by Lisa Jackson
Caitlyn wasn’t convinced and dialed Troy again. With no luck.
She was told by a snippy secretary that Troy was “in a meeting” and couldn’t be disturbed. So Caitlyn was on her own. Driving to Oak Hill and hoping like hell that Hannah was there.
The mailbox was empty and covered in cobwebs. The gate to the lane was secured by a heavy rusting chain. But the lock looked new, and there were what appeared to be fresh tire tracks in the mud. Adam double-checked the address. This was the place. He was sure of it. He’d pushed Caitlyn into telling him where Kelly lived, and she’d reluctantly come up with a place—she couldn’t remember the address, but her description had helped him narrow the possibilities. He’d checked with the county, done some digging and found that this house had been rented to one Kacie Griffin. According to the not-so-tight-lipped receptionist at the rental management company, the checks came in like clockwork.
Well, if this was the place, so be it. He had his picks and the imposing lock was spring loaded, not much of a challenge for someone who as a youth had learned the skills from street kids he hung out with. Lock picking, hot-wiring cars, slipping in and out of houses undetected, he’d perfected these skills and was on his way to major trouble when his grandmother had found out and hauled his ass to his older brother, who was then a military policeman. He’d suggested she turn Adam over to the local cops. Grandma had given him one more chance, but taken him to a state prison and had a friend walk him through the place. The catcalls and whistles, iron bars, barbed wire and eyes in watch towers had convinced him to give up his juvenile life of crime.
But the old rusty skills still came in handy.
He neatly picked the lock, but thought better of driving his car through the gate. He didn’t want to be trapped. If someone came, he could hide and sneak away fairly easily—but not with the car parked out front announcing he was inside.
With that in mind, he parked his car at an abandoned gravel pit half a mile away and jogged back to the old gate, slipped inside and continued down the gravel lane, which was little more than two ruts with weeds growing between them. Guarded by oak and pine, the lane was shaded and secluded, but not forgotten. The grass and weeds were bent in places, and he wondered if Kelly, or Kacie, was at home.
What then?
It was possible she was a murderess.
People were dying daily.
Whoever she was, she wouldn’t want to be exposed, would want to protect the privacy she’d worked so hard to create. He felt a chill, as if he were walking a path evil had already taken, as he rounded a corner and saw the house. It wasn’t much. Not by Montgomery standards. Set in the trees with a view of the river, it had to be a hundred years old. Maybe more. Painted green and brown—well, once anyway and a very long time ago—it was nestled in the forest at a bend in the river and looked like a little hunting or fishing cabin.
Hoping he wasn’t met by a man with a shotgun, he rapped on the front door. He’d be straight with anyone who answered, say he was looking for Kacie, and hope that whoever was inside didn’t take offense and blow him away. She could be a murderer. Remember that. And don’t be macho enough to think that you can overpower her because she’s a woman. She’s killed before.
He knocked again. Waited. Strained to hear some movement inside.
But there was no noise over the wind in the trees, the lap of the river or the occasional call from some marsh bird.
Carefully, he circled the small home, trying to peer through the windows, though most of the blinds were shut, dead insects and cobwebs and dirt between the closed shutters and the dirty glass. If Kelly Montgomery lived here, she was a pig. The front door was bolted; a small door to a lean-to carport was also locked tight. At the back of the house, he noticed footprints in the mud and dirt near the back veranda, cigarette butts crushed in the sand. Someone had been here recently.
On quiet footsteps he walked up two steps to the deck. It creaked under his weight, protesting his intrusion. The French doors were locked as well, but he withdrew his picks and quickly sprung the mechanism.
Slowly he pushed open the door. Then, telling himself he wasn’t a common burglar, that the only law he was breaking was that of trespassing, he stepped inside.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The place wasn’t unused, that much was certain. Just uncared for. It smelled of dust and mildew and smoke, probably from the ashes left in the crumbling brick fireplace. The curtains were old and faded, and not one picture adorned the dingy walls.
He was supposed to believe that Kelly Montgomery, pampered and spoiled princess, was living here, driving to a job from here?
No way.
No damned way.
He walked to the desk, where a dusty phone/answering machine sat, red light blinking, next to a picture of Caitlyn’s little girl, Jamie. Kelly’s one nod to her family? Or something else? He sensed that there were more layers here than were first visible. Something he was missing. He’d had the feeling for sometime, but it had intensified during the past few days and then last night . . . Jesus, what had he been thinking?
You weren’t. You let your dick do all your thinking last night.
Disgusted with himself, he pressed the play button on the answering machine and waited while the tape rewound, then heard Caitlyn’s voice leaving a message, the message she’d left from her house last night. While he was there with her. Then he heard his own voice identifying himself and asking Kelly to return his call.
His jaw slid to one side.
Hearing his own voice seemed eerily out of sync. Warped.
In a second of paranoia, he swept his gaze over the walls and ceiling, half expecting to find some sort of tiny camera or bugging device, as if he’d been lured here and then was going to be photographed and studied. But why? What the hell was going on here?
Fleetingly, he remembered the night before and mentally kicked himself from one side of Georgia to the other. How had he let himself get so carried away; how had he ended up making love to her? He frowned at his duplicity. He’d risked everything. His profession. His honor. His beliefs. His damned marriage, such as it was. All for a quick roll in the hay. Absently, he rubbed the ring finger on his left hand and noticed the indentation, still visible though he hadn’t worn his band for a long time. How had he allowed himself to get so carried away?
Because the woman got to you. Intrigued you. Face it, you’re falling for her. She’s an enigma, Hunt, and that’s what you like, what you’ve always been attracted to. Think of Rebecca. Another flighty, fascinating woman who caused you a few hours of joy and years of grief. That’s what had started it all, his need to find Rebecca, and he’d discovered another woman, one far more complicated, one perhaps more emotionally dangerous.
He didn’t want to think he was so twisted around by a woman, any woman, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that both Rebecca and Caitlyn were more than they first appeared and were, in that sense, perhaps like each other.
Eyeing the surroundings, he walked through the sparse rooms. Leather couch, coffee table, dusty television. A bedroom with an antique iron bed and an old quilt, the bathroom stocked with the bare essentials, a bar of soap, tube of toothpaste, near empty bottle of shampoo and small box of tampons. One set of towels. The kitchen wasn’t much better. Three bottles of Diet Coke and a bottle of ketchup in the refrigerator, an unopened bag of corn chips, one can of tuna and a jar of peanut butter with one finger scoop removed. A roll of paper towels and one set of mismatched dishes that would serve four if stretched. The flatware was odds and ends that looked as if they’d been picked up at garage sales or secondhand stores. Certainly not the kind of place one would expect an heir to a damned Southern fortune to call home.
No one called this place home.
Except for the rats, snakes and termites he figured slithered and crawled around the foundation or burrowed in the closets. The little house looked like a place teenagers would break into and claim as a secret gathering place—excep
t there were no beer bottles or trash to be found. Not one speck of garbage.
He walked to the desk and opened the drawer. Not much inside, just a few pictures . . . all of members of the Montgomery family. So someone came here. Someone associated with Caitlyn. He looked around one last time and slipped out the way he’d come. He’d found nothing of consequence and certainly nothing to help him in his quest to find Rebecca.
If push came to shove, he’d go to the police. He’d have to. And endure their skeptical looks and disbelief when he explained about her.
In the meantime, there was Caitlyn. Beautiful, puzzling Caitlyn. What the hell was he going to do about her?
Sugar opened a bleary eye. It was dark and she was lying in a bed . . . but not her bed, not in her bedroom. Music was playing faintly. A song she should recall. What was it? Had she heard it in the club?
Lookin’ like a tramp
Why couldn’t she move? Couldn’t think straight.
Like a video vamp.
Def Leppard. That was it and the song, “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” or something like that. What the hell was going on? She squinted, tried to think clearly. The only light came from moonlight filtering through the windows, lots of windows with lacy curtains. The bed was soft, and there was the scent of honeysuckle drifting in through the lacy curtains billowing at the windows. She was lying on her back, naked . . . wait a minute . . . she couldn’t move and her mind wasn’t working right; the images were blurry, as if she were on a bad LSD trip. She tried to roll over but couldn’t, finally realizing that she’d been bound. She was tied to the bedposts, her legs spread-eagled, her arms pulled tight to one post over her head.
What the hell?
She shifted and realized with mind-numbing fear that she wasn’t alone. Shit! She turned her head and saw her sister. Christ! Sugar jumped. Her bonds didn’t move. Cricket, too, was naked, lying on her back, her head twisted to one side so she stared blankly at Sugar. All over Cricket’s body were little reddish pockmarks, stings or pimples or bites . . .
Sugar tried to let out a scream, but no sound came from her throat. She tried to strain and buck, but she didn’t move. She’d been drugged for certain. She heard a movement, looked down to the foot of her bed and recognized her captor. All hope sank as she stared into the condemning eyes.
“So you’re awake. We, your slut of a sister and I, have been waiting. Do you know who I am?”
Of course I do, you bitch!
“I’m Atropos. One of the three fates. Not that you would understand, you cretin, but I wanted you to know. And I’ve been watching you, seen what you’ve done . . . oh, yes.”
Sugar felt cold fear. She knew. Oh, God, she knew about Sugar’s lover. Sugar didn’t doubt for a second that this was the person who had made the terrifying calls. This was the person who’d been stalking her.
“You’ve wanted to be a Montgomery for so long and now you can. Do you know where you are? Can you guess?”
What kind of sick game was this?
“Oak Hill. You’ve always wanted to see inside, haven’t you? Well, here you are, and now you can stay. Atropos moved slowly out of the shadows. She walked to a table and picked up a jar. “No more guessing games.” As she walked closer, Sugar, terrified, saw that she was wearing gloves. “This is honey, and it’s just the start, to make sure the rest sticks.”
The rest? The rest of what? Sugar was trying to buck away, terrified. Whatever this sick bitch had in mind, it would be awful. She’d already killed Cricket, that was for sure and now . . . and now . . . She didn’t feel the sticky stuff being poured over her body, between her legs, over her breasts, on her lips, in her hair. Her attempts at trying to shrink away were fruitless and her mind was wandering. This couldn’t be happening. This was nuts. A horrid dream.
“Sugar. Such a sweet name. And it has so many possibilities.”
Go to hell!
Then she heard a ripping sound and saw Atropos standing over her with a huge sack. She began to pour, and white powder, sugar, came rolling out, covering Sugar’s body. “Such a sweet name,” Atropos said, then hummed along with the music that played over and over and over, that song . . .
Little miss innocence.
Sugar wanted to cry. To scream. To rail against this horrid, sick woman, but she could only watch.
Pour some sugar on me.
One bag wasn’t enough. Atropos ripped open another, and the pouring continued, over the bed, over Cricket, over Sugar. She was saying something about insects and soft tissues, and Sugar being a whore, but she couldn’t hear it over the roar of the sweet crystals falling over her body, in her hair, on her hands and finally, over her face. She gasped and sputtered, disbelieving. No, no, no!
Please stop.
Please, someone help me.
Thirty-One
The problem was, Reed couldn’t be two places at once. With Montoya and Morrisette, he stopped by Caitlyn Bandeaux’s house, found her not home and delegated the search to a couple of detectives he worked with. He trusted Landon and Metzger to do a thorough job and figured he could run down to St. Simons and be back within a few hours if he pushed the speed limit. He might miss Caitlyn’s return, but he’d deal with her later. Once they knew what she’d hidden away. He was hoping for a murder weapon, but he’d take any bit of evidence that would link her to the crime.
The trip to St. Simons took over an hour, but they didn’t have to stay long.
Viewing Rebecca Wade’s body wasn’t easy; nor, Reed thought, had it been necessary. He could have asked for pictures, though there was something compelling about actually seeing the victim rather than flipping through pictures, not that they wouldn’t have been bad enough. They’d seen the remains and he’d wanted to heave, as he imagined had both Morrisette and Montoya, but they’d all managed to get through the ordeal without throwing up and had learned an interesting piece of information from the deputy in charge.
“. . . The dentist we got the records from knew her pretty well. She’d gone to him for years and he was pretty upset to think that she might have been killed, let me tell you.” Deputy Kroft, a fleshy man pushing the last loop of his belt buckle as he edged ever closer to retirement, nodded to himself as they walked out of the morgue to the intense sun of Georgia in June. Water was visible, sunlight skating off the surface, nearly blinding in its intensity. “And the kicker is that he said she was married. Didn’t you say you didn’t know if there were any next of kin?” Kroft asked, taking off his hat to smooth his hair, then squaring it onto his thinning patch of gray.
Reed nodded. “We don’t have much information on her.”
“Well, she’d grown up in Michigan, small town outside of Ann Arbor. The dentist, Paxton, his name is, Timothy Paxton, he knew her as a kid, knew the family, remembered her getting married to another student at the university. The folks passed on a few years back, but Paxton was sure she was married to a guy named Hunter or Hunt or Huntington or something like that. Never had any kids that he knew of, but he never heard much about a divorce, neither.”
“Adam Hunt?” Reed asked, exchanging a look with Morrisette.
“That sounds like it. Yep. Could be.”
There was no ‘could be’ about it. Reed was sure of it. Crap. How had they missed that? He took the information, and filling Montoya in, they drove north toward Savannah. Morrisette took the job of calling the dentist and verbally pushing her way past a receptionist who didn’t want to put her through, some idiot who thought an impression for a new crown was more important than an ongoing murder investigation. Eventually she got through. She plugged one ear and listened as Reed drove ten miles faster than the speed limit.
She hung up and said, “Looks like Deputy Kroft’s information is on the money. The dentist was an old family friend, choked up about Rebecca.”
“What did he have to say about Hunt?”
“Not much more than we learned from Kroft. Rebecca met him in college where they were both psych majors, lived with him a while, ma
rried him after she’d graduated and then lost touch with Dr. Paxton. Her folks are dead, and apparently so was the marriage.”
“Hunt has a lot of explaining to do. Did anyone ever talk to him?” They were driving through the swampy flatlands, the highway cutting close to the coast.
“I tried a couple of times. Should have pushed it,” Morrisette admitted, frowning and reaching for her cigarettes. She and Montoya lit up, cracking the windows of the Crown Victoria. “I went to the office twice, figured I’d catch him there. Called just yesterday.”
“But he never called back.”
“Nope.”
“Let’s find him. Give him the news that his wife or ex-wife is dead.”
Reed wondered how the guy was involved. If he was involved. The police would find out if a missing persons report had been filed, if Hunt and Wade had been married at the time of her death, if he’d been around before, if there was a will, insurance money or another man or woman involved. He remembered seeing Hunt on the doorstep of Caitlyn Bandeaux’s house, kissing her as if they were lovers. He gave the Crown Vic a little more gas and discussed Adam Hunt and what they were going to do about him all the way back to the city.
He pulled up in front of Caitlyn’s house, where the search was still going strong. Handing the keys to Morrisette, he said, “Check out Hunt. Tell him about Rebecca Wade. Find out what he knows. I’ll catch a ride back with Metzger.” To Montoya he said, “You can go with her if you like . . . make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”
“Blow it out your ass!” Morrisette said with a twinkle in her eye. “Make that your big, hairy, effin’ ass.”
One of Montoya’s eyebrows arched.
“Don’t ask. She can tell you all about her deal with her kids on the way over to Hunt’s. It has to do with a kitty-cat bank.”