Page 62 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“I could stay with you and wait until he gets here.” The stranger smiled and a gold capped tooth winked eerily in the streetlights.

“No, that’s fine. He’s on the phone and only a few blocks away. What?” she said into the cell. “Oh, no, it’s just a guy offering help. No, that’s fine. I’ll tell him it’ll only be a minute or two…. I love you, too.” Glancing back at the van’s driver, she forced a smile she hoped didn’t wobble. “He’ll be here in a second.” Her throat was tight and she was shaking inside as she thought about the men who had been lurking in the streets, the break-in of her apartment, the notes she’d received, and the serial murderer stalking Savannah. Her blood turned to ice. “Thanks.”

Another car pulled up behind the van and the driver touched the brim of his hat in a mock tip. “Whatever you want, honey.”

Her skin crawled as he pulled away. Honey. Lord, why would he call her that? Intent on identifying him, she glared at his license plate as he drove off, but there was no light on the back of his van and the letters and numbers were too dark to read. All she knew was that it was a navy blue Dodge Caravan with Georgia plates. Which wasn’t much.

And he could have just been a Good Samaritan.

Yeah, right.

Her cell was still in her hand. She hung up and dialed Triple A, giving the dispatcher the location of her car and explained that she’d meet the repairman at the Bijou. It was less than half a mile down the street and at least there it would be well lit and crowded.

Safe.

She started jogging.

Sweating on the outside, deathly cold inside, Nikki picked up the pace. Traffic lights blurred, the darkened shrubbery seemed sinister and she felt completely alone.

For the first time in her life Nikki Gillette felt fear—dark, mind-numbing fear.

CHAPTER 15

Reed tossed his keys and mail onto the desk in his apartment, three joined rooms on the first floor of what had once been a grand old home. He was lucky enough to end up with a bay window, tiled fireplace surrounded by bookshelves, and the original hardwood floors. In exchange he’d ended up with a minuscule kitchen and a bedroom that barely housed his bed and bureau, not that he needed much more space. Tonight he was bone tired, his body crying for sleep, his mind far too wired to even consider it. Try as he might he couldn’t shake the image of Bobbi Jean in that coffin, nor dispel the terror she had to have felt. The horrid panic.

And she’d been pregnant.

Maybe with your kid.

“Jesus,” he muttered as he picked up the remote, flipped on the television to the news, and hoped to quiet the demons screaming in his head. He found a pizza in the freezer, turned on the oven and popped a beer. Who would want to kill Bobbi? Who would hate her enough to throw her in an occupied coffin and bury her alive? The same sicko who did it to Roberta Peters. So the killer wasn’t Jerome Marx. Unless he was cagey enough to kill another person in the same manner just as a decoy. But why go to all the trouble of burying the person alive? That was an act of rage…deep-seated hatred and premeditation. Then, there was the microphone. Whoever had killed them had listened to them die. Gotten his twisted rocks off by the sheer pan

ic he’d created.

“Bastard.”

The preheat button on the oven dinged. Reed tossed his frozen pizza, ice crystals and all, onto the rack, then walked back to the living area where he hoisted his laptop onto the desk. With a flick of a switch the computer hummed to life as he half listened to the television. A newscaster was summing up the basketball scores. The Miami Heat had lost, but Atlanta had pulled out a nail-biter. Reed scooted his desk chair closer and went directly to his E-mail where he had over thirty messages waiting for him.

Sifting through the spam and a couple of stale jokes that had been recycled a few times, he finished his beer and came to an E-mail with a subject line that read: GRAVE ROBBER ON A ROLL.

“What the hell?”

He clicked on the E-mail and read:

NOW, WE HAVE NUMBER FOUR.

ONE THIRD DONE,

WILL THERE BE MORE?

“Shit!” Reed hit the print button. The buzzer on the stove went off. An error message flashed and he realized he wasn’t hooked up to his printer. Quickly connecting the printer cable, he hit the print key just as weird, ghost-like images appeared. Photos of Barbara Jean Marx, Pauline Alexander, Thomas Massey and Roberta Peters. The pictures of the victims floated eerily over the screen, then turned to dust and skeletons before Reed’s eyes. “Holy shit.” His blood froze in his veins. One third done? Four victims already. Meaning there would be twelve total?

The printer began spewing out a page and Reed hurried into the kitchen, turned off the timer and the oven, then left the pizza. He was back at the computer in an instant, reading the pages, checking the E-mail address, knowing it was phony.

Twelve victims?

Why tell him? Why would the killer tip his hand? What did the four have in common and who were the remaining eight? How were they linked?

Jaw set, he responded to the E-mail.

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