Devious (42 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Devious
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Lucia stopped.
Held her breath.
Closed her eyes and listened, her ears straining.
Was that a footstep?
Or not?
Had whatever she’d heard stopped?
Opening her eyes, she looked over her shoulder to the long, dark hallway where she saw only blackness between the thin pools of light cast by the low-lit sconces. Was the demon lurking there? Were his red eyes hidden in the murky umbra? Was he waiting, teeth glistening?
Her heart was beating a thousand times a minute, sweat sliding down her face. She swiped it aside with the sleeve of her habit and, telling herself that she couldn’t let fear paralyze her, continued quickly on, her feet barely skimming the floor as she finally reached the back door to Sister Charity’s office, which she knew was always unlocked.
Biting her lip, she twisted the handle, pushed on the panels, and stepped over the threshold.
She shut the door behind her with a soft click and made her way to the mother superior’s desk.
In the dark, she stubbed her toe on the sharp corner of a bookcase.
“Ssss.” She sucked in her breath and bit back the urge to cry out.
She couldn’t let anyone at the convent know what she was up to.
Never.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and the moonlit shadows in the room where the sparse furniture was cast in shades of gray. She crossed stealthily to the desk, then waited, forcing her breath to slow, her heart to calm.
She listened as she reached for the phone.
Was that a footstep in the hallway?
Her hand froze over the receiver, hovering in the still air.
No . . . nothing.
Quit freaking yourself out! Just do what you have to do!
Without making the slightest noise, she plucked the receiver from its cradle and, while the dial tone buzzed its loud, flat sound into her ear, dialed the number she’d memorized:
Cruz Montoya’s cell.
Her heart was hammering, tiny prayers going through her mind as the phone rang somewhere far away.
Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
Ring!
The Lord is with thee . . .
Ring!
Blessed are thou—
“Cruz Montoya.” His voice was gruff, thick with sleep.
Lucia’s knees went weak, and she braced herself on the edge of the desk. Her heart pounded crazily in her ears.
This was a mistake!
“Hello?” he said, angry now. “Hello! Oh, for the love of—”
“It’s Lucia,” she whispered quickly, trying to pull herself together. Her voice sounded too loud. Surely someone would hear her.
“Lucia?” he repeated.
“Yes! Can you meet me?”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I know what you said, but now?” He sounded less groggy, as if he was finally awake.
“In about half an hour.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Of course. But I need to see you. It’s urgent.”
A pause. “So you changed your mind about never wanting to see me again, is that it?”
She’d forgotten just how maddening he could be.
“Please, Cruz. I need your help.”
A pause. She counted the seconds. At five he said, “Oookay,” as if he wasn’t certain.
Her heart nearly fell through the floor. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important!” she whispered, worried that he wouldn’t do as she asked. Then what? She didn’t have a plan B.
“So then where? At the convent?” His voice was wary, as if he expected there to be some trick to her request.
“No!” Panic flooded through her. “Not here. Meet me at . . . There’s a gas station and mini-mart on Rampart, near the park.”
“You’re serious?” Doubt had crept into his voice.
“Yes,” she said, looking over her shoulder, feeling as if this very room had eyes and ears all its own, as if she were being observed. She shivered, suddenly cold as death. “I’m as serious as I’ve been about anything in my life.”
She heard it then.
The pad of footsteps.
Heart in her throat, she slowly replaced the receiver and, careful not to stub her toe again, slid into a dark corner that would be behind the door as it opened, in the corner by the bookcase.
She held her breath, the tread coming closer, her heart’s thudding cadence in counterpoint.
Don’t come in here. Please, please, please . . . don’t—
Then, almost automatically, as she heard the footsteps pause outside the door, she grabbed the door’s knob and held fast.
On the other side, someone tried to twist it open.
Lucia strained, put all her muscle into it.
The pressure released.
She didn’t give up. Held tight.
Again, the doorknob tried to turn.
Sweat rained down her forehead, dampening her palms. The knob slid a bit but didn’t give.
She heard a snort of disgust on the other side; then the pressure released.
Lucia bit her lip. Didn’t move.
But the footsteps moved on. Threading down the hallway. Which direction?
Lucia’s throat was as dry as the Sahara. Her skin wet with nervous sweat.
Did she dare try to leave, to stick her head out of Sister Charity’s office? So what if someone caught her?
No! No one can see you or you won’t be able to meet Cruz! Time is passing.
She counted off sixty seconds and was about to open the door when she heard another lock click softly.
What?
From where?
She whipped her head around, searching for the sound.
Again the soft tread of footsteps, but this time coming from the other side of the main door to Sister Charity’s office, in the outer reception area, where Eileen Moore’s desk was located.
Oh, sweet Jesus!
In a few seconds, whoever it was would be inside. There was no time to leap across the room and try to lock the door now! Nor did she have the option of holding it in her hands as she had this one. Not unless she wanted to be exposed.
Lucia figured she had no option but try to escape. Holding on to her fraying nerves as best she could, she waited half a second; then, just as she heard the doorknob twist on the main door, she opened the back and slipped through, closing it without a click.
She took off like a shot. Running away, her footsteps light as a butterfly’s wings, the hem of her habit swooshing against the floor.
She rounded the corner just as she heard the door through which she’d just passed open again.
The intruder would know it hadn’t been locked.
He’d figure out that someone had been inside.
Oh, dear God!
Lucia only hoped she could get away before whoever it was realized it was her. Sending up a quick prayer, she hurried up the stairs, and as she reached the landing, turning toward the next floor, she heard the voice again, that vile, rasping snarl as loud as it had ever been:
Pssssssssttttt.
This time she wouldn’t listen.
This time she’d break the cruel chain that had been tethering her.
This time, just maybe, she’d save a life, but in her mind’s eye, she already saw the images, quick black and white snapshots of a woman, in a bridal gown, grasping the tightening chain at her neck, her mouth moving beneath her veil like a fish out of water, desperately trying to take in air through gills that wouldn’t function.
Was it too late already?
She cast a worried look over her shoulder, seeing nothing but darkness.
Pssssssst!
the voice sibilated as the midnight bells began to toll mournfully.
Under their dulcet peals, chasing after her in the night-shaded hallways, was the creeping hiss of indecent laughter.
M
ontoya couldn’t sleep.
The case was getting to him, and even after a long lovemaking session with Abby, he tossed and turned, unable to find the peace of mind to drop off.
He’d rolled toward her one last time, and as he’d slipped his arm around her waist, Abby had sighed contentedly, wiggling her rump into his crotch and causing him to get hard all over again.
She felt it, too, and said, “Not again, Detective. Our little guy is going to wake up soon.”
“Well, my little guy is interested.”
“Tell him to give it a rest.” She scooted away and sighed deeply into the pillow, so he rolled over and told himself to slow down, think hard, work out the kinks in the murders.
Clifton Sharkey was still in his sights because of the bad alibi for the Camille Renard murder. He’d sworn that he’d only lied to protect himself, that he was afraid that the cops wouldn’t buy the fact that he was home alone, not with his record.
Frank O’Toole was still on the radar, too. The fact that he’d cowered behind his father’s three-piece suit and law degree wasn’t helping his case, not with Montoya.
Father Thomas Blaine was due back in town tomorrow. Montoya meant to meet him at his office first thing in the morning.
Then there was Father John.
The real deal, back from the supposed goddamned dead?
Or a copycat?
Montoya felt that the murderer was just toying with them, whoever the hell he was, that the murder of the prostitute might be meant to throw them off the case.
Where the hell were the missing bridal gowns? Was it significant that two of the victims, the nuns, had been adopted out of St. Elsinore’s? Not so with Grace Blanc, the working girl.
There were too many loose ends in this case and no way to tie them up.
Tomorrow night was the auction at St. Elsinore’s.
Montoya planned to be there.
He heard a noise.
The baby?
He listened, his father radar on alert.
No. It was Cruz. Probably getting up to use the crapper. Sure enough, he heard the toilet flush, and then damned Cruz walked down the hall and out the back door.
Montoya glanced at the digital clock.
Twelve-seventeen.
What the hell?
He rolled out of bed just as he heard the sound of Cruz’s Harley roar to life, then a tire chirp.
Montoya walked to the back door and stared out to see the red taillight of Cruz’s motorcycle wink bloodred, like the eye of a dying Cyclops. “Hey!” he yelled, but it was far too late, and the sound of the motorcycle winding through its gears slowly faded.
He turned to walk into the house again and nearly ran into Abby, her hair mussed, her eyes squinting. “What’s going on?” she asked around a yawn.
“I wish I knew,” he said, and closed the door. “I wish to hell that I knew.”
She offered him a bit of a grin. “Can I buy you a drink?” she teased.
“A little late for that, but . . . ?” He arched a suggestive eyebrow.
“But?” she replied, responding in kind.
He grabbed her and hauled her off her feet. She let out a squeal of surprise. “You’re bad, Montoya!” But she was laughing.
“That I am, woman, and I intend to show you just what it means.”
“Oh, God, save me from the husband with bad come-on lines,” she said, but giggled as he kissed her more roughly than usual, growling against her neck. She laughed outright at his tough-guy tactics, and they tumbled onto the bed together while Cruz took off for who knew where.
Cruz waited under the flickering fluorescent lights of the gas station.
Lucia was late.
Or wasn’t coming at all, had just pulled his leg.
No, that thought didn’t sit well. He lit his last cigarette, crushed the pack, and told himself he’d give her five more minutes. No more.
And what then?
Just leave?
No way, tough guy. She’s in trouble. You’ll wait.
Disgusted with himself, he took a long drag and told himself no matter what, this was his last smoke. He’d quit years ago, only bought a pack a couple of days ago because of Lucia. He’d gone a little nuts seeing her again.
Stupid reason.
The gas station was open. An all-nighter. One pimply faced kid in a stocking cap and mechanic’s suit with his name, “Al,” on a patch sewn between the zipper and shoulder was manning the pumps and till. In Cruz’s estimation, Al couldn’t be more than nineteen, maybe twenty, but there he was, head bent into his cell phone, texting like mad but available if someone drove up and needed service.
He smoked in silence, feeling the thrum of the city, despite the fact that it was quiet, the middle of the night.
New Orleans was never asleep. Along with the humidity, the heavy air on his skin, and the wash of neon lights on the streets nearby, there was an underlying current of energy that throbbed just beneath the surface of the night. Invisible but palpable.
A car slowed for a red light, an old Chevy rattling and wheezing as it idled, the single guy behind the wheel eyeing the gas station for a second. But the light changed and the Nova rolled noisily away.
Cruz checked his watch and jangled the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket. Where the hell was she?
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement, a woman crossing the empty street.
If he hadn’t been looking for her, he wouldn’t have recognized Lucia. Dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a cardigan sweater, her hair braided and slung over one shoulder, a large pack strapped to her back, Lucia Costa looked more like a coed on a backpacking trip than a woman who’d so recently sworn she wanted to take her final vows to become a nun.
He crushed out the Camel and met her at his bike, its chrome pipes and black paint so shiny it looked wet as it gleamed beneath the glowing fluorescent tubes.
“Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual, even though his pulse had kicked up just at the sight of her. “What’s going on? What’re you doing?”
“Escaping,” she said, and flashed him a nervous smile that tore at his heart.
“From the convent.” It was a statement.
“Yeah.”
“How’d you get out?”
“We all know how. It’s not a prison, not really, though lately . . .” She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. “Can we just go?”
“Where?”
“Somewhere we can talk.”
“At one in the morning?”
“If that’s what time it is now, then yes.” Her big brown eyes implored him, and he figured, what did he have to lose? “Sure,” he said, wondering where the hell this would go. “Hop on.”
The honest thing to do, Lucia knew, as she sat in the all-night diner in the middle of the night, would be to ask Cruz to take her to the bus station, to tell him that she never wanted to see him again and ask him not to follow.
But that would only lead to more problems.
More lies.
More heartbreak.
And she wouldn’t really be able to disappear.
No, she had to carry out her hastily conceived plan. There were holes in it, yes, she knew that, but she would rely on God to see her through this.
She had to dupe him.
And then atone like crazy.
Please help me,
she silently prayed, then dredged an oily French fry through a pool of ketchup in her shrimp basket. Cruz had found the diner, located on the outskirts of town, the place nearly dead.
Paddle fans moved lazily over a long Formica counter with a metallic trim and a row of empty stools covered in red faux leather. The only waitress, a slim African American, was refilling the slowly turning pie display with thick slices of key lime, Dutch apple, banana cream, and Georgia peach pies, if the boxes stacked on the counter were to be believed.
The place reeked of well-used cooking oil, fried onions, and a thin layer of smoke, which Lucia was able to view through the opening between the back of the counter and the kitchen. Past the hanging pots and pans, she noticed the open door that led to the parking area.
A fry cook in a grease-splattered apron was standing in the shadows, shoulder propped on the exterior doorjamb as he sucked hard on a cigarette. With the cook was a busboy who was leaning on a broom while lighting up.
Cruz and Lucia were seated in a corner booth, toward the back of the long, narrow building, away from the plate-glass windows looking out onto the highway. She was eating the remains of her shrimp basket; he was ignoring his cheeseburger but working on his second beer.
His hair was mussed and shining black, his eyes a deep chocolate brown and rimmed in suspicion. The tiny scar slicing one eyebrow, reminding her of the accident that nearly took her life, seemed a little more evident today.
“So you’re leaving the convent, and you think it’s best if you run away?” he asked, his brown eyes slitted as he studied her.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of the murders. It’s . . . unsafe.”
“You think the killer will come after you?”
She wanted to tell him about the voice, about her fear, about how she was compelled to do its bidding, whatever it was, but she couldn’t—didn’t want to sound as if she’d totally gone off her rocker.
Cruz knew enough about her ESP, or curse or whatever you wanted to call it, as it was.
“You found the bodies?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“I . . . I was up. I guess I heard something. I can’t really say. I just know that I sensed something was wrong.” That was downplaying the urgency she’d felt, the compulsion to go where her mind led her, the urgency with which the hiss had prodded her.
“You’re the one who sent Camille Renard’s prepaid cell phone to the police, right?”
“Oh. You . . . you know about that?”
“Put two and two together. Found you near the post office, then overheard my brother telling someone on the phone about the phone showing up.”
She nodded, couldn’t lie. “She’d left it with me. For safekeeping. She was afraid Sister Charity might find it, and she had the BlackBerry . . . then . . . then she was killed and . . . I didn’t know what to do.”
“You were close to her.”
She thought of Camille, and a great sadness swept through her. “Yes.” She met his inquisitive gaze. “The world isn’t all in black and white, not colored like a nun’s habit or a priest’s vestments. There are shades of gray in it, and Camille, she was all about those hues. Sometimes pure as snow, other times black as sin, most often somewhere in between. But, yes, I was close to her, and I miss her like crazy.” She fought a spate of tears and blinked hard.
Cruz shifted his gaze away, then downed the rest of his beer.
“I made a mistake in keeping it, so I sent it to the police department.” She shook her head, looked at the door. “I should have given it up immediately.”
“It probably would have made things easier.”
Five more customers arrived, and unlike Cruz and Lucia, who spoke in soft tones, they were loud, probably half-drunk, and fell into a booth near the front of the building. There were three muscle-bound guys with shaved heads and skintight, sleeveless shirts to show off their tattoos and two women. One in a short skirt, tights, and cropped T-shirt, the other in a sundress and cowboy boots.
Reluctantly, the waitress sauntered up to them and scribbled down their orders in between questions and jokes, laughter, and, from one of the men, a demand for a “round” of beer.
“Make it light beer,” Cowboy Boots insisted, and her friend laughed as the guys shook their shiny pates.
“So why me?” Cruz asked once he’d swung his attention back to Lucia. “When you were pretty damned sure you never wanted to lay eyes on me again.”
She winced and for once tonight was honest. “I knew you’d come.”
“Lucky I was still in town.”
“I know.” She nodded and sucked up the remains of her diet soda through her straw.
“So what now?”
“I want you to take me away.”
That stopped him cold.
“I mean that literally. I’ve thought about it. I want to go to Houston. From there I’ll figure it out.”
“What’s in Houston?”
“Not St. Marguerite’s.”
“You’re giving up on your vows.”
“I don’t know. Probably. The archdiocese won’t take kindly to me leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone. I’ll call as soon as it’s light. Stop long enough to let Sister Charity know that I’m okay and that I haven’t been abducted or . . . or anything,” she added, thinking of Sister Camille and Sister Asteria.

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