by Lisa Jackson
Olivia glanced through the jeweled fronts of palm trees and ferns to a dark sky where stars twinkled and a crescent moon hovered. Next to her, tugging at his tie, Rick Bentz watched the ceremony. It had been nearly a month since the horrid night at The Chosen One’s lair, but Bentz, true to his vow that night, was trying to make things better and giving their relationship another shot. Olivia had been a hard sell. They’d spent hours talking and she wasn’t sure she was ready to trust him again, but she did care about him; probably loved him, fool that she was. At that thought she smiled.
Things were far from perfect. Sarah Restin was in serious counseling and on anti-anxiety drugs, Kristi, too, was traumatized, but, it seemed would be able to go back to school after the winter break. Olivia had mended fences with her mother, but the specter of The Chosen One hadn’t quite died. The press kept him alive long after he should have been buried.
Slowly the case had unwound. The Jane Doe laid at the foot of St. Joan of Arc had been identified as a transient woman from El Paso. No family had come forward to claim her remains. St. Philomena had been a runaway teen from Detroit. Their IDs had been found in The Chosen One’s lair, an indecent, deranged shrine in the upper floor that had once been living quarters in the loft of the old barn. Eventually there had been a connection made to the universities as both women had at one time or another been seen by other students on the campus of All Saints. The transient had worked one week as a maid, the runaway had shown up uninvited to a party.
The only person missing was a woman named Marta Vasquez. She’d been Montoya’s girlfriend and she’d vanished. Apparently into thin air.
Bentz worried that she’d been taken by The Chosen One and killed elsewhere, her remains not yet located, but so far, thank God, no one had been able to make that link. Everything Dr. Warren Sutter had ever owned or touched had been gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Including his personal lair, the small farm in the middle of nowhere that Sutter’s family had bought years ago. He’d turned it into his sanctuary, complete with an altar. And a torture chamber.
Olivia shuddered as she thought of it. Not only had the police found a horrific calendar with Polaroid pictures of The Chosen One’s victims in the upper room, but also they discovered a closet of vestments and trophies, including an obscene braid he’d plaited from the hanks of hair he’d scalped from his victims.
Bentz speculated that the killer had found his other killing grounds by snooping around and discovering vacant buildings—even ones in the middle of the city like the shotgun house at Bayou St. John.
But Olivia didn’t want to dwell on the past. Her visions had died with her brother and she was now taking tentative steps in this new relationship with a very wary man. He seemed to have believed her that she and James, though close, had never actually made love, though she was certain, at this point, Bentz wouldn’t have held it against her if she had slept with his brother. For her part, Olivia had forgiven Bentz for pushing her away during the course of the investigation.
It was all water under the bridge.
They were starting over. Or at least trying to. She watched the dance floor and recognized the people that Bentz had pointed out. Everyone from Samantha’s workplace, WSLJ, had attended and had blended into the sprinkling of Ty and Sam’s family, friends and neighbors. One woman had even had the audacity to bring her tiny dog—a pug named Hannibal—though he’d been kept in a kennel at the desk. Samantha’s father had given his daughter away, but, Bentz had explained after talking to the bride, Sam’s brother, Peter, hadn’t shown up, nor had her best friend, Corky Griffith, dealing with her own mother’s recent heart attack, been able to fly to New Orleans.
Nonetheless Sam was radiant; her red hair gleamed under the tiny lights, her dress sparkled and as she danced, she whispered something to her groom. Ty tipped back his head and laughed, then swung Samantha off her feet.
“We should dance,” Olivia suggested.
“I don’t dance.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Don’t tell me, another one of your rules.” She rolled her eyes.
“That’s right,” he said, pulling at his tie as he winked at her. “But for you, I’m willing to bend a few.” With that, he took her into his arms and warned her, “Just don’t you dare complain if I step on your toes.”
“Have I so far?” She laughed. “I have a feeling that for as long as I know you, you’ll be stepping on a lot of toes.”
“I guess you’ve figured me out.”
“Oh, Bentz, that’ll take a lifetime. Maybe two. But I’m trying. I think you just may be worth it. May be.”
“Has anyone told you you’re a sick woman?” he asked as he spun her with surprising agility.
“Just you, Bentz,” she said with a smile and winked at him. “Just … you.”
Dear Reader,
As you may have noticed, there are some questions left unanswered in COLD BLOODED. Rest assured they will be answered in THE NIGHT BEFORE.
THE NIGHT BEFORE. is a change of pace. Once again we’re in the old South—Savannah, Georgia, but this time the heroine of the book, Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux, a woman who’s not known for her stability literally wakes up with blood on her hands. In fact there’s blood everywhere, in the bed, on the walls, in the bathroom …
She has only tiny shards of a memory from THE NIGHT BEFORE.. Is the blood her own? Or someone else’s? Most of the people in her large, eccentric family will be no help so she’s forced to turn to her twin sister, Kelly, a woman with secrets and desires all her own. Kelly assures her twin that everything will be all right. But Caitlyn has the feeling Kelly knows more than she’s saying—more secrets she’s keeping locked away. Afraid to confide in rugged Detective Pierce Reed or the new psychologist in town, Dr. Adam Hunt, a handsome but mysterious man who has taken over her counselor’s practice, Caitlyn has to solve the mystery alone. Is she a COLD BLOODED killer, or the victim of a morbid psychopath?
THE NIGHT BEFORE. is now in bookstores, so look for it. In the meantime, visit me on the web. I’ve revamped my website and there are interactive contests and tidbits about current releases and future projects. Sign my guest book and let me know what you thought of COLD BLOODED. There’s tons of information and fun on the website—contests and puzzles that only those of you who have read COLD BLOODED—can figure out! So grab your mouse and click onto: www.lisajackson.com.
The best to all of you!
Lisa Jackson
LISA JACKSON
SHIVER
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
THE KILLING GAME
Montoya had just stepped onto the porch when Abby grabbed his arm impulsively. “Detective.”
He paused. Glanced down at the fingers surrounding his forearm, then looked up at her face.
“Look,” she said, but didn’t let go. “Off the record, despite any amount of money I might inherit from Luke, he was a jerk, okay? I wasn’t in love with him any longer and I did want to get away from here, from him.” Her fingers tightened a bit. “But I didn’t kill him and I’m sorry he’s dead.” She hel
d his gaze and inched her chin up a fraction. “And your link to the victims, through the hospital, that’s pretty damned thin.”
“Maybe the link isn’t the hospital,” he said in a low voice. “Maybe it’s you.”
“What do you mean?”
He wasn’t smiling. “Be careful, Abby. Lock your doors. Set your alarm, if you’ve got one. If you don’t, then call a security company and have one installed.”
She felt herself pale.
“You think I’m the link? Me? No.” She shook her head. “That’s crazy, Detective.”
“Just be aware.” He touched her shoulder and then he was gone, climbing behind the wheel of his cruiser and driving off, taillights disappearing at the end of the drive.
Abby shut the door and leaned against it, Montoya’s warning echoing through her mind.
She stood there, frozen, for a very long time . . .
Books by Lisa Jackson
See How She Dies
Final Scream
Wishes
Whispers
Twice Kissed
Unspoken
If She Only Knew
Hot Blooded
Cold Blooded
The Night Before
The Morning After
Deep Freeze
Fatal Burn
Shiver
Most Likely to Die
Absolute Fear
Published by Zebra Books
For Jack and Betty Pederson,
incredible parents, great friends,
and people who believed I could do anything.
Thanks Mom and Dad!
Acknowledgments
There were many people involved in getting this book to print, all of whom were intregral. I want to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio for his insight, vision, input, support, and ultimate patience. Man, did he work hard on this one. As did my sister, Nancy Bush, who was not only my cheerleader and personal editor, she picked up the other balls of my life and juggled them effectively, never once losing her cool. Thanks, Nan.
Also, I have to thank my incredible agent, Robin Rue, and everyone at Kensington Books, especially Laurie Parkin, who also worked very hard on this one.
In addition, I would like to mention all the people here who helped me: Ken Bush, Kelly Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Alexis Harrington, Danielle Katcher, Marilyn Katcher, Ken Melum, Roz Noonan, Kathy Okano, Samantha Santistevan, Mike Sidel, and Larry Sparks.
If I’ve forgotten anyone, my apologies. You’ve all been wonderful.
Author’s Note
For the purposes of the story, I’ve bent some of the rules of police procedure and have also created my own fictitious police department.
This book was written pre-Hurricane Katrina, before the incredible city of New Orleans and the surrounding Gulf Coast were decimated by the storm. I hope I’ve captured the unique essence of New Orleans, what it once was and what it will be again.
PROLOGUE
Twenty years earlier
Our Lady of Virtues Hospital
Near New Orleans, Louisiana
She felt his breath.
Warm.
Seductive.
Erotically evil.
A presence that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to lift, her skin to prickle, sweat to collect upon her spine.
Her heart thumped, and barely able to move, standing in the darkness, she searched the shadowed corners of her room frantically. Through the open window she heard the reverberating songs of the frogs in the nearby swamps and the rumble of a train upon faraway tracks.
But here, now, he was with her.
Go away, she tried to say, but held her tongue, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t notice her standing near the window. On the other side of the panes, security lamps illuminated the grounds with pale, bluish light, and she realized belatedly that her body, shrouded only by a sheer nightgown, was silhouetted in their eerie glow.
Of course he could see her, find her in the darkness.
He always did.
Throat dry, she stepped backward, placing a hand on the window casing to steady herself. Maybe she had just imagined his presence. Maybe she hadn’t heard the door open after all. Maybe she’d jumped up from a drug-induced sleep too quickly. After all, it wasn’t late, only eight in the evening.
Maybe she was safe in this room, her room, on the third floor.
Maybe.
She was reaching for the bedside light when she heard the soft scrape of leather against hardwood.
Her throat closed on a silent scream.
Having adjusted to the half-light, her eyes took in the bed with its mussed sheets, evidence of her fitful rest. Upon the dressing table was the lamp and a bifold picture frame; one that held small portraits of her two daughters. Across the small room was a fireplace. She could see its decorative tile and cold grate and, above the mantle, a bare spot, faded now where a mirror had once hung.
So where was he? She glanced to the tall windows. Beyond, the October night was hot and sultry. In the panes she could see her wan reflection: petite, small-boned frame; sad gold eyes; high cheekbones; lustrous auburn hair pulled away from her face. And behind her . . . was that a shadow creeping near?
Or her imagination?
That was the trouble. Sometimes he hid.
But he was always nearby. Always. She could feel him, hear his soft, determined footsteps in the hallway, smell his scent—a mixture of male musk and sweat—catch a glimpse of a quick, darting shadow as he passed.
There was no getting away from him. Ever. Not even in the dead of night. He received great satisfaction in surprising her, sneaking up on her while she was sitting at her desk, leaning down behind her when she was kneeling at her bedside. He was always ready to press his face to the back of her neck, to reach around her and touch her breasts, arousing her though she loathed him, pulling her tightly against him so that she could feel his erection against her back. She wasn’t safe when she was under the thin spray of the shower, nor while sleeping beneath the covers of her small bed.
How ironic that they had placed her here . . . for her own safety.
“Go away,” she whispered, her head pounding, her thoughts disjointed. “Leave me alone!”
She blinked and tried to focus.
Where was he?
Nervously she trained her eyes on the one hiding place, the closet. She licked her lips. The wooden door was ajar, just slightly, enough that anyone inside could peer through the crack.
From the small sliver of darkness within the closet, something seemed to glimmer. A reflection. Eyes?
Oh, God.
Maybe he was inside. Waiting.
Gooseflesh broke out on her skin. She should call out to someone, but if she did, she would be restrained, medicated . . . or worse. Stop it, Faith. Don’t get paranoid! But the glittering eyes in the closet watched her. She felt them. Wrapping one arm around her middle, the other folded over it, she scraped her nails on the skin of her elbow.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
But maybe this was all a bad dream. A nightmare. Wasn’t that what the sisters had assured her in their soft whispers as they gently patted her hands and stared at her with compassionate, disbelieving eyes? An ugly dream. Yes! A nightmare of vast, intense proportions. Even the nurse had agreed with the nuns, telling her that what she’d thought she’d seen wasn’t real. And the doctor, cold, clinical, with the bedside manner of a stone monkey, had talked to her as if she were a small, stupid child.
“There, there, Faith, no one is following you,” he’d said, wearing a thin, patronizing smile. “No one is watching you. You know that. You’re . . . you’re just confused. You’re safe here. Remember, this is your home now.”
Tears burned her eyes and she scratched more anxiously, her short fingernails running over the smooth skin of her forearm, encountering scabs. Home? This monstrous place? She closed her eyes, grabbed the headboard of the bed to steady herself.
Was she really as sick as they
said? Did she really see people who weren’t there? That’s what they’d told her, time and time again, to the point that she was no longer certain what was real and what was not. Maybe that was the plot against her, to make her believe she was as crazy as they insisted she was.
She heard a footstep and looked up quickly.
The hairs on the backs of her arms rose.
She began to shake as she saw the door crack open a bit more.
“Sweet Jesus.” Trembling, she backed up, her gaze fixed on the closet, her fingers scraping her forearm like mad. The door creaked open in slow motion. “Go away!” she whispered, her stomach knotting as full-blown terror took root.
A weapon! You need a weapon!
Anxiously, she looked around the near-dark room with its bed bolted to the floor.
Get your letter opener! Now!
She took one step toward the desk before she remembered that Sister Madeline had taken the letter opener away from her.
The lamp on the night table!
But it, too, was screwed down.
She pressed the switch.
Click.
No great wash of light. Frantically, she hit the switch again. Over and over.
Click! Click! Click! Click!
She looked up and saw him then. A tall man, looming in front of the door to the hallway. It was too dark to see his features but she knew his wicked smile was in place, his eyes glinting with an evil need.
He was Satan Incarnate. And there was no way to escape from him. There never was.
“Please don’t,” she begged, her voice sounding pathetic and weak as she backed up, her legs quivering.
“Please don’t what?”