Page 63 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

Doubted he’d get a response.

Forwarded everything to Bentley, a guy in the office who was a computer specialist for the department, then sent a copy to Morrisette.

Grabbing his phone, he punched in Morrisette’s home number. On the third ring she answered, her voice thick with sleep. “Hullo?”

“It’s me. The Grave Robber contacted me again.”

“What?”

“E-mail. I’ve forwarded it to Bentley and to you. Check it out.”

“I will. Give me five and I’ll call you back.” Suddenly awake, she hung up. Reed kept looking at the E-mail, hoping that there was a return path that would lead him to the killer. Was the guy that stupid? Or just that bold?

The phone chirped.

He snapped it up. “Reed.”

“Jesus H. Christ, what’s this fucker up to?” Morrisette said, and he could tell that she was lighting a cigarette as she spoke.

“I wish I knew.”

“Twelve? Goddamn it, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but we’d better figure it out, and fast. Do what you can, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Right.” She hung up again and Reed was left to stare at his computer screen and the sick images twisting and turning like leaves in the wind.

If only the bastard would slip up. Reed would nail his sorry hide. And love doing it.

WILL THERE BE MORE?

Not if Reed had anything to do with it.

“Where the hell did you git this?”

“Wh-what?” Billy Dean opened a bleary eye and made out the silhouette of his pa looming over his bed. The old man’s face was set and hard and his outstretched hand held the ring—the damned ring Billy Dean had found at the grave.

“This here ring, that’s what!”

“I dunno what ye’re talkin’ ’bout,” Billy lied and knew he was making a mistake. No one lied to Merle Delacroix and got away with it.

“And I don’t s’pose ya know anythin’ about this neither?” He reached into the front pocket of tight, worn jeans and pulled out Billy’s little blue pipe—specially tooled for weed.

Crap!

Slowly, Billy pulled himself to a sitting position and tried to think. Fast. But he was scared. “You bin lookin’ through my things?”

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s exactly what I’ve been doin’ and don’t give me any sass about your private stuff, cuz it won’t hold water with me. No, sir. You live under my roof, you live under my rules, and my rules are damned explicit when it comes to stealin’ and smokin’ dope. God only knows what else ya been doin’.” He glanced around Billy’s messy room, the one he shared with the old dog. Merle ran a hand through his thin hair and snorted his loathing. “This here is a pigsty.”

“You shouldn’t go through my stuff,” Billy Dean said under his breath.

“And you shouldn’t be stealin’. Don’t you know it’s agin the law and God’s commandments. You do remember, ‘thou shalt not steal,’ don’t ya?” So angry he was quivering in rage, Merle dropped the pipe onto the old comforter covering Billy’s bed. “You know what you are, a liar and a sneak and a thief.”

This was trouble. Big trouble.

“I didn’t—”

Quick as a rattler striking, Merle grabbed Billy by the back of his T-shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Now, you looka here, boy. I ain’t takin’ no lies from you, nor any of that smart-assed back talk. If you want to keep on livin’ here, you tell me what the hell this is all about.”

---