by Lisa Jackson
Everything was ready, the stage set. All he needed was the players, and two of them were in the house. He planned to wait until they fell asleep, but that was hours away.
Patience, he reminded himself. Don’t rush things. You’ve waited so long, another few hours won’t matter.
But he was anxious.
Eager.
And the pain in his chest was increasing, as if he’d somehow contracted an infection. Consequently, a headache pounded behind his eyes.
He was sleep-deprived, but was also too keyed up to rest. So he waited and watched.
The sister was half-lying on the couch, stockinged feet dangling over a padded arm, wineglass on the coffee table, remote control in one hand. That was good. Drink up, Big Sister. Let the wine dull your mind, relax your body. Fall asleep early . . . oh, yes.
Zoey would be easy to subdue.
But not so Abby . . . she was on high alert; he sensed it. As he watched her gather things from her garage and kitchen, then carry them to the car, he began to worry. It looked as if she had decided to leave. He couldn’t have that. She’d packed a tool box, a crow bar, and flashlights.
Why?
His headache pounded and his agitation grew. He scratched at his chest through the wet suit until he realized what he was doing. Calm down. Observe. She can’t be going far. You’ve seen no suitcase, have you? No overnight bag?
But it didn’t mean she hadn’t already packed one before he’d taken his position. Was she planning some kind of camping trip? With the cop? His stomach soured at the thought of them again, and he had to blink hard, clear his head. He couldn’t let her get away, not now, nor could he risk being caught. Could he take them both now? What about the dog? Could he use the stun gun on each, or a rag soaked in ether? He didn’t want to threaten them with a gun because with two of them, in his current condition, something could go wrong. They were both young, athletic, and unless they were frightened out of their minds, might put up a struggle.
The answer was simple.
He would disable the car.
Quietly, he slunk through the woods, keeping downwind, scaring up thrushes and a hare that hopped quickly out of sight. Pulling from his backpack the handy little tool that had caused him so much pain, he left the pack with his keys and field glasses on the ground, near the front of the house, retrieved the revolver, then sneaked to the open garage door, where the hatchback of her Honda was visible.
The door to the interior of the house was open a crack, and he wondered if the dog sensed he was near. Damned mutt. Pulse drumming out of control, he stealthily crept inside, careful not to step on the hoe and shovel that had been tucked into the corner near a wheelbarrow.
Silently he pulled out the tool and clicked open a sharp little blade. He was about to jab the tread of her front tire when he heard footsteps approaching. Damn!
He ducked down even farther, hiding between the car and the garage wall, his heart jackhammering.
No dog. No dog. No dog. His fingers tightened over the handle of the Pomeroy Ultra and sweat drizzled in his eyes. He noticed a spider waiting on a web near the floor where he was crouched, his head pressed to the cracked, oily cement. Hardly daring to breathe, he stared past the undercarriage of the Honda, to the far side of the car, where he watched her sneakers walk briskly. She opened the driver’s door, and he didn’t dare move a muscle. He heard a soft clunk against the door near his head and guessed that she had thrown something onto the passenger’s seat.
Her purse?
Panic roared through him.
What if she was leaving now? What if she slid behind the wheel and half a second later the Honda’s engine suddenly engaged? She would ram the gearshift into reverse and back out, leaving him exposed.
There was no way she wouldn’t see him.
Nowhere he could hide.
In one hand he held the .38, in the other the multibladed tool. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use either. Not yet. Not when he’d planned her slow, perfect death for so long.
He should have anticipated this problem.
He was slipping. Losing his edge.
But luck was with him. She started walking into the house again. He watched her feet, the frayed hem of her jeans brushing the tops of her Nikes, as she disappeared inside. The door closed with a soft click.
Instantly, he punched a hole in the front tire, then slid back for the second. One flat tire wouldn’t do. She was resourceful enough to change it herself, so he nearly jabbed the rear tire for insurance but stopped himself . . . she would be suspicious if two tires suddenly went flat . . . no, he needed to catch her off guard.
He started to slink out of the garage and melt into the shadows of the forest again when he remembered that she’d tossed something into the front seat.
He walked to the front of the car, glanced through the Honda’s side window, and spied a backpack. He froze. Was that the edge of her cell phone sticking out? Could he really get so lucky?
Quietly he opened the passenger door. Yes! It was the cell phone! Deftly and carefully, he plucked it with two fingers from just inside the unzippered pack, then he crept quickly outside. Only when he was in the cover of the woods, the damp swampy air tickling his nostrils, did he breathe again.
So far, so good.
His heart was pounding in his ears as he thought about the little car breaking down. If he could time it just right, he might even be able to catch up to her, come along, and play the part of the Good Samaritan.
Don’t push your luck . . .
First the sister, then Abby.
Everything was on track again.
The afternoon nearly got away from Abby. She’d intended to leave Zoey at the house and then, in broad daylight, make a trek to the hospital, force her way inside, climb up the stairs, and using the crowbar she’d already packed into her car, jimmy open the damned door to Room 307.
But phone calls from Montoya’s brother setting up a time for the security system installation, Charlene reporting that their dad was “resting comfortably,” three potential buyers who set up times to view the place the next day, and a few clients who needed information “ASAP” had slowed her down. Even Alicia had called, and since they’d played phone tag for a week, Abby had spent half an hour catching up. All the while Zoey lounged on the couch, nursing a glass of wine, flipping through the channels where news reports about the killings and footage of Luke’s funeral from earlier in the day were being aired.
“I thought maybe someone would catch us on camera since you were the ex-wife and all.”
“That’s sick.”
“No sicker than going to the mental hospital again. For the record,” she said, sipping from her stemmed glass of Riesling, “I’m against this.”
“It’s something I have to do.”
“Does Montoya know?”
“No.”
“Will you call him?”
“And say what? That I feel compelled to go back to where it all started? That I have to face the demons of the past, that I can’t go forward with my life until I go backward?”
Zoey lifted a shoulder. “It sounds kind of like psychobabble to me.”
“I have to do this,” Abby said.
“Then go.” Zoey threw up a hand in surrender.
Abby let out a long breath. “You and Dad lied for twenty years. That’s a helluva long time. I think I can at least have a few hours to get over it and . . .”
Zoey finished her wine in a gulp. “So go, already. Exorcize your damned demons.”
“I’m on my way.”
Zoey stalked to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator, found the bottle, and pulled out the cork. “Maybe I’ll take another red-eye home.”
Abby glanced to the lowering sun. “I don’t have time to discuss this now, Zoe. When I get back, we’ll hash everything out, have a few glasses of wine together, okay? We’ll drink and watch old movies on television if we can find a station that isn’t consumed with ‘updates at eleven’ of the m
urders.”
Zoey refilled her glass, then shoved the cork into the bottle. She sighed. “If this is what you have to do, fine. Sorry I’m being bitchy. I’m still fighting jet lag and I think I might be coming down with something. The woman on the plane right behind me coughed so much I thought she’d hack up a lung. It’s probably the flu.”
“There’s ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”
“This’ll do for now.” Zoey held up her glass and took a sip. “Unless you want me to go with you?” she asked reluctantly.
“Don’t worry. I think this is something I should do alone.”
“How about I drive with you? If you want to go into the hospital alone, I’ll wait in the car.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, then, but take my weapon with you.”
“Your weapon?”
“Yeah, I usually have it in my purse, but because of airport security, I had to pack it. Just a sec.” She left her glass on the counter, hurried off down the hall in her stocking feet, then returned seconds later holding some weird knife.
“What is it?”
“A cheaper version of the Pomeroy Stiletto. It folds up, but can be released by this little button here, see . . .” She demonstrated, her index finger pressing on the small red button. “Spring action.”
“Aren’t these things illegal?”
“All I know is: you cannot take them on a plane. That’s a major no-no, so I have to pack it.” She closed the blade and slapped the little dagger into Abby’s hand.
“Okay,” Abby said, a bit uncertainly. “Thanks.” She slipped the knife into her pocket. She was as ready as she would ever be; her car packed. She’d already tossed her purse, cell phone, camera, and for good measure, the canister of pepper spray she’d carried around for the better part of the last two years but had yet to use into the car. She’d also placed a crow bar, flashlight, and lantern in the back.
Hershey, spying her loading the car, whined and stood at the door, ready for a “ride.” Abby hesitated. Should she take the dog? “Later,” she said, patting Hershey’s head. “Promise . . . or maybe ‘Aunt Zoey’ could take you for a walk.”
“I’m not the dog’s ‘aunt,’ okay? When you have kids, then sure, I’ll be Auntie Zoe, but not for the dog.”
“Whatever. I’ll see you later. Build a fire, and have another glass of wine,” Abby suggested. “If I don’t show up in three hours, send the cavalry.”
“I’ll call Montoya.”
“Even better,” she said, thinking about calling him herself. But if she told him what she was doing, he would have a fit. Like Zoey, he wouldn’t understand. Only he would be much more adamant that she stay home. Besides, he was busy—a detective trying to solve several murder cases, for crying out loud. His own aunt was missing.
Abby climbed into the Honda and backed out of the garage. What was the old saying?
Today is the first day of the rest of your life.
For her, it was the other way around. Today was the last day of her previous thirty-five years.
Tomorrow would be the first day of her new life.
“ . . . that’s right. Double-check Lawrence DuLoc’s alibis and find out what you can on a Simon Thaddeus Heller. I’ve got his social,” Montoya said, rattling off Simon Heller’s social security number while driving one-handed and bringing Zaroster up to speed. “He was involved with Faith Chastain when she was a patient at Our Lady of Virtues. Let go, because of it. Then moved west, supposedly. Check with the FBI, they might have faster access to his records.”
“Will do,” she said before hanging up.
He cracked open the window and stared through his bug-spattered windshield. Had Heller returned? Was he wreaking his own personal hell on victims who had been close to Faith Chastain? . . . If so, how were Asa Pomeroy and Luke Gierman involved . . . or was it just a loose connection in their cases? Asa had a son who had been in the hospital, and Luke Gierman had married Faith Chastain’s daughter, who’d just happened to be in the room when Faith died. Mary LaBelle was the daughter of people who had worked at the hospital. Gina Jefferson had been a social worker there.
When Heller had practiced at Our Lady of Virtues.
When DuLoc had been a patient.
He was closing in on the truth, he knew it, but it was still tantalizingly just out of reach.
He was nearly to the city when the phone blasted. He picked it up while negotiating a final turn before the country road became a highway. “Montoya.”
“Zaroster.”
“That was quick.”
“It’s not about Heller or DuLoc. I don’t have an answer on either of them yet.” She hesitated as Montoya watched the lanes separate into a split highway. “Look, I know you’re off the case, but I thought you should know. Asa Pomeroy’s car has been located, parked in the swamp south of the city.”
Montoya braced himself; he knew what was coming.
“The car was spotted by a guy giving helicopter rides to tourists over that section of swamp land. He saw the car, knew it was out of place, then remembered the police reports and called it in. The first officers to arrive were from the local Sheriff’s Department. Two dead bodies on the scene. Male and female, tentatively identified as Billy Ray Furlough and Sister Maria Montoya.”
“Damn it,” he growled, his stomach wrenching. Though he’d expected the news, it was still a blow, a kick in the gut.
“I’m sorry.”
“That goddamned bastard.” Rage tore through him. Tears burned the back of his eyes. Memories of his aunt, pictures frozen in time, slid behind his eyes. He recalled her as a young woman, full of hope and happiness, working with children, laughing at her nieces’ and nephews’ antics. There had been an underlying sadness to her, he’d thought, but she still had enjoyed her cloistered life.
“We’ll get him,” Zaroster was saying.
Montoya had no doubt. He would spend the rest of his life tracking down this psycho if he had to. Nothing would stop him. The monster would go down.
“Give me that address.” He floored his car, turned on the lights, and drove as if Lucifer himself were breathing down his neck.
A flat?
Her tire was flat now?
“Great,” Abby said, staring at the front passenger wheel of her little Honda. She glanced to the heavens and saw that it would soon be dusk. Great. Nothing to do but change the tire. Hopefully she’d get to the hospital and still have some daylight to work with. She could either change the tire herself—which would take a minimum of half an hour and God knew if the spare was any good—or she could call roadside assistance. That would probably take longer. Or she could take off cross-country. Though she was five miles from the hospital by road, she was probably less than a mile if she walked a straight line across farmers’ fields and ignored the NO TRESPASSING signs. But then she’d have to stow her gear in her backpack, which wouldn’t hold all the tools she wanted to take.
“Looks like Door Number One,” she told herself as she found the jack and the instruction pamphlet about how to use it.
Maybe you should call the tow company and go back home—take this as one of Zoey’s signs that you’re not supposed to break into the hospital.
“Nope,” she said aloud. Turning back now was not an option. She had to know the truth and she damned well had to know it tonight.
* * *
She should have gone with Abby.
Working on her third glass of wine and watching a sci-fi flick that she’d seen several times already, Zoey realized she’d made a big mistake. What had she been thinking, letting Abby return to that god-awful sanitarium by herself? She should have insisted that she ride along.
But she hadn’t wanted to. The place was just creepy. She’d never liked it. Never wanted to go back there.
The dog, lying by the fireplace, raised her head and let out a soft little “woof.”
Zoey looked up expectantly. Her heart lifted. Maybe Abby had thought better of her
plan and had returned.
Hershey was on her feet. A low growl emanated from her throat.
No . . . not Abby. Something else. Zoey felt a shiver chase down her spine. “What is it?” she asked, turning down the television’s volume. The dog, hackles raised, walked from window to window, looking outside. “Cut it out,” Zoey commanded. What had Abby said, that Hershey was edgy . . . or was that the cat? Both of the animals seemed a little neurotic to her. “You’re fine,” she muttered and drained her glass of Riesling. “Give me a break.” She pushed the volume button upward, flipped through the channels, and found an all-news station that was reporting on the serial killer terrorizing the citizens of New Orleans.
Who the hell was that guy and what was his deal? She thought of Abby and felt a jab of guilt. No one, especially a woman, should be out alone, especially after dark. She glanced to the windows and frowned. It was still daylight, but the sun was sinking fast.
“Crap,” she muttered as the news switched to trouble in the Middle East.
The dog was still whining and growling.
“Fine. Go outside! Knock yourself out.” Zoey pushed herself to her feet and felt a little tipsy, not drunk by any means, but she definitely had a serious buzz going. Driving was out. So was another glass of wine. The truth of the matter was that she was still tired, and the wine had only exacerbated the jet lag that had been with her ever since her red-eye flight.
By now the damned dog was going ape-shit at the back door. “Enough already,” Zoey muttered. “Believe me, no squirrel is worth it.” She unlocked the door, opened it, and the dog, barking and growling, bounded outside. Ansel, hiding on one of the bar stools near the counter, hissed in agitation, nearly giving Zoey a heart attack. She hadn’t seen the cat. “Jesus. Give it a rest.” Her heart was beating like a drum and from the hallway area she heard a clunk.
She was instantly wary. Was it the TV? She didn’t think so.
The noise hadn’t seemed to come from the living room.
Ansel hissed again and shot toward the dining area.
It’s a damned zoo in here, she thought, unnerved. She listened hard, every nerve ending instantly stretched tight. But she heard nothing but the dog’s angry barks and noise from the television.