Page 12 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

They’d been driving nearly fo

rty minutes, leaving the lights of Dahlonega and civilization far behind, when Reed caught his first sight of some kind of illumination through the trees.

Here we go, Reed thought, feeling the usual rush of adrenaline he always did when coming upon a crime scene.

“We started investigating late this afternoon, but daylight was fadin’ fast. The forecast is for rain and we were afraid we might lose a lot of trace evidence if we had a real gully washer, so we hauled in some major equipment ASAP,” the sheriff explained, but Reed knew the drill. Had seen it before on major cases.

Other vehicles, vans, SUVs and cruisers were parked at odd angles about a hundred feet from a gate. Headlights, lanterns, flashlights and the glowing red tips of cigarettes cut through the gloom. Officers from several state and county agencies had already roped off the scene. The back doors of a van were open wide and crime scene investigators had already begun collecting evidence. Detectives and deputies from the county joined with the state police.

Baldwin made a couple of quick introductions, then, as one of his deputies held a fluorescent lantern aloft, he pointed to a rusted gate that consisted of one heavy bar which swung over the dried grass and dirty, sparse gravel, the remains of what had once been a road. “See how the weeds’re bent, and the oil drips are visible on the grass?” Reed saw. “And the gate, here”—Baldwin pointed to the rusting bar—“had been chained and locked, but the chain’s been cut clean through. Had to be heavy cutters to take care of those links.” Reed squatted, bending close to observe the damage. “Whoever did it was careful to wire the gate shut behind him…See, here.” He swung his flashlight at a spot in the chain where the links had been severed, then reattached with something akin to coat-hanger wire. The gate had been dusted for prints and an officer was taking tire impressions. Others were scanning the weeds with flashlights and roping off the area to preserve it for morning light when they might be able to find trace evidence.

Cautiously, so as to not disturb the scene, Baldwin led Reed deeper into the woods, up a steep rise and down the other side to a clearing where klieg lights had been set up and more investigators were carefully sifting through the soil, taking samples, using digital cameras, Polaroids and video camcorders to record everything. The wind was cold as it cut through Reed’s jacket and there was a threat of rain in the air, but above it all, something else lingered in the atmosphere. Something unnamed. Something dark. Evil. He sensed it. As he did with most murder scenes. Baldwin angled through a copse of spindly trees to a clearing. They passed by a dead deer, its sightless eyes catching in the beam of the flashlight, its innards spilled onto the forest floor. Dark blood pooled and thickened in the grass around the carcass and Reed felt the scavengers hiding in the dark woods. Waiting.

Baldwin came to a shallow grave. Reed’s gut clenched as he spied earth piled around a rosewood and brass coffin, the wood blackened and stained, the metal no longer shiny, the lid pried open under the eerie, unnatural illumination from the klieg lights mounted on poles near the scene. Reed stepped closer, every muscle tense.

“Jesus!” Reed’s voice was whispery and thin, his curse more like a prayer. He drew a deep breath. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me she was alive when the bastard tossed her inside?” Rage tore through him. “Who in God’s name…”

Wedged into the stained satin-lined box were two bodies, one nearly hidden by the other. The smell of death, of rotting flesh, was overpowering. The bright lights seemed eerily out of place in these dark woods as they illuminated a ghastly scene. Reed stepped closer, squinting in disgust. The body on the top was that of a naked woman, her skin blue-white with death, bruises discoloring her face, arms and legs where she’d obviously tried to force herself out of this tomb.

For the love of Christ, she’d been buried alive.

He tried not to think of her horror until he studied her face.

Sweet Jesus, no…it couldn’t be. He thought he might throw up as he looked past the bruises to the fine, cultured features, the hands where manicured nails had now been ripped off, the open, terror-riddled dead eyes of Barbara Jean Marx. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, turning away for a second and drawing in a fresh lungful of air. Bobbi? No!

When he turned to face the horror again, he was certain it was she. Naked, long legs bruised, perfect breasts flat against her ribs now as she rested, stripped bare, on the rotting remains of another person. She’d obviously been dead a short while, perhaps less than a day. Blood had run from her ears, and her hands were clenched into bloodied claws as if rigor mortis had set in while she was still trying to scrape her way to freedom.

“Know her?” Baldwin asked.

Reed’s insides clenched. His throat closed. He fought the urge to puke. “Yeah,” he finally whispered, still disbelieving, his gaze riveted on the dead woman. Dear God. Was it possible? Bobbi? Vibrant, sexy, naughty Bobbi? Time seemed to stand still. The noises of the night faded. Images flashed behind his eyes, hot, erotic pictures of this woman with her sultry brown eyes, hard, well-muscled body, wispy red teddy that showed off large breasts with incredible nipples. She’d mounted him slowly, with narrow-eyed intention, her fingers grazing each of his bare ribs, nails softly raking over his chest as he’d sweated, watching, gasping for breath, his erection hard and aching. God, how he’d wanted her.

Now, staring at her pale, lifeless form, he cleared his throat and forced the sensual thoughts to disappear. They seemed nearly profane at the moment. A muscle worked in his jaw and he felt not only sad and repulsed, but suddenly weary. How had she come to this? Who had done it to her? “Her name is Bobbi Jean. Barbara Jean Marx.” His voice was husky and rough, even to his own ears. He hadn’t loved her, but still…

“How did you know her?” the sheriff asked, and there was just a hint of suspicion in the raise of his eyebrows.

Reed gritted his teeth. Took a deep breath. Felt the eyes of half a dozen cops on him. “Barbara Marx and I?” He turned away from what had become of her and fought the rage that tore through his soul. “Yeah, I knew her.” In the biblical sense. No reason to hide the truth. It was bound to come out now. “A couple of months ago we were lovers.”

CHAPTER 3

“The microphone inside the coffin, does it work?”

Oh, yeah, The Survivor thought, it works just fine. So does this little tape player. That’s the beauty of high tech.

Pierce Reed’s voice was coming in with only a little distortion even though he was half a mile away. Higher on a hillside, hidden in the trees, binoculars trained on the spot where klieg lights rained illumination onto the forest floor, he listened, his recorder getting every sound. It was impossible to see much with all the vegetation blocking his view, but he felt a sense of well-being, of retribution nonetheless as he peered through the pine branches.

“We think so. The mike looks new,” a male voice finally responded.

“Then the bastard could be listening in right now.” Pierce Reed’s voice. Even after all the intervening years The Survivor recognized it and the hairs on the back of his neck raised.

“Always that chance,” one of the other voices agreed, maybe that redneck of a sheriff. For a few seconds all he heard was background noise, muffled voices. No doubt the police had turned away and were discussing the fact that they were already hunting the surrounding hills, that they had dogs and teams of officers searching through the ravines and ridges. He wasn’t worried. Had expected them. But it was time to go.

“You said there was a letter.” Reed’s voice again.

“Here…tucked inside.”

There was a pause. Then Reed’s voice. “Tick tock, on goes the clock. Two in one, one and two.”

The Survivor mouthed the words as Reed spoke them. Figure it out, bastard.

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