Page 147 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

cry out, getting his rocks off listening to her terror as she realized she was trapped in this casket with a dead, rotting cadaver…but there wasn’t a stench, nor the sickening scent of weak, decomposing flesh. Just the slight smell of cigars and whiskey, the same blend of scents that had surrounded her father, the aromas she equated with safety and trust and…

She froze. Her mind wandered to a forbidden territory more bizarre than what she already knew to be true.

Her throat clutched.

The bastard wouldn’t have…couldn’t have been so coldhearted, so diabolically sick to have forced her into a coffin with…with…her father!

NO!

She couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe anything so disgusting.

And yet?

Wasn’t her father dead or near death in the house? Wasn’t the corpse beneath her fresh…still not cold? And whoever was beneath her was large and smelled like…Oh, Daddy.

She swallowed back tears, forced her fear and anger at bay. Gingerly, her skin crawling, she touched the clothing on the body beneath her. She felt the stiff weave of slacks and the cold buckle of a belt, the hands beneath hers were big with hair upon their backs.

Oh, Daddy, no…

Bile burned up her throat. She nearly heaved as the stark, horrid realization hit her. She was trapped in a coffin with her dead father! Her fists clenched in rage. Tears filled her eyes. She wanted to scream and rant and kick, but she fought the urge to cry out, to say anything as much as a whisper. That’s what the bastard was waiting for. That’s how the sick son of a bitch got off.

Nikki refused to give him the satisfaction of so much as a whimper, not even though the air was thin and breathing was getting harder by the minute, not even when panic screamed through her and she wanted to kick and claw and pound her way out of her prison.

You twisted, bilious piece of shit!

She was shaking violently. Her mind splintering between fury and fear.

Think, Nikki, think. You have to hold it together. It’s your only chance. Get this bastard. Find a way to nail him. Turn the goddamned tables!

How? She was trapped.

The only weapon you have against him is your brain.

He’s stronger.

He’s athletic.

He’s determined.

He’s psychotic.

But if he’s not satisfied, if you don’t give him the crying, begging, pitiful sobs he’s expecting, he may open the lid…. You have to be patient. No matter how badly your lungs are burning, you have to wait it out….

Her fingers dug into her palms. Her lungs burned. There was a damned good chance she was about to die. A damned good chance.

She was probably waking up. Feeling the effects of the drug but at least realizing where she was, what would be her fate. The Survivor smiled to himself as he drove.

And now she knew that he’d survived. Beaten the system.

It was so dark in this part of the country that he nearly missed the turn-off to the old, forgotten, overgrown cemetery, even though he’d been here earlier—but there had been a bit of daylight to guide him. But now, with the storm raging, his wipers could barely clear the windows and visibility was poor.

Which was perfect.

He eased off the gas and stopped the truck at the old family plot. Leaving the pickup’s door open, he stepped outside and into the maelstrom. Rain and wind lashed at him as he walked up the overgrown ruts that had once been a gravel road. The rusted gate creaked as it swung inward. Earlier he’d found it unlocked and prepared the grave site—the final resting place—for Judge Ronald Gillette and his worthless daughter. “Rest in peace, you bastard,” The Survivor muttered under his breath as rain drizzled down his nose. The man had been elected to mete out justice and he’d been a joke, an embarrassment to the court system.

LeRoy Chevalier should never have seen the light of day again. If not executed, then kept in a small dark cell until he rotted to death.

But there had been screwups from the beginning, with the arrest, with the crime scene, with Nikki’s article in the paper. As The Survivor had watched it all play out, he’d seen the eyes of the jury, unconvinced that LeRoy Chevalier was the true monster he was. They heard conflicting testimony and with the murder weapon missing and only circumstantial evidence of a bloody boot print, the case wasn’t as strong as it could have been.

---