Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (28 page)

Jase followed, knowing full well what was to come. But he wanted to hear it from the old man’s lips.

Ed drew deep on his Camel and let the smoke drift out of his nostrils as he looked into the trees that separated this side of the building from the street. “Okay,” he admitted. “Marian, she did take off with the baby, but he wasn’t younger than you. Well, at least not by much. And his name wasn’t Edward Junior. You’re right about that. His name was Jacob, but I figure you already know that. Just like you already know that he was your twin.”

C
HAPTER
28

H
e drove like a madman. When he’d seen that his shots had missed, that Zoe was getting away in the pickup, he’d run back to the cabin, left that miserable Chloe locked in the basement, and jumped into the car that he’d brought from town. He’d ditched the van, hidden it in the garage until he could repair it, but he still had the car . . . Myra’s car. The 2001 Ford Focus had barely been driven and blended well with other vehicles.

The good news was that Zoe hadn’t gotten far. She’d been too stupid or delirious to realize that she’d doubled back. He doubted it had been a ploy to get him off the track; it was easy enough to get turned around with all the bends in the river and the forest blocking one’s sight. She hadn’t known that the river itself was like a snake, twisting and turning on itself, so she’d only ended up a quarter mile away from the cabin. He’d whistled to the useless dog, jogged back to the canoe, and had been in his car within fifteen minutes.

He’d even managed to make the call.

Sure, he was a few minutes behind her now, but he was willing to bet that she would head straight to mama’s condominium, which, because he’d planned it, was only a stone’s throw from his own place. He thought of his house in the city, the little place with computers and phones. A respectable spot. The best part about it? The city house was far from the cabin that was titled in Myra’s name, where that bitch Chloe was waiting for the end she knew was coming. Damn, though, he needed Zoe.

Myra had been adamant when he’d called her. Their conversation, if that’s what you wanted to call it, had been hot. Angry. It ricocheted through his head, over and over again

“Get her!”

“But she’s seen my face.”

“All the more reason to stop her before she can identify you. What kind of cretin are you?”

“It’s too late.”

“Too late?” she’d said in a low voice that was more chilling than when she screeched. “It’s
never
too late. Now, find her, capture her, take her to the cabin, and finish what you started.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me. You know I’m right. I’m always right.”

He’d tuned her out then, just as he often did. He hadn’t even had to disconnect the phone. He’d learned over the years how to deal with her when her demands and accusations had bruised his brain, burrowing deep. It wasn’t as if she had to keep repeating herself, he heard her day and night. Until he’d learned how to ignore her voice as it rattled through his brain. He wondered if he’d made a mistake. Maybe she was the one who needed to die. But . . . no! He couldn’t think that way. Remorse was just as sudden and hot as his anger. Resolved to stay on track, he pressed the accelerator and headed to the city.

 

 

Miraculously, Zoe thought, the shot had missed.

No glass had shattered.

No tire had blown.

No metal on the body of the truck had been pierced.

But the driver, a farmer-type complete with trucker hat, plaid shirt, worn jeans, and boots, had finally gotten the message through his thick skull that the beast was hunting them down. Now the farmer was scared shitless, just like Zoe.

“For the love of God, what kind of trouble are you in?” he demanded as he took a corner too fast and the pickup skidded into the oncoming lane. They narrowly missed a brightly colored Volkswagen bus filled with screaming, happy kids and balloons flying from the open windows, a birthday party that had nearly become a disaster. Fortunately, he didn’t careen into the bus. “Why is that son of a bitch shooting at you? At us?”

The truck shuddered as he righted it, tires screeching.

“I don’t know why!” she screamed, bracing herself and believing that any second she would feel the sting of a bullet piercing her skin or exploding in her brain. “All I know is that he wants to kill me and my sister in some weird ritual that involves zero clothes and red ribbons and being hog-tied and all kinds of weird crap. He’s probably got Chloe and . . . oh, Jesus, I didn’t think he would kill her first, it all has something to do with birth order, I think, but now that I’ve gotten away, God only knows what he’ll do.” She didn’t want to think about it.... Now was the time for action, not worry.

The farmer shook his head, eyes on the road. “This is all some kind of crazy.”

At least he didn’t want to talk her ears off for the twenty minutes it took to reach the outskirts of town. Now, with the city of New Orleans rising before them, her heart leaped with joy at the thought of seeing her mother again, and relief to know that the psycho was far behind her.

But most likely so was Chloe.

And that leaping heart turned to stone.

Zoe didn’t want to believe that she had sealed her sister’s fate by escaping. But then, she didn’t know what had happened to Chloe. Maybe, just maybe, her twin had escaped, too. There was always the chance! Not for the first time she sent up a desperate prayer for her sister’s safety.

The phone jangled in her hands and she let out a sob when she saw her mother’s number.

“Mom!” she answered, her voice cracking.

“Oh, baby, where are you? I can’t believe you’re safe. Oh, my God, Zoe!” Selma said, her voice broken by a sob.

“I’m almost home. I’ll be there soon. Ten . . . maybe fifteen minutes at the outside?” She looked at the farmer for confirmation. He nodded, then held out his hand for the phone. Reluctantly, Zoe handed him the cell.

“Your mother?” he guessed, and Zoe nodded. Into the phone, he said, “This is Rand Cooligan. I’ve got your daughter with me and she’s fine . . . er, safe. But you’d better get the police involved. There’s some idiot taking potshots at her, shooting at my truck, and she’s got a wild tale to tell . . . yes . . . no, no, as I said, she’s okay . . . Yeah, soon. I know, I know. Just hang in there . . . Yeah, I know the area . . . uh-huh. Ten, fifteen minutes on the outside.... What? . . . No, I’m sorry. Just the one. Zoe. Yeah, sure. Here ya go.” He handed the phone back to Zoe. “She wants you to stay on the line ’til we get there. Can’t say as I blame her. You can talk all ya want. I know where we’re going, and the phone’s all charged up.”

 

 

“So all these years I had a twin brother and never knew about him?” Jase stared at the old man as if he’d never really seen him before. His cell phone pinged, indicating he’d received a text message. He ignored it.

“That’s about the size of it.” Ed drew hard on his cigarette, lost in thought.

“So where is he? And where is Mom?”

“Don’t know about the boy. But Marian? She’s dead.” He slid a glance at his son, then continued to gaze through the branches of the trees to the street below. Cars and trucks rolled past and a kid crouching on a skateboard skimmed along the sidewalk. A normal afternoon, for some.

“You kept in touch with her?” Jase was astounded. He thought of the one picture he’d seen of her, the haunted woman getting married.

“Nah.” He shook his head. “She had a cousin, in Pocatello, Idaho. That cousin called me years ago and gave me the news. Marian, she got sick early, don’t know what it was. Ended up in a nursing home. Died there. Buried in that town’s cemetery or cremated, I don’t know and I don’t really care.”

Jase felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Though he’d expected the news. He’d even mollified himself as a child, believing that his mother had to be dead or else she would have returned or reached out to him in some way. Still, the realization that she was really dead came as a shock, as if some part of that little boy still held on to the hope that if she were still alive, he would see her again, feel her arms surround him, smell her perfume. Silly. Stupid. He thought he’d grown out of that fantasy, but hearing that she was actually gone, that he’d never look into her face if for no other reason than to ask, “Why? Why did you leave me?” hit him harder than he’d imagined.

He felt his jaw work and he cleared his throat. “I didn’t find any mention of her death certificate.”

“You were probably lookin’ in the wrong name.”

“I searched Marian Selby and Marian Bridges.”

His father slid him a glance. “Next time try Wilcox. Helen Marian Wilcox Selby Bridges and then whatever else she went by. Probably got hitched a few more times, for all I know, all I care. She was married a few months when I met her. Went by her middle name. Never liked Helen, she claimed. We got together and that first husband, he didn’t like it none, but gave her a quickie divorce and . . . oh, hell, you know the rest.”

“No, Dad! That’s the problem. I don’t. Not by a long shot. And everything I believed, everything you told me, it wasn’t true.” His chest felt tight as bit by bit everything he thought he’d known about his mother was unraveling into a string of lies.

“Well, now you know as much about your mother as I do. Feel any better?”

The bastard. “And your son? What about my damned twin?” Jase asked, and realized he was gripping the railing, his knuckles white.

“I told you. Don’t know where he is, whether he’s alive or dead.” His father dropped his cigarette and crushed the butt with his boot heel. “Don’t care, neither. I did what I could for you and Prescott. Raised you best as I could. Yeah, it wasn’t perfect, not by any man’s measure, but I tried and I was there for you. Stood by you when you needed me. ’Til you were raised. ’Til you inherited.” Ed scowled, and in the disgusted twist of his lips, Jase could see his father’s old disappointment that he’d been skipped over, bitterness over the will that left his father’s money to Jase and Prescott.

“Ah, shit.” Ed stared down. “I can’t change the past, Jason, and I’m not sure I would if I could, but there it is. I don’t know about Jacob, never heard, and really never cared. You and Prescott, you were my sons. I don’t think I coulda handled another.”

“You don’t know anything about him?”

“Nothin’.” He kicked his cigarette butt off the deck under the railing, leaving a streak where the blackened tobacco had swept the concrete. “And that’s the way I’d like to keep it.”

“Not gonna happen, Dad. I’m gonna find him. Pres will want to know he has another brother, too.”

“Prescott?” Ed snorted his disbelief. “He’s got more’n he can handle with that wife of his. Lena bosses him around like a bitch mother dog and he’s the whipped puppy. Got him gettin’ rid of the farm, sellin’ insurance, and hopin’ to live near the preacher.” His graying eyebrows drew together. “Two kids and a third on the way. What’s he thinkin’?”

“What were you?” Jase demanded. “You had three.”

“Expectin’ only to raise two,” he corrected. “Didn’t know your mo—that she was havin’ twins until about fifteen minutes after you were born and out popped another. Biggest surprise of my damned life.”

“And not the best?”

“Hell, no,” Ed admitted. “The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed.”

So angry he could spit nails, Jase leaned in close. Despite the old man’s recent shower, Jase could still smell the scent of old cigarette smoke and stale liquor seeping through his father’s pores. “This is where it ends, Dad. All of it. The lies. The secrets. No more.”

Ed snorted and raised an unruly, disbelieving eyebrow. “Yours, too, boy? You gonna start tellin’ the truth from now on? Or is it just me that’s got to bare my damned soul?”

“All of us are, old man.” Jase didn’t hesitate. “You. Me. Prescott. A clean slate.”

“All of it?”

“Every last lie.”

Their eyes met. Clashed. Silently accused.

“I don’t know about Pres,” said Ed. “He might not agree.”

“He might not have a choice.”

“You’re up on a pretty high horse, son. Careful now. That’s how the mighty fall.”

“Fuck you, Dad.”

Jase’s cell phone pinged again. Another text. He yanked the phone from his pocket and read the news, from Kennedy in his office.

Assume you saw this about Donovan Caldwell. Guess the guilt finally got to him.

 

A link was included with the message. Jase clicked it open and quickly skimmed a breaking story about the death of the 21 Killer whose life had ended early this morning in his jail cell. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, and for a second his father and all their family drama was forgotten as he searched for more information about Caldwell’s death. Did Brianna know? What did it mean about the Denning girls? Had Donovan Caldwell been the 21 Killer and if so, who had abducted Zoe and Chloe? His only hope was that, if they hadn’t been taken by 21, if Caldwell had been convicted of a crime he’d committed, that the twins were still alive.

“Look, Ed,” he said, unwilling to give the lying bastard the title of father. “I have to go to the office. But we’re not done here. Just wait. Don’t go anywhere.”

His father found another cigarette in his pack and jabbed it between his lips. “That in there,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen where Jase had left the envelope with the check that he hadn’t mailed. The old man actually smiled and a light of interest flared in his eyes. “That for me?”

Jase didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The old bastard pissed him off too much. He made his way out the door and put thoughts of Edward Bridges and their sorry past behind him as he headed to the stairwell. He had enough time to go to the office, get more information about Donovan Caldwell’s death, and check in with Bentz at the station before he returned and dealt with Brianna.

His guts twisted a little at the thought.

But his anxiety wasn’t due to Caldwell’s death. No, he thought as he climbed into the cab and fired up the engine of his truck. His worries were from a far deeper and more intimate source. He rammed the truck’s gears into Reverse, backed out with a squeal of tires, and threw the truck into Drive.

How was he going to tell her the truth about her sister?

Squinting against the glare of the lowering sun, he slid his aviator sunglasses over his eyes and wondered how the hell he would ever admit that he’d been there the night Arianna Hayward was killed.