Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  He wanted her body. To rape her or kill her or both.

  She told herself that if she could get out of this with her life, she would be lucky. She reminded herself that no matter what vile or painful acts were to come, nothing else mattered but that.

  Suddenly muted music, a lilting little jingle, rang through the car. Fresh tears slid from her eyes as she recognized the ring tone she’d assigned to her home phone. Wally was calling. Waiting. The wine poured, the Scrabble game on the kitchen table. Her throat clogged. She was probably only ten minutes late and he was already checking on her. Oh, blessed, blessed man. I love you, she thought, her heart squeezing as she conjured up his face, and remembered marrying him after high school graduation, making love with him for the first time in a tiny apartment on their wedding night. They’d sacrificed even then, forgoing a honeymoon to save money. The next five years they’d worked and gone to college, taken out loans and gotten scholarships. During that time they’d made the decision not to have children because they both wanted to help their large families, their siblings. Wally had become a teacher and she, because of her brother Martin, had decided to work with the mentally ill.

  It all seemed so far away now as she lay in the backseat listening to the cell phone.

  The phone quit ringing and her heart nosedived.

  Don’t give up on me, Wally. Please!

  Ten minutes later the same song began to play from inside her purse. The driver ignored her cell phone. As if he didn’t care. As if he wasn’t worried.

  Didn’t he know about GPS chips? That the phone could be found by the cell towers where the signals were picked up, or something? She hadn’t paid much attention to the spiel when the salesman had gone on and on about the value of the Global Positioning Chip which was part of her new cell phone, but now she only hoped that, however it worked, it would help.

  Again the phone stopped ringing and she imagined the worry in Wally’s voice as he left another message in her voice mail box.

  Still her abductor drove. On and on through the night. Gina had no idea where they were but assumed from the lack of sounds of traffic and the time that had passed that they were far from New Orleans.

  When the phone rang for the third time, she nearly sobbed. Poor sweet, brilliant Wally. He was probably worried out of his mind. But he would start looking for her and that was good. He would call the police, they would search for her car, and the GPS chip . . . oh, Lord, she’d never put her faith in technology before.

  They drove for what seemed an hour longer before he turned off the freeway and onto a smooth, curving road. The cell phone rang twice more . . . and she expected that Wally had started calling friends and family.

  Finally, her kidnapper slowed the car. He turned hard to the right, and the car jostled and bumped, the sound of weeds or brush scraping the undercarriage. Dear God, where had he taken her?

  Her heart was knocking as the tires slid to a stop. He cut the engine, then opened the car door and she smelled the heavy, loamy odor of forest and swamp. Crickets chirped, bull frogs croaked, and the wind swept into the Regal’s interior, bringing with it the scents of swamp water and decaying vegetation.

  She braced herself. This was it. Well, she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  The back door of the Buick was yanked open and she started to squirm and struggle.

  “I’ve got a gun,” he said. “Don’t move.” To reinforce his warning, he touched the cold, hard steel barrel to her thigh. He wasn’t kidding. “And a knife.” This time a long, cool blade slid down her leg.

  She nearly lost control of her bladder. Now for certain she knew. He was going to kill her. With the gun, if she was lucky. There was no way out of this.

  Lord, please help me. Give me strength.

  He slid the blade of the knife between her knees and lower. If she could get some control of her muscles, she could kick up with both feet, maybe slam him in the face with her boots, but just as she thought of it, the knife sliced down hard and cut through the tape surrounding her ankles. She reacted, swinging a booted foot in a hard kick, but he caught her foot in one strong grip and twisted. Hard. Pain shot up her leg. Her knee popped. She squealed behind her gag.

  “Bitch!” he growled, in a deep, disguised voice. “Don’t you understand?”

  Oh, God, yes, she understood. Pain screamed up her thigh. He was going to hurt her. Badly.

  He pulled her roughly from the car, and though she was far from petite, he was strong enough to set her on her feet and prod her forward, the nose of his gun at her spine.

  “Move.” He pushed.

  Had she heard his voice before? Was it familiar?

  She inched forward in the blackness, her knee throbbing, her entire body quivering with fear. Her boots sank into the mud, but she plowed forward, refusing to cry out, determined to either find a way to thwart him, or die embracing Jesus.

  All around her the smell of the swamp was thick and she imagined snakes and gators and all manner of beasts slithering through the night, none deadlier than the creature who had abducted her.

  The toe of her boot slammed against something solid and she almost fell. “Up,” he commanded. “Two steps.”

  Swallowing back her fear, she managed to climb the two risers, and as she did, she felt his breath on her neck as he reached around her. A screen door squeaked and he urged her again with the gun’s cruel muzzle. Her boots clunked unevenly across what she assumed to be a porch.

  Another door creaked open and her heart was hammering so loudly she thought it might explode.

  “Inside!” The gun pushed urgently against her.

  She inched forward. Even with the blindfold, she felt a new darkness, a closeness. Her every nerve ending was alive, her muscles tense, sweat covering her body. She was in a house, an empty house, she thought, her footsteps loud and reverberating against the floor. It smelled of dirt and misuse and something else, something acrid . . . urine?

  Animal?

  Or human?

  Her stomach shriveled.

  Oh, dear Jesus, were there dead people in here? Or were they alive, kept here against their will? A tiny bit of light pierced through her blindfold, a dim illumination. Her imagination ran wild as she felt him step closer to her.

  “That’s far enough,” he said into her ear, and she felt the edge of a cold steel blade against her cheek. He was behind her, pressed tightly against her, and she felt a fear as cold and dark as any she had ever known.

  He shifted, one arm around her ribs, the gun pressed under her breasts as he slowly and sensuously slid the blade of the knife down the slope of her cheek. Against her back, she felt his erection. The jerk was getting off on this!

  Tears burned her eyes. All hope drained.

  The knife moved lower, beneath her chin. To that soft, vulnerable tissue.

  Oh, God . . . She quaked inside, her tears drenching the blindfold.

  The blade pressed hard, moving seductively against the column of her neck, lingering at the soft spot between her collarbones. He was breathing rapidly now, short panting bursts against her ear.

  Her knees gave out in fear, and had he not been holding her up, she would have fallen.

  Jesus, give me strength.

  Just when she was certain he would slice her throat, he moved and, as she gasped, cut the tape at her wrists. If she had known his plan, she would have been ready, but in the split second when she realized she was unbound, he shifted, holding the knife to her throat and forcing the gun into her hand.

  She couldn’t believe it. If she turned the weapon on him now, took the chance that she could kill him first, what did it matter? He was going to kill her anyway.

  “Shoot,” he commanded as his steely, gloved fingers covered hers.

  What?

  He aimed the weapon in front of her, pointed downward, and she heard another sound . . . a muted cry?

  So there was someone else in the room.

  “Shoot, Gina!”

  Hearing her
name made her want to throw up. That she was a part of this macabre, twisted act, whatever it was, made her stomach wrench.

  The knife wiggled at her throat and she felt a hot, searing pain as he cut her.

  “Shoot and end this.”

  Don’t do it. Gina, don’t . . . there is something horrible happening here, something worse than you originally thought.

  Another muffled squeal.

  From the area in front of her. The spot where he was aiming the gun. Dear Jesus, what was he forcing her to do?

  She tried to jerk away, but the hand over hers tightened, positioning the heavy gun. It was wobbling in her hand, but he took control and squeezed, forcing her finger to pull the trigger.

  Bang!

  The gun’s report was a crack of thunder.

  Her hand flew up, but he held her tight.

  A wail, muted by something, pierced the night.

  Oh, Lord what had she done?

  The smell of cordite and blood filled the air.

  “Retribution,” her attacker growled as he yanked off the blindfold.

  Gina’s eyes adjusted to the light, a small bulb at one corner of a large pine-paneled room. “Oh, dear Lord, no,” she whispered as she saw what she had done. A big man with mussed white hair and a shocked expression was staring at her, the hole in his chest gaping, blood flowing.

  She recognized him as someone she detested, the very man she’d hoped to appeal to for money, even if she would have had to grovel for it. A low moan of denial whispered over her lips as she watched Asa Pomeroy die. “No . . . oh, no, no, no.”

  Shaking violently, she shrank back, tried to drop the gun, but the monster was still behind her, his erection still hard as a rock. His fingers tightened over hers again. She looked down at the gun, a pearl-handled Colt .45, just like one of the pair her husband owned.

  As she watched, withering in terror, he twisted her hand, forcing it upward to her own temple. Her throat closed and she silently prayed for forgiveness. Lord, please, take my soul, she silently pled. Keep Wally safe . . . Wally, oh, Wally, I love you . . .

  CHAPTER 17

  Maury Taylor looked at the note in his hands and knew it was pure gold. He’d overslept, run through the shower, thrown on his jogging suit, bought his morning jolt from one of those drive-through espresso huts, then parked his old Toyota in the lot across from the station. He hadn’t had time for the morning paper, not today.

  For the next hour, he’d sorted through the mail addressed to Gierman’s Groaners or The Luke Gierman Show. He’d shuffled through cards, sympathetic notes, some stupid gifts including a tape of an old show—like the station didn’t have them all?—the same old drivel. He was nearly finished when he’d found this gem in the pile and knew in an instant that his life had just changed forever.

  For the better.

  Big time!

  The simple note had come to the radio station addressed to Luke Gierman, the dead man himself, and was encased in a plain white envelope with block letters and no return address.

  Ever since Luke’s death, the station had gotten bags full of cards and letters and notes. Not to mention hundreds of e-mail messages daily. The guy was more popular in death than life, and the ratings for his show were through the roof, which was just fine with Maury. The station manager was talking about making Maury the permanent host and eventually changing the name to something like Maury Taylor Presents Gierman’s Groaners . . . it was a mouthful and would eventually become just the Maury Taylor Show, but, the eager station manager had assured him, they’d have to work on something a little memorable and personal. Taylor’s Trash Talk sounded pretty good, but was too feminine. He didn’t want to sound like some black chick . . . but things were looking up. Soon he’d get his due.

  Too bad, Luke.

  Ouch!

  In Maury’s opinion, Luke had been a real jerk. A pompous pain in the ass. Nonetheless, Mrs. Taylor had raised no fool for a son, and Maury, despite his feelings about Luke, had gone along for the ride, playing the role of idiot, laughing uproariously at things that secretly offended him, even pushing the groan button at a particularly bad pun or statement.

  Hell, who wouldn’t have taken the chance to be a part of a growing, popular show? Few people got rich being a radio jock, but Luke had broken through the barriers and, judging by the amount of flowers, cards, and calls that had arrived at WSLJ, touched a lot of people, who were either fascinated or repulsed by his show.

  But now it was Maury’s turn.

  Because of this.

  Maury read the single white sheet of paper one more time.

  REPENT

  A L

  God, he’d love to read that one single word on the air, stir up the audience by suggesting he’d had contact with Luke’s killer . . . imagine the ratings. His palms sweated at the thought. So the police would be pissed. Wasn’t that what the station’s lawyers were all about? He’d been flirting with jumping ship and taking a job over at WNAB, but first, he wanted to see how things were going to be handled here in the wake of Luke’s demise.

  So far, it was lookin’ good.

  And now he was holding the goddamned keys to the kingdom, if he dared use them.

  What would Luke do?

  That was a slam dunk.

  Maury didn’t have a second’s hesitation. He walked to the copy machine in the backroom, nodded to Ramblin’ Rob, a wiry old fart of a DJ who still played platters. Rob was drinking a potful of coffee while working the crossword puzzle, his usual routine before he went on the air. He challenged himself to finish it, then have time for a last cup of coffee and a smoke in the back alley before he sat down at the mike, playing requests from his stacks of old LPs. In this day of digital music, computers, iPods, and downloads, Rob was into “keeping it real,” whatever the hell that meant.

  Maury slid the note into the copy machine and pressed the start button. He did have one disturbing thought. What if the note proved to be a fraud? Just because he had a gut feeling about it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t want to come off as a buffoon. Not any longer. He’d played that role far too long as it was.

  So how would he deal with that on the air later this afternoon . . . oh, hell, he’d just tell the audience about it, knowing the sender was listening, and then he’d bait the guy, force his hand. Maybe whoever wrote the note, whether he was a nutcase just looking for publicity, or the real killer, would respond. Especially if Maury jerked his chain a bit.

  If so, the listening audience would go crazy. The buzz would be instantaneous. It wouldn’t matter if the note turned out to be a fraud or not. He thought about how it would play on the air and nearly got a hard-on.

  The wheels in his mind were turning faster and faster, like a train gaining speed as the Xerox machine spat out his copy. He grabbed it and the original and was heading out the door when Rob looked up from his puzzle.

  “Hey! You hear the news?”

  “What news?” Maury stopped short, irritated by the interruption, but curious just the same. He hoped that Luke’s killer hadn’t been found, not yet.

  “The kidnapping.”

  “They find Pomeroy?”

  “Don’t know.” The crusty old DJ pulled a face, all his wrinkles creasing more deeply. “No, I’m talking about Gina Jefferson, you know who she is?”

  “The do-gooder? Involved in the Urban League, always clamoring to the city council about funding for her clinic, the woman who Luke wanted on the show so that he could publicly fillet her? That Gina Jefferson?”

  “Yeah, that one,” Rob said, obviously disgusted. “And, ya know, do-gooder isn’t a dirty word. I know Gierman had a lot of fun knocking her, but she’s a great lady. Done a helluva lot for the city and the homeless and, you know, the people who are a few beers shy of a six-pack. Anyway, she’s missing, too.”

  “Missing? Like Pomeroy?” Maury said. For a second he felt a pang of fear for the woman, but then the wheels in his mind began spinning again. Even more rapidly than before. Some
how this would make a great show . . . two of the city’s leading citizens missing, one a wealthy do-anything-for-a-buck industrialist, the other a bleeding heart who helped the downtrodden . . . yeah, oh, man, yeah. This was an incredible show in the making. “Was she kidnapped?” he asked and glanced down at his note.

  Could this piece of paper have anything to do with the missing people? Hadn’t Luke been kidnapped? And the girl, Courtney LaBelle?

  “Appears that way. No one knows for certain yet. There hasn’t even been a ransom note for Pomeroy and he’s been missing, what? Two or three days?” Rob thought long and hard. “Makes ya wonder what the hell is going on.”

  The letter in Maury’s hand nearly burned him. He walked toward the door, afraid Rob might get suspicious. No one could know what he was up to. Not the program manager, the station manager, or any of his other colleagues. “Sure does,” he called over his shoulder.

  Gierman’s Groaners was airing in its usual spot in the schedule, but two other shows—“Luke’s favorites”—had been slotted in, at a different time each day, causing a freaking nightmare for the program manager, but sending the ratings into the stratosphere and keeping Maury at the station, helping with the cutting, editing, and airing for hours on end. The idea was to find more listeners, and though a few had been pissed, e-mailing in that they wanted their regular program back in its allotted slot, the advertisers were thrilled and the general consensus was that Luke’s regularly scheduled program, which was now Maury’s baby, was at the top of the ratings. Even more of a success than when good ol’ Luke was alive.

  The irony of the thing was, Maury planned to keep Luke among the living, at least on the airwaves. When the show became his, he’d dedicate a segment to Luke, play some bit from a previously recorded program, and pay homage to the master. It kind of galled him, but it would work; Maury knew it would. Luke Gierman was going to become like Elvis was in death. More alive, more visible, more audible than ever.