Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 75

The psycho turned his back for just a second. In that instant, Billy Ray made his move. He leaped upward, his legs free, his hands unbound. With a strength he swore came from the Lord, he plunged the Pomeroy Ultra deep into the a.s.sailant's chest, just as the man spun.

Blood spurted.

The nun screamed and threw herself at the attacker.

With a roar, the psycho slammed the gun into the side of Billy Ray's face. Pain shot through his skull. His nose splintered. Billy Ray fell backward and lost his grip on the Ultra. His intention was to stab and stab and stab until the lifeblood flowed out of him, but his hands were slick with blood and the nun intervened, trying to force herself between the two, clawing at the man's face, attacking attacking him with her bare hands. him with her bare hands.

No!

In an instant, the big man, his mask askew from the nun's a.s.sault, Billy Ray's weapon still protruding from him, smacked Sister Maria across the face, caught her as she began to fall, and forced his gun into her trembling, wavering hand . . .

Sister Maria gasped. He was going to make her kill Billy Ray? No! He was going to make her kill Billy Ray? No!

She fought the brute, swinging her head back and forth, crying and screaming and praying in one horrible sound. But the psycho was strong-too strong. He aimed the weapon straight at Billy Ray's heart, c.o.c.ked the hammer . . .

Billy Ray scooted backward, tried to get away.

Bang!

The Ruger fired.

Pain exploded in Billy Ray's chest. He blinked, stunned, and blood gurgled up his throat. He saw the psycho twist Sister Maria's wrist until she cried out. In slow motion and disbelief he watched the man place the muzzle of the gun to her temple and squeeze the trigger. Shuddering, Billy Ray closed his eyes and prayed as death claimed him.

The nun slumped in his arms. Carefully, he draped her body over the preacher's, leaving them entwined, mother and son, so different.

Pain seared through his body. He glanced down at the irritating knife still embedded in his chest and felt fury. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had sliced him. Luckily the blade had hit a rib, so the damage was painful but not debilitating. He would remove the weapon soon, but later, when he was away from here. He couldn't afford any more of his blood being spilled.

He'd been foolish. Gotten careless. Hadn't given the preacher enough credit for being resourceful. Now, he stared down at the dead man. How had he gotten free? In the flashlight's beam he saw where the chair had been dragged to the pile of clothes. So the reverend had scooted himself across the room, somehow gotten the tool out of his pocket, freed himself, and then waited? Why not run for it?

Had he run out of time?

Not expected his captor to return?

Or had he wanted to be a hero, had felt invincible as he was on "Jesus's team," as he'd so often said. The hypocrite.

Satisfied that he'd arranged them just as he wanted, he lifted the nun's head and pulled her rosary from her neck. Quickly he slid the holy beads into his pocket. Then he took the gun. Furlough's nickel-plated Ruger.

Silently he walked outside. Realizing there was blood on his shoes, he took the time to wipe them on the steps before stopping at the Mercedes and popping the trunk. He found the emergency kit, grabbed it, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his chest. Then he headed down a long path, to a dilapidated dock where pilings were settling into the bog. The rowboat was right where he'd left it hours earlier. He stepped inside and, using the flashlight, looked at the weapon still protruding through the wet suit. Checking the emergency kit, he found several gauze pads and sterile tape. Good enough for now. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out the tool. Blood started to flow and he quickly stanched it with the gauze. He unwrapped all five packs, layered the gauze pads, one on top of the other, strapping them down with the tape. He ached and bled from the jagged slice, but no vital organ had been perforated. He'd been lucky this time. In the flashlight's glow he stared at the weapon, a Pomeroy all-purpose handyman's tool scripted with the name "Ultra."

His jaw dropped.

f.u.c.ker!

He hated that Billy Ray, and now Asa Pomeroy, too, had gotten in this last word.

Well, it was too late for them.

Swis.h.i.+ng the blade in the water, he cleaned the tool and dropped it into the box for the emergency kit. Along with the Ultra, he added the rosary and revolver. Quickly he grabbed an oar. Almost silently he began to paddle to the spot where he'd hidden his truck, not two miles from the preacher's study.

He'd have to work fast. Dawn would arrive in a few hours and he wanted to be far from the Reverend Billy Ray Furlough's compound when the preacher was discovered missing.

Besides, his work was far from done.

He wouldn't have much time, he thought as he dipped his oar into the water. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The pain in his chest throbbed viciously, but he pushed it aside. The pain in his chest throbbed viciously, but he pushed it aside.

He had others to take care of today.

His lips pulled into a rictus smile as he oared through the darkness. The beam from his small flashlight guided him through these familiar waters. He caught the glow of a gator's eyes as it glided past, and when he scanned the sh.o.r.e, he caught images of 'possum and racc.o.o.ns staring after him. He breathed in the heavy scent of the water, rowing unerringly, just as he had as a child.

When he'd been allowed.

When the restrictions had been lifted . . .

His jaw hardened when he recalled how all that had changed. When she she had been introduced to him. His lips curled as if he'd encountered a foul smell. had been introduced to him. His lips curled as if he'd encountered a foul smell.

She, with her tinkling laugh, tiny voice, and iron will. A small woman even in the high heels she forever wore. A frail-looking beauty who caused men, even important men, to fawn all over her. with her tinkling laugh, tiny voice, and iron will. A small woman even in the high heels she forever wore. A frail-looking beauty who caused men, even important men, to fawn all over her.

She'd changed things from the start. No more hunting off-season, no more late nights, no more eating in front of the television, no more "obnoxiously loud eardrum-splitting ba.s.s" and certainly not one more "disgusting, violent, and sick lyric."

His hands tightened over the paddle.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

She, with her tiny, yapping dog and expensive horses . . .

His smile turned to a sneer as he considered the irony of it all: the dog trampled by the horse; the sleek bay gelding rearing at a snake and tossing off his rider; the rider hitting her head on a large, knife-edged rock. By the time anyone had gone looking for her, the vultures had already been circling.

So now, he could breathe deeply of the thick bayou air, hear the insects thrum in the bulrushes, watch the moon rise over the dark, brackish waters. She She couldn't stop him. couldn't stop him.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

He guided his small craft to the side of an inlet. Hopping out, he dragged the boat to the sh.o.r.e, concealing it in the thick cattails and reeds.

Stripping off his boots for the sneakers in his backpack, he took several shallow breaths, then a few deeper ones. The pain was bearable. He stuffed the emergency kit into the pack before heading cross-country through a farmer's field, then on to the winding county road where he started the two-mile jog toward his truck.

Everything had been going so well.

Until Billy Ray Furlough had nearly outsmarted him, and the nun . . . who would have thought that meek Milquetoast of a woman had the fire to challenge him? Like a mother bear, Like a mother bear, he thought, remembering his father's warnings before they would take up their rifles and begin the long trek to the mountains. he thought, remembering his father's warnings before they would take up their rifles and begin the long trek to the mountains. Do Do not not get between a she-bear and her cubs. No matter what. If you make that mistake, shoot her. Quick. Before she has the chance to rip your liver out! get between a she-bear and her cubs. No matter what. If you make that mistake, shoot her. Quick. Before she has the chance to rip your liver out!

Twice during his run, a vehicle had pa.s.sed. Both times he'd dived into the roadside ditch and laid flat until the beams from the headlights had pa.s.sed over his body, the illumination fading and taillights visible. Only then would he start loping again, his wound aching and leaden. He knew he was bleeding again, and he bit back an oath when he thought of being fooled by the preacher.

How could that have happened? He was the one with the genius IQ. Billy Ray Furlough was just a hot-headed, has-been athlete who'd found a way to make a buck out of his rage by using it as a tool to appear pa.s.sionately pious. Correction: Billy Ray Furlough was now a dead dead hotshot has-been. hotshot has-been.

His truck was where he'd left it: at the diner where he was often a patron. It was a place that was open twenty-four hours, where truckers often stopped for coffee and pie; in the evenings it was beer and hard liquor. He was known in this place by name, and no one thought twice if his truck remained there longer than he did. He always parked in the thick of the rigs and semis that pulled in at all hours. He always showed his face, too, as he was coming and going: sometimes through the back where the bar was; sometimes the front of the restaurant. He made certain he was seen every two hours or so. People knew him to be a hunter and a fisherman, a guy who sometimes left his rig in the parking lot when he stalked game. He was teased, too, as no one ever saw him with a bagged deer, or even ducks, or fish in his creel. He always laughed at the ribbing, buying a round, and telling the regulars that it was more to be out in nature than anything else.

They believed he was an independent contractor-a sheet rocker. They thought he was oftentimes out of work.

No one asked too many questions and the cover worked just fine.

Now, he glanced around. It was dark by the truck, extremely so, even though the eastern sky was faintly lightening. Quickly and carefully he removed his sneakers, stripped off the wetsuit, then pulled on a pair of jeans. He was s.h.i.+vering. The gauze was b.l.o.o.d.y. He shoved his arms through a blue cotton s.h.i.+rt, b.u.t.toned it over the gauze, then pushed his arms through a navy nylon jacket.

He took a precious moment to pull himself together. When he climbed from the truck, he stopped to purchase a paper from the box outside. Pretending absorption in the headlines, he walked into the restaurant, which was bustling with truckers slurping down their first cups of java for the day. He waved at the red-haired waitress whom he knew was nearly done with her s.h.i.+ft, then took a stool and ordered coffee, eggs over easy, crisp bacon, grits, biscuits, and gravy.

As he waited for his breakfast, he tried not to think about the killings, couldn't yet let himself go to that place between wake and sleep where he relived the thrill, felt the thrum run through his veins, got off on the memory of their deaths. No, not yet . . . he needed his wits about him. And he also needed to take care of his injury, but not yet, not until he'd set his cover deeply, made sure everyone saw him having a leisurely breakfast.

Scanning the front page, he noticed that all mention of Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson's deaths had been placed below the fold, though because of the funeral, Luke Gierman's picture was at the top of the page. Other related stories were buried deeper in the pages.

"Real sick-o behind that," a local trucker who delivered eggs said. He thumped the paper as he pa.s.sed on his way to his favorite booth. The tag embroidered on his overhauls declared that his name was Hank. "Can't wait 'til they catch that sumb.i.t.c.h and string him up by his b.a.l.l.s." He nodded, squared the bill of his trucker's cap onto his head. "Yeah, I'll like to see that. I listened to Gierman's Groaners Gierman's Groaners all the time. Can't stand the fact that his sidekick, what's the guy's name?" all the time. Can't stand the fact that his sidekick, what's the guy's name?"

Maury Taylor, you imbecile, he thought, but shrugged. he thought, but shrugged.

"Maury, that's it. A real jerk wad, that guy. Ridin' on Gierman's coattails. h.e.l.l." He rubbed his fleshy jaw, which sported two days' worth of silver bristles. "Don'tcha just hate it."

"Yeah," he said as his platter of eggs, bacon, and grits was placed in front of him.

"Sorry about the broken yolk," the waitress said. "New cook. You okay with that?"

No!

"I can get you a couple more."

Don't do it. Don't draw attention to yourself. Smile and act like it's no big deal that the cook is incompetent. "This is fine," he said. "This is fine," he said.

"You're sure? It's no trouble."

"I'm okay." Jesus, lady, back the f.u.c.k off! Jesus, lady, back the f.u.c.k off!

"Well, then I'll grab you a piece of pie. On the house. Pecan. Fresh baked."

He nodded and Hank clapped him on the back. "Have yourself a good 'un."

"You, too," he said, momentarily shocked by the impact. He struggled for breath. Then Hank's out-of-control gray eyebrows drew together over the tops of his thick gla.s.ses. "Hey, wha'd'ja do to yourself there?" he asked, pointing a thick finger at his s.h.i.+rt. "Cut yerself shaving?" Hank laughed but it sounded hollow.

He looked down. A red stain showed through his s.h.i.+rt.

He thought fast. "Chainsaw bucked the other day while I was cuttin' brush."

"Jesus Christ, man, you coulda kilt yerself. Gotta be careful with them things."

"Hit a knot." He nodded, pretended to show embarra.s.sment that he couldn't handle a tool. "I had it st.i.tched up at the emergency clinic, but I think I'd better go back in."

"h.e.l.l yes, you'd better go back in." Hank frowned, nodded curtly, then lifted his hat and smoothed his hair before pulling the brim down low again. "See ya 'round." Finally the old coot ambled back to his chair.

He zipped his jacket and ate fast, careful not to take one bite of the broken yolk. To appease the d.a.m.ned waitress, he even washed down four bites of pie with black coffee before leaving enough cash on the bar for the meal and a fifteen percent tip.

And all the while he silently cursed Billy Ray Furlough.

Well, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d got his, didn't he?

Dawn broke as he drove through the small towns to the back side of Our Lady of Virtues' campus. The truck b.u.mped down an old forgotten road that had once led to a dairy farm, now long abandoned. He parked inside the barn, ducked through a hole in the fence, then headed down a path he'd walked years before, one that led to a private entrance to the bowels of the main building.

Once inside, he maneuvered through the maze of corridors and stairwells until he came to his private set of rooms, the ones he'd known years before and had reclaimed. Using his flashlight, he worked his way to an old surgery unit and there, in the drawers, found leftover bandages. Shrugging out of his jacket, he unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt, then removed the soaking wads of gauze. As he took off the s.h.i.+rt, he saw that his blood was clotting, the flow had slowed considerably. If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d hadn't managed to slice him, had just left a puncture wound, then it wouldn't have bled so much in the first place.

Carefully, he cleaned the wound using cold water from the shower. He squeezed gel from a tube of antiseptic cream tucked into the reverend's first-aid kit. Then he ripped open packages of sterile cotton gauze patches-courtesy of the old hospital-and placed them directly over the wound. He secured the bandage with adhesive tape, then wrapped his chest tightly with a stretchy Ace bandage that he'd found still lying in one of the drawers. The whole place felt ready for business, as if it had just shut its doors yesterday. But it had been a long, long time.

Only when he was finished did he carry his backpack to his private room and light candles at his shrine. He unfolded the secretary's table, then reached into the pack and withdrew his new treasures. The rosary and revolver would go into one cubby together, s.h.i.+ning blood-red beads wrapped seductively over the muzzle of the nickel-plated .357.

He fingered the other treasures, the watch and ring, the little gold cross and diamond-studded money clip . . . His collection was growing but it still had so far to go. Six items were locked away, but he needed eight more . . . all belonging to a special person, one of the chosen.

Opening a photo alb.u.m, he examined the old pictures-the hospital, the staff, the patients, the nuns. There were other photos as well, for some of the players were not a part of the smiling group shots. Part of his mission would be to find pictures of them.

He'd chosen wisely, he thought. Spent years formulating and perfecting his plan. The fourteen men and women were not random. In a way, they'd chosen themselves, had they not?

He ran a finger down their faces, the ones that he'd marked with a red pen, and then he glanced up to the top of the secretary, where the framed picture of Faith Chastain stared down at him. He thought of her and their secret trysts so long ago . . .

And then as he heard the old pipes drip, and smelled the mold and death and darkness, he thought of the others . . . His mind reeled with the memory of each death, that pure moment, that heady feel of power, that potent s.e.xual thrill . . .

He would hide.

Rest.

For a few hours, perhaps a few days.

"But not for long," he vowed, staring at the photograph of Faith. "Not for long."

CHAPTER 23.

Abby stretched and opened an eye. Sunlight was slipping through the blinds, striping thin slats of light across the rumpled covers where Detective Reuben Montoya was breathing deeply. One of his arms was thrown over his head, his lips open just enough to inhale and exhale puffs of air. His black hair was mussed, giving a decidedly boyish look to his normally serious features.