Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (132 page)

He’d drive this car to the spot where he’d ditched his truck. But first he needed to unload the shackled man in the backseat. The pisser.

The radio was playing some smooth jazz that caused him only more irritation. He snapped it off, warned himself to be patient. He’d waited twenty years. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt.

His lips twisted at that thought. Just a few more hours and then the culmination . . . five of the seven would be disposed of—the most precious already dealt with. The other two couples were not in the area, and would have to wait . . . but he would need a cooling-off period anyway.

After tonight.

The pain in his chest eased a bit as anticipation sang through his veins. Soon he would feel that intense, incredible rush. He thought of the daughter, so much like the mother . . . only a few more hours . . .

The Mother Superior looked tired. Beneath her wimple furrows lined her brow and below her half-glasses were dark smudges. “This is difficult for me,” she admitted, pointing to a manila envelope in the middle of her wide desk. “Those are the records you requested. Sister Madeline, bless her heart, knew where they’d been stored up in the attic and had Mr. DuLoc bring them down.” She motioned to the boxes that had been pushed to the corners of her room. “I’m keeping them here, just in case you need anything else, but I think everything you want is in here.” She tapped the large envelope with one unpolished nail, then slid it across the desk to Montoya. “There was a time when confidences were kept, where faith was not only essential but embraced, when there was more . . . order. But now . . . oh, well.” She offered up the ghost of a smile. “I’ve thought long and hard and prayed for God’s blessing and intuition, that He would help me understand the path I should take,” she said. “In the end, He’s left me with a difficult choice.”

Pushing herself to her feet, she seemed to totter a bit as she walked to the window. She stared outside where a hummingbird was flitting through the hanging pots, seeking sustenance from the dying blooms. “I suppose I should have told you earlier. Your aunt confided in me that she had a son out of wedlock. She came here after the boy was adopted out.”

Montoya watched the old nun finger her rosary. “I know.”

She nodded, still staring out the window. “That boy grew up and became a local celebrity, an athlete, a scholar, and eventually a man of God.”

“Billy Ray Furlough?” Montoya asked, stunned.

“So she told me.”

Furlough was the right age, and if he thought about it, there was a bit of a resemblance between the flamboyant preacher and the Montoya family—the dark hair, burnished skin, and natural athleticism.

“When I heard that Mr. Furlough was missing as well as Sister Maria, most likely abducted on the same day, I thought I should contact you. And I didn’t want to tell the other officers, not when I knew that Sister Maria would prefer you to know.” She turned to face him, her back to the window. “You’re her favorite, you know. Of all her nieces and nephews.”

Montoya felt a fresh rush of guilt. He wondered if the killer knew that he’d murdered mother and son. Of course he did. These murders were not random. They were meticulously planned.

“What can you tell me about Lawrence DuLoc?” Montoya asked, deciding to cover that ground first.

“Mr. DuLoc is invaluable here, helps us immeasurably.” She drew a deep breath. “He was a patient at the mental hospital. He had anger issues as a youth, though, of course, I shouldn’t be telling you this.” She turned her palms heavenward in supplication and barreled on, almost as if she were relieved to open the floodgates of her secrecy. “Yes, he was accused of some crimes long ago, but he has been with us for a long while. His work record is impeccable.” She looked up at Montoya. “I will personally vouch for him.”

“The department has to look at all the evidence.”

“I believe your colleagues already questioned him.” She walked to her side of the desk, reached across the glossy surface, and touched Montoya’s hand. “Larry is not a murderer.”

Montoya tended to side with her, but he didn’t let on. “He’s a tall man, right. Six-one or -two?”

“He’s tall, yes,” she admitted, straightening and folding her arms over her chest. “You can talk to him. Larry wants nothing more than to help you find your aunt. Larry DuLoc is a very devout man, Detective. His faith is strong.” She motioned toward the window. “He’s in the garden now.”

“Thank you.” Montoya hesitated, eyeing the nun. After a moment he asked, “And did you learn anything about Faith Chastain?”

She folded her hands. “She fell out of the window of her room on her birthday,” she said, sounding like she was reciting a tired story. “The hospital was sued for not having the windows secured properly. The grating was defective.”

“She fell through the glass.”

She nodded. “Had there been metal bars, or the decorative grating across the lower part of the window secure, the tragedy might have been avoided, or so the lawsuit suggested.”

“Who sued you? The State of Louisiana?”

Her smile was patently patient. “The State eventually got involved, but the lawsuit was initiated by the family. Faith’s husband, Jacques. It never went to trial, of course. We settled out of court.”

Montoya looked at her, feeling as if she was holding back. “Anything else about it?”

Mother Superior fingered the cross at her neck and seemed to be wrestling with an inner demon. Montoya waited and she finally admitted, “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s been so long ago, and if it will somehow help you find Sister Maria, then . . .” She made the sign of the cross and seemed to whisper a silent prayer. “There was talk of abuse, or molestation—that one of our doctors and Mrs. Chastain were involved in a sexual relationship. At first the man involved denied everything. Then others came forward: staff members who had seen things they hadn’t reported for fear of losing their jobs. When that happened, he said the affair was consensual.” Her lips twisted downward in disgust. “Consensual? Can you imagine? With a woman who was suffering from mental illness?” Her nostrils flared angrily. “He was let go immediately,” she said.

“No charges filed?”

She shook her head. “The family filed the civil suit for Faith’s death, and that was the extent of it. Perhaps they never knew about the other.” Her gaze slid to the floor. “Not the finest hour for Our Lady of Virtues Hospital.”

“Who was the man?”

She met his eyes. “Dr. Heller was a brilliant psychiatrist. In many ways ahead of his time. But he cut corners, was a little sloppy, lazy, if you will.” Her back grew even straighter, as if a rod held her up. This was difficult for her. “One of his worst critics was Gina Jefferson. She worked with us at the time.”

“Did she witness the molestation?” Montoya asked, feeling that little frisson again. He sensed he was finally on the right track.

“I don’t remember, but she was no fan of Simon Heller.”

“Do you know where Dr. Heller is now?” Montoya demanded.

“No . . . I didn’t keep up with him. He moved out of state. Somewhere west, I think.”

“Dr. Simon Heller. Does he have a middle name?”

“Yes . . . I remember he was particular about the name plate on his door.” She thought hard and Montoya had to force himself to remain seated. The clock was ticking. His aunt and Billy Ray could already be dead, and Abby’s mother was somehow involved. She was the link. “Simon T. Heller, that’s what was on his name plate. I can’t remember what the T stood for. Theodore or Thaddeus, something like that.”

“His name and social security number are in this file?” Montoya asked, holding up the manila envelope.

“Yes. And his picture, I think.”

Montoya didn’t waste any time, but opened the clasp, sliding out the yellowed pages. “Was Heller a big man?”

“Tall, but not big. Almost scarecrowish. One of the patients saw a picture of a praying mantis in one of the nature books, pointed to it, and said, ‘Heller.’ ” She smiled despite herself. “That was unkind, but there was a nugget of truth in it, I suppose. He wore huge glasses and had extremely long legs.”

Montoya found a small photo of Heller attached to his long-ago employment application. The color had faded but Heller’s features were clear. He had black hair, a thick mustache, and glared out through huge, wire-rimmed, aviator-type glasses.

“He wasn’t very old.”

“Just out of medical school,” the Mother Superior admitted. “Under thirty.”

“Do you remember anything else about him?”

“He had an air of superiority about him that he tried to mask with bedside manner. It didn’t work very often. He was a bit of a loner, and he ran, oh, my, how he ran. I think he did marathons, but . . . oh, well, I’m not certain. A lot of years have passed.”

Montoya fingered the faded photograph. “Do you have pictures of everyone who lived here?”

“Just the staff, for identification.”

“Was Heller still employed here when Faith died?”

“He was in the room with her,” she admitted. “He witnessed her fall but couldn’t save her. The molestation issue was brought up after her death. That’s when he was asked to leave.”

He gazed hard at the picture of an unsmiling man. His arrogance came through clearly. Montoya remembered the picture of Abby’s mother he’d seen on her bookcase. A beautiful woman with a sexy smile—a smile her daughter had inherited. Faith had been Simon Heller’s unwilling lover.

Montoya’s gut twisted. What had really happened the day of Faith Chastain’s death? Had her fall been a misstep? Or had Heller, maybe aware that the molestation issue was coming to light, given his victim a push?

The reverend mother cleared her throat. “Faith’s daughter witnessed the fall as well. She ran in just moments before.”

“Which daughter?” Montoya asked, but he already knew the answer. He’d witnessed Abby’s nightmares.

“The younger one . . .”

“Abby.”

“Yes, that’s her name. Abigail, though Faith often referred to her as Hannah.”

“Do you know why?”

“Oh, it’s been so long ago, and though I did work at the hospital then, I can’t remember. The daughter was just fifteen. It was her birthday as well as Faith’s. Apparently she rushed in, saw Dr. Heller there . . . and that’s all we know. Somehow Faith fell through the window. Hannah was so traumatized that she fainted. When she woke up, she remembered very little.” Clearly disturbed by the tale, Mother Superior walked back to her desk. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

“It might be enough,” he said, meaning it. Simon Heller. Montoya now knew where to look. He just hoped he wasn’t too late to stop another murder.

CHAPTER 26

H
idden in the surrounding forest, he watched her house. As it was still light, late afternoon, he kept back a long distance and was careful with his field glasses, making certain the lenses wouldn’t reflect the sun’s rays, alerting her. He’d also made certain he was downwind, so her stupid dog wouldn’t smell him.

What a pain.

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 murders.”

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 can
not
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.”