Page 36 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“I knew Barbara.”

“You’re prejudiced. And by the way, the woman was married. The department doesn’t need this kind of bad publicity. The press would have a field day with this.”

She pulled out her desk chair and settled into it as if the subject were closed. “No more discussions, Reed. You’re out.”

“The letter in the coffin was directed to me. I got another one in the mail the other morning with a fake postmark, Colonial Cemetery. I think they’re from the same person. Whoever this creep is, he’s trying to engage me.”

She looked up at him. “All the more reason.”

“Kathy, you know I can handle this. I’ll be objective and yet I’ll have an inside view of the case.”

“Give it up, Reed. No way.”

“But—”

“And I suggest you give up a DNA sample voluntarily.”

“Already done.”

“Good. Then leave it, Reed. We’re doing this one by the book.” She blinked once. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Fine. But if you have any ideas of doing something behind my back, remember, it’s your job we’re talking about. I stuck my neck out for you when you left San Francisco. Don’t make me look like a fool.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” She offered him the first sincere smile of the day. “Then you won’t object to a paternity test and an interview with Detective McFee.”

“Not at all,” Reed said, though he was fuming inside. He knew that she wasn’t accusing him of anything, probably didn’t suspect him of any wrongdoing, but it galled him nonetheless. He walked to the door and as he was leaving she said, “Thanks, Pierce. I know this isn’t easy and…well…my condolences if…you know.”

If the child turns out to be yours.

“Yeah. I do know.” He left her office and wound his way back to his own desk. His child. Was it possible? Damn, what a mess.

She was in the kitchen. Small, with white hair piled high on her head, exposing a dowager’s hump beneath her dressing gown, the woman was busy at her stove, heating water for tea. Just as she did every Tuesday night, the only evening the maid didn’t stay in. The old house was dark except for the bluish glow from the television she’d left on in her bedroom and the warm patches of light from the kitchen.

The Survivor watched her from the outside. Hungered for what was to come. He saw it in his mind’s eye, the killing, and a rush stole through his blood. Hidden in the shadows of a huge magnolia tree, he petted the huge tabby cat in his arms and glanced up to the sky. The quarter moon was high, barely visible through the web of branches and the thin layer of clouds that hung above the city. The cat was nervous, trying to get away. No such luck.

The tea kettle whistled. The Survivor heard its shriek even through the watery panes. Good. The cat jumped, but couldn’t get away. It was almost time. Sweat broke out on his skin. He must be patient. A few more seconds.

The back door opened a crack. The old woman stepped into the porch light’s beam. “Maximus?” she called in her cackly voice. “Come, boy.”

The cat squirmed.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins. The time was near.

Wait. Not yet.

“Here, kit

ty, kitty…Maximus, you little devil…where are you? Come, boy, come kitty, kitty, kitty.” Her voice edgy with concern, she shuffled from one end of the porch to the other and peered into the darkness and the dense foliage of her garden.

In his arms the tabby tried to scrabble free.

Not yet. Not quite yet. His blood thundered in his ears. Rushing. He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, you naughty boy, now you come in…”

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