The Morning After

by Lisa Jackson

  And here he was, waiting for her.

  He hiked his collar against the wind as she gathered her bag from the backseat, locked the hatchback, then started walking briskly toward the front steps of the restaurant, directly behind his Caddy.

  “Nikki. Over here,” he called and she stopped short. A slim black coat was cinched at her waist and her hair blew over her eyes as she searched the darkness.

  He approached, his feet crunching on the gravel.

  Whirling, she gasped, one hand flying to her throat. “Oh! Reed! You scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “Did I?” He couldn’t help the amused smile he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth. For once, he’d gotten the better of her.

  “Yeah, you did. And it’s not funny.”

  “You’re right. Listen, I think it’s better if we’re not seen together, so let’s go for a drive.”

  “A drive? Now?” She glanced around the parking lot.

  “Yeah.”

  “What is this, are you into some kind of kinky cloak and dagger stuff, or what?” she asked, but fell into step with him and muttered under her breath about feeling as if she were in a bad horror movie as she opened the car door.

  “Careful. Dinner’s on the front seat.”

  “What? Dinner? This?” She was staring at the greasy bags as he climbed behind the wheel. “Gee, Reed, you really know how to wow a girl.”

  “Years of practice.” He eased the big car out of the lot. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be seen together.”

  She seemed a little mollified as he drove east on U.S. 80, tires singing on the pavement, dark clouds obliterating the night sky.

  Headlights approached, then passed, and Reed double-checked to make sure that no one was following them. He wasn’t lying. If anyone saw him with Nikki Gillette, his job would be in serious trouble.

  “Sorry I was late,” she said.

  “You had about ten minutes to spare,” he said, slowing for a red light.

  “And then what? You’d take off?”

  “Something like that.” The light turned green and he took off again, following a few taillights toward the island.

  “Real nice,” she mocked, then added, “You weren’t at the press conference.”

  “But you didn’t expect me to be.”

  She glanced his way and he felt her eyes on him even though he continued to stare through the windshield, turning on the wipers as mist collected on the glass.

  “You know I’m off the case.”

  “I figured. Is that why you called me?”

  “Yep.”

  He drove across the bridge and onto Tybee Island, turning instinctively toward the eastern beach.

  “You want to give me a story?” She didn’t bother disguising her skepticism.

  “Not give. Trade.”

  “Really? When you usually avoid me like the plague?”

  He kept the speedometer just under the limit so as not to attract any attention. “You noticed.”

  “I would have had to have been deaf, dumb and blind not to. Really, Reed, you’ve acted like I was some kind of social pariah.”

  “You are. A reporter.”

  “Let’s not get into that,” she said quickly. “So, what is it you wanted to trade?”

  His fingers tightened over the wheel. “Information.”

  “On the Grave Robber.”

  No reason to back out now. “That’s right.”

  He had her attention. All of him. As Johnny B’s special sauce was giving off its world famous aroma, Nikki stared at Reed as if he’d just sprouted a third eye. “Okay, but let’s get something straight. Right now. If you’re asking me to divulge my sources, then, no way.”

  He pulled onto a side street, not far from the beach’s parking lot, and cut the engine. Through the windshield, Reed eyed the ocean. The black waters of the Atlantic were angry, whitecaps ruffling the dark surface. “Let’s eat before this stuff gets cold.” He reached into a cooler he kept behind the front seat and pulled out two bottles of beer. After uncapping them, he handed one to her, then took out the barbecued sandwiches. “Beef or pork?”

  “Doesn’t matter…pork,” she added, obviously dumbfounded. “Thanks.” She took the sandwich and half the dozen napkins that came with the order. “Is this some kind of peace offering?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Well?” She was unwrapping the waxed paper.

  “Consider it a bribe.”

  “I already told you, I won’t name my contact—”

  “I know, okay. I got it the first time.” He bit into his sandwich and stared out the window, past the white sand to the inky sea. “You’ve got information as fast as the department does. So someone on the inside’s feeding you.”

  “I said this isn’t open for discussion.”

  “Oh, I see. Only you get to ask the questions. Then, I guess we don’t have much to talk about.” He took a long swallow of beer and noticed that she hadn’t touched hers.

  The silence stretched thin and she finally took a sip of her beer.

  “I know that you were involved with Barbara Jean Marx. Is that why you aren’t working on the investigation any longer?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Look, if you want to trade information, you’ve got to give as well as get,” she said. “Barbara Jean Marx was pregnant when she died.”

  His throat tightened, but he didn’t move.

  “I figure you might be the father.”

  “She was married,” he pointed out, his gut clenching.

  “The guy had a vasectomy.” Nikki was staring at him.

  “How do you know that?” Reed had suspected as much, though Bobbi had never told him directly, but how could Nikki Gillette have found out? Hospital records?

  “Uh-uh. You want to work with me, then let’s do it, but I’m not giving up my sources. The way I figure it, there are only three reasons for you to bargain with me.” She held up a finger. “One, you want me to name my informant.” A second finger joined the first. “Or you want to know what I do as no one’s confiding in you at the department.” A third finger popped up. “Or both. You’re probably frustrated to be kicked off the case, especially since it’s so close to you, and you’re hoping that if we join forces you’ll have an inside track.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “My question isn’t what I can give you, but what, considering your position, can you give me?”

  “I know information the public doesn’t.”

  “And you’d let me in on it?” she asked skeptically.

  He’d been turning it over in his mind. “On the condition you don’t print it until the investigation is concluded.”

  “Meaning you’ve made an arrest, or the guy’s been tried and found guilty.”

  “Obviously after the trial.”

  “How would that help me? I won’t know anything more than the rest of the reporters in this city.”

  “It wouldn’t. Not now. But it could be a major book deal when this is all over.”

  “Not good enough, Reed. I want an exclusive now. For the newspaper.”

  “I can’t screw up the investigation.”

  “Then, I guess we’re at an impasse.” She dug into the sandwich, chewing and touching a napkin to the corners of her mouth in the dark car. “This is really good. Don’t you like yours?” When he didn’t answer, she sighed. “I just don’t get what you want from me.”

  “I want what you get, the minute you get it. For that, I’ll return the favor, but I have to have some say about what you publish. Final say.” He’d probably end up fired, but right now, he didn’t give a damn. He just wanted quick revenge against a killer poised to strike again. “But you have to agree not to print sensitive material until the case is over. Period.”

  “All right,” she said, wiping her hands carefully. “Since we have an agreement, there’s something I should show you. I was going to take it in to the station tomorrow morning anyway, but…” She lifted a shoulder, then reached into
her purse. She withdrew several sheets of paper, all of which were encased in plastic. “These were delivered to me.”

  Reed snapped on the interior light and his blood turned to ice as he read the first note:

  TONIGHT.

  Then the second:

  IT’S DONE

  And finally, the third:

  WILL THERE BE MORE?

  UNTIL THE TWELFTH,

  NO ONE CAN BE SURE.

  The air froze in his lungs. The notes were from the killer. There wasn’t any doubt. The first two were on the same kind of paper, the same exact handwriting of the notes he’d been receiving. The last communication was obviously an E-mail.

  “When did you get these?” he demanded, his entire body tight. The killer had been communicating with Nikki Gillette as well as with him. Why?

  “A couple of days ago.” As he listened, Nikki explained about receiving the first note on her windshield and the second in her bed. The third came via E-mail.

  Reed was beside himself. Fear clutched his gut. “The maniac was in your house, in your bedroom, and you didn’t go to the police?”

  “I am now.”

  “But the killer was in your home!”

  “I’ve had my locks changed and I’m going to call a security company to place alarms and sensors in the apartment.”

  “You need to leave that place. Move. Get away.” His mind was racing, panic driving it. “This is no game, Nikki, the guy’s bad news. Major bad news. How did he get into your apartment?”

  She told him that the door hadn’t been forced and gave him a rundown of what had happened when she arrived home, how the gate was unlatched, the cat outside. Immediately, he thought of Roberta Peters’s tabby and how she’d ended up buried alive.

  “You should have called the police,” he growled. “By changing the locks you might have inadvertently destroyed evidence! This guy is focused on you, for Christ’s sake. You can’t go back there.”

  “Then I’m not safe at work or anywhere else.”

  “Probably not.”

  “So what? You think I should have round-the-clock police protection?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Slow down, Reed,” she said, her hand touching his sleeve. “Are you volunteering for the job?”

  “See, you are a smart girl.” He wadded up the rest of his sandwich in its wrapper and threw the leftovers into the cooler. With a flick of his wrist, he fired the ignition.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Back to your place.” He reached for his cell phone. “We’ll meet the crime scene team there and if you insist on staying, I’ll stay with you. Otherwise you’re at my place.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  He gunned the engine and headed inland. “That’s the way it’s gonna be, Nikki. Do we have a deal?”

  “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.

  Then he heard the old lady’s whimpers…The cries gave him a thrill, made his blood hot and his heartbeat quicken. He thought of Bobbi Jean. And Nikki. His breath came in short, excited bursts.

  His lips were so dry he licked them.

  Who would be next?

  He closed his eyes and ran an anxious finger over the plastic-encased pictures in his album. “Eenie, meenie, miney, moe…”

  His hand stopped. He opened an eye to stare down at the smiling, sultry image of a beautiful woman…Though the snapshot had been taken a dozen years ago, he knew that she was still as eye-catching as she had been then.

  He wanted her.

  God, he wanted her.

  His cock began to throb and he wondered how she’d like waking up in a coffin. Imagined her terror, how her gorgeous features would contort in fear, how she’d plead and beg for her life, to no avail. Panic would nearly stop her heart. The air in the coffin would thin…her lungs would be on fire…oh, yes…

  He felt powerful.

  Strong.

  Cunning.

  Anticipation thrummed through his bloodstream.

  He could barely wait.

  “You’re next, sweetheart,” he whispered roughly as his erection strained against his fly. God, he’d love to fuck her. To slide into her. To show her how he could do what he wanted with her. Maybe after. Maybe before. But to dip into the hot warmth of her…or even into her cold, dead cunt. Either way.

  He’d never fucked one of them…never let his fantasies take hold so deeply that he couldn’t resist the temptation they presented. But maybe, this once, he could change his ritual a bit.

  Anticipation quickening his pulse, he slowly lowered his face to the scrapbook, so that her beautiful, smiling image blurred. Then, without closing his eyes, he planted a wet kiss on the plastic.

  CHAPTER 20

  “So you’re flaking out on me again, Nikki. Nice,
real nice!” The sneer in Lily’s voice was palpable even with the spotty reception of Nikki’s cell phone.

  Reed had dropped Nikki off at her car at Johnny B’s and was now following her as she drove into Savannah. Nikki barely noticed the southern channel of the river, or the traffic, or the speed limit as she headed inland, the lights of Savannah beckoning in the dark night. Her concentration was on the telephone conversation with her angry sister.

  “I told you it isn’t safe for me to take Phee,” she said for the third time. “Don’t you get it? My apartment was broken into, Lily. Whoever did it left me a damned note. In my bed.” She shivered, thinking of the intruder touching her linens, running his fingers over her bedposts, rummaging through her drawers.

  “This is a surprise?”

  “Don’t you know there’s a serial killer on the loose! He might have been the guy in the apartment.”

  “Well, gee, I wonder why he would break into your place, okay? Let’s think. Could it be that you keep writing about him? Attracting his attention? No wonder you’re a target. He’s pissed off.”

  “He’s not pissed off at me. He likes the attention I give him. He craves it. It’s all part of the serial killer mentality.”

  “I wouldn’t know. They have mentalities?”

  “Yes, Lily, they do and—”

  “He’s killing people, for Christ’s sake! It’s not about ‘mentalities!’” she snapped, then caught hold of her temper. “Listen, Nikki, I understand, okay? I do get it. It’s your life and it’s important.” Obviously Lily couldn’t keep the sarcasm from infecting her words. “So, I’ll leave here and pick Ophelia up at the folks. Forget what I’m doing. Forget that this was a hundred dollar a plate dinner for a candidate Mel supports, that it’s important to him, that it’s important to me. Because it’s all about you, isn’t it? It always has been.”