The Night Before (14 page)

“I don’t have that many patients yet.”

“Maybe I should refer the rest of my family. We could keep you and about five other psychologists busy for the rest of your life!”

Smiling as if in disbelief, not wanting her to know that he’d read every page he could find on her already, he took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief.

“If Dr. Wade calls you, would you tell her ‘hello?’ ” She tossed the wadded tissue into a trash basket at the end of the couch.

“If she calls,” he promised, feeling a twinge of guilt at the deception as he slid the reading glasses onto his nose. It seemed as if all he did these days was stretch the truth, or bend it, or even break it. But he couldn’t be honest with her, not until he found out what he needed to know.

She wrote a check hastily and handed it to him.

“I’ll refund this when the insurance payment comes through,” he promised, feeling even more guilt.

“Fine.” She offered him a shy smile that touched him in a way he hadn’t expected. “Thanks, Dr. Hunt.”

“Adam,” he insisted. “I like to keep things casual.”

“Adam, then.” She nodded curtly and he stood in the doorway to Rebecca’s office, watching her hurry down the stairs, not once glancing over her shoulder. God, she was an intriguing woman. Beautiful, bright and troubled. So troubled.

He looked at her check, the flourish of her signature, knowing that she was building trust in him. He winced against another sharp jab of guilt.

Maybe his grandmother was right. Maybe there was never a good reason to lie. He could tear the check up right now, or he could use it to get a little more information about Caitlyn Montgomery and hence, perhaps, Rebecca Wade. He didn’t hesitate a second, just folded the check with a sharp crease and slipped it into his wallet.

 

 

Seated at the table in her private space, Atropos closed her eyes. She needed peace. She needed rest. She needed to calm the rage that burned and clawed. She thought of ice and snow, of a serene time when her hectic work would be done. Slowly, starting with her toes, she relaxed each muscle in her body, up her legs and torso, letting her arms and shoulders go limp, easing the tension from the muscles of her face, clearing her mind.

She had to be clearheaded. Calm. Deadly. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Not now . . . not after so many years of planning. When her mind was free again, she stood and stared at the skeletal family tree she’d erected. There, on the appropriate, unforgiving limb, was Cameron.

The son.

And the father.

Now the not-so-holy ghost.

He’d died at the wheel of his Porsche when it missed a corner and slid into the swamp, where he drowned. He’d been on his way to visit Copper Biscayne, his lover, and as fate would have it, Cameron in the freak accident had not only lost his life, but one of his balls as well. It appeared to have been sliced off when he’d been thrown through the windshield; shards of glass had still been imbedded in his scrotum. That piece of information had never made it to the press; there was no mention of the lost testicle in any of the articles that Atropos had so meticulously clipped from every paper that reported Cameron’s death. Cameron’s picture had been sliced, then pasted onto the family tree. The colors had faded somewhat, but the snapshot had been taken of Cameron with his three bastard children . . . Sugar, Dickie Ray and Cricket. Atropos wasn’t certain they were all his, but it was possible, if not likely.

Yes, Cameron had deserved his end.

Another limb belonged to Charles. The eldest son. The golden boy who could do no wrong. Gifted athlete, college graduate, and honed into the image of his proud father. Charles had been set on a course from a young age to run the family businesses. Unfortunately, he’d been shot by an errant bow hunter one Thanksgiving holiday. Atropos smiled as she stared at his reconstructed picture. He’d been standing over the top of a trophy kill, a very dead bear, the first beast Charles had killed with his bow. The picture had been sliced up, of course, then carefully pasted back together so that it seemed as if the bear had killed Charles.

How fitting. It just seemed more like the natural order of things.

There were other limbs that were filled in as well, but Atropos didn’t have time to bask in each murder. Not when there was so much work to be done. She wondered if anyone, the police or Montgomery family members, realized that the killings were not random, that the causes of death were planned to perfection, that there was a bit of irony in each. How easy it would have been to buy a stolen gun and shoot her victims while they were alone. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t just the erasure of a life, but the artistry of the killing that was important, so that every victim realized they were about to die, at her hand. In those last, gasping, terrifying moments of life, the doomed needed to know that their fate had been sealed. They’d had no chance of escape.

That was the thrill.

That was the artistry.

That was the magic.

That was the brilliance.

She felt better as she stared at the death tree. Her blood sang through her veins. She felt her heart beating, tingled with anticipation of the next kill.

She glanced again at the snipped torso of Joshua Bandeaux. A truer bastard had never walked the earth. He deserved much worse than he had gotten. And the stupid police hadn’t even figured out for certain that he’d been killed. Which was frustrating. A little press would help sate her need for recognition . . . the need that had always propelled her. The few clippings already gathered were meager, not worthy of her acts.

She glanced at the tree once more. Soon its gnarled and deadly branches would be filled. The clock was ticking. There was much to do. On quiet, padded footsteps, she walked to the desk and retrieved the snapshots from her drawer. Gently, as if they were a frail deck of Tarot cards, she shuffled them and fanned them out facedown on the desk.
Eeny, meeny, miney moe . . . Pick a victim soon to go . . . if he hollers . . . make him pay . . . with his life that very day . . .

Carefully one photograph was selected and turned over.

A picture of Amanda.

Second born. Smart, beautiful, successful.

Amanda Montgomery Drummond. With her own little demons . . . or demonettes. Yes, it was the eldest daughter’s turn.

In the snapshot Amanda, in a tennis skirt and top, was leaning against the polished fender of her pride and joy, a little red sports car, a cherry-red 1976 Triumph—make that TR-6—a gift from her father long before his untimely accident. Her eyes were shaded behind sunglasses, her smile wide, her mahogany-colored hair snapped back into a ponytail. Tall, athletic, gifted . . . with double majors in college, she had graduated summa cum laude and had given herself the choice of medical or law school.

Not a compassionate woman by nature, one who had an eye on making money, she’d chosen the law. Which was probably just as well. She would have made a horrid doctor.

“It’s your time,” Atropos whispered to the smiling Amanda in the picture. “Won’t the family be surprised? Or maybe, just maybe they’ll be relieved. You really are a bitch, you know.” She found the thread of life for Amanda Montgomery, already clipped and ready.

What Atropos had planned for Amanda was guaranteed to get the family’s attention. She started to pick up the pictures, but in her haste knocked two of them onto the floor. They fluttered and turned upright as they hit the tiles.

Two pictures. The first was of Caitlyn as a child. She was laughing, her head thrown back as she swung on the old rope that had hung from the sturdy limb of a live oak with branches that spread over the river. The second was of Berneda, the mother, her hands clasped over her heart in front of a birthday cake with seventy-five candles burning bright. Lucille stood just behind her, one step out of the spotlight, where she’d always been. Always tending, never tended.

Well, it was about time Lucille was released.

The mother would have to meet her own personal destiny. She found Berneda’s life braid . . . it was cut just perfectly.

As for Caitlyn?

Atropos found the red and black thread of her life and sighed.

For the moment, Caitlyn would be spared. But only for the moment.

And not for long. Atropos glanced at the picture again and at the frayed rope that the unsuspecting Caitlyn clung to as if for dear life. How fitting. Atropos fingered Caitlyn’s thread of life . . . it was only slightly longer than that of her mother.

The child in the snapshot seemed to smile at her.

Foolish, foolish little girl.

“Where were you on the night of your husband’s death?”

The question wasn’t unexpected and yet Caitlyn, absently ruffling Oscar’s fur, had been dreading it. Seated at her own kitchen table, with Officers Reed and Morrisette across from her, she said, “I thought I told you I was out,” she clarified, second-guessing herself. When Reed had called and asked to come by, she’d agreed. Now she wondered if she should have insisted she have an attorney present. “My sister and I were supposed to meet at a bar called The Swamp, down on the riverfront, but she got tied up and I was alone.”

“So you never went to your husband’s house that night?”

“It was my house once,” she said automatically and sensed both officers’ suspicion. And why not? Wasn’t it usually someone in the family who turned out to be the killer? “Look,” she said, standing. “I think I’d better call a lawyer.”

The woman with the spiky hair lifted a shoulder. “If you think you need one. We’re just asking a few questions.”

Caitlyn’s skin prickled with dread. “The truth of the matter, which I think I told you before, is that I’m kind of fuzzy about that night.”

“Why is that?”

She thought about explaining about the blackouts, about the loss of time she sometimes experienced, about the lapses in her memory, but it sounded like a lie. These cynical and jaded officers wouldn’t believe her. “Sometimes I drink too much,” she said.

“So you were so drunk that night that you can’t remember what you did?”

“I think I should call my attorney.” She pushed Oscar off her lap and stood. It was time to end this.

Reed scooted back his chair. “If you think you need one.”

“You tell me, Detective. You’re the ones asking the questions.”

“We’re just trying to find out what happened.” Reed offered what was supposed to pass as a smile, but there was no amusement in his eyes. None whatsoever.

“Fine. You can do it when I have a lawyer present,” she said and walked to the door. Oscar, toenails clicking, followed after.

“Mrs. Bandeaux, did you see your husband on the night of his death?” Detective Morrisette asked.

Did she? Could she tell them she wasn’t sure?

“A neighbor saw your car, or one like yours, in the driveway around midnight.”

Every muscle in her body tensed. Her heart began to pound with a new, unnamed fear.
So you did go there . . .

“And there was more than just Bandeaux’s blood at the scene.”

“Someone else’s?” she asked, her knees nearly giving way as she felt the scars on her wrist grow tight.

“O-positive. We’ll be doing DNA analysis of it, so we’d like a blood sample from you.”

“You think I killed Josh.”

“We’re just trying to narrow the field.” But Reed’s eyes were cold, and even Detective Morrisette was grimmer than usual. No good cop–bad cop routine. Just the facts, ma’am.

“I’ll have my attorney contact you,” she said as they stepped over the threshold and she shut the door behind them. She was shaking inside, a headache pounding behind one eye, the same kind of pain slicing through her brain that preceded the blackouts that ate away huge chunks of her time.

The first time she realized that she had holes in her memory had been when she was a child, recovering from a sinus infection that had landed her in the hospital. She’d been six or seven at the time and had found herself on the school playground long after dark. Her mother had been frantic and she’d not been able to explain herself, couldn’t remember her whereabouts. No one had known how she’d missed the bus and lost track of time, not even Griffin, who had been the last person she’d seen, the one who had suggested they walk the three miles home.

Funny she should think of that now as she climbed the stairs and passed through her bedroom to the bathroom and noticed the slight discoloration on the carpet. What the hell had happened the night that Josh had died? Why had there been blood all over this room . . . and why had her type of blood been in Josh’s home?

Not that it proved she was there, she thought. Millions of people had O-positive blood. Including most of her family. And yet a new fear, deep-seated and dark, gripped her. Could she have . . . was she capable of . . . in one of her blackouts, could she have killed her husband?

Don’t even think that way!
She held on to the sides of the sink for support and waited until she’d forced the panic back.
Don’t let this get to you. Do something! Be proactive, for God’s sake!
She found a bottle of Excedrin Migraine in the mirrored cabinet and popped two tablets, then walked into her office, sat at the desk and picked up the phone. She needed a lawyer, a defense attorney, and fast.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered as she sat at her desk chair and quickly scanned her e-mail. Nothing from Kelly or anyone else. Wondering how to get hold of her twin, Caitlyn dialed Amanda’s office, but it was after hours and a recorded message asked her to leave her name and number. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. She slammed the receiver down. Where the hell were her sisters when she needed them? Kelly was never around, and Amanda was oftentimes buried in her work. Well, she’d just have to unbury herself. Caitlyn couldn’t afford to wait. No telling what the police had up their sleeves.

Amanda had worked for the D.A.’s office for a couple of years before deciding the low pay, long hours and “working with every low-life slime who decided to crawl out from his personal, perverted rock” wasn’t for her. Years ago Amanda had seen the corporate light and transferred into domestic law, switching gears easily. Now she worked with low-life slimes when they wanted a divorce. But she would know the name of a good criminal defense attorney.

Caitlyn punched out Amanda’s home number and leaned back in her desk chair, waiting for yet another machine to pick up. “Come on, be home,” she said under her breath and heard a noise behind her. She froze. Fear crawled up her spine as she hazarded a glance over her shoulder only to see Oscar ambling into the office. Relief washed over her but she noticed her own reflection. The door was slightly ajar, the mirror hanging upon it catching her image as she sat in her desk chair. And she looked horrible. Frazzled. Undone. Her hair was mussed from countless times pushing it off her forehead, her complexion pale, dark smudges visible beneath her eyes. She shifted her gaze to Oscar. “Hurry up,” she whispered, patting her lap impatiently as a machine answered and Amanda’s recorded voice asked the callers to leave their names and numbers. The recorder beeped.

Oscar catapulted into her lap.

“Amanda? It’s Caitlyn,” she said, hating to leave this particular message. She scratched the dog behind his ears. “Look, I need your help. Unlike Mom, I
do
know that you’re not a criminal defense attorney, but I was hoping you could give the name and number of someone you would recommend—”

“Caitlyn?” Amanda asked, her voice worried. “Are you still there? I just walked in and heard you leaving a message. What’s going on?”

“The police were just here,” Caitlyn said, relieved to actually be speaking to her sister.

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. Big time uh-oh. They want a DNA sample from me,” she said, hoping to hide the panic that was creeping up her spine. Her fingers clamped over the phone. “They seem to think I was at Josh’s that night. They’re not saying much, but I think they don’t believe that he committed suicide and that someone killed him, and even though they didn’t come out and tell me, I’m sure I’m the primary suspect and . . . and . . . I need a lawyer and oh, God, I can’t remember and—”

“Caitlyn! Get a grip!” Amanda snapped, then added more softly, “I’m sorry, but you’re scaring me to death and I can’t really follow what’s going on. Take a couple of deep breaths and start over, okay? Now, from the beginning, tell me what’s happening. Start with when the police arrived. Tell me everything.”

As best as she could, Caitlyn recounted the entire conversation. The horrid sense of panic that had been with her since the morning she’d woken up to a blood-smeared bedroom burrowed deeper as she recounted Detective Reed’s pointed questions and her own feeble answers. She began to shake inside. She was going to be accused of Josh’s murder, she was certain of it, and she couldn’t remember what she’d done that night.

“He didn’t charge me with anything, didn’t out and out accuse me, but . . . I’m sure he believes I did it.”

“What about the suicide angle? I thought he left a note . . . isn’t that right?”

“I don’t think the police believe it . . . maybe they think the killer left it . . . Oh, God, I don’t know.”

“Maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems,” Amanda said thoughtfully.

“Well, that’s a relief because it seems pretty damned bad to me.”

“I know, and I’d be lying if I said you weren’t a suspect. Geez, you could be the number-one suspect, but you’re not the only one. I don’t believe they’re narrowing the field as Reed told you. I think they’re concentrating on you.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t bad.”

“We just have to remind them that there are other suspects. Now, get your story straight and your alibi down pat.”

“Alibi?” She couldn’t believe the words. “You want me to lie?”

“No, of course not. Let’s not add perjury to the potential charges. I know several good criminal defense attorneys, people I didn’t want to come up against when I was working with the D.A.’s office. They’re expensive, but worth it.”

“Criminal defense attorneys,” Caitlyn repeated, disbelieving that she would ever need their services. She glanced again to the door and saw herself as she was—tired, beaten, scared out of her wits, not even certain if she’d killed her husband or not. “Okay, give me their names.”

“John Ingersol. He’s fabulous.” Caitlyn scratched a note on the back of an envelope. “And Marvin Wilder. Or, if you feel more comfortable with a woman, then Sondra Prentiss in Atlanta is great. It all depends on their schedules. Tell you what, sit tight, have a stiff shot of something if that helps, and I’ll make some calls in the morning. In the meantime, don’t talk to the police, okay?”

“What if they come back?”

“Refuse to talk to them. Insist on having a lawyer with you.”

“Okay.” She felt slightly better.

“Do you want me to come over tonight?” Amanda asked. “Ian’s out of town, and I was just going to go over a deposition, but I can do it later.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you should go out to Oak Hill. Troy thinks you should stay out there until this all blows over and really, it’s not such a bad idea. Besides, if not for you, then for Mom. She could use the company.”

“She’s got Hannah.”

Amanda snorted. “A lot of comfort that is. Mom doesn’t have Hannah,” she said with disgust. “No one does.”

“Maybe no one has anyone.”

“Pessimistic, Caitlyn. Very pessimistic. Oh—I’ve got another call, someone’s trying to beep in and I’m waiting to hear from Ian. I’ll phone you in the morning after I connect with one of the defense attorneys. Until then, avoid the police.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t just try. Do it! You don’t have to speak to them. If you want to talk, call me or that shrink of yours, but not to anyone with a badge. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now try to calm down.”

Oh, yeah. Right. Caitlyn figured there wouldn’t be any calming down, for a long, long time.

 

 

“She’s lying.” Reed squinted through the windshield, certain that Caitlyn Bandeaux was hiding something, something about her husband’s death.

“Yep.” Morrisette was at the wheel, her foot as leaden as always as she shot down the narrow, shaded streets on their way back to the station.

“You ever locate her shrink?”

“Still working on it, but get this, her office is being sublet by another psychologist. A guy by the name of Adam Hunt.”

“So the first shrink, Rebecca Wade, isn’t coming back?”

“Who knows? Not for a while. I talked to the manager of the building, a guy who had to be a descendent from one of the last Neanderthals or Attila the Hun, and he didn’t want to give me any information, of course, but I strong-armed him a bit, suggested I’d check his record, find out if he was checkin’ in with his parole officer if he had one, the whole nine yards, but he stuck to his story, claimed she didn’t leave a forwarding address, so I checked with the utility companies. Ms. Wade stiffed the phone company for the past two months and up until that time was a perfect customer, paid all her bills on time. So I checked with the real estate management company who handles the house she leased. Same deal. She owes two months’ back rent. Before that she never missed a payment. In fact, she usually paid early.” Morrisette tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “The woman I talked to at the real estate company said that Rebecca Wade had intended to move out as of June first, but left early. Half her stuff was packed, half not.”

“So what the hell happened to her?”

“That’s what we have to find out. I checked out the house, and a neighbor, Mrs. Binks, stopped by. Said she was worried.”

“Has anyone filed a missing persons report?”

“No one even knows if she’s missing.”

“What about relatives?”

“The neighbor said she was single, but divorced, she thought, and that she might have an aunt in Kansas or Wisconsin or somewhere in the Midwest.” Morrisette shot through a yellow light. “I’m looking into it. Apparently the lady shrink is a very private person. I have a theory about ’em, you know.”

“About who?”

“Shrinks. I think they’re all in the business because they need mental help themselves.”

Reed grinned. “You think?”

“Absolutely.” She reached for her pack of cigarettes. “And the management company checked their records, said Ms. Wade had left town once before, just took off for a few months, but that time she paid her rent in advance.”