by Lisa Jackson
Cautiously, so as to not disturb the scene, Baldwin led Reed deeper into the woods, up a steep rise and down the other side to a clearing where klieg lights had been set up and more investigators were carefully sifting through the soil, taking samples, using digital cameras, Polaroids and video camcorders to record everything. The wind was cold as it cut through Reed’s jacket and there was a threat of rain in the air, but above it all, something else lingered in the atmosphere. Something unnamed. Something dark. Evil. He sensed it. As he did with most murder scenes. Baldwin angled through a copse of spindly trees to a clearing. They passed by a dead deer, its sightless eyes catching in the beam of the flashlight, its innards spilled onto the forest floor. Dark blood pooled and thickened in the grass around the carcass and Reed felt the scavengers hiding in the dark woods. Waiting.
Baldwin came to a shallow grave. Reed’s gut clenched as he spied earth piled around a rosewood and brass coffin, the wood blackened and stained, the metal no longer shiny, the lid pried open under the eerie, unnatural illumination from the klieg lights mounted on poles near the scene. Reed stepped closer, every muscle tense.
“Jesus!” Reed’s voice was whispery and thin, his curse more like a prayer. He drew a deep breath. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me she was alive when the bastard tossed her inside?” Rage tore through him. “Who in God’s name…”
Wedged into the stained satin-lined box were two bodies, one nearly hidden by the other. The smell of death, of rotting flesh, was overpowering. The bright lights seemed eerily out of place in these dark woods as they illuminated a ghastly scene. Reed stepped closer, squinting in disgust. The body on the top was that of a naked woman, her skin blue-white with death, bruises discoloring her face, arms and legs where she’d obviously tried to force herself out of this tomb.
For the love of Christ, she’d been buried alive.
He tried not to think of her horror until he studied her face.
Sweet Jesus, no…it couldn’t be. He thought he might throw up as he looked past the bruises to the fine, cultured features, the hands where manicured nails had now been ripped off, the open, terror-riddled dead eyes of Barbara Jean Marx. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, turning away for a second and drawing in a fresh lungful of air. Bobbi? No!
When he turned to face the horror again, he was certain it was she. Naked, long legs bruised, perfect breasts flat against her ribs now as she rested, stripped bare, on the rotting remains of another person. She’d obviously been dead a short while, perhaps less than a day. Blood had run from her ears, and her hands were clenched into bloodied claws as if rigor mortis had set in while she was still trying to scrape her way to freedom.
“Know her?” Baldwin asked.
Reed’s insides clenched. His throat closed. He fought the urge to puke. “Yeah,” he finally whispered, still disbelieving, his gaze riveted on the dead woman. Dear God. Was it possible? Bobbi? Vibrant, sexy, naughty Bobbi? Time seemed to stand still. The noises of the night faded. Images flashed behind his eyes, hot, erotic pictures of this woman with her sultry brown eyes, hard, well-muscled body, wispy red teddy that showed off large breasts with incredible nipples. She’d mounted him slowly, with narrow-eyed intention, her fingers grazing each of his bare ribs, nails softly raking over his chest as he’d sweated, watching, gasping for breath, his erection hard and aching. God, how he’d wanted her.
Now, staring at her pale, lifeless form, he cleared his throat and forced the sensual thoughts to disappear. They seemed nearly profane at the moment. A muscle worked in his jaw and he felt not only sad and repulsed, but suddenly weary. How had she come to this? Who had done it to her? “Her name is Bobbi Jean. Barbara Jean Marx.” His voice was husky and rough, even to his own ears. He hadn’t loved her, but still…
“How did you know her?” the sheriff asked, and there was just a hint of suspicion in the raise of his eyebrows.
Reed gritted his teeth. Took a deep breath. Felt the eyes of half a dozen cops on him. “Barbara Marx and I?” He turned away from what had become of her and fought the rage that tore through his soul. “Yeah, I knew her.” In the biblical sense. No reason to hide the truth. It was bound to come out now. “A couple of months ago we were lovers.”
CHAPTER 3
“The microphone inside the coffin, does it work?”
Oh, yeah, The Survivor thought, it works just fine. So does this little tape player. That’s the beauty of high tech.
Pierce Reed’s voice was coming in with only a little distortion even though he was half a mile away. Higher on a hillside, hidden in the trees, binoculars trained on the spot where klieg lights rained illumination onto the forest floor, he listened, his recorder getting every sound. It was impossible to see much with all the vegetation blocking his view, but he felt a sense of well-being, of retribution nonetheless as he peered through the pine branches.
“We think so. The mike looks new,” a male voice finally responded.
“Then the bastard could be listening in right now.” Pierce Reed’s voice. Even after all the intervening years The Survivor recognized it and the hairs on the back of his neck raised.
“Always that chance,” one of the other voices agreed, maybe that redneck of a sheriff. For a few seconds all he heard was background noise, muffled voices. No doubt the police had turned away and were discussing the fact that they were already hunting the surrounding hills, that they had dogs and teams of officers searching through the ravines and ridges. He wasn’t worried. Had expected them. But it was time to go.
“You said there was a letter.” Reed’s voice again.
“Here…tucked inside.”
There was a pause. Then Reed’s voice. “Tick tock, on goes the clock. Two in one, one and two.”
The Survivor mouthed the words as Reed spoke them. Figure it out, bastard.
“What the hell does that mean?” another voice, the one they’d called Baldwin, demanded.
A thrill slithered down The Survivor’s spine.
“Don’t know, but I got a similar note this morning at the station.”
The Survivor smiled at the note of trepidation in Reed’s voice. The cop was worried. Good. You should be, you pathetic piece of shit. For once, do your damned job!
“What did that one say?” Baldwin again.
“One, two, the first few. Hear them cry, listen to them die.”
That’s right.
“Hell. Well, the guy ain’t no damned Shakespeare.”
The smile fell from The Survivor’s face…What kind of comment was that?
“But you’re sure it’s the same guy?”
Of course it is, you insignificant hick!
“Same paper. Same handwriting.” Reed again. Solemn. A thread of anger in his voice. Perfect.
“So we got ourselves a nutcase and he’s focused on you.”
“Looks as if.”
“And it’s pretty serious if he killed your girlfriend and dropped her into a coffin that he went to the trouble of digging up. We’d better check the local cemeteries.”
“And try to ID the other woman. There might be a link between them.”
The Survivor licked his dry lips. Heard the rustle of the wind through the brittle branches overhead. Perhaps he’d given too much away too soon.
“Let’s find out.”
“Wait a minute.” Reed barked out the terse command.
Time was ticking by, precious seconds where those damned curs might locate him, but The Survivor lingered, couldn’t resist hearing the rest. Again, he trained his field glasses toward the light. He hoped for a glimpse of Reed, craved the chance to see pain etched upon the cop’s face. Imagining Reed bending over, observing his naked lover’s features in death’s cold detail was sweet, sweet vengeance. His pulse accelerated in anticipation.
“Look at this! The lining’s been shredded, and her fingers…” His voice shivered in fury and despair.
That’s right Reed, she tried to claw her way out. The Survivor felt his blood quicken at the
thought. Barbara Jean Marx had gotten what she’d deserved. So would the others.
A dog began baying, his excited howls echoing through the canyon.
He couldn’t stay much longer. It wasn’t safe. The Survivor loved dragging Reed up here to the back country where the bastard had been born. Now it was time to return to Savannah…. Hauling the coffin here had been dangerous; he could have been seen, but it had been worth it, just to rattle Reed. To point the cops in the wrong damned direction. But he hadn’t counted on those dumb-ass kids showing up first; that had been a mistake.
He wouldn’t make another.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that she wasn’t dead…Oh, Christ, you wanted to see my reaction, didn’t you? What? You think somehow I was involved in this and that I put my own name on the note and…” His voice faded for a second. The Survivor imagined the cop pulling himself together. “Listen to me, you bastard, whoever you are.” Now the voice was clear, as if Reed were speaking directly into the microphone. “You’re not going to get away with this, you hear? I’ll hunt you, you sick bastard. To the ground. You got that? To the damned ground. You’ll never rest easy again!”
Oh, no, Reed? The Survivor gathered his pack and began quickly walking along the path toward his truck. Just watch me.
The needle on the speedometer slanted well over sixty as Nikki drove steadily north through the night. Her hatchback threatened to spin out on the curves, but she held the wheel steady, zipping through the hills as a thin rain began to fall. Automatically she flipped on the wipers. And noticed she was nearly out of gas.
She had her route planned out and only wished she could zap herself with a magic wand or one of those sci-fi teleporters so she could land in Lumpkin County when Reed arrived at the scene of the crime, which, if she figured right, was a double homicide. She’d caught some information on the police band, but it wasn’t enough to piece together. All she knew was that she was heading for an old logging road near Blood Mountain. She’d plugged her laptop computer into the GPS and had found her route, but she needed more information. She’d tried the Lumpkin County Sheriff’s Department and, naturally, was told by a recording that it was closed until the next morning. She’d called a couple of contacts she had up here, but nothing had panned out. When she’d dialed Cliff Siebert again, he hadn’t picked up. No doubt he was ducking her.
She took a corner a little too fast and her wheels squealed. She really wanted to talk to Detective Pierce Reed himself, but that would be tricky. She’d tried to get close to him during the Montgomery murders, but he’d been reticent—no…downright bristly whenever she’d approached him. He had a reputation for not being fond of the press and she didn’t blame him after the woman had died during the stakeout. It seemed that even though he’d been cleared of any wrongdoing through the San Francisco Police Department’s Internal Affairs Unit, the media had crucified him.
There was a good chance her father knew more about Reed than she did.
Nikki scowled as she dimmed her lights for an approaching car. She didn’t like asking “Big Ron” Gillette for any favors. Never had. Wouldn’t do it.
Sure you would, Nikki-girl. You’d do anything for the right story. She could almost hear her older brother taunting her, which was impossible as Andrew had been dead a long time. Her internal temperature seemed to drop as another car whooshed past and her wipers slapped the rain from the windshield.
Andrew, the star athlete.
Andrew, the exceptional student.
Andrew, groomed to follow his illustrious father’s footsteps.
Andrew, dead from a fall from a deck thirty feet above the ground.
Andrew, body broken, blood-alcohol level in the stratosphere, traces of ecstacy and cocaine swimming in his veins.
Andrew, a victim of an accident. Or had it been suicide?
Coincidence that only the week before he’d been turned down for law school by Harvard, his father’s alma mater.
Nikki set her jaw. Squinted into the night. It had been eight years since her elder brother’s death and still it lingered, a dark veil appearing when she least expected it. She shook off the old feelings of disbelief and despair as her little car shot past a milepost sign indicating Dahlonega was still nearly a hundred miles away.
She pulled into the next gas station/mini mart she came across and filled her tank. Inside, the acne-faced kid behind the counter looked about fourteen, but sold the guy in front of her a six-pack as if he’d done it all his short life. As she grabbed a Diet Dr. Pepper from a cooler, she overheard the customer, an unshaven guy in his late sixties with unruly gray eyebrows and a couple of teeth missing say, “What’s all the fuss up ta Blood Mountain?”
The kid rang up the sale, snagged the proffered bills and handed out change. “Don’t really know that much ’bout it, but a couple of hunters got spooked, one ended up fallin’ or bein’ pushed down a ravine. Got himself life-flighted to Mason General in Atlanta.”
Nikki, edging past the Cheetos, was all ears.
“I heard the police are crawlin’ all over the place. That they’re findin’ graves up there.”
The kid wasn’t about to show any interest. He lifted a shoulder and handed the customer his change.
“Ye-ep, old Scratch Diggers claims that they’ve already dug up two bodies.”
“What would Scratch know?”
“A lot. His wife works police dispatch.”
“Scratch talks too much.”
“Fer sure. But he usually gets his facts straight.”
Two bodies—maybe more. So what did that have to do with Pierce Reed? Nikki picked up a package of Doritos and a magazine, then perused the pages as if she were interested in the latest celebrity gossip. All the while her ear was trained on the conversation.
But it was over. The old guy was ambling toward the door with its quaint bell and high-tech video camera mounted over the jamb. “See ya later, Woodie. Say hi ta yer folks.”
“I will,” the kid promised as the bell rang and the customer left.
Nikki made her way to the checkout stand. “Is that true?” she asked, feigning innocence as she searched through her handbag for her wallet. “I couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about. Are there really some bodies buried on Blood Mountain?”
“I don’t know. I was watchin’ the news a little while ago”—he hitched his chin toward a small black and white TV tucked beneath the counter. The reception was bad, the image of a reality show grainy—“and there was some news about graves being found up there, but the report was, how do they say it, ‘unconfirmed by police sources.’” He offered her a country-boy smile and added, “But as my daddy always said, ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’”
“Isn’t that the truth?” she agreed as she found a five and he made quick change. “How far is that from here?”
“Hour, maybe an hour and a half,” the clerk said as he bagged her items.
And in that time Norm Metzger and half dozen local news teams would beat her to the punch. She climbed into her car and eased onto the highway before gunning it. So the police weren’t talking. That wasn’t a surprise. Maybe she could get lucky. If Cliff Siebert would only tell her why Pierce Reed had been sent to the scene, then she’d have a new angle, possibly one she could use with Reed. She tapped her fingers on the wheel and bit her lip as she drove. Somehow, she had to get an exclusive with the reticent detective. There had to be a way to get to him. There always was. She just had to figure out how.
“You said you were lovers.” Sheriff Baldwin had been leaning over the coffin. His back popped as he straightened. Mist was rising around them, rain threatening, and the cold mountain air seeped into Reed’s bones.
“We had been. It was over.”
“When?”
“The last time I saw her was a couple of months ago. I broke it off.”
Baldwin was interested. He shifted from one foot to the other and in the eerie fake light from the kliegs his eyes narrowed.
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“Why’s that?” The sheriff cast another look into the coffin. “Good-lookin’ woman.”
Reed felt a muscle in his jaw jump. “Let’s just say it was because of her husband. Jerome Marx. A businessman in Savannah—import/export, I think. He didn’t approve.”
The sheriff drew air between his teeth. “She was married?”
“She didn’t think so. He did. Took offense to my being involved with his wife.”
“Don’t blame the man,” Baldwin muttered. “You didn’t know she was hitched?”
“She claimed she was separated, that the divorce was just a formality, was supposed to have been final any time.”
“You didn’t check? It’s all a matter of public record.” Those dark eyes drilled into him.
“No.”
“You trusted her.”
“I never trusted her.” But he hadn’t been able to resist her. Some men relied on booze to get them through. Others used drugs. Or cigarettes. Pierce Reed’s Achilles’ heel was women. Usually the wrong kind. Always had been, probably always would be. He glanced down at Bobbi and his stomach soured.
“Guess we’ll have to notify Marx. Have him come up and ID the body.”
“Let me talk to him.”
The sheriff hesitated, glanced at Detective McFee and Deputy Ray Ellis, all the while tugging thoughtfully on his lower lip. “Don’t see what that would hurt, especially since he’s already in Savannah. But you’d better take someone with you seein’ as you know the vic. McFee,” he said, nodding toward a huge man whose face was hidden by the brim of his hat. “You accompany the detective back home.”
“Fine.” Reed didn’t care who tagged along, but he sure as hell wanted to see the look on Jerome Marx’s face when he was handed the news that his wife had been buried alive.
“Hey!” a voice shouted from beyond the lights. “We’ve got company. The press is here.”