The Morning After (16 page)

Still, there was no sound from within the damned coffin.

This was not good.

She needed to wake up.

To realize her fate.

To understand that it was payback time.

His entire body was drenched by the time the hole was filled. He considered sprinkling leaves and debris over the freshly turned soil, trying to make it blend in, but there really wasn’t any reason to. Reed would be here tomorrow anyway.

Quickly, still holding his shovel and the now-empty bag, he scaled the fence and dropped into the foliage at the rear of the cemetery near an access road. His truck was parked right where he’d left it, deep in the shadows of a live oak tree. Undisturbed. So far, so good, he thought as he opened the canopy and placed his shovel into the bed of the pickup.

Headlights flashed behind him, twin beams cutting through the darkness. Bearing down on him. On his truck.

“Shit.”

Quickly he climbed into the pickup, started it and shoved the rig into gear. The headlights rounded a corner, nearly blinding him in his rearview mirror. He made a fast U-turn and passed the oncoming vehicle, a battered old station wagon, in a blur. He kept his face averted as he gunned the engine and blew by the intruders. Who the hell would be on this road this late at night? Teenagers looking for a place to drink, smoke weed or make out, probably.

Damn the luck.

But at least it wasn’t a cop car.

He licked his lips, checked his mirrors and was satisfied that the wagon hadn’t turned around and followed him.

He turned off the access road and tried to stay calm. Sweat ran down his face, encased his body. He couldn’t mess this up. It was his one chance at retribution…He was The Survivor. He checked his rearview mirror and his gut clenched when he spied a police cruiser turning onto the street behind him.

Maybe whoever was in the beat-up old wagon had called the police.

But why?

Maybe someone had been in the cemetery and seen him.

Maybe—

The cruiser’s lights flashed on.

Son of a bitch!

He heard a low-sounding moan, then a pitiful cry. “Help me…oh, God, where am I?” And then a shriek of terror split through his eardrum. The old lady had finally woken up. She was sobbing, clawing, screaming and he couldn’t enjoy it. Not now.

The cop was gaining.

He couldn’t outrun a cruiser. But if he was stopped and the cop found the equipment and bag in the back, he’d be found out. Before he’d finished his mission. No way. Not now. He was too close and he’d waited too long.

The cruiser’s sirens screamed through the night. The lights were nearly blinding.

His breath was shallow, his pulse ticking wildly, his mouth dry as a desert.

“Help, me! Oh, God!” He ripped the receiver from his ear. Stuffed it into his pocket. The cop car was nearly riding up his ass. He couldn’t take the chance that the policeman, if he pulled him over, might hear the cries coming from the receiver.

The Survivor’s hands tightened over the wheel as he edged to the side of the road. He had a gun. If the cop stopped him, he could blow the pig away. Easy. Then ditch the truck. It wasn’t registered to him. He could still make it. Still fulfill his mission

Siren screeching, lights pulsing, the cruiser blew by him doing eighty. The cop at the wheel didn’t so much as give him a second look.

He was safe.

For now.

“Help!” Roberta cried, her heart pounding so frantically she was certain it would explode. She was waking up, her mind still fuzzy, but she knew she was in trouble. Some kind of unthinkable, horrible trouble. Or maybe it was a dream. A nightmare.

Yes. That was it.

Wake up. Wake up now.

She shivered and placed her hands against the tattered cloth of the lid of the box that held her. It didn’t budge. She pushed hard. Still nothing.

Terror raced through her blood.

Wake up. Wake up and you’ll be in your own bed.

She dragged in a breath of stale air…but it was so hard to breathe and…and…this had to be a nightmare of the worst kind.

Wake up, Roberta! For pity’s sake, wake up!

She forced her eyes open.

Blackness.

Total, Stygian darkness.

Something was terribly, vitally wrong. Her throat went dry. Her fear congealed into pure, undiluted horror.

Do something. Get out! For God’s sake, get out of here!

She pushed upward.

Nothing.

Again. Harder.

Her hands ached.

Her wrists felt as if they might snap.

This was no dream. It was real. She was trapped. Like a sardine packed in a tiny can. Oh, sweet Jesus, no.

Her mind cleared and she realized she was naked. Not a stitch on her body.

And her back was pressed against something that contoured to…no…oh…NO! The squishy thing beneath her was a body. The top of the box was actually a lid of a casket and she was no doubt being buried alive.

Like that poor other woman.

“Help me! Please, someone!” She began screaming and kicking, banging her naked knees, scraping at the coffin’s lid, yelling until her voice ached.

She didn’t dare think of what was beneath her—the metal of a belt buckle pressed into her back, the feel of bones beneath tattered clothing against her rump, bony ribs touching her shoulders. She screamed again and again, over her own sobs and the acrid stench of rotting flesh. “Help me! Help me, oooooh…God…pleeeease.” She was crying now, scraping her fingers raw, her lungs tortured and burning, her mind shrieking with fear. She couldn’t die like this, not squished against a dead corpse whose fetid skin and tissues were sticking to her hair and skin. Her flesh crawled and she imagined worms and maggots and all sorts of vile creatures crawling through the stringy, decaying muscles and innards beneath her.

“Let me out. Please, please…let me out of here!”

Half-crazed, propelled by adrenaline, she kicked harder.

Bam! She heard a sickening snap. Pain jarred up her leg. She was gasping, drawing in thin, wretched air.

It was no use. She couldn’t escape. “Why?” she cried, sobbing. “Why me?”

Calm yourself, Roberta. Remember your faith. Reach out to the Father. He will help you. He is with you. He has not forsaken you.

She scaled her own ribs upward, past her bare breasts to the hollow of her throat, to find her cross, but as her bloodied fingers searched her neck, she realized that her chain and cross were missing. Whoever had stripped her had taken off her necklace as well as stripped her of her precious wedding ring.

“You sick bastard,” she hissed. Tears of despair streamed from her eyes. She began to cough. Fear congealed her blood and an odd pain started up her arm. A tingling and worse, something squeezing her, deep in her chest.

Trust in the Lord God. He is with you. Roberta, keep your faith!

The pain burned through her, but she clung to the words that had comforted her as a child. Quietly she began to murmur, “Jesus loves me, this I know, ’cause the Bible tells me so…”

What the hell was that?

Singing? The old lady was singing? The Survivor adjusted his earpiece once again as he guided his truck into the dark alley behind his house. No lights glowed in the upper stories and the basement was dark as death. He cut the engine behind a gray van with moss growing on it.

“For little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong…” Roberta Peters trilled.

As if it would do any good.

The Survivor listened to her surprisingly strong, clear voice, the sound of a woman no longer wailing in fear but loudly proclaiming her faith in a song she’d no doubt learned as a child.

As if she was ready to accept death and meet her Maker.

The Survivor’s upper lip curled back in disgust. He recognized the lyrics and tune. Had sung the song himself. How many times had he been forced to warble that pathetic little ditty after a particularly brutal beating? And what good had it done?

Where had God been when he’d been in pain?

Listening and ready to save him?

Not that The Survivor remembered.

“Go ahead,” he muttered in disgust, as if the old woman could hear him. “Sing your pathetic lungs out.”

“Yes, Jesus loves me…” Roberta Peters’s clear voice cracked. “Yes, Jesus loves…”

And then there was nothing.

She didn’t cry out again.

Didn’t beg for mercy.

Didn’t sob uncontrollably.

The skin over his face tightened painfully. He rolled down the window and spat. Who would have thought the old woman would so docilely accept her fate, probably even looking forward to slipping into the next realm, hoping to sail smiling through the Pearly Gates?

The Survivor felt empty inside. Furious, he yanked out his earpiece. For this, he had worked so hard? For her acceptance and compliance, he’d plotted and planned? Shit! Aside from the first gasps and cries of terror and a few bangs when she’d tried to free herself, Roberta Peters’s reaction had been a bust.

Not nearly as satisfying as Barbara Marx. Listening to Bobbi Jean, as she’d called herself, had been exhilarating, even bordering on sexually stimulating. The fact that she’d been such a lusty, sensual woman had added to the thrill of her death. Even now, thinking of her wails, he felt his body respond.

But this…the pathetic crying and singing of a childish Bible school song had left him feeling empty inside.

Don’t worry about it. The old lady had to pay. As had the others. There will be more. You know there will be and some of those will be even more rewarding than Barbara Jean. Be patient.

He slid from his truck, locked it, then walked unerringly through the shadows to the back entrance of the old home where he resided. Along the broken brick path to the basement, the vines were thick, fronds of ferns slapping at him, the smell of the earth filling his nostrils as he withdrew his keys and slipped through the door into the dark interior. To his private space. No one suspected he dwelled deep within the bowels of this old mansion, even the owners didn’t realize he had the keys to this particular part. Which was perfect.

He didn’t snap on any lights, felt with his fingers along the old shelves and brick walls.

Tonight he would listen to the tapes again. Compare them. Time them…see how long it took each of his victims to die. As he ducked through the doorway and slipped into his private space, he turned on the lamps and walked to his bureau where he deposited Roberta Peters’s underpants—voluminous panties for a scrawny woman. But not white, no, lavender and smelling a bit of the same as if she’d kept them in a drawer with sachet. They were silky, no doubt expensive.

He removed the tape recorder from his pocket and slid the cassette into his player. Once again he heard her whispering cries, oh, there was some begging involved and he smiled to himself as he thought of the others…how he would draw out their torment so that he wasn’t disappointed again. There was so much work to be done, so many more who would pay, and the notes, he had to write them carefully, guiding the police down one path before veering sharply. He smiled as he pulled out his album and looked at the remaining victims. Their terror would be complete. They would know how they had failed him. They would understand why they were doomed to their own private hells.

He would make certain of it.

CHAPTER 8

“You got the name of a good attorney?” Morrisette asked the next morning as she strode into Reed’s office.

“You plan on suing someone?”

“Bart. I’ve had it, and that yo-yo dumb-assed lawyer I’ve used in the past hasn’t done diddly-squat. If Bart wants to take me to court, so be it, but the gloves are comin’ off, let me tell you.” She flung herself into a side chair, crossed her legs and scowled. One booted foot bobbed in anger. “He’s the kids’ father for Christ’s sake. What makes him think he can get away with not payin’ me?”

Before Reed could respond, she said, “And then
he
has the balls to take
me
to court? What the hell did I do to deserve that jerk? Lowlife, no-damned-good son of a bitch, that’s what he is. How many men do y’all reckon there are in the world? What—three, maybe four billion, and of all of those potential mates, he’s the bastard I picked to have kids with. I should have my head examined.” She shoved a hand through her spiked hair and let the air out of her lungs slowly, as if she were intent on exhaling her anger. A second later, a lot more calmly, she added, “Okay, enough about my so-called personal life. What’s new besides you getting your ass kicked off the Grave Robber case?”

“Grave Robber? So you’ve seen the
Sentinel
.” It was a statement. The entire town, or, for that matter, county, had probably read the article on the front page. He reached into his desk drawer for his roll of antacids and popped a couple.

“Nikki Gillette at her finest.” Morrisette scowled. “God, I hate the press.”

Reed didn’t comment. His views on the fourth estate were well documented. As for Nikki Gillette, she was something else altogether. Had she not been a reporter, he might have found her attractive. Built like an athlete, with a tight ass, small breasts and lean legs, she was bullheaded and determined. Never mind that he’d noticed she had pale green eyes and eyebrows that could arch cynically in a heartbeat.

“How’d she get her information?”

“You were mentioned.”

He snorted. “There’s a leak in the department.”

“Are you kidding? This office is a veritable sieve. Where’s McFee?”

“Don’t know. I’m not on the case anymore.”

Morrisette cracked her first smile of the morning. “My ass. You’re not
officially
on the case, but that’s not gonna stop you.”

“Sure it is,” he deadpanned. “I go strictly by the book.”

“Save me.” She twisted in her chair and kicked the door closed. As it slammed shut, Morrisette became dead serious. “Barbara Marx was pregnant. Was the kid yours?”

His chest tightened. He looked away. “Don’t know.”