Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle
Chapter 78 : "What's even more disturbing is that Billy Ray Furlough is missing as well.&q

"What's even more disturbing is that Billy Ray Furlough is missing as well."

"Oh, G.o.d."

"We don't know if their abductions were done by the same person who killed the others, but it doesn't look good."

"Oh, no," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me, too."

"You'll find her."

Montoya nodded, switching lanes. "Yeah." He only hoped that his aunt would be located while she was still alive. His fingers tightened over the wheel and his guts churned when he considered the alternative. "I called my brother, Miguel, from the security company. They're going to squeeze you in."

"Thanks."

"And I'll be by, I just don't know when. Your sister is with you?"

"Yes. She's planning to stay for a few days."

"Good, and you've got the guard dog."

Abby laughed. Despite his sour mood, Montoya felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "Don't forget Ansel the alarm cat," she said.

"Oh, right. My buddy." He turned onto Chartres Street, close to Jackson Square, where a cl.u.s.ter of tourists had collected to listen to jazz musicians performing next to an open guitar case.

"Ansel misses you," she said and he snorted.

"Tell him the feeling is mutual." He pictured her face and the teasing light in her gold eyes and he felt better than he had since learning the news of his aunt's disappearance. "I don't suppose you've found the missing .38?"

"Not yet," she said. Her voice sobered, now coming in loud and clear. "But I haven't really looked for it again."

"I don't like it."

"I know."

The more he thought about the missing gun, the more worried for her safety he was. "I'll try to stop by later. In the meantime you let me know if anything, and I mean any anything, seems out of place."

"I will," she said. "Thanks."

He hung up, feeling vulnerable. Not only was his aunt missing, but he was worried for Abby's safety. Worried enough that, once her sister left, if the house hadn't been wired with a security system, he was going to ask her to stay at his place, here in town.

His conscience twinged as he considered that he had deeper, ulterior motives-motives that had more to do with sleeping with her than keeping her safe, but he dismissed those thoughts. First and foremost he was concerned with her safety. He knew in his gut that she was somehow in danger and he couldn't let anything happen to her.

Face it, man, a voice deep in his brain nagged, a voice deep in his brain nagged, you're falling for her. you're falling for her. His jaw clenched hard as he slowed for jay-walkers. The police band crackled. His jaw clenched hard as he slowed for jay-walkers. The police band crackled. And the last time you fell hard for a woman, you couldn't save her. All of your hotshot police skills and you were still helpless. And the last time you fell hard for a woman, you couldn't save her. All of your hotshot police skills and you were still helpless.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," he whispered under his breath as he parked near the station. Though he hadn't been officially removed from the case, it was only a matter of time if his aunt's disappearance proved connected to the killings.

He locked his car and headed inside. He intended to plug his camera into his computer and print out all the shots he'd taken at Gierman's funeral. He then planned to compare them to the ones he'd taken at Courtney LaBelle's candlelight vigil. Her funeral was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, so he would be in the crowd there as well. Surely the killer would show, to bask in the glory of the chaos and pain, to feel superior, to rub shoulders with the grief-stricken and the police to, in his mind's eye, relive the crime.

Come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought, climbing the steps to the second floor, he thought, climbing the steps to the second floor, I'll be ready for you. I'll be ready for you.

"You received an anonymous letter that said, Come home, Hannah needs you Come home, Hannah needs you?" Abby repeated, staring at her sister as if she'd gone completely mad. They were seated in a restaurant on St. Charles Avenue, located not far from Sacred Heart Academy.

It had been Zoey's idea to ride the streetcar and "get away from all this stress," once she'd taken a two-hour nap. Abby had wanted to stay home. She was tired and drained after Luke's funeral. But she also wanted to get to the bottom of the "secret" Zoey and her father seemed to share about the night her mother died, and Zoey had promised she would tell Abby everything she knew.

In the end, Abby had driven them into town, where they'd hopped on the streetcar, ridden down the oak-lined avenue, and ended up in this quaint Victorian home-turned-dining room. It was early evening. They'd been seated at a table near the window, where a view of the garden showed off a million tiny white lights winking in the lush vegetation and along the fence. As the waitress delivered a tall gla.s.s filled with bread sticks, Zoey dropped the bomb about the note.

"Here, I've got it with me." Zoey leaned over to scrounge in her purse. She came up with a plain white envelope. The postmark was NEW ORLEANS, but there was no return address.

Though the late afternoon was warm, Abby's skin turned to ice. "Didn't you think this was odd?"

"Yeah, a little." Zoey reached for a bread stick.

"A lot, lot, Zoe. No one ever called me Hannah but Mom." Zoe. No one ever called me Hannah but Mom."

"Well, obviously she she didn't send it." didn't send it."

"Precisely. So who did? Who wanted you here?"

"I thought maybe you sent it to me."

"You're kidding."

"I figured it was your way of getting me here without, you know, you having to swallow your pride." Zoey dipped her bread stick in a tiny b.u.t.ter rosette.

"If I had needed you here, I would have called. You know that."

"Then maybe . . . I don't know . . . maybe Dad sent it."

"Dad?" Abby picked up the note and shook it in front of her sister's face. "How would he mail it?"

"Maybe Charlene did it for him."

"Then why not just sign it himself? Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Better yet, why not just phone? You know, like a normal person."

"Then I don't know," Zoey said defensively, but little lines of concern sprouted between her eyebrows. "Look, let's not worry about it right now. We'll talk about the d.a.m.ned note later." She snagged the paper out of Abby's hands and slipped it into the envelope just as the waitress reappeared.

"Are you all ready?" she asked pleasantly. She was plump, with rosy cheeks, her order pad at the ready. She glanced at Abby and added, "Or would you like a few more minutes to decide?"

Zoey, who had somehow scanned the menu, said, "I'll have the iceberg lettuce wedge, with shrimp, caramelized onions, and blue cheese dressing on the side . . . oh, and maybe a cup of the shrimp bisque."

The waitress turned to Abby, whose appet.i.te was fast disappearing. She'd walked into the little restaurant famished and now her stomach was in knots. Who had sent Zoey the note?

"Abby?" Zoey said and glanced from her sister to the waitress. "Do you know what you want?"

I want an end to all these questions . . . all this secrecy . . .

Glancing down at the menu, Abby tried to focus. Was it her imagination or had several people at nearby tables stopped eating to stare at them? Pull yourself together, Abby. Don't make a scene. You'll get to the bottom of this. So Zoey received a note with your middle name on it the same week that your gun was stolen and people are turning up murdered . . . Pull yourself together, Abby. Don't make a scene. You'll get to the bottom of this. So Zoey received a note with your middle name on it the same week that your gun was stolen and people are turning up murdered . . . Her hands were shaking so she clasped them together in her lap. Her hands were shaking so she clasped them together in her lap.

"Maybe we do need a few more minutes," Zoey said.

Abby cut her sister a look, then ordered the first thing she saw on the menu. "I'll have the spinach salad, with barbecued shrimp. House dressing."

She waited until the waitress had disappeared before she turned furious eyes at Zoey. "You should have told me about the letter earlier."

"I wanted to wait until after the funeral."

"So you knew I'd be upset?"

"More upset." Zoey cast a glance to the ceiling, where paddle fans were gently pus.h.i.+ng the warm air around. upset." Zoey cast a glance to the ceiling, where paddle fans were gently pus.h.i.+ng the warm air around.

Abby was finished with skirting the issue. "So when are you going to tell me about the day Mom died?"

Zoey stared down at the table.

"Zoe." Abby leaned toward her.

Zoey closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. She let out her breath as she picked up her gla.s.s of sweet tea. "All right . . . I wasn't supposed to tell you . . ."

"Why? What happened? Who said you shouldn't tell me?"

"The doctors. Your doctors, Abby. The ones you saw right after Mom's death."

There was an echoing roar in Abby's head, a sudden raging surf. She clenched her hands over her knees. "Tell me," she demanded, her heart nearly stopping.

Spying Abby's reaction, Zoey nearly changed her mind. "Maybe this isn't the place."

"Tell me!" Abby repeated more tensely.

"Okay, okay . . . You seemed to have had some kind of blackout that day. Because of the emotional trauma. Dad talked to the doctors who saw you after Mom's death and they said it's not uncommon. It's emotional amnesia and sometimes your memory comes back after a while and other times . . . it just doesn't." She took a swallow from her tea.

"Like in my case."

"Right."

"And in the past twenty years, neither you nor Dad thought I needed to know?"

"We were advised against it," she said simply.

"But it's been two decades!" Anger burned through her, but she tried like h.e.l.l to push it aside. "Okay, okay, so what was different, Zoe? What is so horrible that I've blacked it out? What am I forgetting?"

"I don't know," she said baffled. "It's just your memory isn't exactly right." The waitress refilled their tea gla.s.ses and Zoey waited until they were alone again. "You weren't just getting out of the car that day, Abby. You and I-we'd had a fight about who was going to take her present up to her. I won the flip of the coin. Dad was pretty angry that we were being so petty, as it was Mom's birthday and all . . . your birthday, too, I know. Anyway, when we pulled up, you got out of the car before Dad had even shoved the gears.h.i.+ft into park. You took off up the steps into the hospital at a dead run and disappeared inside before either Dad or I got out of the car."

Abby blinked hard, remembered that sultry twilight. "I wasn't outside?"

"No. When Mom fell out her window, you were already in her room."

The dull roar in her head grew louder. The restaurant's chandeliers seemed to sway. The lights out the window twinkled and faded into stars. She looked past her memory of that day-her false memory, as it turned out. Vaguely she recalled running inside, through the dark building, past a boy in a wheelchair who watched her fly by, and around a nurse pus.h.i.+ng a tray of medications down a hallway. She tore past the grandfather clock that was beginning to chime out the hour and ran up the stairs.

"I do remember," she murmured in surprise. "I do."

Zoey looked unsure of herself. "Really?"

"Yes . . ."

She'd rocketed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, nearly plowing into the nun. She'd had to hurry. To be the first of Faith's small family to say "Happy birthday." It was their shared, special day. It belonged to them, and Abby, her heart pounding crazily from the exertion, couldn't wait to tell her mother about the upcoming Sadie Hawkins dance.

Up, up, up she climbed, her shoes pounding on the stairs, past the stained-gla.s.s window of the Virgin Mother on the landing and up a final few steps to the third-floor hallway that was empty, the lights already dimmed.

Breathing hard, Abby pushed open the door to 307 and raced inside. "Happy birthday, Mom . . ." she said, then stopped short, her good wishes dying on her tongue. Faith was standing near the window, not far from the rumpled bed. Half-dressed, her blouse open, her bra unhooked, a dark nipple visible, she wasn't alone. A doctor in a white lab coat, his stethoscope swinging from his neck, his hair mussed, was trying to grab her.

As the door banged into the wall, he spun. His face was red, a vein jumping in his temple as he pinned Abby with his furious gaze. "Don't you know this is a private room! You should knock before you just barge in!"

"But . . ." Abby, standing in front of the closet, looked past the doctor to her mother.

Faith was already rehooking her bra, swiftly covering up. Her fingers were working with the b.u.t.tons of her blouse, but her gaze, looking over the shoulder of the doctor, was fixed on her daughter. Fear shone in Faith's gold eyes, tears glistening. Without saying the words out loud, she mouthed, "Don't please . . ."

Her mother wanted her to keep her silence. She wanted her to hold the secret safe. And Abby hadn't breathed a word. Not ever. She hadn't even remembered that she'd been in the room. Now, she was shaking, feeling with surprisingly sharp clarity her mother's despair.

"Abby!" Zoey's voice was like a slap.

The memory faded, withering away, and Abby found herself in the restaurant again, her salad sitting upon the place mat in front of her. Zoey stared at her anxiously across the table. Her face was strained, ashen. "The waitress asked you if you'd like ground pepper on your salad."

"What?" Abby glanced down at the mound of dark green spinach leaves, pieces of mandarin oranges, bean sprouts, and succulent shrimp on the plate in front of her. She hadn't even been aware that she was still in the restaurant, much less been served. Dear G.o.d, she was cracking up! Just like Mom. Just like Mom.

No!

Quickly she looked up at the waitress holding the huge pepper mill poised over her platter. She forced a tremulous smile. She was not like Faith. Not weak-minded.

"Pepper?" the waitress asked, probably for the third or fourth time.

"No, thank you," Abby managed, and with a last, curious look, the round little waitress moved on to the next table.

"What's the matter with you?" Zoey hissed. "Get a grip, for G.o.d's sake!"

"I remember . . ." Abby leaned over the table, whispering just loud enough for Zoey and Zoey alone to hear.

Zoey didn't pretend to misunderstand. She slowly set down her b.u.t.ter knife. "What happened?"

"She wasn't alone."

"I know that, you were there."

"No, not just me, Zoe. There was a doctor in the room and . . . and I think . . . Oh, Lord, I can't believe this, but I think he was abusing abusing her." her."