong. What she felt whenever Reuben Montoya was around was five steps beyond exhilaration. As often as she’d tried to talk herself out of this ridiculous feeling of euphoria, she’d also decided it was time to trust again, to love again, to let the chips fall where they may. He’d asked her to trust him the night of Pomeroy’s death and she had. He was definitely worth the gamble.
“You know, maybe I made a mistake,” Montoya said, slinging his arm over her shoulder as they walked toward the cottage, Hershey bounding at their heels. As they passed the For Sale sign lying on the ground, he gave it a kick. “Maybe you do want to move.”
“Oh?” She cocked an interested eyebrow. The man was forever surprising her. “So now, five minutes after taking down the sign, you’re ready to put it up again and get rid of me?”
His grin stretched wide, showing off white teeth in his black goatee. “I didn’t say that.”
She cocked her head. “So what is this, some kind of back handed proposal?”
“I didn’t say that, either!” He laughed and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You certainly know how to take the wind out of a guy’s sails.”
She waited. Where was this going?
“So, okay, here’s the deal: I have the opportunity to buy the shotgun house that’s attached to mine. Mrs. Alexander is moving up north to be with her kids. She offered her house to me on a contract. It’s a damned good deal and I was thinking about remodeling, you know, doubling the space, creating one bigger house out of the two narrow ones. So, I thought maybe you’d like to move in.”
