by Lisa Jackson
Might.
She tore off her sling and tossed it onto the bed; her arm had quit hurting, and she was tired of having her movements restricted. After rotating her shoulder a couple of times and deciding it was working without too much pain, she changed into clean jeans and a red cotton sweater while Cole stood, arms crossed over his chest, eyeing her with disapproval. “I’ll call, promise,” she said and kissed him again. Then, before he could argue, she was down the stairs and out the door.
As she drove through the rain, she saw Cole still standing in the turret window, staring down at the street. The guys in the red Pontiac came to life. She turned the corner, passed them, and, in her rearview mirror, saw the Pontiac pull away from the curb and do a quick one-eighty.
Poor Anna Maria.
She had no idea Eve was coming with her own personal posse.
Anna Maria could barely move. Whatever the whack job had given her was taking effect, and her legs felt like rubber. Scared out of her mind, she was lying in the back of his truck, trying to keep her wits about her, alternately praying and trying to find a way to escape.
The prick had held a knife at her eye and forced her to make the call to Eve. Now she was lying in the truck, listening as rain pounded on the canopy and wondering if she’d ever see Kyle again. That bastard. Oh God, how she wished he’d come and save her…that someone would. And now she’d dragged Eve into this madman’s sickness.
She hadn’t seen his face. He’d worn some kind of neoprene mask, but he was big and strong and had attacked her in the bedroom, gagged her, bound her, and hauled her out to his truck, where she’d ridden for hours, her body aching, her bladder stretched to the breaking point.
He must’ve figured out that she’d have to pee because he’d pulled off into the woods somewhere, yanked down her pants, and watched as she’d relieved herself. She’d been so mortified, she’d almost been unable to go, but then nature had finally taken its course.
She’d been forced into the back of the truck again, onto the stained mattress, her arms once again bound behind her, but, as he’d pushed her inside, she’d caught a glimpse, beneath her blindfold, of the license plate mounted on the truck’s bumper. She’d immediately pressed those letters and numbers into memory just in case she somehow got the upper hand and escaped. Then he’d driven away again, and she’d listened hard, hearing the sing of the tires on the pavement, the rumble of the truck’s engine, and his voice droning as if he were chanting or praying, the words unclear.
She’d felt an increase of speed when he’d reached the freeway again and tried to remember how to make the vehicle noticed by other cars, how to communicate to the other drivers on the road that she was being abducted.
By a madman.
But bound as she was, she couldn’t move, could communicate with no one.
In her heart she knew the psycho who had captured her was the same killer who’d taken the lives of her father-in-law, Royal Kajak, and those nuns. Dear God, what could she do?
And she’d been weak.
She’d spent the next, long stretch of hours crying and praying. Then she’d felt the truck’s speed slow down, and the sounds of the traffic had changed. She knew that he’d driven her into a large city, most likely New Orleans. The truck stopped and started at several lights. Then he’d parked, and her heart had been a wild drum.
Was this it?
Where he planned to kill her?
Oh dear God, no!
Her mouth was dry as sand, her fear palpitating as she heard him climb into the back of the truck with her. It was so dark. So damned dark. He’d touched her, and she’d recoiled. Then she’d felt something cold and hard as steel, the barrel of a gun, now pushed against the underside of her chin. He’d told her what to do. And promised to kill her should she make one slipup. Too terrified to do anything but what he’d demanded, she’d made the call to Eve.
And so she’d lured her best friend into the psycho’s trap.
She’d thought he would kill her right then and there once Eve had agreed, but he’d lowered the gun and said, “Good girl” in a soothing voice that made her want to scream.
Then he’d slithered out of the canopy like the snake he was and locked her inside again. She’d yanked on the ropes that bound her, tried to bang and get someone’s attention, but the sounds were muffled by the mattress, the gag stopping her screams.
Dear Lord, forgive me, she prayed, fighting tears and mind-numbing terror. Desperately, she tried to concentrate. There had to be a way.
She had to save Eve.
Save herself.
Oh God, please help me. Please!
So he hadn’t lied.
Kristi stood in the cemetery and stared at the open pit where once there had been a casket. Just like her source had told her. She peered inside then pulled her digital camera from her backpack. The day was dreary and overcast, threatening rain, but it was light enough to click off a few pictures for the book. She imagined a section with photographs of the crime scene.
Which led her to believe she should really get some shots of the hospital. Before it was torn down. She knew there were a lot of pictures available; the place had been photographed hundreds of times. But she’d like a picture of Faith Chastain’s bedroom, and the stairs leading to the attic, where Sister Vivian Harmon’s body had been found. The attic itself, of course, Eve Renner’s house, and, if she could swing it, pictures of the cloister of the Our Lady of Virtues convent. That might be a tough sell because there were nuns living in the convent, people working there. She doubted anyone would just let her enter without some kind of viable excuse.
This is why it would be nice if her father would open some doors for her, use his influence.
She stared through the trees and the thickening shadows toward the convent and figured it would be a dead end. But the hospital, if she could scale the walls, shouldn’t be a problem.
She glanced to the menacing sky just as the first few drops of rain started to fall. It was dark as twilight already, so she’d have to work fast. She’d come prepared, not only with her camera but with a few tools, a strong flashlight, and, of course, her pepper spray.
She felt the slap of wind against the back of her neck as she looked through the gloom at the crumbling headstones, some of which had toppled, and the few family tombs that rose above the ground or cut into it.
If she let herself, she could be creeped out by all this, but that would serve no purpose. She took a few more pictures of the graveyard then climbed into her car and drove to the convent, searching for the access road she’d heard about from her father the last time there was a serial killer on the prowl near the old hospital. Supposedly there was a driveway that led to the garages and working sheds of the convent and a walking path that cut through a hedgerow of arborvitae and led to a gate in the fence surrounding the hospital. This path had been used by the nuns of the convent and some of the gardeners and other staff as a shortcut.
Or so Kristi had heard.
Well, it was time to test the theory.
The rain was starting to come down hard enough that she flipped up the hood of her jacket as she reached the garage area, where a pickup was parked and a dumpster rusted in the rain. A hedge grew beside the fence line, and she walked next to the dripping evergreen shrubs until she spied a flagstone and an overgrown path that sliced between two of the tall bushes. As she stepped along the stones, wet branches slapped at her shoulders.
On the other side, she found a rusted gate hanging open. She stepped through, onto the campus of the hospital. Through a canopy of limbs just starting to leaf, she spied the dark roofline of the asylum.
Ridiculously, a chill swept through her, but she ignored any trepidation as she found her camera and started clicking off shots. She couldn’t let unfounded fears stop her. The rain was really coming down now, and she ducked her head and followed what had once been a trail through the thicket of pine and live oak. Her heart was pounding, and she felt a little as if she’d st
epped into another world, a dark and forbidden path that wound through the pain and misery of the past. Closer to the hospital, she clicked off a few more pictures and considered the people who had lived here, who had been misdiagnosed, mistreated, or trapped in this monolith of an institution.
Her cell phone jangled, and she jumped, saw that her father was calling again and decided to keep ignoring him. He’d ask what she was doing, and then she’d either have to lie, which he always seemed to sense, or she’d have to tell him the truth, in which case he would come unglued and start in on his routine, discouraging her from writing the true-crime book.
She didn’t want to hear it.
For God’s sake, she was an adult.
She switched the phone to vibrate and continued. Once she had finished her business, she’d call him back. She’d heard the earlier messages about dinner, but she wasn’t all that interested, wasn’t going to change her plans to suit him. Nah, she was done with that.
So what if he’s had a change of heart, what if he finally wants to talk to you?
It could wait.
At least a few more hours.
Frowning, she kept walking through the wet puddles and damp leaves that had never been raked from the fall.
Closer to the asylum, she saw the decay. The crumbling mortar, the falling bricks, the broken windows, the encroaching weeds and vines. Once grand and imposing, the structure was now forbidding and bleak. Again she found her camera and trained her lens on the rusted-down spouts, freakish gargoyles, and black windows. What a creepy, almost hellish place.
It was great!
And the pictures were turning out better than she’d anticipated. There were still a few hours of daylight, though the damned rainstorm was turning day to night. She had to hurry.
So, how to break into this fortress?
She saw the windows near the back door had been boarded, and she knew she was probably wasting her time, but she walked up the back service entry steps, twisted on the knob, and, with only the slightest creak of old hinges, the door swung inward.
Kristi hesitated.
An unlocked door just didn’t seem right.
But maybe the nuns left it open, or maybe because of the last murder someone had forgotten to check the latch. It didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, it was a godsend.
She stepped inside.
The rain was spitting as Eve parked in a spot as close to Gallagher’s as she could get. She made a mad dash through the drops and walked inside, where the after-work crowd was taking advantage of the happy hour and the dark ambience of the bar. Blue smoke hung near the ceiling, and the jazz combo, despite their heavy-duty speakers, was nearly drowned with the sound of conversation and laughter. People clogged the dance floor and waitresses bustled past while busboys cleared the tables. Not a great place to have a quiet conversation, but then maybe Anna needed noise and people and a singles scene.
A hostess was mapping out tables.
“I’m looking for a woman named Anna,” she said, nearly yelling. “I’m Eve.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll find her.” Eve wended her way through the tables and booths, jostling dancers as she searched the smoky interior. Nowhere did she see Anna. She made another pass and then saw a drink, a cigarette in an ashtray, and a scarf and wet coat that she recognized as belonging to her sister-in-law. Even her purse was on the bench. What was she thinking? Anyone could pick it up. She searched the dance floor, didn’t see Anna, then decided she was probably in the restroom, which was just down a short hallway.
Scooping up Anna’s purse, she walked toward the restroom and was jostled by a big man heading in the opposite direction. The contents of the purse scattered.
“Excuse me,” he said as she reached down to pick up the pieces and he did the same. “Let me help.”
“No, I can—” His hand was over her mouth so fast she couldn’t scream, and something sweet and sickly smelling filled her nose and mouth. Too late she tried to scream, to fight, but her arms and limbs were already not obeying her, and the punches she threw glanced off him as he quickly dragged her past a janitor’s closet and through an open door to the back alley.
The rain was coming down in sheets, blown by a crosswind.
She tried to fight but could barely stand, her legs wobbly, her mind beginning to fog. She blinked. Tried to clear the cobwebs and stumbled a bit, just like she’d had too much to drink. She knew then that no one would stop and help her. No one even knew there was a problem. She looked like a drunken woman whose caring husband was guiding her to their car.
No! She tried to articulate, to yell at someone, but her words came out in a slur.
Then she saw it.
The dark pickup; the one she’d seen following her from Atlanta. She fought the effects of the ether and the urge to throw up, but it was no use.
She blacked out.
CHAPTER 34
The room numbers lined up. Bentz had spent most of the day running down friends and relatives of Ronnie Le Mars and drawing a rough sketch of the hospital, adding layers, lining up the floors, then doing research. Vivian Harmon, before joining the order, had been a patient at Our Lady of Virtues. Her room number had been 323, the same as tattooed on her forehead. And the area where her body had been found, the nook that Eve Renner had claimed as a child, was positioned right above 344, so, conceivably, to a twisted mind, Eve’s childhood play area could be considered room 444. Roy Kajak had occupied room 212 when he’d been a patient at the hospital. He’d known Ronnie Le Mars, as had Vivian Harmon.
His shoulders ached from too many hours leaning over the desk. Rotating his neck and listening to a series of worrisome pops, he thought it was time to call it off for the day. He’d planned to meet with Kristi and tell her about Eve Renner being her half sister, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. He needed something to bond him more closely to his kid, not drive a wedge further between them.
“It is what it is,” he told himself, stretching his arms upward.
“Hey!” Montoya shouted, then burst into the room. “I think we got the son of a bitch!” Montoya’s dark eyes glittered. “Le Mars,” he said, unable to keep from grinning. “We found him!”
Bentz was already reaching for his coat and sidearm. “Where? How?”
“Anonymous call to 911 from a pay phone in town. Someone claimed to know Ronnie, heard him bragging, says he’s staying in a bayou cabin about twenty miles outside of the city—get this—about fifteen minutes as the crow flies to Our Lady of Virtues. The place is owned by someone named Lester Grabel, deceased. Lester’s son Raymond just happened to be a cellmate of Ronnie’s in prison. We’ve already sent an officer to check it out, and the FBI will be there, but I’d like to see the look on this guy’s face when we nail him.”
“You think this is legit?”
“Good as anything we’ve got.”
“Let’s go.” Bentz was already around his desk. They hurried down the stairs together, and for once Bentz didn’t argue when Montoya said he’d drive.
They were in a department-issued Crown Vic, lights flashing, when a call came over the radio. The first unit from the state police was closing in and would secure the access road to the cabin. Within two minutes, a second unit would back them up. No one was entering until they received word from higher up.
Montoya sped onto the freeway like a bat out of hell. Lights flashing, siren screaming, he cleared traffic in front of him and never took his eyes off the road.
“Can it really be this easy?” Bentz asked. “An anonymous tip out of the blue?”
“Not exactly out of the blue. We’ve been beating the bushes on this one, contacting anyone who ever knew any of the victims and Le Mars. Someone finally decided to give him up.”
“Maybe.” Bentz was skeptical. But then, that was his nature. Always had been. He didn’t trust in coincidence or happenstance or just plain good luck. In fact, he lumped all of the above in with the Tooth Fairy and the Easte
r Bunny.
The sky was darkening, getting black as night, and what was at first just a drizzle started pouring, coming down in sheets, aided by the wind. Montoya didn’t slow. The cruiser’s tires splashed through the puddles and standing water, spraying up against the undercarriage and any vehicle he passed. Bentz popped a couple of Tums then dialed Kristi again. He’d been trying to reach her all day. He wanted to take her to dinner, talk things out, but now, he figured, dinner was out. He left another message, telling her there might be a change of plan, then hung up, not wanting to think how many times he’d had to cancel or postpone because of work.
Well, damn it, tonight it was important.
The first unit had reached the location; the second would be there in minutes.
“I can feel it,” Montoya said, his hands tight over the wheel, his eyes narrowing as he stared through the windshield as the wipers slapped away the rain. “This is it. We’re gonna get the bastard!”
Bentz hoped to hell he was right.
Cole checked his watch as the security guy drove off. Eve had been gone an hour and a half.
So what?
She said she would call.
He walked from the kitchen to the front room, glanced out the windows, and then headed back to the kitchen. She and her sister-in law were probably deep into some kind of conversation. No big deal.
Nonetheless, he called.
She didn’t pick up.
Should he go down there?
His phone rang in his hand, and he felt a second’s relief, then read the screen and realized it was his attorney calling him. “Hello?”
“Hey, good news,” Sam Deeds said.
“Great. I could use some.”
“The DA’s dropping the marijuana charge.”
“I expected that. I was set up. We all know it.”
“Baby steps, my friend. Baby steps. But I’m working on all of the charges that have ever been filed against you, going to see if there’s a way we can get everything off your record. The partners are on board. They’re taking you on, pro bono.”