by Lisa Jackson
The Survivor’s hands tightened over the wheel as he edged to the side of the road. He had a gun. If the cop stopped him, he could blow the pig away. Easy. Then ditch the truck. It wasn’t registered to him. He could still make it. Still fulfill his mission
Siren screeching, lights pulsing, the cruiser blew by him doing eighty. The cop at the wheel didn’t so much as give him a second look.
He was safe.
For now.
“Help!” Roberta cried, her heart pounding so frantically she was certain it would explode. She was waking up, her mind still fuzzy, but she knew she was in trouble. Some kind of unthinkable, horrible trouble. Or maybe it was a dream. A nightmare.
Yes. That was it.
Wake up. Wake up now.
She shivered and placed her hands against the tattered cloth of the lid of the box that held her. It didn’t budge. She pushed hard. Still nothing.
Terror raced through her blood.
Wake up. Wake up and you’ll be in your own bed.
She dragged in a breath of stale air…but it was so hard to breathe and…and…this had to be a nightmare of the worst kind.
Wake up, Roberta! For pity’s sake, wake up!
She forced her eyes open.
Blackness.
Total, Stygian darkness.
Something was terribly, vitally wrong. Her throat went dry. Her fear congealed into pure, undiluted horror.
Do something. Get out! For God’s sake, get out of here!
She pushed upward.
Nothing.
Again. Harder.
Her hands ached.
Her wrists felt as if they might snap.
This was no dream. It was real. She was trapped. Like a sardine packed in a tiny can. Oh, sweet Jesus, no.
Her mind cleared and she realized she was naked. Not a stitch on her body.
And her back was pressed against something that contoured to…no…oh…NO! The squishy thing beneath her was a body. The top of the box was actually a lid of a casket and she was no doubt being buried alive.
Like that poor other woman.
“Help me! Please, someone!” She began screaming and kicking, banging her naked knees, scraping at the coffin’s lid, yelling until her voice ached.
She didn’t dare think of what was beneath her—the metal of a belt buckle pressed into her back, the feel of bones beneath tattered clothing against her rump, bony ribs touching her shoulders. She screamed again and again, over her own sobs and the acrid stench of rotting flesh. “Help me! Help me, oooooh…God…pleeeease.” She was crying now, scraping her fingers raw, her lungs tortured and burning, her mind shrieking with fear. She couldn’t die like this, not squished against a dead corpse whose fetid skin and tissues were sticking to her hair and skin. Her flesh crawled and she imagined worms and maggots and all sorts of vile creatures crawling through the stringy, decaying muscles and innards beneath her.
“Let me out. Please, please…let me out of here!”
Half-crazed, propelled by adrenaline, she kicked harder.
Bam! She heard a sickening snap. Pain jarred up her leg. She was gasping, drawing in thin, wretched air.
It was no use. She couldn’t escape. “Why?” she cried, sobbing. “Why me?”
Calm yourself, Roberta. Remember your faith. Reach out to the Father. He will help you. He is with you. He has not forsaken you.
She scaled her own ribs upward, past her bare breasts to the hollow of her throat, to find her cross, but as her bloodied fingers searched her neck, she realized that her chain and cross were missing. Whoever had stripped her had taken off her necklace as well as stripped her of her precious wedding ring.
“You sick bastard,” she hissed. Tears of despair streamed from her eyes. She began to cough. Fear congealed her blood and an odd pain started up her arm. A tingling and worse, something squeezing her, deep in her chest.
Trust in the Lord God. He is with you. Roberta, keep your faith!
The pain burned through her, but she clung to the words that had comforted her as a child. Quietly she began to murmur, “Jesus loves me, this I know, ’cause the Bible tells me so…”
What the hell was that?
Singing? The old lady was singing? The Survivor adjusted his earpiece once again as he guided his truck into the dark alley behind his house. No lights glowed in the upper stories and the basement was dark as death. He cut the engine behind a gray van with moss growing on it.
“For little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong…” Roberta Peters trilled.
As if it would do any good.
The Survivor listened to her surprisingly strong, clear voice, the sound of a woman no longer wailing in fear but loudly proclaiming her faith in a song she’d no doubt learned as a child.
As if she was ready to accept death and meet her Maker.
The Survivor’s upper lip curled back in disgust. He recognized the lyrics and tune. Had sung the song himself. How many times had he been forced to warble that pathetic little ditty after a particularly brutal beating? And what good had it done?
Where had God been when he’d been in pain?
Listening and ready to save him?
Not that The Survivor remembered.
“Go ahead,” he muttered in disgust, as if the old woman could hear him. “Sing your pathetic lungs out.”
“Yes, Jesus loves me…” Roberta Peters’s clear voice cracked. “Yes, Jesus loves…”
And then there was nothing.
She didn’t cry out again.
Didn’t beg for mercy.
Didn’t sob uncontrollably.
The skin over his face tightened painfully. He rolled down the window and spat. Who would have thought the old woman would so docilely accept her fate, probably even looking forward to slipping into the next realm, hoping to sail smiling through the Pearly Gates?
The Survivor felt empty inside. Furious, he yanked out his earpiece. For this, he had worked so hard? For her acceptance and compliance, he’d plotted and planned? Shit! Aside from the first gasps and cries of terror and a few bangs when she’d tried to free herself, Roberta Peters’s reaction had been a bust.
Not nearly as satisfying as Barbara Marx. Listening to Bobbi Jean, as she’d called herself, had been exhilarating, even bordering on sexually stimulating. The fact that she’d been such a lusty, sensual woman had added to the thrill of her death. Even now, thinking of her wails, he felt his body respond.
But this…the pathetic crying and singing of a childish Bible school song had left him feeling empty inside.
Don’t worry about it. The old lady had to pay. As had the others. There will be more. You know there will be and some of those will be even more rewarding than Barbara Jean. Be patient.
He slid from his truck, locked it, then walked unerringly through the shadows to the back entrance of the old home where he resided. Along the broken brick path to the basement, the vines were thick, fronds of ferns slapping at him, the smell of the earth filling his nostrils as he withdrew his keys and slipped through the door into the dark interior. To his private space. No one suspected he dwelled deep within the bowels of this old mansion, even the owners didn’t realize he had the keys to this particular part. Which was perfect.
He didn’t snap on any lights, felt with his fingers along the old shelves and brick walls.
Tonight he would listen to the tapes again. Compare them. Time them…see how long it took each of his victims to die. As he ducked through the doorway and slipped into his private space, he turned on the lamps and walked to his bureau where he deposited Roberta Peters’s underpants—voluminous panties for a scrawny woman. But not white, no, lavender and smelling a bit of the same as if she’d kept them in a drawer with sachet. They were silky, no doubt expensive.
He removed the tape recorder from his pocket and slid the cassette into his player. Once again he heard her whispering cries, oh, there was some begging involved and he smiled to himself as he thought of the others…how he wou
ld draw out their torment so that he wasn’t disappointed again. There was so much work to be done, so many more who would pay, and the notes, he had to write them carefully, guiding the police down one path before veering sharply. He smiled as he pulled out his album and looked at the remaining victims. Their terror would be complete. They would know how they had failed him. They would understand why they were doomed to their own private hells.
He would make certain of it.
CHAPTER 8
“You got the name of a good attorney?” Morrisette asked the next morning as she strode into Reed’s office.
“You plan on suing someone?”
“Bart. I’ve had it, and that yo-yo dumb-assed lawyer I’ve used in the past hasn’t done diddly-squat. If Bart wants to take me to court, so be it, but the gloves are comin’ off, let me tell you.” She flung herself into a side chair, crossed her legs and scowled. One booted foot bobbed in anger. “He’s the kids’ father for Christ’s sake. What makes him think he can get away with not payin’ me?”
Before Reed could respond, she said, “And then he has the balls to take me to court? What the hell did I do to deserve that jerk? Lowlife, no-damned-good son of a bitch, that’s what he is. How many men do y’all reckon there are in the world? What—three, maybe four billion, and of all of those potential mates, he’s the bastard I picked to have kids with. I should have my head examined.” She shoved a hand through her spiked hair and let the air out of her lungs slowly, as if she were intent on exhaling her anger. A second later, a lot more calmly, she added, “Okay, enough about my so-called personal life. What’s new besides you getting your ass kicked off the Grave Robber case?”
“Grave Robber? So you’ve seen the Sentinel.” It was a statement. The entire town, or, for that matter, county, had probably read the article on the front page. He reached into his desk drawer for his roll of antacids and popped a couple.
“Nikki Gillette at her finest.” Morrisette scowled. “God, I hate the press.”
Reed didn’t comment. His views on the fourth estate were well documented. As for Nikki Gillette, she was something else altogether. Had she not been a reporter, he might have found her attractive. Built like an athlete, with a tight ass, small breasts and lean legs, she was bullheaded and determined. Never mind that he’d noticed she had pale green eyes and eyebrows that could arch cynically in a heartbeat.
“How’d she get her information?”
“You were mentioned.”
He snorted. “There’s a leak in the department.”
“Are you kidding? This office is a veritable sieve. Where’s McFee?”
“Don’t know. I’m not on the case anymore.”
Morrisette cracked her first smile of the morning. “My ass. You’re not officially on the case, but that’s not gonna stop you.”
“Sure it is,” he deadpanned. “I go strictly by the book.”
“Save me.” She twisted in her chair and kicked the door closed. As it slammed shut, Morrisette became dead serious. “Barbara Marx was pregnant. Was the kid yours?”
His chest tightened. He looked away. “Don’t know.”
“But it could’ve been.”
“Yeah.” A muscle worked in his jaw. He didn’t want to think about it.
“Jesus H. Christ, Reed, what were you thinkin’? In today’s world? You didn’t use a condom?”
He didn’t answer, just glanced out the window where morning light was filtering through the dirty panes and pigeons were roosting on the sill.
“Men!” She sighed audibly and jabbed at her hair with her fingers. “Damn, I could use a cigarette.”
You and me both.
“Okay, okay, so you don’t need a lecture.”
“That’s right. I don’t.”
She shook her head. “Okay, so what do you want me to do?” Suddenly she was all business again. Composed. Her little jaw set, her mouth a line of determination.
He was two steps ahead of her. They were an odd team. There had been bets by some of the other detectives about how long their pairing would last. Odds were against it. But so far, it had worked. “You’ll need to handle the official stuff. Requests that require signatures. Phone calls to and from the department. That sort of thing.”
“And what’ll you do?”
“Work on other cases, of course.”
“Give me a break.” Morrisette snorted. “Okay, okay, so that’s the way we’ll play it. Okano will have your badge if she finds out you’re still working on this. Even in an advisory capacity.”
“But I’m not working on it.”
“My ass.”
Reed didn’t argue as a matronly clerk rapped on the door, entered and dropped a bundle of mail into his box. “Mornin’.”
“Morning,” Reed replied. “How’s it going, Agnes?”
“Same old, same old.” Her eyes slid to the desk. “I see you’re gettin’ yourself some press.”
“It’s hell to be popular.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Chuckling, she left.
Reed grimaced as he snapped the rubber band off the bundle and began shuffling through the small stack. “I’ll want to know when we can talk to the kid in the hospital.”
“Prescott Jones?”
“Yeah. Check on his condition and if he’s allowed visitors. See if we can get in to talk to him for a few minutes.”
“You mean see if I can get in to see him.”
Reed grimaced. “That’s right. There’s a good chance he’s seen the killer. And so far, he’s the only one. Take a picture of Marx up there with you and flash it at the kid. Then double check Jerome Marx’s alibi.” Reed continued sorting through his mail as he talked. “Have you talked with anyone where Barbara Jean worked—Hexler’s Jewelry Store near the Cotton Exchange?”
“Already looking into it. And I’ve started with a list of her friends. What about relatives?”
“There’s a brother, I think. Maybe an aunt. The brother’s name is”—he flipped through the envelopes—“Vic or Val or…”
“Vin. Vincent Lassiter. That one I’ve checked out, but he’s MIA. His phone was disconnected a week ago and he did some time. Car theft, solicitation and possession, nothing violent that I’ve come up with.”
“Hell’s bells, aren’t you the efficient one?” Reed looked up from the mail.
“Just doin’ my job,” she quipped. “I thought you might want to put a friendly call in to Detective Montoya in New Orleans, to double check on Lassiter. Unofficially, of course.”
“Of course.”
“See what he knows about Lassiter.”
“Good idea.” He glanced down at the mail and saw the envelope.
An average white envelope, handwritten, addressed to him.
“Shit.”
The return address was out of town on Heritage Road. No name. He stopped sorting and slit the envelope open. A single page was enclosed. It read:
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…
SO, NOW, DON’T YOU WONDER HOW MANY MORE?
He froze. Reread the damning words over and over again.
“What?” Morrisette said. She was on her feet in an instant. Looking over his shoulder, she read the message. “Oh, Jesus.” She moved her gaze to stare straight at Reed. “This son of a bitch means business.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Norm Metzger was so angry the moustache above his goatee quivered with rage. He slapped a folded copy of this morning’s paper onto Nikki’s desk. She’d expected the explosion, had caught his angry glances all morning, and seen him beeline into Tom Fink’s office as soon as the editor had shown up this morning.
“I found an angle and ran with it.” She leaned back in her chair and stared up at him, not giving in an inch. She was tired, had barely slept a wink because of the note in her apartment, and wasn’t about to take any of Metzger’s guff. Not today.
Hooking a thumb at his chest, he growled, “It was supposed to be my story.”
“Take it up with Fin
k.”
“I have. But you already know that.” Metzger leaned over her desk, pushing his face close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath. “You’ve been trying to muscle in on my territory for years, Nikki, and it’s just not going to work.”
“Muscle in on your territory?’ Oh, come on, Norm. Who are you? James Cagney in some old tough-guy black and white movie from the forties?” She managed a smile and noticed the corners of his mouth were so tight his lips had paled. “As I said, I saw an angle and ran with it. I talked it over with Tom and he decided to go with the story.”
“You could have run it by me.”
“Why? Would you have if you were in my position?”
He straightened. Looked up at the ceiling. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“So you want to work with me on this?” he asked as if granting her a great favor. When she was the one with the source and the scoop.
“I work better alone.”
He snorted. “You don’t prescribe to the two heads are better than one theory?”
“Only a man, because of his anatomy, would think that.”
He slid her a glance that was meant to be glacial. “You know, Nikki, you act tough, but you’d better be careful. This is a small newspaper in a town with a long memory. You got yourself into trouble a while back, so you’d better be sure you don’t make the same mistake twice.”
“I won’t,” she said with more confidence than she felt as he walked back to his desk.
Trina slid her chair back. “Ouch. Looks like someone’s fragile male ego has just been bruised.”
“And battered, but not broken.” She glanced down the hallway. Metzger was grabbing his coat and wool cap, making a big exit and a bigger point. “He’s just ticked cuz I aced him.”
“And he won’t forget it. I wouldn’t want to be on Metzger’s bad side.”