Shiver

by Lisa Jackson

  “We’ll have to look into everyone associated with the convent to find Sister Maria. I’m sure you’ll want to cooperate fully.”

  Her lips pursed a bit tighter. “Of course, Detective Montoya, but it’s also my position to protect the people who live here.”

  “We’ll both be protecting them.” He stood. “May I see her room?”

  The old nun nodded, took her glasses off her nose so that they swung from her neck on a chain, then climbed from behind her desk and led Montoya through the hallways to the second floor. She’d barricaded the room with a couple of chairs and opened the door without a key.

  “The room wasn’t locked?”

  She looked up at him. “There is no need.”

  “Until last night.”

  He looked inside the tiny chamber. A twin bed was pushed against one corner, the covers wildly mussed, the sheet draping to the floor. His stomach wrenched as he imagined her struggle. The closet door was ajar and a few items of clothing—habits and street clothes—peeked through. Her small window was open a crack, a breeze sliding through. “You haven’t disturbed anything?”

  “No. Sister Rebecca, who usually walks with her to morning prayers, knocked on her door. When there was no answer, she went inside. Seeing Sister Maria was missing, she called me, and I came to her room. Then we went to prayers, thinking she would join us, but she didn’t. When she didn’t come to breakfast, we started looking more seriously. I spoke with everyone here and no one saw her after I did—which was around eight P.M. As I said, she didn’t say or do anything that would lead me to believe that she was troubled. Then, I called you. She’d given me your phone number in case of an emergency.”

  There was nothing he could do officially until his aunt had been missing twenty-four hours. Nonetheless, he walked the perimeter of the convent, unofficially talked with a few of the nuns who were his aunt’s friends, and was shown some of the rooms and hallways Sister Maria had called home for nearly forty years.

  Anger burned through him. She hadn’t been safe in a nunnery—the very place she’d found sanctuary when her own family had shunned her.

  “You know my aunt well,” he said, eyeing the Mother Superior as she escorted him to his car.

  “As well as anyone, I suppose.”

  “Were you here when she joined?”

  She nodded. “Yes.” She smiled slightly. “I’ve been here a long time. I think some of the younger nuns consider me a dinosaur. T. rex, I believe.”

  He eyed the woman’s birdlike stature. T. rex was quite a stretch. “You must know why my aunt came here in the first place.”

  She lifted a gray eyebrow as her lips pulled into a frown. “We’re a tightly knit little community here. There are few secrets.”

  “Everyone has secrets.”

  She hesitated, then said, “And they should be kept private, between oneself and God. I know about her son.”

  They’d reached the pockmarked lot where Montoya was parked. He opened the car door but paused. “I don’t know if my aunt’s…if Sister Maria’s…disappearance has anything to do with the old hospital,” he said, “but I would like all the records for it. I need information about who worked there, who resided there, who visited often.”

  She looked up sharply. “The hospital’s been closed for a long time.”

  “It’s the records I’m interested in,” he said. “They must still exist.”

  “That information is confidential.”

  “I’ll get a court order. It will be granted. All you’ll do is delay me and use up time.” He looked at the little woman steadily. “I’m not sure how or why, but I think the double homicides that have occurred lately might be connected to the hospital. The information in those records might help me locate my aunt.” He felt a little needle of guilt to think that soon after he’d spoken with Sister Maria, when he’d asked for information from her, she’d gone missing. “I asked her for some of this information and she gave me the confidentiality speech. Now she’s missing. Is there a connection? I don’t know. I need to find out.”

  “What are you looking for, specifically?” she asked.

  He was surprised she read him so well. “I want to know exactly what happened to Faith Chastain.”

  Tiny lines grooved between her brows. “I don’t know—”

  “And I need to find Sister Maria.”

  She looked away for a moment, came to a decision. “I’ll see what I can do. Despite what I may appear, I’m not a dusty old relic clinging to the ‘old ways,’ Detective. I understand about the world we live in and all its ills. But like you, I have a protocol I must adhere to.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be back soon.” He jogged to his car and drove like a bat out of hell to the city. As the miles passed, he called his mother and asked her to phone all the family members, find out if any of them had seen Maria. Then he dialed his brother Miguel at All-Security and explained that he needed someone to connect or rewire the alarm system ASAP at Abby Chastain’s house in Cambrai.

  “Hey, Reu, we’re booked up for over a month,” Miguel complained. “We bid a new subdivision and people are calling like crazy what with that nut of a killer running around. When business is good for you, it’s good for me, too.”

  Montoya took a corner too fast, forced himself to ease off the gas. “This is important.”

  “They all are.”

  “I’d owe you.”

  “You already do, for life. Who is this woman anyway?”

  “A friend, who might be in danger.”

  Miguel chuckled and Montoya heard him lighting a cigarette. “A new friend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About time you had a new woman friend,” Miguel said. “Okay, I’ll get to it the first of next week. Give me her address. Wait…I need to find a pen.”

  Once he was back on the line, Montoya gave Miguel as much information as possible, then mentioned that Maria was missing.

  “From the convent?” Miguel asked.

  “Looks that way.”

  “My God, a person isn’t safe anywhere these days.” He paused. “You’ll find her, though, right? And she’ll be okay.”

  “I hope so. Check around. With all the cousins, anyone she knew. I’ve already told Mom. I’ll catch ya later.” He hung up just as he was slowing for a light in the French Quarter. The sun, through a thin fog, sent rays of light along the streets and alleys.

  It was Saturday and already warm enough that Montoya rolled down his window. Throngs of people were walking the streets, clogging the crosswalks or jaywalking through the city. He tapped his hands restlessly on the steering wheel. No one and nothing else seemed to be in a hurry. The Mississippi flowed steadily by, the scent of the river noticeable despite the aromas of baked goods and coffee emanating from shops or the odor of gasoline and car fumes that rolled through the town.

  As he stopped for a traffic light, he noticed two young men, peacock proud as they sauntered across the street. He’d been one of those young toughs, he thought, noticing how low their shorts rode on their butts and how they swaggered. If it hadn’t been for his stern you’re-going-to-make-something-of-yourself-or-else mother and his athleticism, he might have never gone to college, never become a detective. Three girls in tight T-shirts and shorts walked by. The men’s heads swiveled as if pulled on strings. One of them said something that the girls, one chatting on a cell phone, ignored.

  The game goes on, Montoya thought, glancing at his watch. He drove past Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral, its three towering spires knifing upward into a blue sky currently blotted by wisps of lingering fog. People pushed strollers, walked dogs, laughed, and shopped, seemingly unaware that their lives were in danger, that a killer was stalking the streets, that the serenity of this morning was just a mask for something dark and terrible.

  You have to stop him. You’re a good cop, you know you are, so nail his hide and save Maria. For God’s sake, Montoya, step it up. Don’t let this bastard take another life.

&n
bsp; He parked on the street near the station and strode quickly inside. On the second floor he ran into Lynn Zaroster. “Hey,” she said as she was slipping off her jacket and hanging it over the back of her chair in her cubicle. “You heard the news? Billy Ray Furlough’s missing.”

  He froze.

  All his fears congealed. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. The wife’s already filed a report, though we think the last person who saw him didn’t leave the estate until around eight last night. Apparently the reverend and the missus don’t sleep together; he usually stays in his office on the property. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours, but because of the recent murders, we’re already all over it. Brinkman and Conway are on the scene along with someone from the local field office of the FBI.”

  “Shit,” Montoya said, feeling sick inside. “My aunt’s missing, too. From the convent.”

  “What?”

  “My aunt’s a nun. The last anyone saw her was yesterday around eight P.M.”

  “Oh, God.” She grabbed her jacket. “I’ll go out there.”

  “I was just there.”

  “Are you nuts! You can’t investigate family members—”

  “It wasn’t official,” he cut her off. “I was just the first family member called and I happen to be a cop. Yeah, I asked some questions. Yeah, I took notes. Yeah, I looked into her room. Yeah, I did tell the Mother Superior to keep it cordoned off. I figure we’ll have to work with the local Sheriff’s Department.”

  Frowning, she was already sliding her arms down the sleeves of her jacket. “You’re already thinking that we’ll find your aunt with Billy Ray Furlough.”

  “Yin and yang,” Montoya said.

  Zaroster gave him a long look. “Explain.”

  “Look at the two other pairs of victims: one person is directly opposite of the other. The woman is staged to look like the killer, fully clothed, diametrically opposite from the other victim as anyone could be.” He felt bile crawl up his throat. “And that’s the way it would be with my aunt and Billy Ray Furlough. Both involved with the church, one outwardly, ostentatiously, so; the other, a woman who became a nun to live a quiet, peaceful life with God.”

  “What is that? Principles of Taoism or some other Eastern philosophy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She slid her Glock into her shoulder holster. “Maybe it’s time to bone up.”

  The funeral had been excruciating. Abby and Zoey sat in one of the back pews with their father and Charlene, listening all the while the preacher extolled Luke’s virtues. Mourners sniffled and a few close friends gave testimonials to what a fine all-around guy he was. She recognized some of his coworkers from WSLJ, a few friends that she’d lost track of after the divorce, and some mutual acquaintances.

  Montoya had been there, too, observing the crowd, positioning himself near the church steps as people left. News crews had camped outside and several reporters brandishing microphones talked into cameras held on the shoulders of cameramen as the crowd dispersed.

  She and Zoey had spent a couple of hours with their dad and Charlene until, after looking at her watch pointedly several times, the second Mrs. Chastain insisted it was time to go and dutifully wheeled her ailing husband to her Cadillac. Zoey and Abby helped her get Jacques seated, then managed to hoist the wheelchair into the car’s voluminous trunk. “Careful of the paint,” Charlene warned and Abby saw Zoey’s jaw tightened. Afterward, on the drive home, Zoey muttered, “I wanted to bang the frame of Dad’s chair against the fender of her damned Caddy. Who does she think bought that car? What a bitch!” Zoey leaned her head against the side window of Abby’s Honda.

  “It’s not her fault Dad’s in such bad shape.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s what she signed up for whether she knew it or not. All part of the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the vows.” Abby didn’t reply and Zoey sighed. “Okay, I’m cranky, I admit it. No sleep tends to upset my usually bright and cheery disposition.”

  Abby laughed.

  “What?” Zoey grumbled.

  “Bright and cheery? Give me a break.”

  Zoey let out a huff of air. “Maybe you’ve got a point.” Yawning, she found a sweater in the backseat and wadded it up to pad her head before placing it against the side window again. “Mmm, better…”

  “You sleep, I’ll drive.”

  “You didn’t talk to that cute new boyfriend of yours.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Coulda fooled me.” Again she yawned. “You know when a guy stays over, makes coffee, and kisses the socks off you before he leaves—that’s usually an indication that he’s a boyfriend.”

  “Did you see how he watched the crowd?”

  “Like a wolf ready to pounce.” As Abby drove onto the freeway, Zoey manipulated the sweater again. She closed her eyes. “Abs?”

  “Mmm?” Abby checked her rearview mirrors and accelerated.

  “I never slept with Luke, okay?”

  “Zoey, that’s a lie and we both know it.”

  “I mean after you were married. I know you think I did, but even I’m not that low.” Zoey opened one eye and peered at her sister. She was dead sober. “I wouldn’t do that to you, okay. Not ever. I don’t know what Luke told you, but after you said, ‘I do’, I said ‘I won’t. Ever.’ And I meant it. As for before the wedding, okay, yeah, you know about that. But never once while you were married.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because Luke can’t lie anymore. He can’t screw with your head.” She sighed and twisted her neck so loudly it popped. “Being with Luke was not exactly my proudest moment, okay? I felt rotten about it forever. But there’s nothing I can do about it now except tell you the truth. Luke came on to me a lot, but I didn’t give him the time of day. Sure, I found him attractive once, but he was your husband.” She hesitated. “Is there any chance we can…lay that to rest and start over?”

  Abby hesitated, looked over at Zoey. Could it really be that simple?

  Zoey still stared at Abby with her one open eye. “Deal?”

  Luke was dead. It was over. So why not get on with her life? “Okay Zoey,” she finally said. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Look, I just wanted you to hear it from me,” Montoya said as he drove to the station. He hadn’t been able to catch up with Abby at the funeral, so he’d called her at the first opportunity. “Sister Maria is missing.”

  “What?”

  He heard the anxiety in her voice. “I take it you haven’t heard the news.”

  “No,” she said, her voice breaking up as their cell-phone-to-cell-phone connection was weak.

  “What’s even more disturbing is that Billy Ray Furlough is missing as well.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “We don’t know if their abductions were done by the same person who killed the others, but it doesn’t look good.”

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “You’ll find her.”

  Montoya nodded, switching lanes. “Yeah.” He only hoped that his aunt would be located while she was still alive. His fingers tightened over the wheel and his guts churned when he considered the alternative. “I called my brother, Miguel, from the security company. They’re going to squeeze you in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I’ll be by, I just don’t know when. Your sister is with you?”

  “Yes. She’s planning to stay for a few days.”

  “Good, and you’ve got the guard dog.”

  Abby laughed. Despite his sour mood, Montoya felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “Don’t forget Ansel the alarm cat,” she said.

  “Oh, right. My buddy.” He turned onto Chartres Street, close to Jackson Square, where a cluster of tourists had collected to listen to jazz musicians performing next to an open guitar case.

  “Ansel misses you,” she said and he snorted.

  “Tell him the feeling i
s mutual.” He pictured her face and the teasing light in her gold eyes and he felt better than he had since learning the news of his aunt’s disappearance. “I don’t suppose you’ve found the missing .38?”

  “Not yet,” she said. Her voice sobered, now coming in loud and clear. “But I haven’t really looked for it again.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I know.”

  The more he thought about the missing gun, the more worried for her safety he was. “I’ll try to stop by later. In the meantime you let me know if anything, and I mean anything, seems out of place.”

  “I will,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He hung up, feeling vulnerable. Not only was his aunt missing, but he was worried for Abby’s safety. Worried enough that, once her sister left, if the house hadn’t been wired with a security system, he was going to ask her to stay at his place, here in town.

  His conscience twinged as he considered that he had deeper, ulterior motives—motives that had more to do with sleeping with her than keeping her safe, but he dismissed those thoughts. First and foremost he was concerned with her safety. He knew in his gut that she was somehow in danger and he couldn’t let anything happen to her.

  Face it, man, a voice deep in his brain nagged, you’re falling for her. His jaw clenched hard as he slowed for jaywalkers. The police band crackled. And the last time you fell hard for a woman, you couldn’t save her. All of your hotshot police skills and you were still helpless.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered under his breath as he parked near the station. Though he hadn’t been officially removed from the case, it was only a matter of time if his aunt’s disappearance proved connected to the killings.

  He locked his car and headed inside. He intended to plug his camera into his computer and print out all the shots he’d taken at Gierman’s funeral. He then planned to compare them to the ones he’d taken at Courtney LaBelle’s candlelight vigil. Her funeral was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, so he would be in the crowd there as well. Surely the killer would show, to bask in the glory of the chaos and pain, to feel superior, to rub shoulders with the grief-stricken and the police to, in his mind’s eye, relive the crime.