Devious - Lisa Jackson [162]
“Hey!” He grabbed her arm. “About last night—”
“Pretty damned great, right?” she teased.
He didn’t smile. “Yeah, it was. But before. You had a nightmare . . .”
“The same one I’ve had for years. I had it as a child, and for a long time it was gone . . . then . . .” She thought for a moment and didn’t want to dwell too deeply on the monsters of her subconscious. “It’s returned.”
“Since when?” he asked, and she didn’t have to think too hard.
“Since I came back to New Orleans,” she admitted, but didn’t add, Since I left you back in Bad Luck.
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.” She was certain of that. Thinking of the dream would only shatter the peace of mind they’d found together, ruin it all. “Maybe later.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” She looked straight into his eyes, where drips of water were still starring his lashes. “In time.” She slipped out of his grip and steadfastly shoved all thoughts of the nightmare from her mind.
Once she’d toweled off and thrown on her robe, she started coffee and let an anxious Bo out as the warm Louisiana sun began to warm the day. Lights were on in the main house, and birds were already chattering, though traffic was sluggish, as it was the weekend.
Slade, dressed only in low-slung jeans, walked into the kitchen. “You could get lucky today,” he said with a wink.
“I thought I already did.”
“That was me. But I could take you out to breakfast. What about beignets down by the river? I’d even spring for some fancy coffee drink—you know, the kind those people in the Northwest are so nuts about.”
“A latte?”
“Or whatever.”
“Sure, but first I have a few duties here. Let me help Freya and then we’ll—”
Her cell phone rang and she picked it up. She didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID but answered anyway. “Hello?” she said as Bo whined to be let in and the coffeemaker gurgled.
Nothing.
“Hello?”
Her heart froze.
“Is anyone there?”
“You’re nexxxxxxt,” the snakelike voice hissed. “And there is no essssscape.”
As the sun crested the eastern sky and fingers of gray light slipped through the streets and alleys of New Orleans, Montoya found his brother outside. Cruz was seated on the back stoop, Hershey lying at his feet, his battered motorcycle helmet at his side, a cigarette burning, unsmoked between his fingers.
To top things off, Cruz smelled like a brewery.
The motorcycle was conspicuously missing, probably lost in an all-night poker game.
“Trouble?” Montoya asked as Hershey climbed to his feet and nudged his leg for a pet.
“Nothin’ I haven’t faced before.” Cruz looked up and sighed. “Boy, did I fuck up,” he said.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Hell, no!”
Montoya sat on the stoop beside him and waited. Cruz crushed his cigarette under the heel of his boot; then reluctantly, pissed as hell at himself, he told his brother about his night.
Sister Charity was beside herself.
Two nuns missing this morning? Two?
She swept down the hallway, the skirts of her habit rustling, her rosary beads clacking, her hem brushing across the floor.
Oh, Holy Mother, be with me.
They had searched the grounds and the rooms, but nowhere could she find Sister Lucia and Sister Louise.
Where could they be?
Worry ate at her, causing her stomach to burn with acid and her mind to travel to dark places inhabited by Lucifer himself. Don’t go there, she silently reprimanded herself as she walked through Sister Lucia’s room one last time. It was empty, all her earthly possessions gone, the bed neatly made.
Sister Louise’s room, however, was just the opposite. It looked very inhabited, the impression on her mattress visible still, the sheets rumpled, the covers thrown off. But the bed was cold to the touch. Cold as death.
Charity’s heart constricted. Fear seeped into her soul, and even the corners of her eyes felt tight, as if pulled by imaginary strings.
Thankfully, she thought, no bodies had been found.
Maybe they left.
Together.
The difference in their rooms mere indications of their different