Page 86 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“Damn.”

“Do we?”

“I’m supposed to baby-sit my niece tonight.”

“Forget it.”

“But—”

“Do you want her in danger?” Was Nikki out of her ever-lovin’ mind?

“Of course not.”

“Then, leave her with her mother.”

“She’s with my folks.” Nikki looked at her watch as the El Dorado sped toward Savannah. “I’m already late.”

“Call them and ask them to keep her. Then, phone your sister. She’s got a cell, right?”

“Yeah. She always carries it with her.”

“Good. Then ring her up. I’m not kidding, Nikki. This is serious. Dangerous. Leave your niece where she is for the night. Believe me, it’s better for you to look like a flake than to end up dead.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” She rubbed her arms and as a car sped by, headlights spraying the interior of the El Dorado with blue light, he noticed the lines around her mouth, the nervous way she bit her lip. She did understand. Finally.

She reached for her phone. “So, now you’re what?” she asked as the cell phone’s keypad glowed and Nikki punched out a number. “My personal bodyguard?”

“You got it,” he said as he pushed the speed limit and dialed Sylvie Morrisette on his cell. “Trust me, I’m not any happier about this than you are!”

Who would be next?

Glancing up at the television screens he was disappointed that there seemed to be no mention of the Grave Robber tonight. Even the stir this morning at Heritage Cemetery had ceased to be of prime interest. The press conference was long over and only a few clips of it were being shown.

Fools.

No one seemed to take him seriously.

Except for Nikki Gillette. The one her father had dubbed “Firecracker.”

Probably because of her red-blond hair and quick temper. She was smart, sexy and not afraid to go after what she wanted—a woman to be reckoned with.

She wanted a story and he was going to give her one—the story of her life.

And death.

He slid into his desk chair and studied the computer screen that flickered in front of him. Images he’d created, a screen saver with the likenesses of Bobbi Jean Marx, Pauline Alexander, Thomas Massey and Roberta Peters danced over the black background, then, every three seconds their pictures turned to bones, a skeleton, then crumbled to ash, only to resurrect into the original images again. A little program alteration that he’d created.

After each successful burial, The Survivor had taken the pictures that he’d so carefully collected, scanned them into his computer and added them to the collage of images that disappeared before his eyes only to return again.

Only four, but soon, very soon, there would be additional images. He thought of the messages he’d sent earlier in the day and smiled.

His hands were damp in anticipation.

Licking his lips, he considered his next abduction.

His next kill.

Reaching for the sound system, he turned on the audiotapes and listened, first to Bobbi Jean, her terror, her fear, her screams and pleas…oh, that was good. His blood sang through his veins as he closed his eyes. His cock thickened in anticipation.

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