The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  “So where the hell are you?” he wondered aloud as he located an old golf towel he’d stashed in a compartment with the spare tire. He swabbed his legs and shoes, wiping off any trace of river water. He was about to throw the used towel into his car and take off, but hesitated and, instead, picked up the backpack. Inside he found a few things from her office that he’d intended to return. He took them out. Files and computer disks, a couple of pictures and a notepad. Laying them on the back floor of the hatchback beneath the tiny bulb, he examined the bag more closely. It was a simple design, made of a canvaslike material and reinforced with leather on the bottom. One of the straps had frayed. The leather was scuffed and torn in places. All of the pockets and zippered closures were empty. The main zipper to the biggest compartment was jammed and wouldn’t close. All in all, the old bag was a piece of crap. So why hadn’t she gone out and gotten a new one? Why hang on to the thing? Nostalgia? For this? He doubted it. Get rid of the men in her life, but keep this old battered backpack when she had a leather briefcase he’d discovered in her home? Definitely not Rebecca’s style. He held the bag aloft, turning it beneath the dim light on the roof of the car. As it slowly spun, he noticed something that wasn’t right, a slit in the bottom where the leather had been reattached to the canvas.

  Rebecca fixed the cut, but not the zipper?

  He pulled; the thread was tight, the rudimentary hand stitches gone over several times. He didn’t have a knife, but he used his keys, pulling at the stitches and shredding them there in the gravel pit, feeling like a fool because this was probably nothing but a hasty repair job, then finally opening the bottom of the bag enough to peer inside. Tucked deep inside was a compact disk.

  His throat tightened. He knew in a heartbeat that it was the information he was looking for, the information on Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux.

  Reed caught a ride with Metzger back to the station. The guy was fifty pounds overweight. When he wasn’t smoking, he was chewing tobacco. He had a wife and five kids and a cholesterol count in the stratosphere. And he was one of the best cops Reed had ever worked with.

  Reed left Diane Moses and her team at Caitlyn’s house and gave her instructions to detain Caitlyn Bandeaux and call immediately if she returned. Reed had asked specifically for hair samples from the dog as well as from Caitlyn’s brushes, for which he earned one of Diane’s famous don’t-tell-me-how-to-run-my-team looks. So he’d shut up. Diane wasn’t the most fun at a party, but she knew her business.

  As he and Metzger pulled into the station parking lot, Morrisette and Montoya were just getting out of their unmarked Crown Vic.

  “Any luck?” Reed asked, but could tell by Morrisette’s sour expression that she’d come up empty-handed.

  “Nada. Not at Hunt’s place or his office, which we’re sealing. Couldn’t locate any of the Montgomery relatives either. Troy’s quote ‘out of the office’ and the secretary won’t say where, though she promises to try and call him on his cell. Translate that to ‘on the golf course’ or with some woman he’s not supposed to be. Amanda’s not in the office, out with a client somewhere, again, the secretary at the law firm will try to call. Sugar Biscayne seems to have joined her sister as I can’t raise her either; no one’s seen her since last night. Hannah’s not answering out at the house, and I’ve got a county deputy going out to knock on the door. As for Lucille Vasquez, she’s still in Florida, right?” Morrisette asked and Reed noted that the skin over Montoya’s face tightened.

  “As far as I know, though supposedly she was coming back for Berneda’s funeral.”

  “Which is when—day after tomorrow?”

  Reed lifted a shoulder. “Soon. The family’s been demanding we release the body.”

  “Have we done that?” she asked as they walked toward the station.

  “Yep. Autopsy’s finished. Toxicology’s back. No reason not to let her go.”

  “What about trace evidence? Anything found in the bed sheets or room or the scrapings under her nails?”

  “Still checking.”

  “It’s a bitch, you know?” Morrisette said as she flipped her sunglasses onto her head. “The whole effin’ family being out of touch. Ain’t that about as convenient as free hot dogs at a vegetarian convention? I’ve got All Points out on both Hunt and Bandeaux and their vehicles, but so far nothing.

  “We’ll find ’em.”

  For the first time since Reed had met him, Montoya grinned. “That’s the attitude.”

  “Yeah,” Sylvie agreed. “Sure beats cryin’ in your beer. We get enough of that poor-me attitude from the jerk-offs we arrest. Is it the same in New Orleans—they couldn’t help themselves, got caught up in a life of crime because, you know, they had it rough as kids? Bad stepdads, lousy teachers, mothers who had to work. Give me a fuck—effin’ break. If you ask me, the whole world is filled with whiney-asses.” Her cell phone rang suddenly, and she pulled it from her belt. “Morrisette,” she growled into the phone, then immediately turned all of her attention to the conversation. “Yeah . . . you’re sure? . . . Okay . . . got it. I don’t like the sound of this. Call for backup and apprehend. We’re on our way.” She clicked off the phone, her face serious. “Let’s go,” she said, turning back to her vehicle. “Hunt’s car has been spotted. Looks like he’s on his way to the Montgomery family estate. I’ll drive. And don’t fuckin’ argue with me.”

  Kelly felt the cold steel of the gun in her hand as she moved in the shadows of the shrubbery, the big old house looming behind her, only one window, that of her bedroom, glowing with the flickering blue light of the television set. The rest of the grounds were quiet. Eerily so. Seemingly deserted. Which, she figured, was a crock.

  Someone was here. She sensed it in the prickle of apprehension running down her spine.

  She’d learned to shoot years ago, at her father, Cameron’s, insistence. The old bastard. Talk about someone who got what he deserved. Well, they all did, didn’t they? Cameron dying on his way back from visiting his lover and losing control of his car as well as one of his balls? Crazy Aunt Alice letting herself be put in a mental institution, allowing the rest of the family to decide what would happen to her fortune? It was fitting somehow that she had died at that place where the life was sucked out of a person while she was being waited on hand and foot. Then there was Charles, killed by an arrow through his cold, useless heart. Charles the predator becoming the prey . . . yes, the deaths were making sense. Even Josh . . . When Kelly hadn’t had the nerve to go through with poisoning him with the wine, someone else had come in and lent a hand, polishing him off with some debilitating drug and then slitting his wrists in order to make it look like a suicide. She remembered going to his home that night—Caitlyn had been drinking in a bar and wouldn’t remember what happened. The timing had been perfect. Kelly had decided to end her twin’s anguish. Forever.

  Pretending to be Caitlyn, she’d driven to the bastard’s house in her sister’s white Lexus. It was time to take Josh out. He’d been tormenting Caitlyn for years, destroying any sense of self-worth his ex-wife had ever had and Kelly was sick to death of it. So she’d shown up on his doorstep with the doctored bottle of wine and pretended to be Caitlyn.

  Her ruse had worked. But it had taken some manipulating. And she’d had to grit her teeth not to tell the bastard to go straight to hell when he’d opened the door and scowling down at her had demanded, “What the hell do you want?”

  Christ, what had Caitlyn ever seen in the jerk? She’d wanted to kill him right then, but she hadn’t, and played the meeker Caitlyn role to the hilt.

  He’d stood on the porch, claiming he didn’t want her there, but rather than raise a scene, he’d finally deigned to allow her inside, making the mistake of leading her into the den where the damning wrongful death lawsuit papers had been lying on his desk. Never had a man more deserved to die. What a money-grubbing prick. Kelly had been glad she’d brought the wine with its fake label. She pretended to be weak and worried, even wringing her hands like Cait
lyn sometimes did and Josh had lost some of his arrogance.

  God, he’d been such a lying, two-faced bastard.

  But she’d been lucky that night. At least she’d thought so at the time. Josh had already been drinking, enough that his judgement was obviously impaired. He’d softened up a bit, even offered her a glass of the wine he’d been drinking before he’d opened the second bottle—her deadly bottle. The cork had popped loudly, echoing in Kelly’s ears as she’d watched with fascination as Josh “The Bandit” Bandeaux had poured himself a glass. It might as well have been hemlock.

  She’d drunk from her glass and stared at him as he swallowed the sulfite-laden chardonnay in one long swallow.

  “Your coming here doesn’t change anything,” he’d assured her, slurring his words a bit. “I’m still going to file the suit and . . . and . . .” He’d shaken his head as if dazed, then poured himself another drink and refilled Kelly’s glass with the wine she’d brought.

  She’d begun to have second thoughts as he swallowed more of the wine that could kill him.

  Suddenly, she realized she’d made a horrendous mistake. She wasn’t a killer. No way. So she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Panic had seized her.

  “Don’t drink any more,” she’d ordered. “Josh, look, I made a mistake. A really bad one.”

  “You’ve made lots of ’em Cait.” He’d leaned heavily against his desk and she’d noticed beads of sweat on his upper lip and forehead.

  “I mean it, the wine isn’t what you think,” she’d admitted, looking him straight in the eye. “You’ll need epinephrin.”

  “What?”

  “Now, Josh.”

  He’d nearly dropped his glass as he swept up the bottle and read the label. “But I drink this all the time . . .”

  “That’s not what’s in the bottle. Look, there’s no time to explain. But the wine you drank has sulfites—”

  “Shit! You poisoned me? You . . . you goddamned bitch! Caitlyn . . . or . . . Jesus Christ who the hell are you? Get out! Now!” He’d taken one wobbly step toward her before reeling quickly and, nearly stumbling, heading into the bathroom where, she knew, he kept his anti-allergy kit. Through the open doorway, in the reflection of the mirror over his sink, she’d seen him give himself a life-saving dose.

  Her legs had felt weak. What had she been thinking, she’d wondered. Dear God, had she really been going to kill Caitlyn’s ex-husband? She wasn’t a murderess and she was feeling dizzy . . . woozy. Was she as nuts as her sister, she’d asked herself, her vision blurring a bit.

  Now, as she slunk through the shadows at Oak Hill, she couldn’t remember much more of the night Josh had died. She’d felt odd, her mind clouded, her legs like rubber as she’d tried to leave. From the corner of her eyes, she’d seen Josh return to the den and half-fall into his desk chair, but before she could call out to him, before she realized what was happening, she’d stumbled and . . . hit her head as she’d swooned to the floor of the den . . . and then she had blacked out, remembering nothing more. Later she’d learned that Josh was dead.

  Obviously killed by someone who was picking off the Montgomery family members.

  Whoever was behind all this had enviable sense of irony, but was as deadly as sin. That person had tried once to kill the twins in the boating accident, then recently, had attempted to frame Caitlyn for her husband’s murder.

  Silently, her heart a drum, Kelly crept around the hole of a huge oak tree, the branches rattling slightly. Smelling the heavy scent of the river and dry grass, seeing the Spanish moss swaying eerily in the wind, light filmy wraiths shivering as they clung to the gnarled branches, she gritted her teeth against a dark fear that burrowed through her. She sensed she wasn’t alone. That the killer was nearby. Armed with the pistol, her cell phone and a tiny flashlight she’d retrieved from the Lexus’s glove box, she felt every hair on the back of her arms prickle in dread.

  Tough.

  She couldn’t back down and crumble into wimpy Caitlyn now. No more. She wouldn’t allow her weak-minded twin to fall victim any longer. Never again. It ended here. Tonight. No matter what. A gust of wind passed by, ruffling her hair, seeming to laugh at her bravado.

  Lucille had said it all. “There’s ghosts here on this plantation, don’t ya know? You hear ‘em too, now, don’t cha? They talk to me and they talk to you.”

  In Kelly’s opinion that was crazy talk, but now, listening to the whisper of the breeze, watching the moss dance and shimmy, she wasn’t so sure. Her fingers tightened around the pistol. She wasn’t going to cower in the car like a cornered mouse when who-knew-what was waiting, ready to pounce on her—oh, excuse me, on Caitlyn—at the drop of the hat. Charles’s gun would take care of that.

  The cell phone rang and she cursed herself for bringing it with her from the car. Whoever was out here waiting for her would hear it as well. She ducked behind the old pump house and quickly hit the talk button but didn’t answer. The airwaves crackled, and no one said a word. Any noise would bring her hunter fast upon her. She raised a finger to disconnect and turn the damn thing off when the first faint sounds of a toddler’s voice cried softly. Pathetic mewling whimpers . . . “Mommy? Where are you?”

  Kelly gasped. Her heart twisted.

  So this was the game. Using the memory of Jamie and Caitlyn’s guilt as bait.

  Kelly flattened against the weathered boards of the pump house, the peeling paint scratching the back of her neck. “I’m here, honey, and I’m coming to get you,” she whispered.

  “It’s dark and I’m scared.”

  Kelly’s gaze swept the lawn, the outbuildings, the old garage, the fruit cellar . . . the stables and old slave quarters. “I bet you’re scared, honey. Just tell me where you are . . . Mommy will come,” she said, trying to make her voice quiver, hoping that she could fool whoever was on the other end of the line into believing that she was as ragged and frayed as damned Caitlyn. She put a hitch in her voice; faked a sob. “Jamie? Honey, can you tell me where you are?”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s . . . dark . . . icky . . . there’s . . . there’s . . . dirt and glass and it smells bad . . .” She began to sob and for a second Kelly almost bought into the lame, frightened-toddler charade. Almost. But not quite. “Mommy, please come,” the frail little voice said, all quavery and lisping and desperate. Oh, for the love of God!

  “I am,” she whispered. “Mommy has to hang up now.”

  “No! Please . . . I . . . I . . . love you, Mommy, and I’m so scared . . .” Click.

  Kelly froze. Never would she have expected the person on the other end of the line to hang up.

  Not unless she’d been seen. Unless whoever was on the other end of the line—an assassin pretending to be a little girl—had been near enough to hear her and pinpointed Kelly’s hiding spot.

  Damn.

  Panicked, it was all she could do to hold on, not to bolt and expose herself further. Noiselessly, she slid past the barn, crawling behind a watering trough. Where would a person hide . . . here, on these grounds . . . what had the clues been? What had the caller whispered in a baby voice?

  It’s dark.

  Well, hell, the whole place is dark.

  There’s dirt and glass and it smells bad.

  Underground.

  But there were several basements that . . .

  And then she knew. Of course she knew.

  She’d played there as a child.

  Adam drove like a madman. His cell phone battery was shot, and he couldn’t call, had barely been able to hear the message that Caitlyn was on her way to Oak Hill.

  His fingers curled over the steering wheel in a death grip, and he tried to shove aside the worry that had been with him since he’d put the CD he’d found in the backpack into his laptop computer. While parked in the gravel pit, he’d read Rebecca’s notes and felt a growing sense of alarm with each new discovery. How had he not seen what had been, in retrospect, so patently obvious? How, he wondered as he hit the bridge at s
eventy and saw the turnoff for Oak Hill, had he been so blind?

  Rebecca had decided that Caitlyn not only suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder, DID, often called a split or multiple personality, but that the disorder had gone undiagnosed all of her life. It had worsened with time, and when she’d almost died after the boating accident, she’d taken on her twin’s persona. She’d lose track of time, and in those gaps she became Kelly, whose body was never located. Caitlyn had kept her sister alive, giving her a fake job and renting a cabin for her on the river. Whenever Caitlyn became stressed, when her heartbeat accelerated beyond the norm, when her adrenalin was pumping wildly through her veins, she became Kelly.

  As she had when they’d made love.

  That was the trigger.

  This was new ground for DID.

  Adam didn’t know of another case where the host personality took on a second personality from another real person. Usually the splits were fragmented people, all parts of the whole. Nor did the host person speak with his counterparts. That condition was much more like schizophrenia where the patient actually would see people and converse with them, even though the people he “saw” didn’t. Caitlyn’s condition was unique and had caused Rebecca, ever ambitious, to believe she would shake up the academic world and get a “million-dollar deal” to write a book.

  Christ, he’d been a fool.