Page 115 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“Does he have a job? Keep regular hours?” Reed asked, though he knew the answer.

“Yeah, he’s got a job. If you can call it that. Over at the video store. The guy’s a perv, man, he’s probably just been watching porn flicks all day. His hours vary, I think, but I don’t keep tabs on him. It’s not my job. That’s what the parole officer does, right?”

“But you haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary?” Reed pressed.

“He’s a fuckin’ murderer. Everything’s out of the ordinary.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Morrisette said as the door opened. Oliver stood outside and lit a cigarette while Reed and Morrisette entered what was little more than a tomb with dingy, cracked walls, bare wires and two tiny windows that were not only covered with dirt, but barred. No light could possibly reach the interior where a patchwork of carpet was matted and stained and a recliner held together with duct tape sat in front of a television with drooping rabbit ears adorned with bits of aluminum foil. The TV sat upon a battered bookcase that housed old record albums, though no phonograph was in sight.

“Cozy,” Morrisette muttered under her breath as she looked at the kitchenette—which consisted of a hot plate and half-refrigerator. A toilet was in the closet. “Right out of the pages of House Beautiful.”

“He’s only been out a little while. Hasn’t had time to consult with a decorator,” Reed replied as he studied LeRoy Chevalier’s bed, an army cot pushed into a corner and covered by a sleeping bag. Above the cot was the only decoration in the entire apartment—a picture of the Virgin Mary, beatifically looking down, as if at Chevalier’s bed. Though fully dressed, her heart was visible, her expression kind. Loving.

“So what did he do? Hack up another family?” Oliver asked, then sucked hard on his cigarette.

“We just want to talk to him.”

“Sure.”

“Did he have any visitors?”

“I don’t know. He keeps mostly to himself. Most of his buddies are in the big house.”

“No phone?” Reed asked, looking around. “No computer?”

Oliver laughed so hard he started coughing. “He’s not exactly a high-tech kind of guy.”

That much seemed true and The Grave Robber had contacted both he and Nikki through E-mail, had installed wireless microphones in the coffins, had used technology to his advantage.

“Look at this.” Morrisette had donned a pair of gloves and pulled a scrapbook from the bookcase holding the record albums. She laid it on the recliner and began flipping through the plastic-encased pages. News clippings, now yellowed with age, had been clipped and pasted carefully in the scrapbook. “He’s obsessed with it.”

“So where is he?” Reed said, and felt even more uncomfortable. Something was wrong here, something he didn’t understand. Unless Chevalier was a chameleon; unless he was faking them out with this hovel of a living area. Unless he was playing them for fools.

Reed didn’t like it.

He was missing something.

Something important.

Something that could cost Simone Everly her life.

The police were closing in.

The Survivor had heard the information on the police band. Could sense them getting closer, felt their collective hot breath on the back of his neck. They’d found the apartment, just as he’d expected. Just as he’d planned. He anticipated their next steps.

Rounding a corner, he crossed the street and walked down the narrow alley where trash cans were piled and a suspicious cat glowered at him from the top of a fence. He found his truck parked in a public lot. In plain view. This time, rather than take a chance that his vehicle would be recognized, he’d dumped a drugged Simone and his tools beneath the shrubbery at the grave site. He’d hidden his truck and returned to the cemetery later, before Simone had awoken, to finish his work. He found his keys and climbed into his truck. Satisfaction stole through him. He’d delivered his package; it was what he’d expected, what he’d wanted. He knew they’d soon figure out his clues. Unless they were complete morons. But he’d fooled them again. All that nonsense with the number twelve was just to whet their appetites, point them in the right direction but keep them blind to his real target.

He drove the speed limit, not encountering any trouble, and parked in the alley. Certain he hadn’t been followed, that no one suspected where he’d hidden his lair, he hurried down the steps and slipped into the room where he found his solitude. His peace.

Glancing at the pile of Simone Everly’s clothes, he smiled. Remembered undressing her. She’d been unconscious, of course, while he’d pulled off her warm-up suit and shorts and T-shirt beneath. He’d taken off her jog bra, quietly fondling a breast. God, it had been beautiful with its fading tan lines indicating she’d sunbathed in a small bikini. On the whitest part of her skin, in sharp contrast, were her nipples. Dark. Round. Perfect. He couldn’t stop himself from caressing them and then he’d pulled off her jogging shorts and found the treasure.

A scarlet thong.

&

nbsp; Barely covering any part of her and wedged up into her ass to show off the tight, round cheeks. He’d thought about biting her on the rump, of mounting her from behind, of forcing his hard cock deep into her, but he’d restrained himself. His hands had quivered as he’d removed the red piece of nothing she’d thought were panties. He’d smelled it and touched it with his tongue while he’d taken the time to get himself off. And then he’d put the thong away, hog-tied Simone and wrapped her into a tarp with breathing holes. He’d been careful to gag her just in case she’d woken up during the ride or in the half hour he’d had to leave her hidden in the dense foliage surrounding the cemetery.

Then, he’d hauled her to her final resting place.

---