Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle
Chapter 85 : Now, Abby brushed the beam of her flashlight over the hallway. Every door down the leng

Now, Abby brushed the beam of her flashlight over the hallway. Every door down the length of the inky corridor was open, either yawning wide, or slightly ajar. But unlatched. Except for 307. That door was shut snugly.

It means nothing, she told herself, double checking as she slid the flashlight's thin stream of illumination to the other dark paneled doors and finding them gaping. she told herself, double checking as she slid the flashlight's thin stream of illumination to the other dark paneled doors and finding them gaping.

Just open the d.a.m.ned door!

Hands slick with nervous sweat, her skin p.r.i.c.kling in dread, she slid the crowbar under her arm, then grabbed the doork.n.o.b. Closing her eyes, she gave it a twist.

The k.n.o.b turned in her palm.

Easily.

Her pulse jumped. The last time this door had been locked. She pushed.

The door swung silently inward, without so much as a sigh, as if the hinges had been recently oiled.

Fear drummed within her.

Something was wrong with this. Very, very wrong. Still, she took one step inside, the smell of antiseptic reaching her nostrils. She s.h.i.+ned the beam of her flashlight over the floor of the familiar room, then swept the light over the walls and furnis.h.i.+ngs.

Abby froze, disbelieving.

Everything was exactly as she remembered it.

The iron bed, painted white, pushed into one corner.

The nightstand with a vase of fresh cut flowers.

The bifold picture frame with faded snapshots of Abby and Zoey as children.

The patchwork quilt in shades of rose and peach that Abby's grandmother had hand-st.i.tched.

The crucifix mounted on the wall.

Time had stood still in Room 307.

"No," Abby whispered taking several steps further into the room. Was that a hint of her mother's perfume over the odors of cleaning solvents?

It couldn't be.

Her mother wasn't here . . .

As if in fast rewind, her mind spun backward in time to that night when her life had changed forever.

She remembered rus.h.i.+ng into the room, eager to tell her mother about the dance and Trey Hilliard . . .

"Mom?" Abby, breathless from racing up the stairs two at a time, nearly flew into the room. "Mom? Guess what?"

Her mother was near the tall window, twilight thick beyond the sheer panes. But Faith, partially undressed, wasn't alone. A doctor, Simon h.e.l.ler, was grappling with her.

Abby skidded to a stop and stared. "Mom?"

Was h.e.l.ler trying to push her through the gla.s.s, or save her from herself?

"Hey, what's going on?"

h.e.l.ler spun. His face was red and screwed into a furious knot, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth. "Don't you know this is a private room?" he demanded furiously, his eyes narrowing under bushy eyebrows, the nostrils of his hawkish nose flared. "You should knock before you just barge in!"

"But . . ." Abby stared at her mother who was obviously embarra.s.sed, working at straightening her clothes.

Faith couldn't hide her shame. Tears filled her eyes and her cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet. She gazed over h.e.l.ler's shoulder to meet the confusion and disgust in Abby's expression. Mutely, she mouthed "Don't please . . ." then out loud, "Abby Hannah, I'm so sorry."

Before Abby could reply, Faith spun, as if h.e.l.ler had somehow whirled her and forced her to turn away. Her body hit the gla.s.s.

The window cracked with a sickening, splintering sound.

"No!" Abby rushed forward, trying to reach her mother, but h.e.l.ler grabbed her arm, holding her back.

To keep her from saving Faith, or to protect her from falling?

"I forgive you . . ." her mother cried, her eyes wide and round.

The window shattered, clear shards stained red with blood as Faith tumbled through, her terrified scream echoing in Abby's brain.

"No! Mom! No!" Abby cried. She tried to rip herself from h.e.l.ler's grip. She heard something-a swift intake of breath?-over the sickening thunk of her mother's body slamming against the concrete.

Horrified, tears streaming down her face, Abby stared through the broken gla.s.s to the cracked concrete and Faith's broken body. "No!" Abby wailed, disbelieving, yanking herself out of h.e.l.ler's steely grasp. "No! No! Nooooo!"

Blood pooled beneath her mother. Faith Chastain's eyes stared sightlessly upward. The insects of the night continued to buzz and voices were suddenly yelling, screaming, barking orders but Abby's mother was dead.

Sobbing, Abby stumbled backward, away from the horrid sight.

Another slight, nearly inaudible gasp from somewhere behind her.

Turning blindly, she saw that the closet door was ajar. Just a sliver. A dark crack of shadow. And within . . . the glow of malicious eyes.

Someone was watching this? A voyeur getting his jollies by viewing Dr. h.e.l.ler force her mother into vile, perverted acts?

The eyes, sharp and hard, met hers in a moment of intimate, unthinkable understanding . . .

Dear G.o.d, she thought now, her head pounding, the vision of the past so real she could feel the moist heat of that damp Louisiana night.

The flashlight was quivering in her hands, its fading beam jumping around the room.

Her gaze swung slowly to the closet door.

Hanging slightly open, a dark crack between door and frame.

And from within, the reflection of hate-filled eyes.

CHAPTER 28.

Abby held back a scream.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She trained her flashlight into the black gap and the weakening beam landed upon an old frightened man staring up at her. His hands were bound behind him, his ankles taped together, a gag slapped over his mouth.

She'd seen him before, she thought, as she stepped closer and the acrid smells of sweat, urine and fear a.s.sailed her. His eyes were wide and behind his gag he was screaming, yelling at her, the sound m.u.f.fled.

She started to reach for the gag over his mouth, then stopped.

Of course she recognized him.

Twenty years had added wrinkles to his skin and bleached his hair to snowy white. But his features were the same. Hard-edged jaw, thick eyebrows, aquiline nose. With a sickening jolt, she realized she was staring into the petrified, blood-shot eyes of Dr. Simon h.e.l.ler.

Her mother's abuser.

She recoiled at the sight of him. "You sick, murdering son of a b.i.t.c.h," she said.

He was anxious, shaking his head, yelling wildly behind the gag.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"I should leave you here to rot!" She wondered who had put him here? Who had bound and gagged him. Left him alone. New fear climbed up her spine as she grabbed a corner of the tape and yanked hard, the adhesive hissing as it ripped off some of his whiskers and skin. As far as she was concerned, he deserved a whole lot worse. He yowled and over the pitiful sound of h.e.l.ler's cry and the rush of the wind, she thought there was another sound.

Something familiar.

A creak of floorboards?

A footstep?

She slid the crowbar into her hand, but it was too late.

"Watch out!" h.e.l.ler yelled.

She whirled swinging the crowbar wildly just as she felt something hard and cold pressed against her neck.

Crunch!

The iron bar connected. Hard.

"b.i.t.c.h!" a pained male voice cried as he pressed on the trigger of his stun gun. Thousands of volts of electricity ricocheted through Abby's body. Rendering her helpless. Leaving her to flop on the floor, her crow bar skating to the far side of the room and smash against the baseboards.

She jerked wildly, unable to do anything more than look upward into the furious, flushed face of a man she felt she should recognize. "You G.o.dd.a.m.ned little b.i.t.c.h," he growled, giving her another shot and rubbing his s.h.i.+n.

Her mind was misfiring. She couldn't control her limbs. But in the gathering darkness she recognized the angry slitted eyes glaring down at her, the same eyes that she'd seen long ago when he'd been a much younger man kneading his stress ball in the hallway or cafeteria or verandah, the same man/boy she'd discovered hiding in the closet watching h.e.l.ler abuse her mother.

You sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d, she tried to say, but even to her own ears, her voice was garbled, only a series of indistinguishable grunts. she tried to say, but even to her own ears, her voice was garbled, only a series of indistinguishable grunts.

He smiled at her helplessness and his grin was pure, unadulterated evil. An unholy light glimmered in his eyes. She remembered how he'd kneaded that soft gelatinous ball, as if he were going to strangle it oh so slowly.

The spit dried in her mouth.

Christian Pomeroy!

Asa's son.

How could she have forgotten?

Oh G.o.d, not only was he going to kill her, but he was going to do it slowly and painfully, torturing her and somehow satisfying his own dark s.e.xual fantasies.

She wanted to throw up and when he reached forward to stroke her hair, she tried and failed to turn her head and bite him. Instead she was powerless.

He knew it.

"Welcome home, Faith," he whispered.

What? Faith? No! She was not her mother.

"I've been waiting for this, for us, for a long, long time."

What the h.e.l.l was this sick pervert talking about?

"The waiting is just about over."

Her stomach heaved as he leaned closer and she imagined he was going to place his slick lips on hers.

Instead, he gave her another painful jolt.