by Lisa Jackson
Cole wanted to say, “Big of them,” but held his tongue. True, the firm hadn’t stood behind him during the Royal Kajak mess, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the partners at O’Black, Sullivan and Kravitz were finally going to do something for him, he’d take it. For now. “Great.”
“That’s all you can say? Hell, Cole, I’ve stuck my neck out for you, pushed these guys. And all you can say is ‘Great’?”
“If you’ve been reading the papers, you know I’ve got bigger issues.”
“I told you to stay away from Eve. And what was that nonsense of siccing her brothers down here to check on the will?”
“Doesn’t the firm have it?”
“Yeah, and they got the information they wanted, though they weren’t happy with it.”
“Cut out of Daddy’s will?”
“Essentially. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Cole imagined that pissed Eve’s brothers off big-time. He glanced at the clock and couldn’t tamp down the worry that dogged him. He and Deeds talked a little longer, and then he hung up, tried to call Eve again, and decided enough was enough. Grabbing his keys, he walked outside, turned his collar against the rain, and headed for his Jeep.
He couldn’t sit around and wait.
He had to find out that she was all right. If that bothered her, it was just too damned bad.
Eve was in and out of consciousness, unable to keep her eyes open. Everything that had happened seemed as if it were a dream. She remembered being shepherded into a dark truck…and she hadn’t been alone. Anna Maria. She’d been there. Or had she? And after driving for a while, the big man had stopped and forced her to drink something, and then she passed out again….
Right?
She wasn’t sure.
Where was she now?
On a bed?
Where were her clothes?…No, this wasn’t right.
A blindfold covered her eyes, but it had worked its way up her forehead and she could peek beneath it…. Wherever she was, it was nearly dark, with spots of light…candles…Yes, candles…and someone was crying. No, chanting. No, praying. She tried to concentrate, to hear the murmured words of the rosary—yes, that was it—but someone was definitely crying. Who? Why? Where? Or was this all just a dream?
Cole.
She needed Cole.
But…
From beneath the edge of her blindfold, she saw him. A big, muscular man. Naked. His skin gleaming in the firelight. She couldn’t see his face, but his body was covered with scars, all kinds of scars…. No…not scars. Tattoos. Some had healed; many had not…. Numbers and names…Her name in large letters: EVE…
She knew she should be afraid.
She sensed the situation was dire.
A woman was crying, for God’s sake.
She tried to focus and started to drift again but caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, a face she thought she recognized. Those eyes. Oh Lord, they were the same as they had been so many years before, looking down at her with a lust that was as raw as it was evil. Fear sliced through her, but even that deep, visceral emotion wasn’t enough to stave off whatever drug it was that held her in its grip. She couldn’t keep her eyes open, couldn’t think.
Somewhere, far away, she heard a door open, but she was fading. The chanting stopped abruptly. The muffled crying ended with a long, tortured, muted scream….
And then there was nothing but the blackness that consumed her.
The hospital was getting darker by the minute. Kristi had spent a lot of time on the first floor taking pictures, walking the hallways and trying to imagine what the asylum would have been like twenty years earlier, filled with patients, uniformed staff, and the ever-present vigilance of the nuns in their habits.
It was time to leave, but she felt compelled to at least visit the floor where Faith Chastain had lived and died. The stairs creaked as she raced up them, and she felt more than a little creeped out by the stained-glass window of the Madonna on the landing, her beatific features seeming sinister in the dim light. The round window was unharmed, each colored panel intact, unlike so many of the other panes. She clicked off a couple of shots of the window then headed upstairs to room 307, Faith Chastain’s room.
The door opened with a soft whisper, and she stepped inside to an empty room with a huge dark stain on the floor. She pulled out her camera and clicked off several shots. Not all of them would be used, of course, but she’d rather have a ton to choose from, and she wasn’t certain when she’d be able to return. This was her chance.
Her phone vibrated, but she ignored it and headed for the end of the hall and the stairway leading to the fourth floor, where the dead nun’s body had been found. She tried not to let her imagination run away with her as she kept her flashlight’s beam steady on the dirty wood floor and found the linen-closet door ajar.
Inside, behind a wall of shelving, was another door. She unlatched it and shined her light up the stairs that wrapped around a chimney. Dozens of footprints from the crime-scene investigators, the detectives, and all kinds of law enforcement were visible.
Kristi felt more than a little apprehension, but she told herself it was now or never and started mounting the steps. It wasn’t until she was in the attic, sweeping the beam of her flashlight over the floor and rafters, that she spied the blood, a dark stain and smaller drips.
Her stomach turned over.
And there was something else…marks on the floor, probably made by the investigators. Every so often. Circles around what appeared to be holes in the flooring. Kristi leaned closer to one and peered through, to see one of the rooms below.
How odd.
And interesting!
She’d have to remember this.
She looked through a second hole and realized from the dark stain spread upon the floor that she was looking into room 307. Faith Chastain’s room. She felt a thrill. It was too dark to take any pictures now. She could barely see the rooms below. She’d just have to come back when it was light.
Tomorrow morning.
Hopefully the rain would quit.
She turned to head down the stairs when she heard a noise. The soft, distinct click of a lock being turned.
Her heart jumped to her throat.
Who would be coming to the hospital now?
She swallowed back fear and told herself not to jump to conclusions. Maybe one of the nuns had stopped by. Or a maintenance man or gardener might have the key.
Or the killer. For God’s sake, he’s obviously been here before!
No, no…Don’t go there. Don’t let your imagination run away with you. Maybe you didn’t really hear anything. A lock turning? Could you hear that clear up here? No way. The hospital is quiet, yeah, but you’re letting your fears get the better of you.
A few floors down, a door creaked open.
Kristi froze.
She listened hard, over the thundering beat of her heart.
And then she heard footsteps.
Heavy and steady.
Inside the hospital.
The city was far behind when Montoya cut the siren and lights then peeled off the freeway and flew down the two-lane road that sliced through the parish. Farmhouses were sparse, fields stretching into forest and lowland, the smell of the swamp reaching into the car as the rain pounded. Bentz’s phone rang, and, seeing that it was the station, he answered. “Detective Bentz.”
“Hi, it’s Lynn,” Zaroster said. “I thought you’d like to know that Cole Dennis called in. Apparently Eve Renner is missing.”
“What?” Bentz said. “We had guys on her.”
“Yeah, I know. I talked to them, and their story dovetails into Dennis’s.”
“Which is?” he asked. The road narrowed, winding through stands of live oak, pine, and willow. Even Montoya had to slow a bit.
“That she went to meet her sister-in-law at a bar named Gallagher’s. She was supposed to check in with Dennis, and he never heard from her again. He got wor
ried, so he went down to the place, and a hostess remembers seeing her but doesn’t recall anything else. No one at the restaurant remembers serving her or her leaving. This is confirmed by the officers who were assigned to watch her.”
“And where the hell were they?”
“Keeping a low profile, as the ‘subject,’ that would be the now-missing Ms. Renner,” Zaroster said with a bit of a bite, “didn’t want any kind of police protection.”
“Did she meet anyone? Leave with someone?”
“We don’t know.”
Bentz tried to keep the anger out of his words, but he was furious. “What the hell do our guys say?”
“They knew she was in the bar. Watched her walk in. Then they staked out her car and the front door. They didn’t realize she’d ducked out the back.”
“Son of a bitch. Son of a goddamned bitch! Look, put out a BLOF for her. See if Gallagher’s has a security camera and get the tape if you can.”
“This could be just a matter of Eve Renner wanting some privacy.”
“I know, but I doubt it.”
“Yeah, me too.”
His stomach burned as he hung up.
“Trouble?” Montoya asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Eve Renner gave Cole Dennis and our boys the slip.” He ran a hand over his jaw. He didn’t like this, not at all.
Montoya missed a turn, hit the brakes, backed up, spewing gravel, then turned down the road and stepped on it again. Bentz’s phone rang again, and he saw the caller ID. “Hell. It’s Cole Dennis.” He felt compelled to answer. “Bentz.”
Dennis didn’t bother identifying himself, just said, “Eve’s missing. I just called 911. I thought you and Montoya should know.”
“I heard. We’re looking for her.”
“Wasn’t someone watching her back?”
“She didn’t want protection.”
“But you gave it to her anyway,” Cole accused. “We saw the cops parked just down the street.”
Bentz frowned as the gloom of the day seemed to seep into the interior of the cruiser.
“We thought it would be a good idea.”
“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t very effective. She left to meet her sister-in-law and then disappeared.”
“Where is Anna Maria Renner now?”
“I don’t know, Bentz, but you guys have to find Eve. You have to!”
“We will,” Bentz promised, but he had a bad feeling.
Obviously Dennis was angry. And scared. And probably riddled with guilt.
A few miles down the road, they spied a state trooper’s rig parked at the end of a long drive that was partially obscured by brush.
Montoya slammed on the brakes and the Crown Victoria shuddered to a stop. He was out of the car in an instant, with Bentz at his heels. The troopers had already sealed both the front and the back entrances to the place, which was little more than a shack hidden from the road by a long, weed-choked lane.
Bentz knew they should wait for more backup, or the FBI, or a damned SWAT team, but he was too hungry. This was way too personal. He didn’t want to chance Le Mars somehow slipping into the coming night because protocol wasn’t observed.
Through the storm, two state troopers ran to the back of the building and took up positions at the rear door. Bentz flattened his back against the cheap siding by the front door, while Montoya pressed against the wall on the opposite side of the door. Troopers covered the windows.
He waited.
Gathered himself.
“No signs of life,” Bentz said.
No light shined from any of the windows.
No smoke rose from the chimney.
“Nice and quiet,” Montoya observed. “Kind of spooky.”
Weapons drawn, Bentz nodded at Montoya through the dripping rain, then banged on the door. “Ronald Le Mars! Police! Open up!”
No response. Just the steady beat of the rain.
Bentz didn’t wait. He twisted on the door handle, certain it would have to be forced, and was shocked when the door swung open to a room as dark as death.
“Le Mars!” he yelled again as Montoya shot a look inside. “Ronnie! Give it up!”
“Police!” Montoya shouted.
Taking a deep breath, Bentz whirled through the doorway, hitting the floor, his weapon drawn. There was no light inside, so Bentz lay still, hardly daring to breathe, trying to get his bearings. He didn’t dare use his flashlight in case Le Mars was hiding and lying in wait, searching for a target.
“Le Mars!” Montoya shouted as Bentz’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw the bodies. Naked and shadowy, lying faceup in front of the fire. His stomach lurched, and he felt something wet on the floor. Too thick to be run off from a leaky roof. He rubbed a thumb and finger together then lifted the substance to his nose.
Blood.
He was half lying in a pool of blood.
He climbed to his feet and, using his flashlight, exposed the bodies.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” Montoya whispered as, with his weapon drawn, he stepped into the room. “It’s Le Mars.”
“Yeah,” Bentz agreed, staring at the woman. “And Anna Maria Renner.”
“So where’s her sister-in-law?”
Bentz was already reaching for his cell phone. “Nowhere good,” he said, sick inside. “That’s for damned sure.”
Kristi hardly dared breathe.
She heard the footsteps climbing the stairs. Slowly. With a heavy tread. But never faltering. Over the sound of the rain peppering the roof and gurgling down the gutters. She swallowed back her fear and strained to listen, all the while trying to figure out what to do.
She had her cell phone…. She could call someone.
And say what? That you’re hiding up in the attic of the old hospital? That you’re trespassing and someone else is here? Grow some damned balls, Kristi, and think, damn it. You don’t want to sound the alert until there’s a reason to.
So she’d play it safe. Quietly she extracted her cell phone. It was still on mute and vibrate, so she didn’t have to worry about anyone calling her and the phone ringing. Biting her lip, she typed out a text message : I’m at OLOV asylum. Not alone. Send help. K. Then she picked two people to send it to. She just wouldn’t press the send button until she was certain she was in a dangerous situation.
The footsteps paused.
Kristi’s heart nearly stopped.
Had he heard her?
How?
She strained to listen, thought she heard a moan, and clenched her jaw so that she wouldn’t scream.
She doused her flashlight and wondered if someone outside had seen the moving beam through the few small windows that allowed natural light into this garret. That was ridiculous, right? No one ever came onto the property.
The footsteps started up again, climbing upward until she was certain he’d stepped onto the third-floor landing.
God help me, she thought and made the sign of the cross over her chest.
Send the message. Send it now. It will take a long time before anyone can come here anyway. Send it!
He walked slowly down the hallway, and her eyes followed the sound, her gaze traveling over the floorboards that lay directly beneath the center of the attic. He slowed, and she heard the moan again as he switched direction, entering one of the rooms.
She crept silently to a spot directly above and knew that he’d entered Faith Chastain’s room. Without making a sound, she got to her knees and looked through the hole. Oh Lord, it was so dark, but she saw a shadow pass beneath the peep hole. More than a shadow: a large man, and he was carrying something. Oh dear God. She watched as he dropped a woman onto the floor.
Kristi pushed the send button on her phone.
Help would soon be on its way. She just had to wait for a few minutes, keep her head and—
She heard a trill, loud and sharp.
Somewhere a cell phone was ringing.
Echoing through the empty hallways of this hospital!
Oh dear
God.
No, oh please, NO! It couldn’t be!
The footsteps stopped completely.
And the trilling ceased.
Kristi knew her message had been received.
By the man in Room 307.
By her contact in the police department. A. J. Tennet would know she was on the floor above him.
All her hope died.
CHAPTER 35
Bentz wanted to throw up.
Once they’d found the light switches and illuminated the cabin, he’d been sick as a dog.
Fortunately the FBI was now on the scene, securing it, waiting for the crime techs, who were on their way.
Bentz looked over the cabin one last time. The naked bodies were still stretched in front of the dying fire, posed together. Anna Maria’s corpse was unmarked aside from a single bullet hole in the back of her head. Along with his matching head wound, Ronnie Le Mars also sported tattoos that were repeated over and over, inked into his body as well as scribbled across the walls of the room:
Eve, 323, Renner, 444, Nun, Viv, Xanax, 101, evil, Kajak,
212, Deified, Reviver, Dennis sinned, Live not on evil.
Never even. Evil live.
The tattoos were all recent; no mention of them were in the file on Ronnie Le Mars.
“A real nutcase,” Montoya said, shaking his head. They were waiting for the crime-scene specialists, but time was slipping away.
As far as they knew, the killer might already have Eve Renner.
“Look at this place, it’s all wrong,” Bentz said, eyeing the cabin. Though parts of it were neat and organized, the rest was filthy, as if all that really mattered was the fireplace, a kind of shrine. He eyed the rosary hanging from the mirror and the blackened windows. He’d been at enough crime scenes to sense when something didn’t quite fit. “This place doesn’t match our mastermind. Do you think Ronnie Le Mars was capable of pulling off all the killings? Getting away clean? The guy was a maniac.”
Montoya tensed. “What’re you saying? He’s our killer. The tattoos are evidence…” He stepped closer to the fireplace. “You think he had a partner.”