Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  Had he run out of time?

  Not expected his captor to return?

  Or had he wanted to be a hero, had felt invincible as he was on “Jesus’s team,” as he’d so often said. The hypocrite.

  Satisfied that he’d arranged them just as he wanted, he lifted the nun’s head and pulled her rosary from her neck. Quickly he slid the holy beads into his pocket. Then he took the gun. Furlough’s nickel-plated Ruger.

  Silently he walked outside. Realizing there was blood on his shoes, he took the time to wipe them on the steps before stopping at the Mercedes and popping the trunk. He found the emergency kit, grabbed it, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his chest. Then he headed down a long path, to a dilapidated dock where pilings were settling into the bog. The rowboat was right where he’d left it hours earlier. He stepped inside and, using the flashlight, looked at the weapon still protruding through the wet suit. Checking the emergency kit, he found several gauze pads and sterile tape. Good enough for now. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out the tool. Blood started to flow and he quickly stanched it with the gauze. He unwrapped all five packs, layered the gauze pads, one on top of the other, strapping them down with the tape. He ached and bled from the jagged slice, but no vital organ had been perforated. He’d been lucky this time. In the flashlight’s glow he stared at the weapon, a Pomeroy all-purpose handyman’s tool scripted with the name “Ultra.”

  His jaw dropped.

  Fucker!

  He hated that Billy Ray, and now Asa Pomeroy, too, had gotten in this last word.

  Well, it was too late for them.

  Swishing the blade in the water, he cleaned the tool and dropped it into the box for the emergency kit. Along with the Ultra, he added the rosary and revolver. Quickly he grabbed an oar. Almost silently he began to paddle to the spot where he’d hidden his truck, not two miles from the preacher’s study.

  He’d have to work fast. Dawn would arrive in a few hours and he wanted to be far from the Reverend Billy Ray Furlough’s compound when the preacher was discovered missing.

  Besides, his work was far from done.

  He wouldn’t have much time, he thought as he dipped his oar into the water. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The pain in his chest throbbed viciously, but he pushed it aside.

  He had others to take care of today.

  His lips pulled into a rictus smile as he oared through the darkness. The beam from his small flashlight guided him through these familiar waters. He caught the glow of a gator’s eyes as it glided past, and when he scanned the shore, he caught images of ’possum and raccoons staring after him. He breathed in the heavy scent of the water, rowing unerringly, just as he had as a child.

  When he’d been allowed.

  When the restrictions had been lifted . . .

  His jaw hardened when he recalled how all that had changed. When she had been introduced to him. His lips curled as if he’d encountered a foul smell.

  She, with her tinkling laugh, tiny voice, and iron will. A small woman even in the high heels she forever wore. A frail-looking beauty who caused men, even important men, to fawn all over her.

  She’d changed things from the start. No more hunting off-season, no more late nights, no more eating in front of the television, no more “obnoxiously loud eardrum-splitting bass” and certainly not one more “disgusting, violent, and sick lyric.”

  His hands tightened over the paddle.

  Stroke, stroke, stroke.

  She, with her tiny, yapping dog and expensive horses . . .

  His smile turned to a sneer as he considered the irony of it all: the dog trampled by the horse; the sleek bay gelding rearing at a snake and tossing off his rider; the rider hitting her head on a large, knife-edged rock. By the time anyone had gone looking for her, the vultures had already been circling.

  So now, he could breathe deeply of the thick bayou air, hear the insects thrum in the bulrushes, watch the moon rise over the dark, brackish waters. She couldn’t stop him.

  Stroke, stroke, stroke.

  He guided his small craft to the side of an inlet. Hopping out, he dragged the boat to the shore, concealing it in the thick cattails and reeds.

  Stripping off his boots for the sneakers in his backpack, he took several shallow breaths, then a few deeper ones. The pain was bearable. He stuffed the emergency kit into the pack before heading cross-country through a farmer’s field, then on to the winding county road where he started the two-mile jog toward his truck.

  Everything had been going so well.

  Until Billy Ray Furlough had nearly outsmarted him, and the nun . . . who would have thought that meek Milquetoast of a woman had the fire to challenge him? Like a mother bear, he thought, remembering his father’s warnings before they would take up their rifles and begin the long trek to the mountains. Do not get between a she-bear and her cubs. No matter what. If you make that mistake, shoot her. Quick. Before she has the chance to rip your liver out!

  Twice during his run, a vehicle had passed. Both times he’d dived into the roadside ditch and laid flat until the beams from the headlights had passed over his body, the illumination fading and taillights visible. Only then would he start loping again, his wound aching and leaden. He knew he was bleeding again, and he bit back an oath when he thought of being fooled by the preacher.

  How could that have happened? He was the one with the genius IQ. Billy Ray Furlough was just a hot-headed, has-been athlete who’d found a way to make a buck out of his rage by using it as a tool to appear passionately pious. Correction: Billy Ray Furlough was now a dead hotshot has-been.

  His truck was where he’d left it: at the diner where he was often a patron. It was a place that was open twenty-four hours, where truckers often stopped for coffee and pie; in the evenings it was beer and hard liquor. He was known in this place by name, and no one thought twice if his truck remained there longer than he did. He always parked in the thick of the rigs and semis that pulled in at all hours. He always showed his face, too, as he was coming and going: sometimes through the back where the bar was; sometimes the front of the restaurant. He made certain he was seen every two hours or so. People knew him to be a hunter and a fisherman, a guy who sometimes left his rig in the parking lot when he stalked game. He was teased, too, as no one ever saw him with a bagged deer, or even ducks, or fish in his creel. He always laughed at the ribbing, buying a round, and telling the regulars that it was more to be out in nature than anything else.

  They believed he was an independent contractor—a sheet rocker. They thought he was oftentimes out of work.

  No one asked too many questions and the cover worked just fine.

  Now, he glanced around. It was dark by the truck, extremely so, even though the eastern sky was faintly lightening. Quickly and carefully he removed his sneakers, stripped off the wetsuit, then pulled on a pair of jeans. He was shivering. The gauze was bloody. He shoved his arms through a blue cotton shirt, buttoned it over the gauze, then pushed his arms through a navy nylon jacket.

  He took a precious moment to pull himself together. When he climbed from the truck, he stopped to purchase a paper from the box outside. Pretending absorption in the headlines, he walked into the restaurant, which was bustling with truckers slurping down their first cups of java for the day. He waved at the red-haired waitress whom he knew was nearly done with her shift, then took a stool and ordered coffee, eggs over easy, crisp bacon, grits, biscuits, and gravy.

  As he waited for his breakfast, he tried not to think about the killings, couldn’t yet let himself go to that place between wake and sleep where he relived the thrill, felt the thrum run through his veins, got off on the memory of their deaths. No, not yet . . . he needed his wits about him. And he also needed to take care of his injury, but not yet, not until he’d set his cover deeply, made sure everyone saw him having a leisurely breakfast.

  Scanning the front page, he noticed that all mention of Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson’s deaths had been placed below the fold, though because of th
e funeral, Luke Gierman’s picture was at the top of the page. Other related stories were buried deeper in the pages.

  “Real sick-o behind that,” a local trucker who delivered eggs said. He thumped the paper as he passed on his way to his favorite booth. The tag embroidered on his overhauls declared that his name was Hank. “Can’t wait ’til they catch that sumbitch and string him up by his balls.” He nodded, squared the bill of his trucker’s cap onto his head. “Yeah, I’ll like to see that. I listened to Gierman’s Groaners all the time. Can’t stand the fact that his sidekick, what’s the guy’s name?”

  Maury Taylor, you imbecile, he thought, but shrugged.

  “Maury, that’s it. A real jerk wad, that guy. Ridin’ on Gierman’s coattails. Hell.” He rubbed his fleshy jaw, which sported two days’ worth of silver bristles. “Don’tcha just hate it.”

  “Yeah,” he said as his platter of eggs, bacon, and grits was placed in front of him.

  “Sorry about the broken yolk,” the waitress said. “New cook. You okay with that?”

  No!

  “I can get you a couple more.”

  Don’t do it. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Smile and act like it’s no big deal that the cook is incompetent. “This is fine,” he said.

  “You’re sure? It’s no trouble.”

  “I’m okay.” Jesus, lady, back the fuck off!

  “Well, then I’ll grab you a piece of pie. On the house. Pecan. Fresh baked.”

  He nodded and Hank clapped him on the back. “Have yourself a good ’un.”

  “You, too,” he said, momentarily shocked by the impact. He struggled for breath. Then Hank’s out-of-control gray eyebrows drew together over the tops of his thick glasses. “Hey, wha’d’ja do to yourself there?” he asked, pointing a thick finger at his shirt. “Cut yerself shaving?” Hank laughed but it sounded hollow.

  He looked down. A red stain showed through his shirt.

  He thought fast. “Chainsaw bucked the other day while I was cuttin’ brush.”

  “Jesus Christ, man, you coulda kilt yerself. Gotta be careful with them things.”

  “Hit a knot.” He nodded, pretended to show embarrassment that he couldn’t handle a tool. “I had it stitched up at the emergency clinic, but I think I’d better go back in.”

  “Hell yes, you’d better go back in.” Hank frowned, nodded curtly, then lifted his hat and smoothed his hair before pulling the brim down low again. “See ya ’round.” Finally the old coot ambled back to his chair.

  He zipped his jacket and ate fast, careful not to take one bite of the broken yolk. To appease the damned waitress, he even washed down four bites of pie with black coffee before leaving enough cash on the bar for the meal and a fifteen percent tip.

  And all the while he silently cursed Billy Ray Furlough.

  Well, the bastard got his, didn’t he?

  Dawn broke as he drove through the small towns to the back side of Our Lady of Virtues’ campus. The truck bumped down an old forgotten road that had once led to a dairy farm, now long abandoned. He parked inside the barn, ducked through a hole in the fence, then headed down a path he’d walked years before, one that led to a private entrance to the bowels of the main building.

  Once inside, he maneuvered through the maze of corridors and stairwells until he came to his private set of rooms, the ones he’d known years before and had reclaimed. Using his flashlight, he worked his way to an old surgery unit and there, in the drawers, found leftover bandages. Shrugging out of his jacket, he unbuttoned his shirt, then removed the soaking wads of gauze. As he took off the shirt, he saw that his blood was clotting, the flow had slowed considerably. If the bastard hadn’t managed to slice him, had just left a puncture wound, then it wouldn’t have bled so much in the first place.

  Carefully, he cleaned the wound using cold water from the shower. He squeezed gel from a tube of antiseptic cream tucked into the reverend’s first-aid kit. Then he ripped open packages of sterile cotton gauze patches—courtesy of the old hospital—and placed them directly over the wound. He secured the bandage with adhesive tape, then wrapped his chest tightly with a stretchy Ace bandage that he’d found still lying in one of the drawers. The whole place felt ready for business, as if it had just shut its doors yesterday. But it had been a long, long time.

  Only when he was finished did he carry his backpack to his private room and light candles at his shrine. He unfolded the secretary’s table, then reached into the pack and withdrew his new treasures. The rosary and revolver would go into one cubby together, shining blood-red beads wrapped seductively over the muzzle of the nickel-plated .357.

  He fingered the other treasures, the watch and ring, the little gold cross and diamond-studded money clip . . . His collection was growing but it still had so far to go. Six items were locked away, but he needed eight more . . . all belonging to a special person, one of the chosen.

  Opening a photo album, he examined the old pictures—the hospital, the staff, the patients, the nuns. There were other photos as well, for some of the players were not a part of the smiling group shots. Part of his mission would be to find pictures of them.

  He’d chosen wisely, he thought. Spent years formulating and perfecting his plan. The fourteen men and women were not random. In a way, they’d chosen themselves, had they not?

  He ran a finger down their faces, the ones that he’d marked with a red pen, and then he glanced up to the top of the secretary, where the framed picture of Faith Chastain stared down at him. He thought of her and their secret trysts so long ago . . .

  And then as he heard the old pipes drip, and smelled the mold and death and darkness, he thought of the others . . . His mind reeled with the memory of each death, that pure moment, that heady feel of power, that potent sexual thrill . . .

  He would hide.

  Rest.

  For a few hours, perhaps a few days.

  “But not for long,” he vowed, staring at the photograph of Faith. “Not for long.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Abby stretched and opened an eye. Sunlight was slipping through the blinds, striping thin slats of light across the rumpled covers where Detective Reuben Montoya was breathing deeply. One of his arms was thrown over his head, his lips open just enough to inhale and exhale puffs of air. His black hair was mussed, giving a decidedly boyish look to his normally serious features.

  Recalling the night’s lovemaking, she smiled. Snuggling closer, she wrapped her arms around his torso, and spied the small gold ring in his earlobe. She kissed his temple, then nibbled at the tiny piece of jewelry.

  “You’ve got half an hour to cut that out.”

  “You’re awake.”

  “Very,” he said in a low tone that seemed to throb through her.

  In a quick movement, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him. He stared down at her. Then, he captured her lips with his and began rubbing her body intimately, touching all the spots that created heat to swirl and rise within her. Seconds later she joined in and they explored each other anew, rediscovering the passion that lingered from the night before.

  She opened readily to him. As they made love, she closed her mind to everything but the pleasure that rippled through her body in deep, searing waves. It happened so fast it left her breathless and surprised by her own desperate response.

  I’m falling in love with you, she thought but didn’t let the words slip past her lips. No. She was enjoying this man, enjoying making love with him, but she wasn’t in love. She wasn’t about to mistake lust for love . . . yes, she cared for Montoya. She liked him. A lot. But that wasn’t necessarily love.

  Later, when their breathing had slowed, Montoya looked up to see Ansel staring down from the bookcase. “Pervert,” he muttered.

  “Maybe he’s taking notes.”

  He grinned and rolled off the bed, searched a moment for his jeans, pulled them on.

  “You’re spoiling my view,” she teased.

  “Maybe you’ll get another look later.”
r />   “I’ll hold you to that, Detective.”

  “Fair enough.” He reached for his weapon, still lying on the dresser, and stuffed it into his waistband. “How about I make coffee?”

  “Mmm.” She stretched lazily. “That sounds perfect.” She lolled her head to one side and tossed her hair from her face. “And let the dog out, would you?”

  “Yeah, right. Just after I bring you the newspaper and a long-stemmed rose.” She watched him walk from the room, her mind’s eye imprinted with the muscular V of his torso, the smooth muscles sliding beneath the skin of his back, the low dip of his jeans.

  I could get used to this, she thought, lying back on the pillows to stare up at the ceiling. She bit her lower lip as images of their passion flashed behind her eyes. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she groaned aloud in embarrassed amusement. It had been so wonderful.

  Hershey padded into the bedroom and hopped on the bed without an invitation.

  “Hey, girl, how’re you?” Sitting yoga-like on the bed, Abby petted the dog. She felt a light thump as Ansel landed on the foot of the bed. The cat gave the dog a wide berth, then settled next to Abby on a pillow and began to purr.

  She heard cupboard doors opening and closing and yelled, “Coffee’s to the right of the stove . . . upper shelf.”

  More banging. Then she heard the back door open, a few seconds of silence, then it was slammed shut.

  “He’s lost. I think I’d better go help, guys.” Quickly she threw on her robe and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where Montoya had just discovered the coffee and grinder. “Some detective you are.”

  “Careful,” he warned, his lips curving. “I’m still the guy with the gun.”

  She sobered slightly, remembering that Luke’s .38 was missing. “Need a hand?” she asked, settling onto a bar stool.

  “I think I’ve got it now.”