Page 56 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

TICK TOCK,

ON GOES THE CLOCK.

TWO IN ONE,

ONE AND TWO.

Again, the references to two victims, or…did the killer know about the baby?

If so, there would be three…one and two adding up to three…But at that point there had only been two bodies—unless it was a reference to Thomas Massey, who was already dead at that point. If Massey were part of the killer’s scheme, and not a random grave that the killer had happened upon.

“Think, Reed, think,” he growled. There was something else in here, something that had to do with time. What? Was the killer on some kind of schedule? Was he that organized? Why contact Reed?

“Come on, you son of a bitch, figure it out,” he growled as he wrote down the contents of the third note:

ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…

SO, NOW, DON’T YOU WONDER HOW MANY MORE?

More taunting. The killer was playing with him. And feeling superior. Speaking to him directly with the “you” in the second line. But there was something about the configuration of the last note that seemed off. Something that bothered Reed. “One, two, three, four.” Almost like a nursery rhyme, but it was obviously a reference to the bodies as well. Four victims, meaning that not only Barbara Jean Marx and Roberta Peters were victims, but also Pauline Alexander and Thomas Massey. Otherwise, why count up to four? Unless the killer’s playing with you and there are two other victims stashed in occupied graves that you haven’t yet unearthed. “Hell,” he muttered and was glad he could hand the note to the FBI’s psychological profiler. The Feds would have a heyday with this one.

He drummed his fingers on the desk, looked over all the reports and evidence again and searched his E-mail where he found the preliminary report on Thomas Massey. An African-American who had four children flung to the far corners of the country and an elderly wife living in a small house outside of the city. Massey had been a janitor for a private school years ago as well as a deacon in his church. His wife, Bea, had worked part-time as a bookkeeper while raising the kids. From all early accounts, Massey hadn’t had any run-ins with the law and he and his wife had been married forty-five years at the time of his death.

Then, there was Roberta Peters, sixty-three, a widow. No children. Lived alone in the old home she and her husband had occupied since 1956. He’d died four years earlier.

So what was the connection between the victims. Or was there one?

…don’t you wonder how many more?

Reed’s jaw tightened. Obviously the murderer wasn’t about to stop. Reed wondered if there was a finite number involved. Probably not. The question was rhetorical. The bastard wouldn’t quit his deadly game until the police either cuffed or killed him and Reed was hoping for the latter.

Maybe he’d get lucky and could do the honors himself.

CHAPTER 13

“You don’t want to stay for dinner?” Charlene Gillette asked. Barely a hundred pounds, her skin pale, but her makeup impeccable, she was perched on the cushions of the window seat overlooking the terraced grounds of the Gillette estate. It was dark outside, the shrubbery illuminated by lamps strategically placed near the brick walls. On the kitchen table, near a bouquet of birds-of-paradise, was the morning’s edition of the Sentinel, laid flat, Nikki’s story visible, forgotten reading glasses mounted over the headlines.

“It has nothing to do with wanting, Mom,” Nikki said, her stomach nearly growling at the savory smells of pot roast emanating from the oven. Pecan pie cooled on the counter and potatoes boiled on the stove. Sandra, the sometimes maid, sometimes caretaker, was tossing a spinach salad with pears and blue cheese. Nikki stood near the counter, picking at pieces of chopped hazelnuts that hadn’t yet made it into the bowl.

“You’re always on the go. Would it hurt you to sit down and share a meal with us?”

“Of course not.” But Nikki was already thinking ahead, that she had to get the new key to her apartment, that someone had broken in, a little secret she’d keep from her parents. Otherwise they’d be worried sick and insist she go to the police or stay and live with them…neither being an option.

“I don’t know when you’ve relaxed,” Charlene observed.

“It’s not my nature.”

“Like your father.”

Sandra lifted an eyebrow as she scooped up a handful of the hazelnuts and sprinkled them atop the spinach leaves.

“Is that so bad?”

Her mother didn’t answer directly. Instead, she snapped her fingers as if she’d just remembered something important. “Oh, honey, by the way, guess who stopped by earlier today?”

“I couldn’t,” Nikki said honestly. “You know too many people around here.”

“Not me. Someone you know, er, knew.”

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