Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (95 page)

She immediately retched, just as her abductor yanked the gag from her face.

In the glow of a single small lantern she witnessed what she’d done. A man who was vaguely familiar was seated in a chair, a thin pillow strapped around his torso. His hands were bound behind him, his ankles strapped to the metal legs of the chair. He was slumped forward, and beneath him, in an ever-widening pool, was the blood draining from his body. Feathers were still drifting toward the floor, like wispy snowflakes, slowly settling into the oozing reddish stain.

Mary lost the full contents of her stomach and she threw up on the floor and the front of the white dress he’d forced her to wear. She was crying, trembling as she watched the man die. His eyes glazed in the soft golden light, and Mary, tears tracking from her eyes, sobs erupting from her throat, was certain she saw his spirit leave his body.

Dear God, she’d murdered an innocent person, tied to the chair. She moved her gaze to focus on the small gun still clutched in her hand . . . her gun. . . . the little pistol her father had given her for protection.

And with it she’d killed a man.

No, Mary. Not you. The monster who kidnapped you. Take the gun. It’s still in your hand. Turn it on him. God would never punish you for taking his filthy, sin-filled life.

Just as the thought reached her, his grip on her hand tightened. “You killed him, Mary,” he said almost endearingly, as if he wanted to caress her.

She shivered, started to protest, but felt the pressure in his grip increase. He yanked her backward so that her body was pressed to the hard wall of his chest, the back of her legs wedged against his thighs and shins, her rump nestled against his crotch, his erection bulging against her cleft again. Her heart hammered wildly. Sheer terror paralyzed her.

“Killing’s a sin.” His breath was hot and silky, the air filled with his depravity. “But you know that, don’t you?”

She didn’t respond, just felt the rain of her own tears against her cheeks. It didn’t matter what she said. She was doomed. She knew it. There was no escape.

“You just sinned, Mary,” he whispered seductively and she swallowed hard. Searched desperately in her soul for her inner strength. Knew what was coming.

Father, forgive me . . .

“And we all know the wages of sin is death . . .”

Slowly he rotated her hand in his, then pushed the muzzle of her own pistol to her temple.

CHAPTER 3

“T
hree o’clock would work out,” Abby said, cradling her cell phone between her shoulder and ear. Two days after she’d listened to Luke on the radio and made a pitch for the Nolan-Smythe nuptials, Abby was carrying a sack of groceries in one arm and her portfolio in the other. She’d spent most of the day before and the early hours of this morning at her studio in town, going through her bills and consulting with some college seniors for their graduation pictures, before stopping at the store, then racing back home.

She dropped the sack onto the kitchen counter where Ansel was seated by the window, his tail switching as he watched birds flutter near the feeder hanging from the eave. “Shoo,” she whispered as the woman on the other end of the line made arrangements to view her house.

Her FOR SALE BY OWNER sign had been up less than seventy-two hours and she’d already received several calls from potential buyers, this being the first who actually wanted to “view the property,” after hearing the price and details.

As Ansel stretched on the counter and patently ignored her command to hop onto the floor, Abby walked into the living room, where she placed her portfolio onto a gate-legged table.

“What was your name again? And your number?” she asked as she hurried back to the kitchen, retrieved a pen from her purse, and began scribbling the pertinent information onto a note pad she kept near the phone. “Okay, see you at three.”

Abby hung up and glanced at her watch. The potential buyer would be here in less than four hours.

Not that the place was in too bad a shape. Unless you spied the film of gray cat hair that clumped everywhere and collected in the corners. Despite her best efforts with the vacuum, she could barely keep ahead of the fur as Ansel was in full shed mode. “Maybe what I need is an electric razor for you rather than a vacuum cleaner for the house, hmmm?” She plucked the heavy cat from his perch near the windowsill and held him close to her for a second. Petting his soft fur, she whispered into his ear, “I love you anyway. Even though you and I both know that you can be a real pain in the backside when you want to be.” He rubbed the top of his head against the underside of her chin and purred so loudly that she felt vibrations from his body to hers.

It felt right to just spend a second saying stupid things to the cat.

The last two days had been so hectic, she hadn’t had a chance to catch her breath. She’d gone from sitting to sitting and fortunately hadn’t had time to stew about Luke or his public annihilation of her character.

Abby had decided not to let Luke’s diatribe over the airwaves get to her.

“It’s just not worth it.” She kissed the cat between his ears then set him on the floor and checked his water dish. Still half-full. He trotted to the back door, circled, and cried until she opened it. Darting outside, Ansel made straight for the tree near the bird feeder where chickadees and nuthatches fluttered. The warmth of October, caught on a gentle breeze fragrant with the earthy smell of the swamp, swept inside.

Abby stepped onto the porch. Sunlight was struggling to peek through a wash of gray clouds. For a second she thought she saw the pale arc of a rainbow, but as quickly as the image appeared, it faded.

“Wishful thinking,” she told herself and closed the door behind her as she walked inside. Glancing around, she realized she’d have to spruce things up before the showing.

In her bedroom Abby peeled off her slacks and blouse, then yanked on her “cleaning clothes,” a favorite pair of tattered jeans and a T-shirt that showed off not only old coffee stains, but bleach spatters as well. After snapping her unruly hair into a ponytail, she went to work, polishing tables, cleaning windows, scrubbing counters, and washing the old plank floors.

Turning on the television for background noise, she listened to warnings about a tropical storm forming in the Atlantic, one poised to enter the gulf within days. After much meteorological speculation, there was a break for a commercial, and when the news resumed, Abby, swabbing a windowsill, heard a phrase that always caused her heart to freeze.

“
Our Lady of Virtues
. . .”

Abby’s head snapped up. She turned her attention to the little set balanced on a bookcase shelf. On the screen, a willowy reporter with perfect makeup and short dark hair stood in front of the grounds of the old hospital where Faith Chastain’s life had ended.

“. . . the hospital has been a landmark in the area for nearly a hundred years,” the twenty-something reporter was saying as wind feathered her hair. “This building behind me has gone through several different incarnations in its long, and sometimes scandal-riddled, history.”

Oh, God, they weren’t going to bring up her mother’s death again, were they?

Abby felt every muscle in her body tense, as if waiting for a blow.

“Originally built as an orphanage, the main building was converted to a full-fledged hospital after World War Two, and has been, from its inception, run by an order of Catholic nuns.” The camera panned away from the reporter to capture the full view of the once-stately building.

Abby’s heart clutched as she looked at the hospital where a wide concrete drive, now buckled and weed-choked, had cut through once-tended lawns to curve around the fountain. Long ago Abby had sat on the edge of the pool and watched koi darting beneath thick lily pads as sunlight had spangled the water and the spray from the fountain had kissed her skin. She’d been able, from that vantage point, to look up to her mother’s room situated on the third floor behind the tall, arched window.

Abby swallowed hard. How many hours had she spent by the fountain? Now the pond was dry and cracked, the sculptured angels streaked with a green, slimy moss that seemed to track from their eyes like tears.

“Most recently Our Lady of Virtues was used as a hospital for the mentally ill, and though it was privately owned, it, too, suffered when federal funds dried up. Amid allegations of abuse and the apparent suicide of one patient, the facility closed nearly eighteen years ago . . .”

Abby’s throat tightened. She dropped the sponge and watched the news bite that seemed surreal.

Above the television, mounted on the shelves near the fireplace, was an eight-by-ten picture of her mother, smiling, dark hair pulled away from a beautiful face, no trace of the tortured soul who had hidden behind those wide, amber-colored eyes.

Swallowing hard, Abby walked to the bookcase and took the picture from its resting place. A deep sadness swept through her and she felt a stab of longing to once again see her mother’s frail smile, feel her cool hands holding Abby’s, smell the gentle, clean scent of her perfume.

“. . . scheduled for demolition, sometime next year if all goes as planned.”

Abby’s head swiveled back to the television screen. They were tearing the old hospital down?

A schematic drawing of a two-story building, very similar in appearance to the old one, but newer, brighter, with more modern touches, flashed onto the screen. Gone were the beveled glass windows, gargoyles on the downspouts, and wide, covered flagstone verandas. The brick would become stucco, the windows wider, the fountain of angels replaced by a metal-and-stone “water feature.”

The screen returned to the newsroom, where the anchor, Mel Isely, sat behind a wide curving desk. In the corner of the screen was an insert of the reporter on the hospital grounds. She was still speaking.

“The plan is that this facility will become a graduated elder care home, starting with assisted-living apartments and including a full-care facility.”

“Thanks, Daria,” the anchor said as the inset of the reporter disappeared and all cameras were focused again on the news desk and Isely, a man Abby had met a few times while she’d still been married to Luke. A smarmy suck-up, she’d thought at the time. He was good-looking, but a little too
GQ
-esque to suit Abby’s taste in men. “Coming up . . . sports,” Isely was saying, while smiling broadly into the camera. She thought he might even wink. She recalled one Christmas charity event when, after a few too many drinks, he’d actually made a pass at her. Now, he picked up the papers on his desk and said, “After the break, we’ll be back with news about the Saints!”

“Save me.” Abby switched off the set and Mel’s face with its startling blue eyes ringed in thick lashes disappeared.

She let out her breath and considered the news report.

So what if the facility where her mother had died was scheduled to be razed? So what if a new building would replace the old? That was progress, right?

Leaving her mother’s picture on the shelf, she walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. No bottled water. “Oh, hell.” She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, then turned on the tap and listened as the old pipes groaned in protest. Resting a hip against the counter, she filled the glass and thought of all the reasons she’d agreed to return to Louisiana in the first place.

She hadn’t been keen on moving back here.

In fact, she’d thought Seattle—with its vibrant waterfront, cooler climate, rugged snow-capped mountains within driving distance, rough-and-tumble history, and most importantly, the over two thousand miles of distance from there to Louisiana—had been a perfect place to settle down.

Well . . . aside from Zoey and that nasty little indiscretion with Luke. She took a long swallow from her glass.

Be fair, Abby,
her conscience argued,
Luke’s involvement with Zoey hadn’t been a little indiscretion, it had been a full-blown, heart-wrenching, mortifying affair!

“Bastard,” she growled, then drained the glass and shoved it into the dishwasher.

She should have divorced Luke when she’d learned he’d cheated during their engagement, but oh, no, she’d been stupid enough to give the marriage another chance. He’d sworn to change his ways if she’d just move with him to New Orleans.

She’d been dubious of the marriage being able to resurrect again, of course, but the temptation for a new start had been hard to resist, and at that point, she’d been foolish enough to think that she still loved her husband.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, returning to the living room and the dust rag sitting on the windowsill. There had been other reasons for moving to New Orleans, or the area surrounding it. Hadn’t she always promised herself that she’d return to the place where her life had changed forever when Faith Chastain had fallen to her death? Hadn’t Abby decided that the only way to put the ghosts of the past to rest was to visit the hospital, take pictures of it, reexamine that night that was so fragmented in her mind?

“Oh, Mama,” she said, once again picking up the framed head shot and staring into eyes so like her own. She glanced at the fireplace where, only a few nights earlier, she’d burned the photos of her marriage. Black curled ashes still clung to the grate.

Her cell phone rang. She could hear it singing inside her purse, which sat in the dining room next to her portfolio. She hurried to the purse, snatched up the slim phone, and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Hi, Abby, this is Maury,” the caller said. Abby’s heart sank. “Maury Taylor. You remember. I work with Luke.”

“Of course I remember you.” Her voice grew cool. Maury the Moron.

“Look, I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Luke, have you?”

“No,” she said slowly, sensing a trap. Maybe this was one of her ex-husband’s pranks. He was known for setting people up while he was on the air, then letting the whole listening world laugh at the victim’s expense. Even if the show wasn’t airing at the moment, he would tape his victim’s responses and replay them over and over again when the show was broadcasting. Her stomach tightened.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why would I hear from him?”

“I don’t know.” There was an edge to Maury’s voice. Worry? Panic? “He, uh, he didn’t show up at the station yesterday. Missed the program completely. We had to air an old program we had on tape from last summer.”

She wasn’t buying it and really didn’t care. She was finished with Luke Gierman. “So why do you think I’d know where he was?”

“I don’t know. I thought you might have heard the show we aired earlier this week, the one on ex-spouses.”

She didn’t respond, but felt heat climb steadily up her neck.
Bastard,
she thought, imagining Luke at the microphone, spewing his lies. Her fingers clenched over the phone.

“He, uh, well, you probably already heard, he really ripped you up one side and down the other.”

“And that would make me want to talk to him?” she mocked, somehow managing to hold her temper in check. She still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a setup. “What a charmer. I have no idea where he is. Good-bye.”

“No, look! Abby,” he said anxiously, as if afraid she would hang up on him. “I’m sorry. The program was . . . over the top, I know, but that’s what his audience likes, what they connect to.”

“So?”

“So . . . after that program, Luke disappeared. He didn’t show up at his health club and you know he always works out after the show.”

She remembered. Didn’t comment about Luke’s obsession with staying in shape. It wasn’t just about looking or feeling good, it was some kind of rabid mania.