Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 88

Did she feel the tape giving, if only just a bit? Or was it her own anxious imagination, her own desperate hopes?

Rapidly she worked, her shoulders shrieking in pain, her toes feeling as if they would break, her wrists hot and rubbed free of the skin where they'd skimmed the sharp edge of the board.

The footsteps came closer, following the hallway, pausing on the other side of the door to the room.

Oh, no! Not yet! Please G.o.d!

Abby swallowed back her fear. Sweat ran down her nose. She kept shoving the tape back and forth against the board, burning her skin. Faster and faster, pulling at the tape, trying desperately to stretch it though she knew the chance of breaking free was nearly impossible.

Keep a cool head.

The lock on the door to the room rattled and the door swung open noiselessly.

Abby's heart sank.

Through the crack in the closet door, a small sliver of visibility Abby watched as Pomeroy lumbered into the room. He was carrying something, no, someone . . . another woman . . .

Oh, dear G.o.d, no!

All her hopes died as she recognized her sister.

Zoey!

Bentz floored it. He drove like a maniac through the pelting rain. The Crown Victoria's wipers fought hard against the deluge, slapping water away from the winds.h.i.+eld as fast as it poured from the hideously dark sky. The tires of his cruiser hummed and cut through pools of standing water, hydroplaning a bit, yet he didn't let up.

No word from Montoya.

Of course.

Bentz had already alerted the Sheriff's Department. The bad news was that the parish's manpower was stretched thin, the result of a double car accident, one of the vehicles pushed over the railing of a bridge, the car plunging into the river, the other overturned on the shoulder. One driver was dead, life flight called for the pa.s.senger, the other driver and two pa.s.sengers rushed by ambulance to a local hospital.

State and local law enforcement had their hands full.

He tromped on the accelerator.

The wind was howling, Spanish moss dancing eerily in the trees as he reached the turn-off to Our Lady of Virtues.

He set his jaw, kept his speed up. His siren was silent, his lights turned off.

He had a bad feeling about what was going down at the old sanitarium and thought it better, if he arrived first, to have the element of surprise on his side.

Rounding a corner he spied a fork in the road, one lane leading to the convent, the other to the hospital. He veered toward the old asylum and drove as far as he could, then, weapon drawn, climbed out of his car.

Of course the gates were shut. Locked tight. But not insurmountable. He'd been a wrestler and football player in high school and college. His senior year of high school he'd been the fastest in his cla.s.s at climbing a thick rope that had dangled from the gym's ceiling. So what if he had twenty-five years and nearly twice as many pounds to deal with? So what if it was driving rain and the metal grating was slick? It was only a d.a.m.ned gate. Eight, maybe nine feet tall.

Piece of cake.

Abby nearly fainted as she spied Zoey.

What was the monster planning?

There was little doubt Pomeroy was the killer who had already slaughtered his chosen victims, pairing them as if they were involved in some sick ritualistic murder/suicide.

How, she wondered desperately, could she save herself, save her sister, save h.e.l.ler? She looked over to the bed her mother had lain in twenty years earlier. The psychiatrist was stretched across the mattress, a fresh gag had been slapped over his mouth and he was lying face up on the quilt, quivering, his eyes round, his pants stained, bleating behind his mask like a lamb to the slaughter. She hated him, but couldn't just leave him to die. If she found a way to escape she'd have to try and save h.e.l.ler, too, then bring his sorry a.s.s to justice.

Pomeroy, limping slightly, unceremoniously dumped Zoey to the floor where she fell into a dazed pile, apparently unable to move. Her eyes rolled high into her head and Abby decided she'd either been terrorized, tranquilized or zapped with a stun gun.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d! She saw the satisfaction in Pomeroy's eyes as he glanced at the closet. He was enjoying this. Getting off on his victim's vulnerability, on their terror. She saw the satisfaction in Pomeroy's eyes as he glanced at the closet. He was enjoying this. Getting off on his victim's vulnerability, on their terror.

Her sister would be no help.

You're on your own. Somehow, you have to trick him. He's too big, too strong, too determined to overcome physically . . . stay smart.

She knew little about him, just that he'd been in the hospital at the same time as her mother had. He was Asa Pomeroy's first born, a child nearly forgotten when Asa had dumped Christian's mother, Karen, for his second wife and new son, Jeremy.

Wincing slightly, Pomeroy rubbed his chest and stared at Abby so hard her skin felt as if it would crawl off her body. He'd called her by her mother's name and the way he'd said it suggested that he'd been close to Faith; perhaps intimate. l.u.s.t had colored his gaze as he'd whispered, "Welcome home, Faith."

Her stomach heaved at the thought of what he'd done to her mother. Or had it been consensual? Oh, G.o.d . . .

Use this knowledge. Pretend you're Faith. Roll with his fantasy. Pomeroy won't want Faith to die again. Act as if you're your mother, for G.o.d's sake. Remember, he didn't kill her . . . h.e.l.ler did!

From the corner of her eye she saw her mother's murderer, chained and scared spitless and she remembered in sudden vivid clarity how he'd pushed Faith out of the window, pretending to help her, restraining Abby from tumbling after, but definitely shoving her mother through the splintering gla.s.s.

As the lantern flickered and Zoey moaned on the floor, Pomeroy walked to the nightstand, opened the top drawer and withdrew two guns.

The first one was Luke's .38.

Oh, sweet Jesus. This psycho had been This psycho had been inside inside her house, creeping through the hallways, touching her things, sneaking into her bedroom, maybe touching her pillow or lying upon her bed. Again, her stomach convulsed. her house, creeping through the hallways, touching her things, sneaking into her bedroom, maybe touching her pillow or lying upon her bed. Again, her stomach convulsed.

Shaking, she was attempting and failing to stay calm.

Hang on, Abby. Keep trying to cut through the d.a.m.ned tape!

But her eyes were trained on her tormentor, fascinated and repulsed as Pomeroy took the second gun, a long barreled pistol, and held it in front of h.e.l.ler's terrified face.

The psychiatrist flung himself away from Pomeroy, stretching the chains, rattling his handcuffs, trying to physically tear himself out of his bonds like a snared fox chewing its paw from the trap. Blood showed on his ankles and wrists and he was screaming wildly, bucking on the bed.

"You can't get away," Pomeroy said. "Your fate is sealed, Simon."

h.e.l.ler was shaking his head.

"You killed her."

More frantic head shaking. Eyes as wide as saucers.

"I saw you. You pushed her through the window."

A squealing protest behind the gag.

"And even if you hadn't, the drugs you kept giving her were her murder sentence, medications that made her docile and willing, allowing you to abuse her at will." Pomeroy sneered down at his victim. "You're a sick man, h.e.l.ler. And a lazy man. Instead of using your knowledge, instead of working to find a way to heal her, you took the easy, slothful way out."

h.e.l.ler was crying now. Broken, whimpering sobs erupted through the tape fastening his lips together.

"And so you shall pay, doctor. You were the epitome of sloth, you see, and the only way to fight the sin of sloth is with the virtue of zeal."

h.e.l.ler went still.

Sloth and zeal? Abby thought. What was he talking about? Abby thought. What was he talking about?

"So I've brought you an angel of mercy. Someone who will destroy your sin of sloth with her virtue of zeal." He glanced down at Zoey. "I admit she's lost some of her zest for life, but that's short-lived and my doing."

Zoey looked dazed. Tried to raise her head but fell backward onto the floor, her muscles betraying her.

What kind of macabre, twisted fantasy was this whack job playing out?

In the closet, Abby worked at her wrists, ignoring the pain, sawing against the bracing board and all the while knowing they were fast running out of time.

He heard noises. Voices. Whimpers. Muted cries.

Montoya hated to think what he would find, but knew that the victims were still alive. Abby? h.e.l.ler?

Up the stairs, not daring to make a sound, Montoya rounded a corner. He used his flashlight sparingly, quickly sweeping the small beam in front of him so that he wouldn't stumble. In his other hand, his Glock was drawn, ready to fire.

Rain and wind lashed at the building and the hallways were dark as night. The noises emanating from the third floor grew more distinct as he pa.s.sed a ghostly stained gla.s.s window on the landing. He didn't pause, but climbed high enough on the steps to see the floor of the hallway, where he spied a ribbon of light beneath one door, the only closed door on the entire floor.

No doubt the thin line of illumination was seeping into the corridor from Room 307.

Where Faith Chastain had died.

Where he heard the rattle of chains and muted, petrified screams.

No time for backup.

As soon as he reached the doorway, he was going in.

The tape was giving way, fraying at the edges. Far away, over the sound of the storm, Abby thought she heard the thin, distant wail of sirens. Oh, please, please. Oh, please, please. In the dark, she kept running her wrists back and forth, silently moving the ever fraying tape over and over the sharp edge of the board. In the dark, she kept running her wrists back and forth, silently moving the ever fraying tape over and over the sharp edge of the board.

Horrified, she watched as Pomeroy found a knife in the night table. Her heart froze in fear as he lifted the weapon, the long blade catching the golden light of the lantern.

She was certain he was going to slice h.e.l.ler's throat, but instead he turned on Zoey, the dish rag lying at his feet.

No! Oh, no!

Desperately she worked at the tape, praying she could break through in time. But Pomeroy was swift. He bent down to Zoey and with a quick motion, sliced through the tape binding Zoey's wrists, then did the same with her ankles.

Why?

Was he letting her sister go? Because he had Abby? A woman who more closely resembled their mother?

Abby felt a second's relief until she realized that Zoey wasn't about to be freed. No, her sister, too, was a part of Pomeroy's sick plan.

"It's time to pay for your sins, Doctor," Pomeroy said with ultimate, chilling calm.

On the bed, h.e.l.ler went wild. Screaming behind his gag, he writhed on the bed, rumpling the comforter, rattling the bedframe so hard that it jumped. Metal against metal sc.r.a.ped and clanged through the room, rising over the rain pounding against the windows.

Pomeroy hauled Zoey to her rubbery legs. "You, Simon h.e.l.ler," Pomeroy said angrily, "are d.a.m.ned. You claimed to be a doctor, you swore by oath to help and heal. Instead you took the easy way out. You not only abused your patients but you suffered from one of the Seven Deadly Sins, the sin of sloth."

Abby couldn't believe what she was hearing. Seven Deadly Sins? Sloth? He was rationalizing his crimes? Playing G.o.d? Seven Deadly Sins? Sloth? He was rationalizing his crimes? Playing G.o.d? How insane was he? How insane was he?

She watched in terror as Pomeroy wrapped one arm around Zoey's waist. Roughly, he pulled Zoey's b.u.t.tocks close to his crotch and forced the long-muzzled gun into her hand. There was a smile on his lips, a satisfaction as he rubbed up against Zoey's rump.

Bile rose up Abby's throat. Pervert! Sick, vile, pervert Pervert! Sick, vile, pervert!

Zoey rolled her eyes upward and caught Abby's eye in a moment of clarity.

In the heartbeat that followed, Abby understood. Zoey wasn't as far gone as she was pretending. But what could she do?

Nothing! You have to help her!

Abby worked furiously on the tape. Her arms were screeching in pain, but again she felt the thick tape loosening, the fibers within it fraying as her wrists chaffed.

Pomeroy said, "And you, Zoey Chastain, firstborn of Faith, have the virtue of zeal, so it's your duty to rid the world of the slovenly."

h.e.l.ler stiffened.

Pomeroy focused his hot eyes on Abby.

She froze. Had he seen her trying to free herself? Her heart drummed a horrified tattoo.

"And you won't be far behind, Hannah. You, who were humiliated by your l.u.s.tful, adulterating husband." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side and frowned, his eyes clouding. "Faith?" he whispered in confusion . . . "Faith?"

She nodded, hoping he would believe her, but the clouds disappeared and he shook his head as if to rid it of fog. "No . . . Not Faith. Hannah . . . for humility." He smiled suddenly as if all his synapses were connecting again. "Pride is certainly on his way."