Amanda was admiring her work. “Now let’s see”—She looked at Caitlyn—“the fun part. I’ll cut the cord as Atropos.” With her pair of long-bladed surgical scissors, she snipped the red and black braid cleanly.
Caitlyn managed to move one finger. Just barely.
“Perfect,” Amanda announced, setting the scissors on the desk and turning to the image of the grotesque tree with its frightening pictures. “Pretty soon you’ll join the others.”
Not if I can help it!
Kelly’s voice reverberated through her head.
Move your fucking hand, Caitlyn! Grab the scissors!
Caitlyn strained, inched her hand forward. Amanda’s back was turned. Obviously she thought Caitlyn couldn’t move, nor had she noticed Hannah slowly getting closer, inching her body near enough that Amanda, with one false step, could trip.
“What’re you doing?” Amanda suddenly demanded, glaring at Hannah. “You never learn, do you? I guess I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.” She reached for the scissors and swiped them off the table. “Maybe I should show you what happened to Josh?”
Hannah shook her head, began scooting frantically away.
“He bled to death, one little drop at a time.” She advanced on Hannah who was cowering between the desk and the rest of the room, wedged and unable to move, just below Caitlyn.
Amanda leaned down, but instead of untying one of Hannah’s hands and reaching for her wrist she grabbed a handful of Hannah’s hair and pulled it back, exposing her sister’s throat.
Oh, God.
The gun! Where is Charles’s damned gun?
Caitlyn searched wildly, saw it on a corner of the tarp, seemingly miles away. She could never reach it in time. All too slowly, the drug in Caitlyn’s bloodstream was wearing off. She could move. Her toes wiggled slightly. Bit by bit, her muscles were responding. But she didn’t have time to wait and she couldn’t reach the damned pistol. Amanda was drawing an imaginary line on Hannah’s throat and Hannah was quivering in fear, trying to pull away, but tied in such a manner that she could do nothing but cry and whimper.
“Watch, Caitlyn. Can you see?” Amanda asked. “You’re next. That’s what the tarp is for, to catch the blood splatter. As soon as Hannah passes out, it’ll be your turn. Now.” She opened the scissors. The blades glimmered wickedly. Ever so slowly, drawing the drama out, Amanda placed the open blade against Hannah’s white throat as she struggled. A drop of blood showed against her skin.
It was now or never.
Do something. Do it now!
Caitlyn strained. Her hand moved with a jerk. In her peripheral vision, Amanda saw her and reacted. Sliced quickly. Just as Hannah squirmed away. Blood spurted as she lunged at Caitlyn, bloody scissors raised. “You little bitch. You thought you could get away?”
The blades swung down, straight at Caitlyn’s face, but she shifted, threw all of her weight to one side and Amanda missed, the scissors hit the desk hard and Caitlyn kicked, one shoe jamming into Amanda’s abdomen.
Startled, Amanda fell backward, tripping over Hannah. Caitlyn scrabbled for the scissors as they clattered across the desk. On the floor Hannah was gurgling and spitting blood. Oh, God, it was all over.
More noises. Amanda finally heard the sound of footsteps as she nearly fell onto the gun. “What the hell?”
“Police. Open up!” A man’s voice rang through the underground rooms.
“Shit.” Amanda grabbed Charles’s pistol and her eyes were bright with anger. She glared down at Caitlyn. “This is your fault, isn’t it? You led them to me.” Her eyes narrowed.
“This is the police. Open the door. Now!”
“Go screw yourselves,” Amanda muttered and leveled the gun at Caitlyn’s head. “This isn’t what I had in mind, Caitie-Did, but it’ll have to do.”
With a muted squeal, Hannah rolled under Amanda’s feet. Blood smeared over the tarp.
Caitlyn swept the scissors into her hand and lunged, throwing all her weight at her sister.
The leap was clumsy, awkward.
Amanda stumbled. She fell backward over Hannah with Caitlyn atop her.
The gun blasted. Rocked the tiny room in a deafening roar.
Hot pain screeched through Caitlyn’s abdomen. With all her strength she plunged the scissors deep into Amanda’s neck and rolled away.
In a horrifying red plume blood spurted from Amanda’s throat and she screamed hideously.
The door to the room crashed open.
Caitlyn was gasping, in agony, her skin on fire.
Hannah, oh, God, please don’t let Hannah die!
Weapons drawn police officers burst through the doorway. Guns pointed at her as the blackness came, pulling her under, a balm against the hot pain in her stomach.
“Get the EMTs,” a man shouted. It was a familiar voice. Reed. That was it. Detective Pierce Reed.
“They’re on their way,” a woman said, but Caitlyn couldn’t see her and the buzz in her head was louder than the voices, drowning out the noise.
“We need them now! Jesus Christ, they’re all gonna bleed to death!”
The voices were far away, from a distance and she was fading away. Images floated behind her eyes, a kaleidoscope of pictures. Kelly laughing as a child, teasing her and running in the sun then the explosion, a burst of fire and light that lit up the night . . . Griffin sharing secrets in the woods . . . Nana with her cold eyes and colder touch . . . Charles lying bleeding in the forest, no longer able to come into the room at night and Jamie, sweet, sweet Jamie giggling as they built a sand castle on the beach one summer . . . then there was Adam. Handsome. Strong. Patient, dark hair and enigmatic smile . . . knowing eyes and firm lips . . . Her throat closed and over the far-off din of shoes scraping and the remote voices of people yelling, she imagined what she would say to him if only given the chance.
Oh, please . . . Adam . . . forgive me for not being stronger
.
Thirty-Four
Adam stalked from one end of the hospital’s waiting room to the other. He was alone, wearing a path in the blue carpet that stretched between a dying potted palm and a plate-glass window overlooking the parking lot.
It had been twelve hours since the shooting, four of which Caitlyn had been in surgery to remove the bullet that had torn through her spleen in her struggle with Amanda. Caitlyn had survived; Amanda had not. Which was just as well, Adam thought angrily. Amanda Montgomery had killed and tortured too many as it was.
Hannah was hanging on by a thread, transfusions not yet making enough difference to ensure her life. He sent up a quick prayer for her and Caitlyn as well.
Caitlyn worried him. Already mentally frail, how would she react when she came face-to-face with the fact that she’d killed her sister, the very sister who had murdered most of her family, including Caitlyn’s daughter? How would she accept the news that she suffered from DID and possibly schizophrenia, that she was unique to the world of psychology by taking on her sister’s personality? He rubbed his jaw and felt a day’s worth of whiskers.
Guilt had been with him for hours. Gnawing at his brain. Tearing at his soul. He should have told her the truth from the get-go, should have risked telling the police about Rebecca. Maybe things would have been better. Maybe lives would have been saved. Maybe some of the carnage could have been avoided. Maybe Caitlyn would never have had to suffer.
Mother of God, he’d blown it. If only—
“Doctor Hunt?” A nurse was approaching him.
His head snapped up. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Bandeaux’s awake and the police are through interviewing her. She’s asking for you.”
“Let’s go.” Adam felt immense relief.
The nurse didn’t move, but stared at him with knowing eyes. “Just so that you understand it’s only for a few minutes. The doctor wants her to rest.”
“No problem.”
The nurse cracked a smile. “She’s in three-oh-seven. The elevators are just down the hall, around the corner.”
“Thanks.” He half jogged to the bank of elevators, passing an aide pushing a wheelchair. Now that he was finally allowed to see Caitlyn, he couldn’t put it off a second later. He needed to see that she’d survived the ordeal. That she was really Caitlyn, that she understood about her condition, that . . . oh, hell, so many things.
He’d been such a shortsighted fool. Rather than wait for an elevator car, he threw himself into the stairwell and took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. What would she say when she saw him again? How would she react? He’d have to tell her all of the truth. Everything.
Through the doors and around a corner he jogged, nearly plowing into Detective Reed who lingered near the door to Caitlyn’s room. Reed was rumpled, his hair a mess, his tie loose, his jaw ragged with beard growth, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Probably a reflection of Adam himself.
“I thought you guys were finished.”
“We are. But I wanted to ask you a few more questions, just to tie up some loose ends.”
“Fine, but first—”
“Yeah, go in and see her. I’ll go grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, if the media lets me. They’re all over this one.” He shook his head wearily. “Have been from the onset. You can meet me downstairs when you’re done here.”
“I will.” Adam nodded, then strode into the sterile looking room.
Caitlyn was awake. Lying flat on her back, IVs running into one arm. Her hair was mussed and she looked as if she’d lost ten pounds in the last twenty-four hours, but as he walked closer to the bed, her eyes cleared. And they were angry as hell. “You knew,” she charged before he could say a word. “You knew about the split personality—and don’t worry, just for the record, I’m Caitlyn now, not Kelly.”
“I didn’t know. I guess I should have, but I only figured out the truth when I found Rebecca’s disks. I was going to tell you as soon as—”
“You bastard!”
“I know how you feel—”
“How could you? Are you crazy?” She heard her own words and rolled her eyes. “You could’t have any idea how I feel, what I’ve been through.” He took a step closer and she leveled him with her gaze, silently warning him to keep his distance. “As to my sessions, were those even real? Were they? The way I understand it, you were married to Rebecca. You weren’t interested in me. You were just trying to find your wife and—”
“Ex-wife.”
“Enough of a wife that you cared for her, that you were willing to come down here and lie to me and . . . and—”
“And fall in love with you,” he said flatly.
The room was suddenly silent. He realized that his hands had balled into fists, that his nerves were strung tight as piano wire, that he’d wanted to tell her the truth ever since realizing it himself.
“In love?” she whispered suspiciously.
“Yes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Give me a break.”
“Okay, it’s not how it started, it’s not what I intended, but I swear to you, Caitlyn, that’s what happened.”
“In between all the murders. And abductions. And damned lies. Get real, Adam.” Her jaw was set, the flicker of happiness that he’d seen in her eyes only days ago, now extinguished. Probably forever. It was no use to try and tell her differently.
“I’m sorry.” He stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
“You should be. Not that I believe you.”
“Listen, Caitlyn, I don’t blame you for being upset. Really.” His jaw worked with the effort not to rush to her and try and convince her how much he cared. “Look, I want you to know that I’m sending all of Rebecca’s notes on you, her paper files and a computer disk, to you by registered mail. You can do what you want with them, take them to another psychiatrist, give them to the police, it doesn’t matter. They’re valuable. You were a unique case. That’s what Rebecca was looking for. She had an agent and a publisher interested.”
“So she thought of me as a lab specimen, too.” Caitlyn blinked against an onslaught of tears. Her eyes filled but she didn’t let any drops slide down her cheeks. “And it cost Rebecca her life.”
“I don’t think that’s the way it started but go ahead and look through everything and judge for yourself.” He considered touching the back of her hand, but the rage in her gaze convinced him it wasn’t a good idea. “When you get out of here, if you want to discuss anything, I would be glad to—”
“I don’t think so,” she clipped out, and he didn’t push it. She’d been through hell and back a dozen times.
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Really, don’t bother.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “No bother at all.”
“Go back to Wisconsin or Ohio or wherever it is you’re from and leave me alone.”
“Is that what you really want?”
“Yes.” She glared up at him. “Since you asked, you may as well know that what I really want is to put this nightmare behind me.” She blinked hard and clenched her jaw. “I want my daughter back. I want my siblings and mother alive. I want to see Kelly, not be her, I . . . I want this damned thing never to have happened, but it did. And somehow I’ve got to put it all into some kind of perspective. So in order for me to be right, really right, I’m going to need time and lots of it.”
“I can wait.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “No one can wait that long.”
He touched her hand then, squeezed her fingers for the span of a heartbeat. “Just watch.”
Reed didn’t much like the shrink. But as they talked in the cafeteria, he started to revise his opinion. Either the guy was one hell of an actor or he really cared for Caitlyn Bandeaux. Well, someone should. The woman had lost about every bit of her family. Troy had survived and Hannah, who had been marked for death, might pull out of it, though the doctors were saying it was touch and go. She was young and strong, but she’d lost a lot of blood and the scar at the base of her throat would be a jagged reminder of the one inside. God, who could turn out normal after that? Not that any of the Montgomerys even brushed normal.
So even if physically she managed to survive, there was the psychological angle to consider . . . Hell, the remaining Montgomerys could keep all the shrinks in the area in BMWs for the rest of their lives. Morrisette had been right. Looney-effin’ -tunes.
Right now the psychologist—and he was one legitimately, Morrisette had checked—was slumped in a plastic cafeteria chair while shredding his empty coffee cup. Reed was convinced that Hunt didn’t have anything to do with the killings. But he did have information. “So you’re not giving up the notes on Caitlyn Bandeaux.”
“No. I told you, that’s privileged information. You’ll have to subpoena me.”
“Which we will do.”
“Fine.” Adam’s lips formed a thin line.
“We’re trying to understand why your wife was killed.”
“My ex-wife. We were divorced quiet a few years back.”
“But you came down here to find out what happened to her.”
“That’s right.”
“You should have come to the police.”
Reed lifted a shoulder. “That’s the beauty of retrospect. One sees so much more clearly.”
The conversation wasn’t over, but as many questions as Reed asked, he didn’t find out much more information on Caitlyn or Kelly. Hunt wasn’t going to give the police or anyone else the material on any of the Montgomerys, and he seemed determined to camp out here at the hospital until Caitlyn was officially released. Fine. He could help fend off some of the reporters who had gathered.
Reed tossed his empty coffee cup into the wastebasket, walked out a back door and saw Nikki Gillette lurking near his police car. “Detective Reed,” she called, waving a hand. God, would she never give up?
“No comment.”
“I haven’t even asked a question.”
“Good.” He slid into his car.
“Look, Detective, the citizens of Savannah need to know the truth.”
“The Public Information Officer is giving a statement.”
“But you led the investigation. If I could have a few minutes, buy you a cup of coffee—”
“No, thanks.” He slid behind the wheel of the Crown Vic. Obviously the woman didn’t understand the word ‘no.’ But then she’d grown up privileged, the daughter of Judge Ron “Big Daddy” Gillette, a spoiled pretty girl not understanding that she couldn’t have everything she wanted. Driving off, he glanced in his rearview mirror to see her standing, arms folded under her chest, hair glinting red-blond in the late afternoon sunlight.
At the station, things were buzzing. He ducked past another reporter, Max Whatever-His-Name, the square-jawed pushy son of a bitch who reported for WKAM, by hustling up the back stairs. Reed caught up with Morrisette at his office. “What have you got?” he asked.
“Plenty.” She looked tired as hell. “They’re dredging the river in a spot between that house Caitlyn Bandeaux rented for”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“Kelly AKA Kacie Griffin. Jesus, can you imagine paying for a place for your split personality? Makes you wonder how much she really knew about herself. Anyway, a fisherman saw something in the river and we sent down divers. It’s a white Mazda with plates that match Marta Vasquez’s.”
“She inside?”
Morrisette looked him square in the eye. “Someone is.”
“Montoya know?”
“He’s already there.”
“Shit. Let’s go.”
They drove just under the speed of sound. Morrisette was at the wheel, juggling a lit cigarette, her cell phone and traffic. By the time they arrived the car had been hoisted, dripping and dirty, from the bottom of the river. A woman, so decomposed it was hard to tell much about her, was positioned behind the wheel, no doubt another of Amanda Montgomery’s victims. Hell, she’d been a sicko. Reed had seen the sterile lab with its macabre family tree. The lab had been sealed off, the crime scene team going over it for trace evidence.
Now, looking at the car, Reed figured Diane Moses’s team would be racking up hours of overtime.
Montoya was there. Back ramrod stiff as he watched the car being lowered onto the riverbank. Morrisette and Reed approached him.
“You okay?” Morrisette asked, reaching into her purse for her smokes and offering one to Montoya.
He took the cigarette and lit up. “Yeah.”
Reed wasn’t buying it. “This her car?”
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry,” Morrisette said.
“Aren’t we all?” Montoya’s jaw was set, and when it was suggested that he might not want to see the badly decomposed body, he’d stood fast, his dark eyes going over what was left of his girlfriend. It would take a while to check the dental records, but they all knew that the remains behind the wheel were probably those of Marta Vasquez. A muscle worked in Montoya’s jaw, but he calmed it by taking a long drag on his smoke.
There wasn’t much more Reed or Morrisette could do.
There wasn’t much anyone could.
Caitlyn was itching to get home. She hated lying around the hospital, fielding calls from reporters, seeing her picture on the front of the paper, being poked and prodded by doctors and looked at with curiosity by psychiatrists. Even some of the staff treated her differently and when she was supposed to have been sleeping, she overheard a couple of aides talking about her as if she were some kind of tabloid princess or lab specimen.
Not that home would be that much better.
But it had been five days, she was recovering and the doctors had agreed to release her. Like it or not, it was time to face her new life. As one person. No more of the split personality stuff . . . at least she hoped not. Adam had stayed at the hospital most of the time. She’d constantly told him to go home, but had never had the heart to have a nurse throw him out, though the thought had occurred to her. He’d even taken breaks and seen that Oscar had been fed and walked. He seemed genuinely concerned about her.