Page 95 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

To the point that now he was having erotic dreams or, more correctly, erotic nightmares about her.

That couldn’t be good.

Rather than go to bed, he decided to do some more work. He had a few loose ends to tie up, some information to double check before morning. And he didn’t trust himself to sleep right now. Not when the dream about Nikki Gillette still lingered and the effect of it was still evident in the hardness pressing against his fly.

Man, he was pathetic. Nikki Gillette was the last woman he should be lusting after. The very last one.

The Survivor gritted his teeth. It had been a long, drawn-out night. One where he’d had to hide within the mask that was himself, where he’d had to pretend, to watch, to wait…and then, rowing and digging…The exercise had been good, but now he needed sleep. It was almost dawn. He had precious few hours to rest and regain his strength.

But first he had one last duty.

Safe within his private space, he sat at the table and as the smell of damp earth permeated the walls, he pushed the rewind button on his tape player, then hit play and listened to the damning words again.

“Well…look what we have here…” The female voice that came in through the microphone was that of one of the cops who had searched Nikki Gillette’s apartment the night before. He’d seen the cop cars and the vans, even caught a glimpse of Nikki huddled next to Detective Reed, that prick. Reed had been protective of Nikki, his hand had been curled over her arm, as if he owned her.

“See that, here in the fan…” the woman cop was saying. She sounded smug and overconfident. The Survivor hated her.

“Yeah, right there…clever, huh?…another mike. Wireless. Looks like the same kind we found in the coffins. The bastard’s probably listening to this right now.”

That’s right, bitch. It is. And now I’m listening again, and you know what? You can’t find me.

“What a sicko,” the cop said, and her voice bothered him, grated on his brain.

“Too bad, the party’s over you useless piece of shit,” the cop said, directly to him. “No more free radio. You’ll have to get your jollies somewhere else. Say-o-nara.”

There was rattling and a scraping and then the microphone went dead.

You useless piece of shit. No-good, lazy, scumbag. What’re you good for? Nothin’ that’s what…

The Survivor quivered inside, wanted to run away and hide. As he had so long ago, hearing the voice that had haunted him for years ricochet off the walls of his brain.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…I’m gonna teach you a lesson, boy. One I promise ya, you’ll never forgit…

Rage roiled up inside him.

He wasn’t stupid. He was smart. IQ tests had said so and they don’t lie, right? But maybe he’d screwed up.

You are a screw-up. Worthless. No good.

He flung himself away from the table, toppling over his chair as he threw his hands over his ears to shut out the noise, the recriminations, the accusations. “I’m not stupid. I’m not!” he yelled, his chin wobbling.

So, now ye’re gonna cry. Little girlie-boy. Go ahead, cry…show me what a stupid little girl you are.

“I’m not a girl. I’m not stupid!” he yelled, gasping, his breath flying in and out of his lungs.

He was lying. To himself.

He had been foolish. Again.

He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand over and over again and his hairpiece fell off to lie like a small, denuded dog on the floor.

The cops weren’t supposed to find the microphone and figure it out. At least not so quickly. Nikki Gillette, that blabbermouth cunt, had told someone and she was ruining everything. He’d have to up his schedule. That was it. Accelerate.

Slowing his breathing, forcing his heart rate to lower, he climbed off the dirt floor. Picked up the toupee and hung it on a hook. With the oth

ers. He had to remain calm, remember his agenda, never falter. Already the next grave was being readied…

Calmer, he removed the contacts that turned his eyes from a clear blue to an impenetrable brown. It was time to trim his goatee to a moustache and grow out his sideburns.

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