by Lisa Jackson
“Maybe,” she said glancing around the grounds of her small cottage. “But I kind of like it here.”
“Alone?”
“Not necessarily.” She winked at him. “Why don’t you move out here?”
“Oh, whoa. Plenty of reasons. Let’s start with we both have work in town, so I thought we could live there, close to work and nightlife and friends, but also keep this place. You know, stay here when we wanted to get away from the city.”
“Not too far of a get-away.”
He drew her into his arms and rested his forehead on hers. The gold ring in his earlobe winked in the afternoon light. “It would be perfect,” he said, his breath fanning her face, her heart suddenly trip-hammering.
“And that way, if things didn’t work out, I could come back here.”
“They’ll work out.” He seemed so positive. Yeah, maybe there was more than a little pride in Reuben Diego Pedro Montoya. “You know, they even have this pool down at the station. Bets are being taken. Bentz told me it’s two to one that you and I’ll be married by the end of the year.”
“Is that so? Then you’ll have to work fast, won’t you, Detective.”
“I’ve been known to,” he said and she felt that little jolt of lust seep into her blood again reflected by the hint of desire in his coffee-dark eyes.
“I come with baggage,” she warned, “and I’m not talking about what happened at the old hospital and all those old ghosts of the past.”
“That’s not enough?”
She punched him in the arm. “Noooo. I was talking about Ansel and Hershey.”
He groaned. “I don’t know. A dog and a suspicious feline?”
“And a zealous sister.”
He laughed. “Is that all? No big deal. Come on, Chastain. Bring it on. What else do you have?”
“You’re impossible,” she said, giggling, and felt more light-hearted than she had in years.
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’ll consider the move,” she said as they climbed the two steps of the porch and she heard a squirrel running rapidly across the roof. “But I can’t promise anything.”
As much as she’d loved being with Montoya these past two weeks, they’d been difficult as well. News reporters had called repeatedly as her name had been linked to Faith Chastain and Christian Pomeroy. Sean Erwin had been pissed as hell when he’d tried to buy the house for thousands less than it was worth and she’d turned him down. Maury Taylor was still milking Luke’s death and the whole serial killer thing at WSLJ, and her clientele had grown exponentially with her new-found infamy.
In-depth stories about Christian Pomeroy, the rich, mentally ill son of a local millionaire who had “slipped through the cracks” in the mental health system had come to light in chilling detail.
At odds with a father who had abandoned him, Christian had used the very weapons Asa Pomeroy had manufactured to subdue and kill him. Grappling with neurosis caused by mental disorder and exacerbated by a religious fanatic of a mother who, it seemed from old records, had abused her son, Christian had probably killed the second Mrs. Asa Pomeroy.
Rather than face prison, Christian had ended up in Our Lady of Virtues Hospital where he’d hung out with a group of angry, socio-pathic youths his own age, all with their own peculiar kinds of violent obsessions. While at the hospital, Christian had met and fallen in love with Faith Chastain, with whom, it was speculated, he had an affair.
Twenty years later he’d started his macabre killing spree.
Christian had died that night at the hospital, tumbling to his death just as his lover had twenty years earlier. Deep in the bowels of the old hospital, the police had found Pomeroy’s lair, an old operating room that had been converted into bizarre living quarters for a demented individual.
References to sin and atonement, lines of Scripture, and religious quotes had been scratched into the wall. Over those rough carvings, Pomeroy had scrawled each of the Seven Deadly Sins in glowing paint and with each sin was its saintly equivalent, the Contrary Virtues written in an intricate hand with the same florescent paint that glowed eerily in the weak light from Pomeroy’s lanterns.
There had been a cot and sleeping bag and an old secretary-type desk where Pomeroy had kept his treasures from his killing spree. Courtney Mary LaBelle’s promise ring had been placed in a tiny slot next to Luke Gierman’s Rolex, Asa Pomeroy’s money clip had been surrounded by Gina Jefferson’s gold chain and cross, Billy Ray Furlough’s expensive revolver cloaked in Maria Montoya’s favorite rosary . . .
Yeah, Abby decided, he was a real wack job.
It seemed that Christian Pomeroy had been plotting his revenge for years and that retaliation had been tweaked and molded by his mother’s antiquated views of sin and redemption, creating a unique and deadly psychosis. He’d even dressed Courtney LaBelle in his mother’s wedding dress, one he’d kept for years, and a designer had identified.
The police had found fourteen names of his potential victims, along with their imagined sins and virtues, listed on a single sheet of paper tacked into the side of the desk. Six names had been crossed off; the six victims who had died in the first three staged scenes. Of the others, four names had been circled and had included Pedro Montoya, Hannah Chastain, Simon Heller, and Zoey Chastain. Pride, Humility, Sloth and Zeal. The remaining four people, none of whom she recognized, were associated with Envy, Charity, Gluttony and Moderation, had escaped. Or so everyone thought. The police were still checking on their whereabouts.
Still, Pomeroy’s dying words had haunted her.
Tonight is just the beginning.
Hogwash! He was dead. And she didn’t believe he would resurrect.
So why did she still feel a little niggle of fear each time she thought of him? A coldness deep in the center of her soul?
Why did her nightmares now include him?
“Something bothering you?” Montoya asked as he shut the door behind them.
“Same old, same old,” she admitted, but refused to dwell on Pomeroy and the horror he’d created. It was over. Done. Finis! “How about I buy you a beer?”
“Sounds good.”
They walked into the kitchen and she opened the refrigerator door as Montoya’s cell rang. He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked caller ID.
“Duty calls. It’s Bentz,” he said with a smile, then clicked it on. “Montoya.”
Abby opened two bottles. As she handed a longneck to Montoya she saw his expression change during the one-sided conversation, his jaw tightening, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown. “Nope, I have no idea,” he responded. “It’s news to me.” He took a swallow of beer and listened again, his eyes returning to Abby.
Abby’s guts twisted. Something was wrong.
“She’s right here . . . .Yeah, I’ll ask and get back to you.”
“Ask me what?” she said as he clicked off. Her fingers tightened over the chilled bottle of Coors.
“It’s about your mother.”
Abby felt a cold breath of dread against the back of her neck. “What about her?” she asked.
“She didn’t have any children other than you and your sister, right?”
“Right. Just Zoey and me.” What kind of question was that? Her stomach knotted. She set her beer on the counter.
“And you were born by Cesarean birth?”
“No!” Abby shook her head.
“What about Zoey?”
“No. I’m sure not. I heard the stories of our births from Mom and Dad. And once I walked into the bathroom and saw Mom naked. No scar. Why?”
“Bentz was just going over the medical records for your mother, including the coroner’s report,” Montoya said, scratching at his goatee. “It seems she did have a scar that indicated she’d had a C-section. Bentz checked her other, previous medical records, none of which mentioned a pregnancy or birth.”
“No way.”
He studied her with those dark, warm eyes and she realized she knew very l
ittle about the woman who had borne her, the woman whose birthday she had shared, the woman who had slit her own wrists, the woman who had spent years in a mental hospital fighting her own set of demons.
“But that can’t be . . . Mom and Dad weren’t even together . . .” Abby said, hearing her own damning words as her insides turned to ice. Hadn’t Faith had affairs with both Simon Heller and Christian Pomeroy? Wasn’t it possible that she’d given birth to one of their offspring . . . that Abby had a half brother or sister somewhere? A child sired by a killer? Her heart turned to stone. “I don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper. “I don’t think so, but the truth is, I really don’t know.” She cleared her throat, fought back the denials she wanted to scream. “I . . . I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Do you think that’s what Pomeroy meant when he said ‘Tonight’s just the beginning?’”
She shuddered, hating to think of the consequences. “I—oh God—I guess we’d better find out.” She detested the thought of it, just wanted to bury the past once and for all. Apparently, it wasn’t to be. She took in a deep breath and met Montoya’s concerned gaze. “So, Detective, where do we begin?”
Montoya thought hard. Took a long pull from his bottle before setting it on the counter. “At the beginning,” he said, “where it all started.” He held her gaze with his. “At Our Lady of Virtues Mental Hospital.”
“Dear God, will this never end?”
“Of course it will,” he said, managing a smile as he drew her into the strength of his arms. “We’ll get through this together, you and me.” He kissed her lightly on her lips. “You know, Darlin’, I have a feeling that Bentz just might win his bet after all.”
“Really?” she asked, and despite everything she couldn’t help but smile. She was with Montoya, the man she loved.
“Abso-friggin-lutely. Chances are by the end of the year, I’ll be a married man.”
“So who’s the lucky lady?” she teased, her mood bright.
Montoya winked at her. “Why don’t you take a wild guess?”
“Uh-uh, Detective. No guesses. I’m only interested in a sure thing.”
“Well then, Abby, I don’t think you’ll ever be disappointed.”
“Nor will you, Detective,” she vowed. “Nor will you.”
Dear Reader,
Thanks for picking up a copy of SHIVER. I hope you enjoyed Montoya’s story. I loved writing the book, especially the passages involving Abby’s mother, Faith.
As you probably noticed while reading SHIVER, there are a couple of story threads that haven’t quite been sewn up, especially involving the character of Faith. The questions you might have will be answered in ABSOLUTE FEAR, the sequel to SHIVER. ABSOLUTE FEAR will be published in hardcover in April 2007 and it’s the story of Eve Renner, a woman who was lured to a remote Louisiana cabin and nearly killed. Months later, she remembers little of the tragic night where one man was left dead, but she has the disturbing feeling that her lover, Cole Dennis, was somehow involved. Did she see him at the scene of the grizzly murder, or is that all part of her fragmented amnesia? What she doesn’t understand is that she is trapped in a world of questions and deceit and that she is the ultimate target of a demented killer who has ties to Our Lady of Virtues Hospital, the same abandoned asylum in New Orleans that you first read about in SHIVER.
Once again Detectives Montoya and Bentz are investigating a string of horrifying homicides. This time nothing is as it seems, reality clashes with nightmares, and both Bentz and Montoya sense that those they hold dear are in jeopardy.
If you liked SHIVER, I’m sure you’ll really enjoy ABSOLUTE FEAR as well. It’s a haunting, twisted, psychological tale of love, retribution, lies and terror. You can find out more about the book at www.lisajackson.com. Log on and take a virtual tour of Our Lady of Virtues while you find out more about ABSOLUTE FEAR. If you’ve enjoyed reading about Montoya and Bentz, and this was your first time meeting them, look for HOT BLOODED and COLD BLOODED, the novels where I first introduced them!
Also, I’ve got a special surprise to all of you who loved my novel IF SHE ONLY KNEW. I have a new novel, ALMOST DEAD, that brings back some familiar faces from San Francisco. Remember Cissy Cahill, Marla’s daughter in IF SHE ONLY KNEW? Well, it’s ten years later and Cissy’s back with a sexy new husband and an innocent baby. Once again Cissy’s life is turned upside down. Everything she holds true turns out to be false. Her marriage is a sham. Both she and her child are in life-threatening danger and people around her start dying. Fortunately, Anthony Paterno of the San Francisco Police Department is on the case, but he just might be too late. ALMOST DEAD is a bizarre, twisted tale that’s guaranteed to keep you up late. Look for this original paperback in August 2007!
As always, keep reading!
Lisa
PROLOGUE
Near New Orleans
Three months earlier
The voice of God pounded through his brain:
Kill.
Kill them both.
The man and the woman.
Sacrifice them.
Tonight.
This is your penance.
He lay on the sweat-stained sheets of his bed while a neon light pulsed blood-red through the slats of blinds that didn’t quite close over the windows. The Voice thundered in his ears. Reverberated through his head. Echoed so loudly It drowned out the others, the little screechy, irritating, fingernails-on-chalkboard voices that he thought of as belonging to bothersome insects. They, too, issued orders. They, too, disturbed his sleep. but they were small, annoying and not as powerful as The Voice, the one he was certain was from God Himself.
A niggling doubt wormed through his mind, suggesting that the Voice was evil, that It might be speaking the words of Lucifer, the Lord of Darkness.
His jaw tightened. He couldn’t think this way. He had to have faith. Faith in the Voice, in what It told him, in Its ultimate wisdom.
Quickly, he rolled off the cot and onto his knees. Deftly, from years of practice and sacrifice, he made the sign of the cross over his naked chest. Beads of perspiration collected on his scalp as he prayed for guidance, begged to be His messenger, felt a thrum of anticipation that it was he who had been sought out. He was God’s disciple. “Show me the way,” he prayed, licking his lips. “Tell me what I must do.”
Kill.
The Voice was clear.
Slay them both.
Sacrifice the man and the woman.
He frowned as he prayed, not completely understanding. The woman, Eve, he understood. Oh, how long he’d waited to do just what the Voice commanded. He envisioned her. Heart-shaped face with a strong, impertinent chin. The faintest hint of freckles bridging her short, straight nose. Intense eyes as clear as and blue as a tropical lagoon and fiery, storm-tossed hair.
So beautiful.
So headstrong.
And such a whore.
He imagined what she let men do to that athletic body . . . oh, he’d seen her before, peeked through the slit between her curtains and seen taut skin stretched over feminine muscles that moved so fluidly as she bathed. Her breasts were small, firm, and tipped with rosy-hued nipples that tightened as she stepped into the bath water.
Oh, he’d watched her, spying on her as those long legs stepped over the edge of the tub, unknowingly flashing him just a glimpse of the pink folds and red curls at the juncture of her thighs.
Thinking of her, he licked his lips and felt that special tingle that only she could entice from him, the hot run of blood that flushed his skin and caused his cock to thicken in anticipation.
If only he could run his fingers inside her legs, lick those tight little breasts, fuck the hell out of her. She was a whore anyway. In his mind’s eye he saw himself mounting her, his toned body over hers, his cock driving deep into that hot, wanton wasteland where others had spilled their seed.
He was breathing hard.
Knew what he was thinking was a sin.
But just once he wanted to fu
ck her.
Before the killing.
But what of the man?
Realizing he was still on his knees, he made another swift sign of the cross and felt a jab of shame that God might read his thoughts and know his weakness. He had to fight the lust. Had to.
And yet, as he stood, stretching his honed muscles, he felt needles of anticipation piercing his skin, desire causing his groin to tighten almost painfully.
He dressed in the dark, pulling on his camouflage pants and jacket, ski mask and boots, the uniform he’d hung from a peg near the door. His weapons were already stowed in his truck, hidden in a special locked drawer in the false bottom of his tool box. Knives, pistols, silencers, plastic explosives, even a pea-shooter and darts with poisoned tips, along with the plastic explosives.
He slid out of his dark room and stepped into the dark, mist-laden night.
He was ready.
Eve checked her watch.
Ten forty-five.
“Great,” she muttered between clenched teeth.
She was running late.
Despite the fact that the night outside the windshield of her Camry was thick with fog, she stepped on the gas. Her dented Toyota had nearly a hundred and twenty thousand miles on the engine, but still leapt forward, ever reliable.
So she wouldn’t be on time. So what? A few minutes one way or the other wouldn’t hurt.
She took a corner a little too fast, cut into the inside lane and nearly hit an oncoming pickup. The driver blasted his horn and she jerked on the wheel, slowing a little, her heart jack-hammering.
Roy could wait, she thought, thinking of the frantic phone call she’d received less than half an hour earlier. “Eve, you’ve got to come,” he’d said in a rush, his voice tense. “To the cabin, you know the one, where we used to go in the summer as kids. My uncle’s place. But hurry. I’ll . . . I’ll uh, meet you at eleven.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” she’d protested. “I’m not going to—”
