Page 34 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Don’t do anything stupid, Dickie.” She found her purse and searched for her car keys.

“Me?” he asked, raising his hands toward the low ceiling, his expression the picture of innocence.

Sugar was starting to get a bad feeling about it. Her fingers curled around the key chain.

“Anything I do, I do for us.” He winked as he reached the door. “Remember that.”

The screen door slammed behind him, and Sugar felt as if the devil himself had breathed against her spine. Dickie Ray was dangerous. A loose cannon. If he wasn’t careful, he’d screw up everything for all of them . . . she couldn’t let that happen. Taking his empty cup into the kitchen and dropping it into the sink, she heard her brother’s pickup start with a deafening roar. “Don’t do it,” she whispered as dread settled over her as tight and close as a funeral shroud. “Whatever it is, Dickie, please . . . don’t do it.”

Josh Bandeaux.

Interloper.

Liar.

Cheat.

Dead.

So dead.

Which was as it should be. Atropos slipped the key into its lock and walked into the wine cellar where ancient, forgotten bottles climbed the walls. She crossed quickly and found the hidden lock which, when engaged, moved the rack enough to reveal the door that she slid silently through. She closed the door behind her and felt a calm come over her, here, in this secret spot.

The interior was painted stark white, the fixtures gleaming chrome, polished to a mirrored surface. No dust lingered on the tile floor, and the chair in one corner was white vinyl, the desk brushed metal. A chrome lamp, white leather recliner, stereo with a neat stack of CDs that could play softly from hidden speakers that were buffered from the rest of the old building by soundproof panels, filled the room. Every surface was spotless.

It was a private space. Closed off from the world. Away from the city and yet near enough for convenience. Hidden and isolated. Perfect. If she could only push out the noise in her mind.

She slipped surgical slippers over her feet and a cap over her head, then pulled surgical gloves from a dispenser and pushed a button on the stereo. Soft baroque music filled the room in soothing tones. If anyone found her hiding spot, she was certain she’d left no real clue to her identity, though her artwork would garner some speculation.

Carefully she withdrew a small plastic package from her purse and made her way to the desk. With her key she opened the top drawer, then stared smugly at her treasures. A clear plastic bag of photographs and a zippered case.

Humming softly, Atropos opened the plastic bag and let the snapshots fall onto the top of the desk. She sorted quickly through them, shuffling the glossy, battered photographs as deftly as a Las Vegas dealer, spying blurry images of familiar faces, stopping only when she found the photograph of Josh Bandeaux.

“Tsk, tsk. What a bad boy.” She unwrapped the thin plastic that surrounded the pair of surgical scissors. The stainless steel instrument gleamed to a mirror finish except for the dark stains that remained on the tips of the blades. Josh Bandeaux’s blood ... no longer fresh, but dried on her weapon.

Atropos remembered the look on Bandeaux’s handsome face as he’d caught a glimpse of his assassin, the horror to know that it was his time, his personal Armageddon. It had been so easy. Remarkably easy. A necessary task that had offered a little thrill, not so much in the killing as in the knowledge that Bandeaux realized what was happening. His sheer terror had been evident in the twisted comprehension of his Hollywood-handsome features. Even now, remembering the fear in his eyes, she felt a sweet rush of adrenalin, a pleasant peace that helped quell the rush of noise in her head.

Unfortunately she didn’t have time to bask in the thrill of the kill. She’d had to work fast. Now she studied the snapshot of Josh. Tanned, and wearing only a Speedo swimsuit, he had an arm slung around the shoulders of a beautiful woman dressed in a scanty yellow bikini. Palm trees and an incredible sunset were the backdrop for Bandeaux and the woman, who was not, of course, his wife. No, this nearly naked, bronzed blonde—wasn’t her name Millicent?—was no one important. Not even to Josh. A whore. Nothing more. Nothing less. Someone unneeded.

Time to get rid of her.

Snip!

The scissors flashed under the flourescent light. With a clean cut, the photo was halved and the smiling beauty fluttered to the floor to land forgotten on the white tile. “Sayonara,” Atropos whispered.

Then, in the remaining portion of the snapshot, Josh was standing alone, a drink in his hand. But not for long.

Snip!

Off with his frothy island cocktail, and oops, part of his hand as well. Oh, too bad.

But Josh was still smiling, offering up that wide, sexy, woman-killer grin to the camera.

That wouldn’t do.

Snip!

No more smile. No, Josh’s head floated slowly downward to join the other scraps of his body parts.

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