The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  “Did you visit your mother at the hospital last night?”

  “No, I—” She stopped. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion and color washed up her wan face. “Wait a minute. Are you asking me if I visited my mother in the hospital and then killed her? My God, that’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?” She threw up her hands and sighed, looked as if she was fighting tears. Of anger? Regret? “Listen, Detective, I really think you’d better go. If you’re going to arrest me, just do it and charge me and get it over with, okay? Otherwise, please leave until I can get hold of my lawyer.” She was firm, her skin stretched tight across her face, her small fists clenched, but beneath her show of bravado, he sensed something else, something akin to desperation. This woman was definitely at the end of her rapidly unraveling rope.

  From beneath the table her little dog growled.

  “Oscar, hush!”

  He knew when he’d pushed it as far as it could be pushed. For the moment it was game over. “I’ll be in touch,” he said as he walked to the front door and swung it open.

  “I don’t doubt it, Detective.”

  Reed stepped onto the porch, but turned to face her. Across the threshold she was standing ramrod stiff, her shoulders square, her gaze level. Hard again. He had the feeling he was in the company of a great actress; one who could not only make him question his own convictions, but one who would be able to play a jury any way she liked.

  “I only wish I could say I was looking forward to it.” She slammed the door in his face.

  Again.

  But it was the last time.

  It wouldn’t happen again.

  He’d make certain of it.

  Twenty-Six

  Adam’s grandmother had always told him there was more than one way to skin a cat. He’d thought it an odd analogy for a woman who at any given time kept five or six strays on the back porch and even allowed them to stay in the kitchen around the stove in the cold Midwest winters. Nonetheless, with her cat-skinning example, she’d taught him to look at different ways to solve a problem.

  Which he was now doing in his rented rooms, sitting at his computer, searching through the Internet for any mention of the Montgomery family of Savannah. But he’d been at it for hours, he’d finished a pot of coffee and the information on the screen was starting to blur. He was getting nowhere. Fast.

  Sooner or later the police would figure out that Rebecca was missing.

  And then they’d come knocking on his door instead of the other way around.

  So he had to work quickly, to gather as much information as he could. Some of that important data only he could retrieve because he was Caitlyn Bandeaux’s psychologist of record. He was privy to information the cops weren’t.

  Guilt wormed its way into his brain. He was using her. For his own purposes. No matter how altruistic they might be. On top of it all, he was falling for her. Or thought he was. This was one helluva time to play the role of the romantic. He couldn’t get involved with her, not even a quick dalliance. It wasn’t his style, nor, did he think, hers. She was his patient, for God’s sake, and he was having trouble keeping his hands off her. Which was just plain stupid. It served no purpose and yet he couldn’t seem to stop wanting.

  And yet it was her face he’d seen as he’d woken up sweat-drenched, his groin aching, his cock rock-hard. Her body he’d been fantasizing about as he’d lain on his bed staring up at the ceiling. He’d wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Really kiss her and touch her intimately. In his mind’s eye he’d imagined parting her lips while running his palms down her spine, his fingers curling in her firm buttocks.

  It had been torture.

  He hadn’t dreamed of another woman in years. The last had been Rebecca, but her image was finally fading, had all but been erased by Caitlyn. What was it about her? Not just her beauty and certainly not the weak part of her. He’d never considered himself for the role of great protector; he certainly didn’t see himself as some kind of white knight, ready to ride his charger to her defense so that he could take care of her. Nope. It was more than sex and had little to do with a need to defend and protect.

  He closed his eyes for a second. Damn it, he just liked being with her. Too much. It would have to stop. Along with his damnable fantasies. He felt as if he was walking a tightrope high over a dark abyss that seemed to have no bottom. One misstep and he’d fall, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d take Caitlyn down with him.

  With difficulty, he turned his thoughts to the problem at hand, dismissing his lingering visions of Caitlyn, refusing to walk down that dangerous path. Even the slightest bit of sexual or romantic contact with her would spell disaster; potentially taint and ruin everything.

  Jaw tight, he glared at the computer screen. Since he hadn’t yet been able to find any of Rebecca’s missing notes, he’d started surfing the Internet looking for articles on the Montgomery family. He’d read through all of Rebecca’s other patient files and found nothing in them worthy of her excitement and claim that this case was sure to make her a millionaire as well as gain her national recognition.

  Which he didn’t care about. But he had to find out what it was about Caitlyn Bandeaux that had Rebecca dreaming fantastic dreams. Therein lay the key to her disappearance. He was certain of it.

  He grabbed his keys and hurried down three flights of creaky stairs. Outside it was still overcast and gloomy, but he barely noticed. He drove to the offices of the Savannah Sentinel, where a bored-looking receptionist with nails polished in different colors, sleek glasses and a short-cropped, windblown head of hair asked to help him, then looked pointedly at the clock. It was after four.

  When he asked to see the archives, she made a quick call, then led him to an area where all of their old editions were kept on compact disk. “The real old stuff is on microfiche,” she added, pointing to a viewer and giving him a long once-over before leaving him to his devices. “But we’re closing soon.”

  “I’ll be quick,” he promised and settled into the musty room with its single broken-backed office chair. He started with the most recent articles and went back in time, using important dates as a reference. He read about Caitlyn’s daughter’s death, about her marriage, about a merger with a smaller institution and Montgomery Bank and Trust. There was information on Hannah Montgomery’s drug arrest and later acquittal, and Troy Montgomery’s short-lived marriage. There were also articles about Amanda’s marriage to Ian Drummond and, long ago, the death of Charles Montgomery. He printed all the articles, but the ones that held his interest, the information that caused him to sit up and take notice, were the line inches dedicated to the boating accident involving both of the Montgomery twins. It was a series of articles, starting with the date of the accident, complete with pictures of both girls, identical as far as he could see, and some of the boat wreckage.

  Caitlyn’s recollection of the string of events was intact.

  The two girls were going out to a party to celebrate their twenty-fifth birthday. They’d drunk and danced until after midnight, then headed back to the mainland. On their way home, there had been an explosion, the cause of which was under investigation. The boat sank.

  That was where the story veered sharply from Caitlyn’s account.

  One hundred and eighty damned degrees.

  As Adam read the article, every muscle in his body tensed. His jaw was rock-hard, his stomach churning.

  According to the front page of the Sentinel, some ten years earlier, Caitlyn Montgomery, injured and knocked unconscious, was found by a couple on a sailing boat who witnessed the expensive cruiser being blown to smithereens. But just Caitlyn. No Kelly. In fact, Kelly was never found. Not that night, not the next day, not in the next week.

  Adam’s heart beat faster. Caitlyn had altered the truth. Bald-faced lied to him.

  As you’ve done to her. From the get-go.

  “Mr. Hunt?” The receptionist was poking her head through the doorway as he pressed the print key. “We’re locking up.”


  “I’ll just be a second,” he promised and she, rolling her eyes, jangled her keys impatiently, but left him alone.

  There was article after article about the search for Kelly Montgomery. Adam printed them all as he skimmed each page. He read where the Montgomery family had gone into seclusion, that the police feared the worst and hoped for the best.

  After a week the search was called off, and the articles became fewer and far between.

  Until the last newspaper mention of Kelly Griffin Montgomery.

  Her obituary.

  Her headache was immense. Clanging. Making it impossible for Atropos to concentrate. Even her quiet place with its cool white walls and sparkling clean floor didn’t help. She’d tripped over that awful white-trash girl in the other room and almost forgot to put on her surgical slippers. Almost. But before she made that mistake, she slid them on, then quickly walked to her desk and tried to think. She was Atropos, that was it . . . Atropos the inevitable.

  She had Cricket held hostage for a reason. A reason. Think!

  Remember your mission. You are one of the Three Fates, the most important.

  Yes, that was it. Atropos. She cut the string of life that her sister, Klotho, the spinner, had spun for each person’s life and her other sister, Lachesis, the apportioner, had measured so carefully. The sisters . . . three strong, all of one mind . . . But that mind hurt right now, it hurt like hell.

  She opened the drawer. The strings of life were waiting, red and black, symbolizing blood and death, braided and wound intricately together. Fate. Destiny. Kismet.

  Think! You are here for a purpose.

  She found the two pictures of her latest victim, the mother . . . In the still frame, Berneda was young, a slim woman in a knee-length black dress. Her head was turned coquettishly to one side to show off her stunning profile, her red-brown hair piled on her head and pinned with a diamond tiara. Silk gloves hugged her slim arms, and a cigarette in a long-stemmed holder smoldered, sending a curl of smoke aloft. It was a posed picture, the backdrop solid white, and it was entirely unmotherly.

  She who had borne seven children; she who had time and time again complained at her loss of figure, of the sacrifices she’d made for her brood. She, the once beautiful and often betrayed by a philandering husband, had lamented her loss of beauty, vitality and youth. She whose weak heart had been her downfall. She who had hated the bastards her husband and father-in-law had sired.

  Poor long-suffering Berneda.

  Finally she suffered no longer, Atropos thought as she pulled at the strands of the mother’s life, seeing where it had been measured. Unfolding her unique instruments from their soft sack, she found her cherished surgical scissors. With a clean snip of stainless steel, she clipped off the strands of Berneda Pomeroy Montgomery’s martyred life.

  So how to mold the photograph to properly reflect the deed? Hmmm. It was her hourglass figure that Berneda had prized and later mourned in life, and so it would be robbed of her in death. Yes, that would do. Satisfied, Atropos went to work. With two clean snips Atropos clipped Berneda’s head from her body, then sliced off her legs. Yes, yes, perfect. The pieces drifted to the desktop.

  Picking up the head and legs, Atropos held them together, then carefully pinned them where they belonged on the gnarly Montgomery family tree. And there was Berneda, just a small profile of a beautiful face and glittering tiara resting upon knees and calves supported by four-inch heels. The cigarette and arms were still intact, giving Berneda a skewed though elegant, eye-catching look. The kind she’d always wanted. Atropos smiled. The newly cut-and-pasted Berneda stood on the branch next to the husband, the Betrayer. He was dressed in hunting clothes for he had always been a hunter, though women were his usual prey. His body was intact, aside from a hole at the juncture of his legs, to one side, a small jagged perforation where his testicle had once been. She scanned the others who lived on the tree as well . . . Little Parker robbed of his stupid little pacifier and crying his lungs out, Alice Ann with her head cut off and placed at an impossible angle, just as it had been when she’d hit the bottom of the stairs at the upscale institution where she’d been hidden away.

  If only she had more time to look at her artwork, to sit back and enjoy her work. But not yet. Atropos was running out of time.

  Finding the picture of Amanda, the eldest, she snipped the car away from Amanda’s slim body. The eldest was still alive—an act of God—and would have to be dealt with later. That thought made her smile. Yes, yes . . . it all fit perfectly. For the moment, she placed the picture of the little crumpled sports car on Amanda’s branch. For now it would have to do, but Amanda’s life string could not yet be cut.

  The sister of fate had decided.

  Now it was time to choose again. She sat in the chair and began to shuffle the pictures. Quickly she flipped the old photos, and as she did she realized that some of the pictures were no longer flawless. Some had faded, others had yellowed, still others were bent and cracked from all the handling.

  Too much time had passed. Too many years. She felt a new anxiety. Where once she’d been patient, she was now nervous. Edgy.

  From the other room she heard her victim moving . . . God, was it not her time yet?

  Time. Atropos was running out of it. She needed to finish this, and yet there was so much work to do. She didn’t even have the luxury of taking time to pick her victims at her leisure. Where once she could wait months or years, now she felt an impending sense of panic to get the job done. Faster . . . and faster.

  She flipped a photograph over and saw Caitlyn’s face. Again. It seemed as if destiny was pointing in the weaker twin’s direction. But was it the right, precise moment in time? Atropos had planned for Caitlyn to be the last, to accept the blame for all of her doings, but perhaps that was a miscalculation.

  Now where the hell was the wimp’s life cord?

  Sorting through the strings in her drawer, the braided cords marked appropriately, by inches and in years, Atropos noted that Caitlyn’s time was just about due. There were others as well, and as she flipped up the next pictures, she felt a cooling sense of satisfaction. Her anxiety eased.

  Two more victims . . . one looking sullen, the other trying to shy away from the camera, her image in the background.

  Too late. You can’t hide.

  Atropos smiled peacefully even though she heard Cricket thumping and pounding, trying to free herself. The girl was terrified. Sensed what was coming. Good. Maybe it was time for a little reminder. Yes, that was it. Atropos had never before taken a hostage; her victims knew they were dying at her hand, and she’d dragged it out beautifully with Josh Bandeaux, but now the slow mental torture of the captive was a new high, a rush, one she couldn’t indulge in too often for fear of being caught. But . . . while she had Cricket as her guest, she might as well enjoy it.

  And she knew just how. She heard the girl kicking and attempting to scream, so maybe it was time to give her something to think about. She unwrapped her packet of surgical instruments and found the forceps. They should do. She donned a pair of gloves, then quickly left her slippers at the door and found her flashlight. Her gloved fingers curled around the flashlight’s handle, and she felt the thrill of anticipation run through her body. This basement was so foul, so perfect. Cautiously, in case Cricket was able to throw her body or kick out, she walked toward her, clicking on the flashlight and training it on the girl. She looked bad. Dirty. Wan. Probably from lack of nutrition and water . . . it had been several days. Cricket showed some spunk. It was time to drug her again, but first . . . yes, first it was important for her hostage to understand.

  Atropos squatted down by the jar teeming with spiders. The girl was angry and scared, shouting behind her gag, and Atropos could only imagine the words. Ugly words. Not that it mattered. Slowly Atropos unscrewed the lid of the milk bottle and checked the life cord . . . time was fast running out. Then, using her gloved hands, she slid the forceps into the bottle, gently angling them around a part
icularly thick webbing where tons of the tiny spider babies were crawling.

  “You know, you’re lucky your nickname is Cricket,” Atropos said and glanced back at the girl. Her eyes were round with fear. She couldn’t take her eyes off the surgical tongs as they extracted a slowly elongating silken sac that was pulsing with life. “If you’d been called Bunny, or Rosebud, or Chrissy, I would have had a lot more trouble determining your fate, but as it is . . .” She turned, waving the bit of spider web into the flashlight’s beam and dangling it over Cricket’s head.

  The girl was sweating now, scooting back farther into the corner. “I wouldn’t go there,” Atropos warned. “I’ve seen rats and snakes in here and . . .”

  Cricket was going nuts. Kicking and screaming behind her gag. Atropos would have none of it. She held the bit of fluff over the girl, then let it drop. Cricket screamed. “Now . . . let’s see. We wouldn’t want to separate a mother from her babies. Which one do you think it is . . . oh, here she is.” She found a particularly nasty-looking creature staring at her through the glass, all of its eight eyes reflecting the light, spinnerets visible. “Oh, here we go.” With the precision of a surgeon, Atropos slid her forceps inside the milk bottle again, and while Cricket wriggled and shrieked behind her gag, she gently grabbed the silken tuft on which the dark creature resided. A bit of red, in the shape of an hourglass, showed on the glistening black abdomen. Atropos was pleased . . . She’d had to gather some of the creatures herself, others she’d found on the Internet and had shipped to a post office box, paid by an anonymous check, and this one, the black widow, with its pear-shaped egg sac, had been her favorite. “Come to Mama,” she said, nudging the shy creature into her tongs. Black Widow. How appropriate, for surely Caitlyn Bandeaux would be blamed for not only her husband’s death but all the rest.