Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (161 page)

Don’t even think it,
she told herself as she crept into the dark, noiseless interior.

Despite the open window, the building smelled musty and dank, the floors dusty and scratched, wallpaper and paint peeling from the walls.

Eve made her way downstairs, past the landing with the stained-glass window of the Madonna still intact, all the while letting her fingers run along the worn banister just as she had as a child. She decided to start her search on the first floor, though she was certain this part of the hospital had been torn apart by the police last autumn when a deranged killer had ended up here.

Because of Faith Chastain, the woman who could very well be your birth mother.

The lower floor was nearly empty and dark. Very little sunlight seeped in through the boarded-over windows and broken shutters. The grandfather clock that had chimed off the hours at the base of the stairs was no longer there. The reception area still possessed its long counter/desk that separated the foyer from the offices behind.

She imagined how it used to be, filled with briskly walking nurses, worried visitors, an office staff that was cheery but firm, and patients whose lives were fraying. Always and ever present were the nuns. Now the foyer was shadowy and gloomy, smelling of dust and disuse. Eve felt nervous, as if she were stepping onto someone’s grave.

Stop it. This is just an old building. Nothing sinister about it. Outside, the day is bright. Warm. Get on with it.

Using her flashlight, she walked through the linked offices and short, mazelike hallways, noting the rooms that the hospital secretary, two nurses, the Mother Superior, and the priest had once occupied. Though the names on the doorways had disappeared, a few faded numbers remained, and Eve remembered the whispers that seemed to seep from half-open doors, the discussions and concerns, the odors of antiseptic and pine cleaner that were ever present. The floor creaked as she shined her fragile beam ahead of her. She ended up at room number 1, her father’s office, a small interior cubicle without windows, only a transom over the doorway that allowed in natural light from a window in the corridor.

The room was empty, the wooden floor discolored where a desk, file cabinet, and bookcase had once stood. The walls were dark with dirt, showing lighter patches where once pictures and degrees had hung.

Aside from spiders watching from their corner webs near the ceiling, the room was unoccupied.

What had she expected?

She could visualize her father as she’d often seen him, seated at his wide desk, his head bent over some medical journal or patient chart. A banker’s light had created a pool of illumination. Upon the smooth plaster walls, his degrees had hung proudly. On the bookcase, a bifold frame held two pictures: one of Eve, one of her mother. Aside from one family portrait, there had been no pictures of Eve’s brothers.

And now her father was dead.

Murdered.

Like Faith Chastain.

Like Roy Kajak.

Disfigured with a tattoo.

Goose bumps crawled along her skin as she explored the rest of the main floor quickly, shining her light in the corners of the parlor, dining room, and kitchen, then trying the basement door.

It was locked.

None of her keys worked there either, and she felt a bit of relief. She could do without dark, dank rooms belowground. Ever since her brothers, in an inspired and cruel prank, had locked her in the cellar at their aunt’s house in the country and left her there for hours, she’d become slightly claustrophobic. She’d been five at the time, traumatized, and never again felt safe in dark, dank places underground. She’d slept for months afterward with the light on in her room and had often woken up to horrible dreams of trickling water, tiny beady eyes staring at her from dark corners, and spiders with dripping fangs. She’d woken up screaming, and her mother had usually crawled in bed with her, whispering softly and holding her close until she’d finally fallen asleep again.

Yeah, real sweethearts, her brothers, she thought as she returned to the staircase and climbed to the second floor, where she found empty bedrooms, baths, and closets. Like those of the lower level, the floors and walls here were scarred and shaded where artifacts and pictures had hung.

On the third floor, she walked unerringly to room 307, having remembered it had belonged to Faith Chastain. It was different from most of the other rooms in that it had a higher ceiling, fireplace, and a tall, arched window…the window through which she’d fallen. On the walls were outlines of pictures and, it seemed, a crucifix.

Was this the home of her mother?

Eve bit her lip and tried to remember Faith Chastain. She only had fleeting images of a haunted, petite woman who in moments of clarity could smile, her amber eyes intriguing and intelligent.

A dark stain discolored the center of the floor, and Eve backed away from what appeared to have once been blood.

You’re imagining things,
she thought.
You’re letting this gloomy, dark place with its history of evil get to you.

In the hallway, she walked past the other rooms, shining her flashlight into each doorway and seeing nothing other than emptiness. The bathrooms and showers were grimy and forgotten, infested by insects.

At the end of the hall, there was an empty linen closet and across from that doorway another closet with a second door at its back that led upward to the attic. It was locked, but this time one of her father’s keys slid easily into the dead bolt and turned. The lock clicked, and the door opened to a steep set of stairs that wound upward around a chimney to a long, narrow garret with exposed rafters and unfinished plank floors.

This had been her hideaway as a child. She and Roy had snuck up these twisting steps and spent hours playing make-believe games or spying on some of the patients and doctors. She cringed now as she thought about the peepholes they’d discovered that allowed them to view into the rooms below.

Including Faith Chastain’s bedroom.

Roy had spent hours numbering the tiny slits in the flooring with the appropriate rooms. Now Eve walked along the floorboards, ducking the cobwebby rafters and crossbeams, shining her weak light until she saw the number 307 written in a felt-tip pen and covered with dust and grime.

The wind whistled through the old rafters, sweeping through this oven of a chamber but not bringing any relief from the heat.

The place was creepier than she remembered it, and, she thought, if she closed her eyes, she could still hear the soft cries, the whimpers, the desperate whispers of some of the most tormented patients.

How many times had she and Roy looked down this very peephole into Faith Chastain’s room? Now, of course, she was embarrassed. How could she have been so uncaring, so callous, so ultimately curious?

“Forgive me,” she whispered but couldn’t resist the opportunity to look down that dime-sized hole once more, one created by the wiring for the overhead lamp in Faith’s room. As she did, she found herself staring at that damning crimson stain.

A shadow passed over the discoloration.

She gasped.

Her lungs constricted.

No one was in this decrepit hospital but her.

Right?

Fear splintered through her body.
It’s just a shadow, a trick of light. It doesn’t mean anyone’s inside.

But she swallowed hard, and the back of her skull tightened as she strained to listen, not moving a muscle.

She blinked.

The shadow vanished.

As if it had never existed.

Light from the window…that was it…. There was still some glass in the higher panes, and a tree branch could have swayed in the wind, blocking the sun…. She had heard the wind up here, how its wept through the rafters. But there was no wind now. Not a whisper of a breeze skimming over the roof.

She waited.

The shadow didn’t appear again.

Nor did she hear the sounds of breathing, or footsteps, or a voice…. Perhaps she’d imagined the dark umbra that had been cast for a few seconds over Faith’s room.

But the skin on the back of her arms prickled in warning, and her insides had turned to jelly.

Just do what you have to do and get the hell out of here!

Moving more quickly now, she walked past a junkyard of old hospital bed parts and dresser drawers and medicine trays and God knew what else until she found a stack of cabinets. Old files. Long forgotten. She withdrew her keys again, found the smallest, and unlocked a tall cabinet.

Inside were old charts and records, dusty, some covered in mildew, all smelling like they were a hundred years old. Not quite a century, she realized, but old enough that the information was all handwritten or typed, no computer printouts.

She wondered if Roy’s records were here. He had eventually wound up here as a patient, at least for a few months before the facility closed forever. She’d always thought it was pure irony that perhaps Roy had been spied on himself once he’d had his own breakdown.

These files, though, were older, and she found a folder marked
Chastain, Faith
. “Oh God,” she whispered and opened the dusty manila file. It was thick, filled with notes and charts and evaluations, too much information to sift through here. She tucked the file inside her backpack and tamped down the feeling that she was not only trespassing but stealing as well.

Too bad.

This was information that she, if she were Faith’s daughter, deserved to know. If it turned out she wasn’t related to Faith Chastain, then at least she might have some insight as to why someone was linking her to the woman and this hospital, why her father and Roy might have been murdered.

She flipped quickly through the other tabs and saw a few names that conjured up faces. Rich Carver…Oh, he was the odd boy who was so silent…always watching, a tiny smile playing upon his lips until he looked away; then his expression turned demonic.…The next name was Enid Walcott, a thin, birdlike woman with wild hair and wide eyes. Merwin Anderson, a big man who had sat and stared for hours at the birdhouse near his window. John Stokes, a sly boy who was always sedated, rumored to have murdered his cousin. Ronnie Le Mars…She stopped at the name. That was the name of the boy who’d stared at her with such intensity. Ronnie Le Mars. She shivered as she thought about his hot blue eyes. What had he been in for? Self-mutilation? Or…did she have him and John Stokes mixed up? Had Ronnie been the one who had killed a member of his family? She glanced back to the files. The last name she recognized was Neva St. James, a bright, crafty girl whose aunt had committed her because of some form of autism.

Though she would find the files fascinating and could use them for her research, she couldn’t take them with her, at least not now, so she quickly closed the cabinet, relocked it, and headed toward the stairs. Walking quickly, she bent to avoid hitting her head, while the beam of her flashlight, offering ever-weaker light in the sweltering attic space, swept side to side.

She saw the doll.

Her
doll, one that she hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years, caught in the yellow sweep of illumination.

“Sweet Jesus,” she gasped, training the fading light onto a corner where an old, faded sleeping bag was pushed near the tiny, dirt-covered window, a little nook where she had come and played for hours as a child. With her impish face and pleading tone, she’d managed to wheedle plates and forks from the kitchen staff, along with some of the cook’s key lime pie or pralines, then had dragged her booty up here. She’d nearly forgotten about this little nook, and she hadn’t seen the Charlotte doll in so, so long.

Now the doll was lying facedown on the dingy sleeping bag that seemed to be losing some of its filling to mice.

Something didn’t feel right about this.

She didn’t remember leaving Charlotte here, and she’d been up here long after she’d had any interest in rag dolls. This one had been sewn and stuffed by her grandmother. Nana had even made a blue dress and pinafore, then braided the doll’s brown hair and added a hat, as if she were a small girl at the turn of the century.

Now, as she edged closer, Eve noticed that Charlotte’s hat was tossed to one side, its ribbon ties askew. The doll’s braids had been clipped off and tossed away as well, leaving her plump head practically bald. Worse yet, Charlotte’s arms and legs were spread wide, and the hem of her dress was raised over her waist and fixed with a rubber band. Her panties were pulled down to the tops of her felt shoes, and her faded pink butt was sticking upward in the air in some weird pose.

“Sick,” Eve said, knowing she had never left Charlotte in such disarray. It was sexual and freaky and, she knew from her studies, the work of a psychopath. Her stomach turned, and a deep, clawing fear curled through her guts. As hot and stifling as it was up here, Eve was suddenly cold to the bone.

Who had been playing and had left Charlotte like this? One of the mentally unstable boys who was a patient at the asylum years ago?

Was this just a tormented soul’s idea of a joke?

No, Eve, this isn’t random!

You know it.

Someone left the doll positioned this way on purpose. And they wanted someone, probably you, to find her.

Her mouth went dry. She swallowed back her fear and inched closer to the sleeping bag then reached down and turned Charlotte over.

As she did, her blood ran cold.

A scream worked its way up her throat and ended in a terrified gasp.

Charlotte’s button eyes had been clipped off, her pinafore slashed with jagged cuts made by pinking shears, and she’d been mutilated across her belly, the number 444 scrawled in blood-red ink.

And below the numbers was a single word.

EVE.

CHAPTER 19

E
ve dropped the doll as if it had burned her fingers.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she said, backing toward the top of the staircase. Who would do such a thing? What sick mind would—

Briiing!

Her cell phone shrilled, and her heart nearly stopped. Scrambling for the damned thing, she pulled it out of the backpack and noticed that no number showed on the screen.
Restricted call.

Oh hell!

It rang again, and she, paralyzed, thought about turning the damned thing off.
Don’t answer it.

She clicked on the button.

Lifted the phone to her ear.

Didn’t say a word.

“
Heeeee’sssss freeee
…”

She slammed the phone shut and spun, the fading light from her flashlight splashing on the walls and underside of the roof where tiny nails poked through the ceiling. The person on the other end of the phone had known she was here, had realized she’d found the doll. She was certain of it. She reached into her backpack and withdrew a screwdriver, one of her grandfather’s tools. Her fingers wrapped around the grip, and, heart hammering, sweat staining her clothes, she searched all of the dusty corners, the hidden spots of the attic.

He’s not up here…remember? He’s a floor below. You saw his shadow.

She trained her flashlight on the doorway at the top of the stairs, the only entrance to the garret.

Heart in her throat, she waited, inching her way toward the door and the brick chimney. If she could hide to one side of it, when the psycho entered and stepped into the room, she could shoot past him, fly down the stairs, lock the door, and run to the fire escape and safety…

Or you could dial 911 now!

Even if the killer didn’t appear, you could show the police the doll.

And then what?

So someone messed with an old, forgotten toy.

She was the one who had trespassed.

She was the one who had broken into the hospital.

She was the one who, even now, had a stolen file in her backpack. No, she couldn’t let panic overtake her…She had to fight the anxiety.

Crouched by the chimney with its rough bricks and crumbling mortar, she turned off her flashlight and waited, hardly daring to breathe. Panic stormed through her. Her head began to pound.

Straining to listen, she silently counted.
One
…
two
…
three
…
four
…

Drops of sweat slid down her forehead and nose.…
five
…
six
…

She blinked.

Her breath came in panicked, wild little gasps.

Seven
…

Creak!

Oh Jesus, was that a footstep?

Her heart began knocking out of control. Someone was in the hospital with her.

She caught her breath.

Strained to listen.

Nearly screamed when she saw a mouse dart across the floorboards.

Another footstep.

Her fingers tightened around the screwdriver. Could she use it? Damned straight!

Give me strength.

More footsteps. Climbing faster now, no more hesitation.

He knew she was trapped!

A looming dark shape appeared in the doorway.

Every muscle bunched, she was ready to spring.
One more step, you son of a bitch, just take one more step.

“Eve!” a strong male voice echoed through the attic.

She nearly broke down completely. “Cole?” she whispered, and her voice was little more than a whimper.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Here!” She flung herself at him, her arms circling his neck as she collapsed against him.

“Hey!”

A part of her screamed,
The last time you were in a dark, scary place, he raised his gun and…No!

She wouldn’t believe it and nearly sobbed when she felt his strong arms wrap around her.

“Shh…darlin’, what?” he said against her hair. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

She nearly laughed. Her nerves were strung to the breaking point, and she needed release…laughter, tears…any kind of relief. Instead, she kissed him. Hard. Anxiously. Fervently. On the lips.

His response was immediate. His arms tightened, his hands splayed over her back, and his mouth molded to hers eagerly.

Desperately she clung to him and slowly, oh so slowly, her reason began to return. She was holding Cole and kissing him and practically lying down for him on this hard, dirty, vermin-infested attic floor.

Slowly she pulled away, stepping out of his embrace and running a hand through her hair as she caught her breath and grabbed hold of her runaway emotions.

“Change your mind?” he said, his voice a little raspy.

“You were lucky…. You, um, you almost ended up with a screwdriver through your neck.”

“From whom?” he asked, then guessed, “You? No way.”

“I was pretty freaked out,” she said shakily.

“If this is the reception I get, maybe you should be freaked out more often.”

“No thanks.” She flipped on her flashlight and shot the pale beam at his face. “How did you know I was here?”

“I followed you.”

“What?”

“Didn’t I tell you I thought we should camp out together?”

“I thought you were going to the police station.” She drew a breath, collecting her thoughts. “Wait a minute. How did you follow me?”

“You were trying to contact the Mother Superior. This hospital is connected to the case.”

“But how would you know? Why now? Why here?”

Cole seemed to come to a decision. “Since I’m trying like hell to make you trust me, I guess I’ve got to come clean. I put a bug on your car.”

“What? You’re kidding. Cole, you did
not
put some kind of electronic device on…” She could hardly speak. “This is…this is like stalking. You can’t just go around and…and invade my privacy—”

“While you’re breaking and entering?”

“Don’t turn this around.”

He laughed. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He slung an arm around her shoulders.

She tried to hang on to her sense of injustice. It was far better than gratitude…or fear…. “Don’t try to talk your way out of this, Counselor,” she said. “Um, there’s something I think you should see.” Using her flashlight to illuminate the way, she led him to the corner with the sleeping bag and Charlotte.

He stared down at the doll. “What the hell is this?”

“A message, I think. I saw it, then started to leave, and my cell rang. He said it again:
He’s free
. It was almost as if he knew I was in here looking at Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?”

“That’s what I called her. My grandmother made her for me years ago, and I thought she was locked in a trunk at the house. Nana insisted I save her for my own daughter if I ever have one. I hadn’t seen the doll in forever.”

“You’re sure it’s the same one?”

“Oh yeah. Charlotte’s an original.”

He bent down on one knee and, using a rag he found near the sleeping bag, picked up the doll gingerly, looking at her and the message slashed across her body. “Your name.”

Eve nodded, looking away from the tortured doll.

“Who knew about this place?”

“I…I don’t know…. Some of the kids who lived here, I guess, and I imagine the nuns knew what was going on. My dad even got wind of it and had a fit, which my brothers found particularly vindicating.”

“So they knew about it too?”

“Eventually, yes…and, well, I left all this stuff up here. Anyone who came up here over the last twenty years could figure out that I’d been here. I think I left some books with my name up here and, oh God, maybe even a diary.” She played the beam of the flashlight over the area under the window, where some old comic books and paperbacks were flung. “There’s my old English/Spanish dictionary.” Cole picked the book up. Inside the flap in girlish handwriting was the name Eve Renner.

“So, how did he lure you to the attic?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t even know I was coming here. If Sister Rebecca had seen me this afternoon, I probably would have gone straight home.”

Cole’s expression hardened, became more grim. “I wonder if he thought he would bring you up here.”

“What do you mean?” she asked but felt her skin tighten over her back as she understood.

“As in kidnap you.”

“God, no…don’t even say it.”

“Okay, I won’t.” He stood, a muscle working in his jaw. “But from here on in, I’m not losing sight of you. I’m going to stick to you like a burr.”

“You think you’re going to protect me?”

“Either me or the police.” He was grim.

“Not the police,” Eve responded instantly.

“Not the police, then.”

“But…we’ll have to tell them about this.”

For once he didn’t disagree. “As soon as possible. Let’s go.”

“Should we take the doll?” she asked.

He hesitated then shook his head. “Let’s leave things as they were, let the police come up here and see how it was.”

“All right.” Plucking Charlotte from his fingers, Eve turned her face-down on the sleeping bag and felt a little queasy to be even remotely associated with anything so perverted. Then she led the way down the rickety stairs that curved around the chimney. “You know, I almost had a heart attack earlier. You scared the liver out of me.” She relocked the door to the attic and stepped through the closet. “I was looking through a peephole into Faith’s room, and I saw your shadow pass by. I nearly lost it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I was creeped out anyway, and this was before I caught a glimpse of Charlotte. Then I saw you in 307.”

“In 307?” He motioned toward the closed door of the room in question. “I was never in that room.”

“Yes…you had to be.”

“No.” He was dead serious, his brows slammed together, his lips compressed. “I climbed the stairs, heard someone overhead, saw the open closet door, and climbed up to the attic.”

“But I saw you,” she insisted. “I know it was the right room, because your shadow passed over that horrible stain on the floor…”

“Not me, Eve. I swear.”

Her insides turned to water, and Cole, the idiot, strode down the hallway toward 307.

“Wait!” she said. She imagined her father’s killer behind the door, knife raised, ready to slice Cole’s throat. “Don’t!”

Ignoring her, he opened the door and stepped inside.

“Cole!” She started after him, but her toe caught on the edge of a baseboard that had come loose. She tripped. The flashlight went flying from her hand. Eve hit hard, the wind knocked out of her, pain splintering through her shoulder. She cried out, and Cole was beside her in an instant.

“Eve! Are you okay?” His gentle hand touched her back.

NO!
“I think so,” she whispered, but tears sprang to her eyes and fire burned through her shoulder and arm. She tried to push herself upright and winced.

“Here. Let me.”

“My flashlight,” she said weakly.

Cole located it and stowed it in her backpack. Then, guided by light trickling in through the few intact windows, he carefully picked her up and carried her down two flights of stairs. She had no choice but to sling her good arm around his neck for balance.

“I’m fine,” she said.

His face only inches from hers, he sent her a look. “Yeah, right.”

She felt like a fool. Yes, her shoulder pained her, but she was perfectly capable of walking on her own. “I take it there was no one in Faith’s room?”

“No.”

“Well, I was in there earlier, and I didn’t close the door on the way out. Unless you closed it, someone else was here.”

He muttered an oath under his breath. On the first floor he set her on her feet and twisted open the lock on the front door. Before he could attempt to pick her up again, she held her bad arm with her good and walked outside, where the sun had settled deeper into the horizon and the air had cooled a bit.

She felt as if she could breathe again.

Cole fashioned a sling out of the strap of her backpack, then helped her as they walked out the way they’d both come in, through the forest and along the fence line to the cemetery.

There was no way she could climb over the fence, but Cole helped her through the spot he’d chosen to enter, a section of weakened chain link that he’d kicked through. Now he bent it back and held it open, straining against the metal to allow Eve to pass through. By this time, her shoulder was throbbing.

“I’ll drive,” he said, but she shook her head as she spied his Jeep, which was parked near hers at the front gate of the cemetery.

“We’ll just have to come back later and pick up your car.”

“Not we. Me. I’ll get Deeds to bring me out here.”

“Oh, he’ll love that.” She moved her arm and sucked in her breath as pain shot through her shoulder.

“He’ll be fine with it.”

“Yeah, right.”

He took the keys from her, opened the passenger-side door for her, and without further argument she slid into the Camry’s sun-baked interior. A few seconds later, Cole climbed behind the wheel, dug through her backpack, and pulled out Faith Chastain’s file. “What’s this?”

No way to lie her way out of this one.
“Something I found.”

“Breaking and entering, and now larceny?”

“You should talk,” she said, and Cole gave her a quick smile. She nodded toward the file. “That’s the reason I came here. I thought I remembered some old files up in the attic.”

“More than this one?”

She nodded then leaned back in the seat. Not only was her shoulder throbbing, but her head as well.

He hesitated. Drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What?”

“I want to look at those files.”

“They’re ancient. Forgotten. At least twenty years old.”

“But they might hold a clue to what’s going on now,” he said.

“Why do you think that?”

He tapped his finger against the folder for Faith Chastain. “Because of her. She was here over twenty years ago. She had the baby no one knows about. Someone’s sending you clippings about her death. Why wouldn’t you think it might be someone in that file cabinet?”