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

  “What about the girls’ father?” he asked.

  “Still around. Divorced from the mom. He’s remarried with kids. A new family. Well, sort of. He married Selma’s niece.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, major ouch. Anyway, I’m sure Carson’s concerned about his daughters, but not much support to Selma.”

  Jase nodded, taking it all in.

  Brianna sat back and let her tired eyes go fuzzy for a minute as she studied his dark silhouette in the muted light. Could she trust him? Lord knew she needed someone with some connections to try and find the twins. So far, the police hadn’t been much help, Selma was a wreck and Brianna was fast running out of options. Someone had to do something. But it was hard to believe that the someone she was hoping for would end up being Jase Bridges.

  The waitress returned with the check and when she reached for her purse, he reminded her that she’d insisted he buy. After a brief protest, she let Jase pay the bill.

  “This way you owe me,” he said. He dropped a few bills on the table, then found a business card in his wallet. “Here. You can call me on my cell. Any time.” He slid the card across the table.

  “Any time?”

  “Day or night.”

  “Three a.m.?”

  Again the flash of a smile, a quick spark of humor flashing in his eyes. “Try me.”

  “Promise you won’t bite my head off?”

  “Never.”

  “We’ll see.” She fished in her purse, found her keys, and made her way to the door.

  Outside the air was heavy, rain threatening, though the temperature was still hovering near seventy. Cars and trucks rumbled down the street.

  “I’ll talk to Selma.”

  “You know where to find me,” he said as they crossed to her car.

  “Yeah.” She unlocked the Honda with her keyless remote, then slid inside to leave him wedged in the open space with one hand on the top of her door and the other on the roof, preventing her from yanking her door shut.

  “Then call. I’m available.”

  From inside her car, she glanced up at him quickly, expecting a grin to indicate the double entendre, but his face held a guileless expression that she couldn’t read. For a second she got lost in his gaze.

  “Okay,” she said, noting that she sounded a little breathless. God, she was an idiot. “Got it.”

  He tapped twice on the roof, stepped away, and she, all the time trying to get her stupid racing pulse under control, tugged the door firmly shut.

  She flipped on the A/C even though it would take several minutes to blow cool air, then went about trying to pull out without nicking either of the two monster pickups that had wedged her in. After several attempts, inching backward and forward, she was able to finally pull away from the curb just as her cell phone went off. Ignoring the call, she checked her rearview and saw Jase Bridges standing where she’d left him, his hands in his pockets as he stared after her.

  What was his deal? she wondered.

  Why did she feel that he wasn’t being completely honest with her, wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up?

  “Because he’s one of the Bridges boys,” she told herself as cool air began to blow from the car’s vents. Then, silently, she added, And you’re paranoid, anyway, Brianna. You don’t trust anyone. Least of all a boy, no, make that a man, who might have the ability to turn you inside out.

  Still, there was something about Jase Bridges that caused her to think he knew more than what he was saying, that he had his own agenda. Something hidden. Something she couldn’t put her finger on and certainly didn’t trust.

  So don’t call him.

  “I won’t,” she promised herself. But even as she made the vow, she knew she was lying to herself.

  CHAPTER 15

  “You’re an idiot!” Myra’s voice echoed through his brain as he drove to the cabin. The van bounced over a pothole, warm night air whistling inside through the broken window. His arm still hurt from where he’d smashed the glass. Oh, hell, he hurt all over from Zoe’s sneak attack. Little bitch!

  Of course he had to report what had happened and now with his cell phone rammed against one ear he was taking the brunt of Myra’s wrath. He had known Myra would be angry, and he’d considered not telling her, but he’d let the truth slip and now she was furious with him.

  “I’ll find her.” He made the promise aloud though Myra seemed to be seething and didn’t immediately answer. He almost thought the wireless connection had been lost. Again. That was the trouble with Myra; she’d often ice him out, not answer, make him think she wasn’t listening or worse yet, wasn’t there.

  Finally, he heard her. “You bet you will. If you don’t, what do you think will happen?” She was nearly screeching now, her rage propelled by her own fear, her anger bouncing through his brain. “The police will come, you know. And you won’t get away.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  He imagined her lips, full and red, the color of Christmas ribbons, pulled down at the corners, her sharp white teeth flashing between them.

  “I’ll use the dog,” he said. “I’ve got her clothes. Old Red, he’ll catch the scent.”

  “You hope! For all you know, she could be miles away by now. What did you say? She floated downriver? For the love of Christ, how do you know she hasn’t been found? She might be at the police station even now.”

  “She’s hurt.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Something was wrong with her leg.”

  “But she got away,” Myra pointed out, and he nodded, as if she could see him, then nearly missed the turnoff from this backwoods road to the cabin. Wrenching on the wheel, he swore under his breath and nearly dropped the damned phone. His van skidded, narrowly missing a fence post.

  “Look, I gotta go,” he said.

  “Find her.”

  “I will.”

  “And don’t kill the other one until you have the first,” she reminded him, disgust evident in her dulcet voice. In his mind’s eye he saw those ruby-colored lips curled in repulsion. “There has to be order.”

  “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll fix things.”

  “You’d better,” she said, and it was nearly a threat. He felt his blood begin to boil, the way it always did when she pushed him too hard. “You don’t have a choice.” And then she was silent. As she was so often.

  “Bitch,” he whispered, not caring that he hadn’t actually heard her click off. Tossing the phone onto the seat, he felt the familiar storm roil within. This is how it had always been with Myra, for as long as he could remember, and yet he loved her, had always loved her. That was the sick thing about their relationship. She took him and his love for granted. If he were smart, he’d get rid of her, too. She knew far too much, pulled his strings much too tightly.

  He slowed, left the van idling in Park, and climbed out. The scent of the river and forest was strong here, climbing up his nostrils, burrowing deep in his chest. Pausing for a moment to look for stars and spying only a few, he took a couple of deep breaths, shook off Myra’s tirade, and unlocked the twisted gate. He’d have to fix it. Before Myra got a peek at the nearly ruined bars.

  It took a little effort to force the bent latch into place, but he managed, locking himself in and climbing behind the wheel again.

  Myra’s words still stung, hot as a bald-headed hornet’s bite. Jesus, he should just off her. She made him crazy. Even now, driving along the ruts leading to the cabin, the dry grass bending and scraping the undercarriage of his van, he felt sweat collect on his hands. With an effort, he tried to turn his thoughts from Myra. He couldn’t let her get under his skin, not when he had so much work to do.

  Not only did he have to find that fucking Zoe and deal with her sister, but he also had to fix the window on his van before anyone started asking questions. He hadn’t been completely honest with Myra. The truth was, he was worried about Zoe. That little twit had tricked him. He’d spent
a good part of the day searching for Zoe. Of course, he’d taken the dog, who had followed Zoe’s trail to the river. But from that point on, his hound could find nothing other than a couple of squirrels and a nasty raccoon that had bared its teeth, dark eyes glaring from the lower branches of a tupelo tree.

  He and the dog had walked more than two miles downstream, searching the banks on this side, but the truth was that bitch might have floated to the next town. If that happened, it was all over. She’d seen him. Could ID him to the damned cops. And then it wouldn’t be long before they’d find him.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Or she could be dead. Drowned. Killed by an alligator or snake or a damned bear. Anything is possible.

  He told himself that her demise would be a good thing; she wouldn’t be able to identify him. But that would leave him with the mess of the other one. Should he kill her? Assume the older twin was already dead and end the younger one’s life? It would disrupt his routine. Not good. Even now, just thinking about the order being upset caused his chest to tighten and his scalp to itch with anxiety. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

  He knew it.

  And so did Myra.

  She was just pissed, that was all, and she’d get over it. Maybe. If he could rectify the situation and find that damned Zoe. He’d made a big mistake the night before. He should have taken the time to release the dog, put Red on the scent right away, but he’d been running blind, fueled by pain, adrenaline, and outrage. And he hadn’t had his night-vision goggles with him. Another mistake.

  That was what happened when you allowed things to spin out of control.

  That was why there needed to be order and precision.

  As he rounded a final corner, the right front tire hit a pothole. The entire van shimmied, agitating him further.

  There are others. You have to finish this business and go after the others. You cannot be distracted.

  He was sweating profusely now, and as the beams of his headlights played over the peeling paint of the small cabin, he tried to calm himself. He slowed and guided the van to the far side of the structure. Though the cabin was settled deep in these woods and it was highly unlikely that anyone would spot his vehicle, he took every precaution.

  You couldn’t be too careful, he decided as he cut the engine. There were always hunters and poachers in these woods, nosy types who might catch a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. Then there were the squatters, people who came in and made old shacks and cabins their homes until they were rousted out. All the warning signs in the world wouldn’t keep the squatters at bay. He’d posted NO TRESPASSING, PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OUT, and even BEWARE OF DOG signs all along the perimeter of this scrap of land, but did everyone abide by them? No fuckin’ way. There was always someone willing to break the damned rules.

  And that was the problem.

  No order.

  “Fuckers,” he growled under his breath. Hopefully now, with the dog, people would stay away.

  In life, there were rules.

  You had to play by them, he thought as he reached into the glove box and grabbed his flashlight.

  That’s why he couldn’t kill that whimpering, whiny Chloe first.

  Angry, he climbed out of the cab, kicked at a clod of dirt, took two steps toward the building, then stopped. He returned to his vehicle, reached inside, and yanked the keys from the van’s ignition. That’s where he’d made his mistake yesterday. Well, one of his mistakes. Leaving the keys in the damned van. Yesterday’s plan had turned into a major clusterfuck of errors.

  Today would be different. He slid the automotive keys into a front pocket of his jeans, then whistled loudly just as he opened the gate to the dog run and spied Red bounding from his shed. Smiling, he stopped to pet the bloodhound with his notched ear, the result of a tussle with a raccoon or worse, then followed the dog back inside. “Ya hungry?” He took down a plastic tub of dog food, measured out two cups, and checked to see that the water was fresh. It wasn’t, so he pumped a bucket from the long sink on the back porch, then returned to fill several bowls, not that the dog couldn’t make his way down to the river if he really had to.

  “There ya go,” he said, once Red had buried his nose into the dry food. A stray, Red had landed here and stayed.

  It had worked out.

  “All good here?” he asked. “No trouble, eh, boy?” He rubbed the scruff of the hound’s neck. “Good. You stay out here and guard the place, y’hear?” Straightening, he pulled a second small key ring from his pocket and crossed the open space to the rotting back porch. Bullfrogs were croaking, insects were humming, and the warm Louisiana summer night smelled of the bayou. The kind of night he loved. If he didn’t have so damned much to do, he would have loved to sit on the ancient bench with the dog, crack open a cold beer, let the country air soak into his skin, and find himself some peace of mind.

  But he couldn’t.

  Not yet.

  Unlocking the door of the cabin, he felt the heat of the small interior. With the windows closed and boarded up and no insulation in the old pine walls, the cabin was an oven. Evidence of insects, wasps, and mice was visible on the floorboards.

  All the better for the place to seem unoccupied, he supposed, and flicked on his flashlight to better survey the place. Boots creaking on the ancient dusty floor, he walked to the trapdoor and smiled when he noticed it hadn’t been disturbed, the lock in place. The only time the latch was open was when he was inside, doing his work, making certain everything was perfect. And it had cost him one twin.

  But he still had the other. The weaker one who had proved a little more gutsy than he’d expected. He’d thought he could control her easily, but she’d proved to have a little fight in her, like her wilder sister, Zoe. He had known Zoe would be difficult. One always was.

  They both needed to die, of course. Their birth times had passed, but he could still re-create the ritual. First, he would have to find that fucking Zoe and bring her back here. Then he and Myra would pick the appropriate date. That part was easy. And then he would wait for the exact time of her birth and kill her and her sister in the same manner as he had the others.

  Dealing with the twins was a spiritual rite for him, almost religious in nature, though he didn’t consider himself a God-fearing man.

  He unbolted the trapdoor, slipped the ladder down to rest against the floor, and braced the top rails against the edge of the opening. He tested the ladder with his weight and squeezed through the tight opening. As he descended, his body ached a bit where he’d been wounded. Carefully, he made his way down, rung by rung, as cool, earthy air hit his nostrils and the sound of quiet sobs greeted his ears.

  She was scared.

  Good.

  He actually smiled, though his skin was so raw it was probably a grimace.

  Maybe if she was frightened enough, she wouldn’t give him any more trouble. She’d be good and compliant.

  As he swung his flashlight’s beam across the cracked floor, he found her cowering in a corner, looking scared enough to piss herself.

  Perfect!

  The room was as he’d left it, but the disarray and blood, the untidiness of it all bothered him. He, himself, was neat. Precise. Even though this underground room was just a work space and a prison, he kept it well-ordered. But now he didn’t like the broken light giving off its weird illumination, or the way his work had been strewn over the workbench in his struggles to dislodge Zoe as she’d attacked him.

  No, the prison wasn’t right. Wouldn’t do.

  Frowning, he glanced at Chloe in the corner. She’d been staring at him, he’d felt it, but now she shrank away, tried in vain to cover her body and avoid eye contact.

  Weakling.

  At least she wouldn’t give him any trouble, he decided, as he slowly removed his clothes, hanging his jeans and shirt on hooks in the wall, stripping bare before putting on his apron. It unnerved her to see him naked, to be without any shred of clothing herself in his presence. He
sensed it, but that was a good thing. For him. Realizing that she was on edge was comforting. Calming. He’d let her watch him work, see that he was righting the small room, creating the perfect space for his ritual.

  Taking care, he refolded Chloe’s clothes and felt a tightening in his gut as he did the same with her sister’s. The short dresses were so soft, a clingy material that felt like satin in his fingers. He couldn’t help but fantasize when he considered the smooth fabric stretched over their bodies, molding as it had to their skin. His cock twitched a bit as he imagined how the silken material stretched over their breasts, how it would feel to his touch, a bit of resistance between his palms and their nipples. He stole a glance at Chloe, at her boobs, so white, with blue veins visible and tiny, hard nipples that looked like buttons. Sexy buttons. A tingle invaded his crotch. He licked the edges of his teeth. Turning a bit, he gave her a gift, a quick glimpse of his cock, thickening with thoughts of sex with the two of them, their long, streaked hair falling over him, their mouths painted red, bright red, and ready to open to him. He let out a groan when he thought of those slick, scarlet lips and the joy they could bring.

  Stop it.

  He heard Myra’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room with him, his conscience sounding as shrewish as her cloying reminders.

  You have work to do! The nagging voice never let up.

  His dick started to shrivel.

  Chloe recoiled farther into the corner.

  With clenched jaw, he turned away from his prisoner and tied on his apron. There was no time for sexual fantasies. None. He had to feed her, just so she would stay alive. He had a straw, several water bottles, and a can of a protein shake that he’d seen the caretakers give his mother when she’d been living in a memory care unit in the nursing home.

  A bitter woman to start with, Mother had only gotten worse as her decline into dementia had made her more nasty and critical than ever. Even when she’d no longer recognized him as her son, he had visited, watched her rot in that twin bed with its beige sheets, an afghan at her feet. Her scraggly hair had been tied away from her face in a thin ponytail and she’d squinted through thick glasses, trying to place him.