Page 140 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

She reached for the phone as she noticed a flickering light from the den. The television. But no sound.

She carried the portable phone with her. Rounding the corner to the den, she felt an instant’s relief. Her father was half lying in his favorite recliner, his feet propped up, the television on but muted. He looked sound asleep. Dead to the world.

“Jesus, Dad, you scared me,” she said softly, hoping he would rouse. She set the phone on a table. “Where’s Mom? She called frantic a while ago.” When he didn’t respond, she walked to the chair and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, Pops.” No response. She felt a new niggle of worry. “Dad? Wake up.” His head was lolled to one side and his breathing was so shallow. Or nonexistent? Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Dad?” she said more loudly, leaning over him, bending close, listening for some sign of life as she shook his shoulder.

But there was no whisper of breath from his lungs. “No…oh, God, no…Dad! Dad!”

Then, she noticed the blood. Not on him, but from the corner of her eye she spied what appeared to be a trickle of red running from the hallway.

“Mom?” she said, her heart in her throat. Oh, dear God, no! Why the blood? Why? Was her mother wounded? Every hair on the back of her arms raised as she heard a low moan. Her mother’s soft voice. “Mom, I’m coming. I’ll get help,” she called, running toward the hallway when she heard something behind her, a footstep that had come from the direction of the kitchen.

She whirled.

And saw him.

Bloody and wet. His face set and hard, eyes glittering beneath a high forehead and a hank of dripping hair that fell over eyes so cruel she screamed. In one hand he held a hypodermic needle. In the other a bloodied hunting knife.

The Grave Robber.

Icy fear scissored through her as she recognized him. “Where’s my mother?” she demanded, backing up, her pulse thundering loudly.

No answer. Just a glitter of satisfaction in his gaze.

“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you, you sick, twisted son of a bitch,” she hissed, backing up. There were loaded rifles in the gun closet, carving knives in the kitchen, the phone receiver only inches away on the table. Only three more steps.

“Your turn, Nikki,” he said with a cold, sardonic smile that was pure evil. And the blood. All the damned blood. Whose? Her mother’s?

Oh, God. She couldn’t outrun him; he’d be on her before she’d gone three steps. Somehow, she had to beat him, trick him.

She whipped around, turning as if to run.

He sprang, his weapons clenched in his fists.

Instantly, she dived, spinning on one leg, kicking up hard with the other.

Her boot connected with his groin.

“Oooh!”

With a yowl, he went down. The knife clattered to the floor, but he grabbed it quickly and managed to hold fast onto the needle. She kicked again, aiming for his nose, but he drew back his head and she crashed the heel of her boot into the side of his face.

“You bitch!” he roared, dropping his needle and scrabbling at her boot, his fingers raking down the leather as she started to run, fast, snatching the handheld phone on the fly.

He was on his feet in an instant, bearing down on her. She punched nine, snagged a photo from the wall and hurled it at him. She hit one and one again as she flew out of the house and down the two short steps into the garage. “Help!” she cried, gasping into the receiver. “I’m being attacked! By the Grave Robber. My mother’s hurt. The bastard killed my dad. Send someone to—” But the phone was dead, too far from the base to pick up a signal.

Damn! Her keys! Where the hell were her keys! She fumbled in her pocket, found the single key to her rental car. He was in the garage, his face enraged as he stumbled, running.

She slid into the rental, slammed the door and locked it with shaking fingers. Her cell phone! Where was it?

He leaped, pounded on the windshield.

Frantically, seeing his bloody face smashed against the windshield, she jammed her key into the ignition. The engine turned over.

He was only inches from her. Separated by a thin layer of glass.

The engine caught and she jammed the car in reverse, gunned the throttle and glanced in the rearview mirror to see a pickup, a huge pickup blocking her path.

No! She jammed on the brakes.

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