“So, since you’re the new Mr. Trump—”
“Here it comes.” Bentz leaned back in his chair until it creaked.
Montoya flashed a grin. “You know Trump goes by ‘The Donald,’ right? So, I’m thinkin’ from now on we’ll all call you ‘The Rick’…No!” He snapped his fingers. “I like ‘The Dick’ even better.”
Bentz barked out a laugh. “And I don’t suppose you’re talking about my job with the department?”
“Hell, no!” Montoya felt better than he had since this whole double homicide mess had started. Dealing with Brinkman had been a pain; Bentz was easier. Smarter. Calmer. A good balance for Montoya’s more explosive personality. “So, The Dick,” he said, “if you’re in a generous mood, I could use a new set of wheels. A Ferrari would be nice, but I’d settle for a Porsche, as long as it was tricked out.”
“Aren’t they all?” Bentz asked as phones outside his office jangled and footsteps pounded past his doorway. “I’ll remember that. Christmas is coming.” He reached into his drawer for a bottle of antacids, popped a few, and motioned toward his computer screen, where images of the Gierman-LaBelle murder scene were visible. “So how about bringing me up to speed on the double? I’ve seen the preliminary reports. What else have you got?”
Montoya handed over the file and gave Bentz his version of what he thought had gone down. “We’ve got no suspects on one hand,” he said, “because no one was holding a grudge, at least not that we can find, against Courtney Mary LaBelle. She was a virgin, for God’s sake, planned on joining the order at Our Lady of Virtues.”
Bentz was way ahead of him. “But on the other hand, you’ve got Luke Gierman, who has every feminist, or PTA member, or socially conscious group wanting him dead because he does a lot of shows on weird sex, odd behavior, pushes the envelope to entertain and offend.”
“You got it.”
“What about the murder weapon?”
“Given to Courtney by her father for protection and definitely a taboo on campus. I double-checked today. Even her roommate, who goes by the name of O and has an affinity for Goth culture and blood, didn’t know about the piece.”
“Someone did,” Bentz said.
“Yep.” Montoya scratched his goatee. “You know, it’s funny. The girl wears a promise ring and vows her virginity to God as some kind of sacred rite and her dad gives her a handgun for protection.” He frowned. “I never think of God and weaponry as things that go together.”
“You’re wrong. Look at the Crusades, or what’s happening in the Middle East. Religion and money are the source of all wars.”
“So now you’re a philosopher.”
“A philosopher who just happened to win a fortune at the roulette wheel,” Bentz said, flashing his smile as he reached onto the desk for his reading glasses. He thumbed through the file, his eyes scanning the pages. “What else have you got?”
Montoya filled him in on the alibis of just about everyone close to either of the victims, and the lack of evidence found at the crime scene. The forensics department was still separating out tire tracks near the cabin at the woods while also trying to find product matches for the shoe tread of the size twelve prints they’d discovered. Once they found the company who made the shoe, they could find the local distributors and start searching through the names of purchasers of size twelves in the last few years. A tedious process but a necessary one.
He told Bentz about the wedding dress and the single, short dark hair found on the fabric.
“It’s at the DNA lab now. Hopefully it’ll come back and match up with someone who knows the victims.”
Bentz frowned. They both were aware that finding that individual would take a lot of time. DNA samples from all the potential suspects would have to be taken, and if the suspects balked and wouldn’t give up a swab voluntarily, court orders would have to be issued.
That was a whole new ball of wax.
As Bentz listened, Montoya explained about the wedding dress, the fact that it might have been custom made, and that the bloodstained gown had already been photographed, the fabric analyzed. Copies of the photos were already being circulated to the local dressmakers and bridal gown shops throughout the state.
Montoya and Bentz talked over the list of suspects—who was close to the victims and who might want them dead. They narrowed the field by who, within the time constraints of their schedules, could accost both Gierman and LaBelle and not be seen. Then they talked over where the victims had been abducted and why they’d been chosen.
Neither man believed either of the victims had been a random choice. The murders had been too well planned.
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? Who would want Courtney LaBelle and Luke Gierman dead?” Bentz said, thinking aloud. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and found a pack of Doublemint gum, pulled out a stick, and offered the pack to Montoya.
“No thanks.”
“Still goin’ cold turkey?” he asked as he folded his stick of gum and slid it into his mouth.
“Yeah.”
“And how is that?”
“Fine,” Montoya snapped. No way was he admitting to Bentz that he would have killed for a drag about now.
Bentz lifted an eyebrow in disbelief but didn’t comment. “So let’s go through this again. The last to see Courtney alive were some kids walking into the library as she was going out, right?”
“Can’t find anyone else,” Montoya admitted.
“And the last person to see Gierman was Maury Taylor at WSLJ.”
Montoya nodded, explained Brinkman’s theory and what they found on the bank’s ATM tape as Bentz finished his coffee and Montoya’s grew cold.
“I know some people over at the radio station. I think I’ll poke around over there, see if I can turn up anything Brinkman might have missed.” He crushed the paper cup in his fist and tossed it into the trash. “So it looks like whoever abducted them grabbed Gierman around six-forty, probably, and the girl three hours later.”
“In Baton Rouge. An hour and a half away. What’s he do? Keep Gierman locked in the trunk while he waits for the girl?”
“The cabin’s not far from the west side of Lake Pontchartrain.”
“Twenty miles off of Highway 10.”
“So where does our guy live?” Bentz wondered aloud. “And how did he know about that empty cabin?”
“No connection between the owners and any of the victims. Already checked.” Montoya took a final sip of his coffee, scowled, and poured the rest into the pot holding the near-dead plant.
“And the only link between the two victims that you can find is a class where Gierman spoke and the fact that Gierman’s ex-wife’s mother was a patient where Courtney LaBelle’s mother and father worked and Courtney intended to become a novitiate.”
“It’s thin,” Montoya admitted.
“Nearly invisible.”
“So you think it’s a coincidence?”
Bentz leaned back in his chair until it creaked, chewing his gum thoughtfully. “You know how I feel about coincidences,” he said and glanced over at the graphic pictures visible on his computer monitor.
“That there are none. Same as Brinkman.” Montoya studied the images on the screen. Luke Gierman’s naked body, partially covered by the girl in the bloodstained bridal dress. Obviously posed. A statement. From a sick, twisted mind.
“You agree?”
“Yep.”
Bentz rubbed his neck and frowned. “A guy who does something like this, he’s looking for attention.”
Montoya knew where this was going. “You think he’ll do it again?”
A muscle worked in the older man’s jaw and his face hardened. He looked up at Montoya. “I hope to God not.”
“I
want to come to the funeral,” Zoey insisted from the other side of the continent. “When is it?”
“I don’t know.” Maneuvering through traffic, Abby was holding her cell phone to her ear while driving, and hating it. She was just no good at juggling her attention. Teenagers seemed to buzz in and out of lanes, cell phones to their ears as if the two tasks, talking on the phone and handling a car, were second nature.
It was raining, the sky dark even though it was closing in on noon. At sixty miles per hour, her Honda seemed to skate over the puddles of water that had collected in the low part of the road. Trucks, sending up sprays of water from beneath their massive eighteen wheels, were flying past her as if she were standing still. “Look, I’m in the car now, let me call you back.”
“I’m in the car, too. So what?”
“I can’t concentrate on the conversation and the traffic.”
“Come on. I do it all the time. Piece of cake.”
“Right,” Abby said sarcastically as a silver Toyota from the inside lane cut in front of her and she had to touch the brakes. “Jerk!”
“Me?”
“No. Well, at least not today.”
“Thank God,” Zoey said. “So when are you going to call?”
“When I’m done. Promise.”
“What’s on the agenda? Photo shoot?”
“Yeah,” Abby hedged. It wasn’t really a lie. Not a big one. But she knew Zoey would have a heart attack if she knew that Abby was on her way to Our Lady of Virtues intending to finally put the past to rest. Yesterday she’d spent the hours with clients or showing the house, or trying to catch up on her sleep. She’d dragged around all day, forcing herself to go on a three-mile run that had left her winded and her muscles aching. After a microwave dinner and a long, hot bubble bath which had included sipping a glass of wine, she’d slept like the dead. No eerie, returning nightmares had woken her up, no images of her dead ex-husband peppering her sleep. She’d awakened surprisingly revitalized and refreshed.
So today, she had planned to take charge of her life. First on the agenda: visiting the hospital. Laying the past to rest. It was time. Long past time. But Zoey wouldn’t understand.
“Okay, just let me know when Luke’s service is.”
“Oh, Zoe—”
“Look, you’ll need some support. Luke’s family isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. No Ozzie and Harriet, if you know what I mean. Mom, baseball, and apple pie don’t exist in that bunch of loons!”
Abby couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes Zoey could be funny as all get-out; other times she was a royal pain in the backside. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you know.”
“Abby?”
“What?” she asked, checking her rearview and seeing that a semi had nearly attached itself to her bumper.
“Are you okay?”
“What? Yeah, fine,” she snapped, though of course that was a lie. “Just hunky-dory.”
“I mean it. I know Luke’s death is difficult and—”
“Gotta go, this is my exit,” Abby cut in, steamed. She hung up before Zoey asked another damned question. She was tired of the whole overly concerned older sister bit from her nosy sister. Sheesh. She hadn’t heard from Zoey for months and now she called all the time.
All
the time. It was almost as if her sister had some kind of sick fascination with Luke’s murder, or she needed to be close to the action.
Or she’s just genuinely concerned. How about that, Abby? Get over what happened in Seattle; Zoey is probably just worried.
“Fat chance,” Abby muttered and clicked the damned cell phone off. Anyone else who wanted to call her could bloody well leave a message on voice mail. She glanced in her rearview, noticed the semi was still on her ass, and wanted to slow to a crawl to really piss the guy off. Why didn’t the damned driver just pass her if she was going too slow?
“Idiot,” she muttered, slowing as she eased onto the exit ramp. The eighteen-wheeler gunned it past her, engine roaring, his
HOW
’
S MY DRIVING
? sign on his back bumper mocking her. If she had the time, she’d phone the number listed and give whoever answered an earful. As it was, he was already past; she couldn’t read the 1-800 number anyway.
By memory, she found her way along the twisted road to Our Lady of Virtues. Of course the landscape had changed and where there once had been fields with cattle grazing or forests skirting the road, there were now clusters of houses in little pockets of farmland that developers had found.
Eventually the houses thinned and the terrain was more familiar with the stands of live oak or swamp holly. Her pulse accelerated and her hands were sweaty on the steering wheel. Several times she considered turning around.
When the going gets tough…
“Yeah, yeah, Dad, I know,” she muttered under her breath, ignoring an underlying sense of panic that had grown with each mile she’d driven closer to this, the place where her life had changed irrevocably.
She bit her lip.
You can do it.
One final turn and the narrow lane with its weatherbeaten sign was visible.
OUR LADY OF VIRTUES
.
EST
. 1843.
Abby’s fingers locked, her knuckles showing white as the wheels of her car rolled into the grounds owned by Our Lady of Virtues convent: thirty acres of lush, valuable gardens, buildings and forests that developers had been salivating over for years. As the suburbs had grown, inching ever closer to the secluded property owned by the order of nuns still living there, the land had doubled, then tripled in worth, even though many of the buildings were decayed and destined for the wrecking ball.
Abby took a fork in the private road and drove to the entrance of the hospital grounds. The gate, of course, was locked, a chain reinforcing the original bolts, a stern, faded
NO TRESPASSING
sign warning anyone who chose to ignore it that they would be prosecuted “to the full extent of the law.”
“Nice,” she muttered sarcastically. “Real Christian.” She had expected that the entrance would be barred and had formed a backup plan on the drive over. No way would she be thwarted. No way was she going to go through this emotional turmoil more than once. She unzipped her camera from its case, snapped a strap to it, then climbed out of her car. With more than a trace of sadness that she hadn’t expected, she noted the ever-declining state of the grounds and lawns and buildings beyond. Her heart nearly stopped as she viewed the old hospital, a building that had survived the War Between the States, two World Wars, and all the skirmishes in between. For a hundred and fifty years it had been maintained and kept alive, even flourished, but hadn’t been able to weather the most recent of times.
Everything has a life span.
Everything and everyone dies.
Ignoring her unexpected case of nostalgia, Abby pushed her camera’s lens through the bars and snapped off half a dozen shots in the fading light.
As she stared through the viewfinder, she felt an overwhelming sadness at the crumbling mortar, missing bricks, and lengths of plywood nailed over once grand windows. Graffiti sprayed in neon orange was visible under a layer of black that someone, probably hired by the sisters themselves, had used to try and cover up the profanity.
Dear God, what was wrong with her? She hated this place. So why a sense of sorrow or wistful sentimentality for a place she detested, a building on whose grave she should be dancing?
Maybe she was more screwed up than she’d thought.
“Stop,” she ordered. This was getting her nowhere fast.
Abby tried the gates. Felt raindrops in her hair. The old metal rattled and groaned, but the lock and chain held. Of course. She’d expected as much. She could turn back now. At least from a distance she’d seen the spot where her mother had died. Still, she wasn’t satisfied. And this, she promised herself, was her last trip to Our Lady of Virtues. If she couldn’t lay the ghosts to rest today, they were destined to be with her for the rest of her life.
What a depressing thought.
She had to give this her best shot.
She climbed into her Honda again, but instead of taking the fork to the main road, she veered toward the convent. Once near the gates, she turned onto a small access road, to a lower parking lot which, in the past, had been used primarily by maintenance workers.
As a child she’d found this small parking lot while exploring the grounds of the hospital. She and Zoey had discovered the path leading between the hospital and convent long ago, when they’d been grade-schoolers, searching the grounds, chasing butterflies and broken dreams through the sun-dappled woods.
Today the sky was gloomy and gray, another rain shower appearing inevitable if the heavy clouds scudding across the sky were to be believed.
Snagging her camera again from the passenger seat, Abby stepped into the warmth and solitude of the afternoon. She heard birds chirping and the chattering of a squirrel, but no sound of prayers or music or conversation seeped through the thick walls surrounding the convent itself. Good. She didn’t want any of the nuns to witness what she was about to do.
Feeling more than a little nervous that she was not only breaking the law, but perhaps making a mistake of insurmountable emotional proportions, she ignored her second-guesses, locked her car, then walked to the side of one of the garages where mowers and gardening equipment were kept.
A row of twelve-foot-tall arborvitaes flanked a chain fence that loomed over Abby’s head. The fencing curved inward, toward the hospital, making it nearly impossible for anyone to climb out, at least not easily, though Abby knew it could be done if one was agile enough.
At ten, she had been.
Now, though, the task seemed daunting. Could she climb over the fencing, drop ten feet to the ground below, and then somehow climb out again? As a child she was monkey-like in her ability to scale trees, fences, and balconies. Now, nearly twenty-five years later and forty pounds heavier than her pre-pubescent weight, it would be extremely difficult. But there had been a gate, she remembered, one that allowed the nuns and hospital staff to go between the two facilities. She searched the area and found what had once been some kind of entrance, though now the scratchy, moist, unclipped branches of the shrubbery had nearly grown together. She had a fleeting thought of the thorns and bracken surrounding the castle of Sleeping Beauty, a story her mother had read to her often when she was a child. In the bedtime tale the prince had found a way through the horrible, thorny branches to the castle to rescue his princess. Abby didn’t expect anything so grand or romantic. Even if she did manage to get to the hospital and face the past, as her last shrink had advised, what then? Would she feel this great uplifting of her spirit? Would all the problems in her life suddenly and miraculously disappear?
Not hardly.
Nonetheless, she pushed through the wall of greenery to the gate and found, to her utter amazement, that it not only was unlocked, but swung open easily.
Why?
She hesitated. This was too easy. Something wasn’t right. Why lock and chain the main gates and put up threatening placards, only to leave this one swinging free? That didn’t make any sense…unless the nuns still needed access, or the maintenance guys or groundskeepers still checked on the old building. That had to be it.
Then why let the arborvitaes grow out of control? Why not trim them here and keep the path clear? Inside the gate, on the hospital grounds, there was some evidence that others had trod through the grass and bushes…some bent blades, and for no reason other than to calm herself, she took a picture of the overgrown path she’d followed as a child.
Her heart raced a little faster as she hurried through the trees where grass, vines, and weeds had nearly obliterated the trail and her shoes squished in the mud. As she walked, she remembered running through this thin forest of bayberry and pine and oak. Zoey had often hidden in the branches of a swamp willow and sometimes the sweet scent of magnolia and jasmine in bloom had scented the air.
She saw herself as if it were an old movie, she and her sister running in sepia tones through this bit of forest, finding a hollowed-out oak and a nest of honeybees, spying jack rabbits and skunk. All the while she’d pretended that Faith Chastain was normal, that all the kids in the private Catholic school they attended only saw their own mothers every Sunday after church, or on Wednesday evenings in the long hot summers. She’d tried, as a child sprinting toward the looming hospital, to convince herself that her classmates’ mothers, too, suffered from splitting headaches that changed their personalities. Surely, too, those mothers had spent the long hours of the day in bed with the shades drawn and occupied their nights by pacing the hallways, just as Faith Chastain had. Abby remembered the sporadic times when her mother had lived at home.
Those long nights, lying in her twin bed, Abby had felt the breath of wind stir through the screened windows, seen the sweep of the paddle fan mounted on the ceiling. She’d listened to the sound of traffic, watched as the splash of headlights traversed around the pine-paneled walls of the room as cars passed, heard the lonely sound of a solitary owl while her sister, in the next bed, slept blissfully unaware of their mother’s ritual.
But Abby had known.
She had watched the slim crack of light beneath the doorway, seen the shadows moving slowly back and forth as Faith Chastain had paced the halls; she’d smelled the scent of smoke from her mother’s ever-lit cigarette.
It had been on one of those nights, when Jacques, a lumber broker, had been out of town, when Abby had been awake, listening to the hum of the crickets and cicadas while watching the shadow pass under the doorway, that she felt it…a strangeness in the air.
She’d been around ten at the time and she’d heard the bathtub filling, water rushing through the pipes, and had noticed that the pacing had stopped.
The bathroom door clicked shut. Locked.
She’d wondered why her mother was going to take a bath at three in the morning.
Abby had lain in bed, waiting, though she didn’t know for what, all the while listening as the water ran and ran and ran.