Page 35 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

What about his dick?

Oh. The most important part. Can’t leave that attached!

Snip!

Gone. Josh Bandeaux’s legs and groin were neatly separated from what was left of him—just a naked, hairy chest and neck. Not very flattering. Not any longer.

And now he’d join the others. She looked at the one piece of art in the tiny space, a large family tree covered in Plexiglass.

The Montgomery family tree.

All members of the family were listed in the spreading branches, and the branches included those married, then divorced; bastard children; anyone who had married in. Like Bandeaux. Some of the branches had pictures attached, snapshots of those who had met their preordained fate.

Carefully, she removed the frame from the wall, laid it upon the desk and using a screwdriver she located in her zippered case, she unscrewed the corner pieces. After lifting off the top covering of Plexiglass, she placed what was left of the snapshot of Josh—his hairy torso—beside his name on the tree. She found his life strand . . . red and black thread carefully braided together and pre-measured by her sister, Lachesis. Gently Atropos glued his life strand to the trunk of the tree and ran it along his particular branch . . . a withered branch, one attached only because he’d married into the family. Once it was in place, she eyed her work.

Excellent.

In her estimation, Josh “The Bandit” Bandeaux had never looked better.

Nine

The press was camped out at her front door when Caitlyn returned home. Turning the corner into the alley that ran behind her house, she noticed a reporter and a cameraman, each smoking a cigarette, seated in a white van. The streetlights had just turned on. Twilight was settling on the city, but still they waited for her.

The day was rapidly going from bad to worse. From the sideview mirror she saw them crush their cigarettes and throw open the front doors of the vehicle. Great. Caitlyn pushed the garage door opener, turned the corner and had to wait as the door ground slowly upward. “Come on, come on,” she growled at the lazy mechanism as she spied the reporter hurrying along the alley. Caitlyn punched the throttle just as there was enough clearance so as not to scrape the roof. Her Lexus shot forward. She cut the engine and pushed on the opener again. The door started downward but not before the reporter, a square-jawed, fit man with an impossibly thick head of hair, stepped agilely into the garage, placing his leg in front of the electronic eye. The door stopped abruptly.

“Mrs. Bandeaux, I’m Max O’Dell with WKAM,” he said over the clicking of the jammed mechanism.

“I know who you are.” She was already out of the car.

He grinned as if she’d handed him a compliment. “If I could have a word with you about your husband. I hate to intrude, but I just have a few questions.”

“No comment.” Caitlyn slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder just as the cameraman, toting his shoulder-held camera, jogged into the driveway.

“Please. It’ll just take a couple of minutes,” O’Dell insisted.

“Not right now.”

“But—”

“You’re in my garage and I’m asking you to leave. I have nothing to say to you.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the cameraman focusing. “I don’t want to call the police, but I will.”

“You were separated from your husband.”

“And you’re trespassing.” From the side door to the garage, Oscar was barking wildly. “I’m going inside. If you’ll excuse me . . . and even if you don’t.” Slapping the button, she heard the garage door start again, this time elevating. Her eyes, behind her sunglasses, narrowed on the reporter. “I’m closing the door before I let the dog out and telephone the police, so if I were you, I’d beat a hasty retreat.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, just jabbed the button again and walked through the side door to be greeted by Oscar, who was jumping up and down as if his legs were springs.

Caitlyn actually smiled as she reached down and picked up the fluff of wild fur. Her face was washed by a long pink tongue. “Yeah, I missed you, too,” she whispered as the dog’s wet nose brushed her cheek. “Big time.” She half expected the pushy reporter to follow her, but she heard the sounds of voices on the other side of the courtyard wall and realized Max O’Dell and his cohort from WKAM had given up for the evening. Thank God.

Inside, she fed the dog, then hung up the telephone and listened to the messages that had collected on voice mail. Three reporters, including Nikki Gillette, left numbers for her to call back. Caitlyn deleted each message. There were two other hang ups and a short message from Detective Reed at police headquarters asking her to return his call. Her heartbeat suddenly raced. Warning bells clanged in her mind. What could he want? What did he know? Hadn’t Troy told her not to talk to the police? But she couldn’t ignore them, and she wasn’t about to start hunting down a lawyer today.

Squaring her shoulders, she punched the number Reed had left. An operator told her Detective Reed was off duty for the night. Caitlyn left her number then tapped her fingers nervously on the co

unter.

Kelly still hadn’t called. Maybe she was out of town. As a buyer for one of the biggest department stores in the city, Kelly was gone often . . . but she usually checked her messages. Caitlyn walked through the house and looked through the front window. The van for WKAM was no longer at the curb. Thankfully, Max O’Dell had taken the hint and left.

But he’d be back. And there would be others.

Caitlyn had dealt with reporters before, and if they smelled a story, they kept on the trail, never giving up. They reminded her of trained hunting dogs on the scent of wounded prey.

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