Dead By Morning

by Beverly Barton

  “Oh God, baby, you feel so good,” he told her, his voice a husky moan.

  “I love having you inside me,” she said and then kissed him.

  They made love for the fourth time that day and yet were as hungry for each other as they had been that morning. Errol wondered if he would ever get enough of Cyrene. Probably not. Even when they were old and gray, he would still want her, still love her, still be grateful that she had agreed to be his wife.

  An hour later, shortly after midnight, they emerged from the bathroom where they had showered together. Errol belted his white robe and walked over to the entryway table while Cyrene slipped into a red lace teddy and sat on the edge of the bed to towel dry her curly hair.

  He picked up the gift basket. “Want some wine now, Mrs. Patterson?”

  “Wine would be lovely, Mr. Patterson.” She glanced at the bedside clock. “We can toast to another glorious day of married life. It’s after midnight, so if it’s already tomorrow that means I’ve been Mrs. Errol Patterson for eleven days.”

  Errol removed the huge red bow and the clear cellophane wrapping from the gift basket, lifted the wine bottle and inspected it. “Hey, this is some of the good stuff. There’s no twist-off cap.” He chuckled.

  “Only the best for us,” she teased.

  “I’ve got the best.” He winked at her.

  “Want me to get the glasses?”

  “No need,” he told her as he transferred the bottle to his left hand and retrieved the two long-stemmed wine glasses from the basket. “Want some chocolate or cheese or—?”

  “I want it all,” she admitted, “but I’ll be a good girl and limit myself to one glass of wine.”

  He brought the bottle and glasses over to the bed. She took the glasses from him and held them while he rummaged in the nightstand drawer for the corkscrew that he had left there after opening the bottle of champagne the hotel had included in their “Welcome” package the day they arrived. After uncorking the wine, he poured each glass half full before placing the bottle on the nightstand.

  He took one of the glasses from Cyrene. “Here’s to our being this deliriously happy for the rest of our lives.”

  She clicked her glass to his, said, “Amen to that,” and lifted the glass to her lips.

  After he dimmed the lights, leaving the room bathed in moonlight, they sat in bed together, talking, laughing, sipping the wine, and making plans for their return to Tennessee. He knew that Cyrene was eager to decorate their new house in Farragut, a small town not far from Powell Agency headquarters in Knoxville. They discussed how lucky she was that there had been a teaching position open at a local elementary school. With school starting in early August, she would have about five weeks to put their new house in order.

  Errol yawned. “Man, I’m getting sleepy. Must be the mixture of great sex and good wine.” He removed the white terrycloth robe and flung it to the foot of the bed.

  Cyrene sighed and nodded. “Must be. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  Errol switched off the bedside lamp and then leaned over, kissed her, ran his hand from her shoulder to her hip and stilled instantly. The last thing Cyrene remembered was the sound of her husband snoring.

  He had waited patiently. The lights in the luxury villa suite had dimmed over an hour ago, but he hadn’t rushed in immediately. The odds were that Mr. and Mrs. Patterson had been sound asleep for most if not all of that hour, while he had been waiting and watching. But it was better to be certain.

  Errol Patterson never left his wife’s side. The two had been inseparable since they arrived in the Bahamas. He really didn’t want to kill them both. Doing so would have meant deviating from the plan. The Carver had never murdered a couple.

  His solution to that problem had been to send them a gift basket that included a bottle of expensive “doctored” wine.

  He approached the French doors that opened onto the villa’s private patio and pool. He stopped, listened, and peered through the doors into the darkened bedroom. Moonlight cast a glimmering path across the floor to the bed. After removing the small, carbide steel-bladed glass cutter from his inside pocket, he worked several minutes to make a precise round incision near the door handle. Once that was done, he pushed gently on the circle until it fell inward and hit the tile floor with a tinkling crash. He returned the cutter to his pocket. Without hesitation, he reached through the opening and unlocked the door from the inside.

  He eased open the door, slipped into the room and managed to avoid stepping on the broken glass. Pausing to allow his eyesight to adjust to the darkness, he heard a mixture of sounds. Snoring. Deep breathing. The ocean waves hitting the nearby beach. The hum of distant music, no doubt coming from the resort’s patio lounge that stayed open until 2:00 AM.

  He walked over to the bed. Two bodies. One male. One female. Both deep in sleep. Sufficiently drugged.

  He smiled.

  The sheet rested at the woman’s waist. Her breasts strained against the sheer lace material of her teddy. He was tempted to touch her, but he didn’t.

  The kill would take only seconds, the death less than two minutes. But moving the body would require more time.

  He reached inside his jacket pocket and removed the new scalpel, the fifth in a package of ten. Drawing closer to the edge of the bed, he studied the man’s head and neck before choosing the exact spot—the jugular vein. With one quick, precise move, he jabbed the scalpel blade through the flesh and into the vein beneath. Blood gushed. He slid the blade down and across, slicing through the carotid arteries on both sides. He watched the life drain out of Errol Patterson’s body.

  I’m sorry to make you a widow while you’re still on your honeymoon, lovely Cyrene. And I’m sorry that you’ll awaken to a bloody bed and a dead husband.

  Errol Patterson was a rather large man, probably six feet tall and weighing in at around one-ninety. But he could handle Patterson. He had maneuvered larger bodies.

  He flipped back the bloody sheet, took hold of Patterson’s ankles and dragged him off the bed and onto the floor. As his body hit the hard tile, it made a loud thud. He glanced up at the sleeping woman. She hadn’t moved. Good.

  He pulled Patterson’s blood-splattered, lifeless body from the bedroom and into the bathroom. Then he turned on the tub faucets.

  I never left them where I killed them. I moved the body, usually near a river or lake or stream. I even dragged a woman from her bedroom outside to her pool. There is something peaceful about water, don’t you think?

  Near the bathtub overrunning with water would have to do. He saw no point in dragging the body outside to the pool and certainly not all the way to the beach. No need to risk being seen.

  Chapter 8

  Cyrene woke with the worst headache of her life. She came to slowly, painfully, her eyelids flicking. Moaning as she stretched her neck, she tried to focus on the mundane task of keeping her eyes open. When she parted her lips, she realized that her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and her throat felt parched. She remembered drinking a glass of wine with Errol last night after they had made love and showered together. Surely, she hadn’t gotten drunk on a single glass. Had she drunk more than she thought she had?

  “Errol . . .” She forced her eyes wide open, stared up at the unmoving ceiling fan and spread her arm across the bed, searching for her husband.

  Dim early morning sunlight reflecting off the patio pool danced in waving patterns on the ceiling.

  Ah, another day in paradise.

  She ran her fingertips across the sheet and found that she was alone in the bed. Apparently Errol was already awake and had gotten up. He was probably in the bathroom. She could hear running water, but it didn’t sound like the shower. Flipping over toward the side of the bed, she stretched her arms over her head, extended her legs and curved her feet backwards. When she rose from the bed, her bare feet encountered the cool tile floor.

  Where are my house slippers?

  Cyrene rounded the foot of the bed,
intending to surprise Errol in the bathroom, but as she passed by his side of the bed, she caught a glimpse of something red on the sheets.

  What in the world?

  They hadn’t spilled any wine in the bed, had they?

  She moved closer, getting a better look at the dark red stains on the snowy white sheets.

  How odd. It looks like blood.

  Instinct kicked in, a primeval sixth sense that warned of danger.

  “Errol?” She backed away from the bed. “Errol . . . Errol . . .”

  Flooded with a barrage of frightening thoughts, Cyrene shook her head in denial, refusing to believe, trying to convince herself that nothing was wrong.

  “Errol, where are you?” Silence. “Please, honey, answer me.”

  Silence.

  As if her limbs were activated by some sort of remote control, her legs and feet moved, carrying her toward the bathroom. Gazing down as she walked, she noticed a smear of dried red liquid stretching from the bed to the bathroom.

  Suddenly she went numb, unable to feel her hands and feet. The thunderous roar of her heartbeat threatened to deafen her. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening.

  Standing in the bathroom door, she stared at the body lying on the floor beside the bathtub overflowing with water.

  Errol? Oh my God, Errol.

  His eyes were closed.

  A thin red line marred the perfection of his smooth, clean-shaven neck and rivulets of dried blood descended from that red line like trinkets on a charm bracelet.

  Cyrene stood perfectly still, her mind unable to process what she saw.

  And then, in the quiet stillness of her honeymoon suite, Mrs. Errol Patterson screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

  Maleah squared her shoulders and took a deep breath before entering the prison’s visitation area. She didn’t look back at Derek nor did she glance at the guard escorting her. After showering and dressing—khaki slacks and dark green tailored blouse—she had met Derek downstairs for breakfast. She had managed to down a cup of coffee and eat a few bites of blueberry muffin, hoping to quiet the tempest in her belly. Although she had done her best to assure her partner that she was not nervous and was ready for today’s meeting with Jerome Browning, she sensed that he knew she was simply putting up a good front. And that she was doing it as much for herself as for him.

  If you can act as if you are self-assured and confident, then you’ve already won half the battle.

  She remained standing as she waited for the guards to bring Browning from his cell. Thinking about what she was going to say and wondering how he would respond, she heard rather than saw Browning enter the visitation area. When she looked directly at him, he stared back at her, that weirdly pleasant and completely unnerving smile growing wider and wider as he drew closer.

  The guards instructed him to sit. He sat.

  “Good morning, Maleah. I hope you had a pleasant night. I certainly did.” He licked his lips. “I dreamed about you and woke this morning eager to see you again.”

  Is that the best you’ve got? she wanted to say. A little sexual innuendo isn’t going to unnerve me in the least. Not when you’re in shackles and there are three armed guards in the room with us.

  “I slept quite well, thank you,” she lied to him. “A restful, dreamless sleep.”

  “I assume Mr. Lawrence also slept well. Any man sharing your bed would sleep well after . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication was obvious.

  Was he fishing to find out if she and Derek were lovers? Or was he merely hoping the comment would insult her? Either way, she had no intention of responding.

  “We have an hour,” Maleah said as she sat across from Browning. “I think we’ve wasted enough time on meaningless, uninteresting chit-chat.”

  “Is your love life meaningless and uninteresting?” His smile never wavered.

  “Do you know why I’m here, Jerome? Why I’m wasting my valuable time even talking to someone like you?”

  “Someone like me?” He laughed. “Someone handsome and brilliant and gifted. And if I may be so immodest, someone who has been told that he is a superlative lover.”

  Egotistical, maniacal, psychopathic monster! “You are someone who has murdered fifteen people.” She paused before adding, “That we know of. You are someone who will spend the rest of his life slowly rotting away in prison.”

  He lifted his bound hands, gesturing toward his heart. “You wound me with such harsh words.” His smile turned quickly to a frown, his expression one of mock sadness.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” She repeated her initial question.

  “All work and no play makes Maleah a dull girl.”

  “You know why I’m here and what I want.”

  He stretched as languidly as his restrained body could and glanced from the guard on his right to the guard on his left, both men standing several feet behind him. “What am I going to do with such a dull, dull visitor, gentlemen? All she wants to do is talk business.”

  Maleah eased back from the edge of the seat and crossed her arms. “The warden has granted us an hour today, Jerome. But if you’re not in the mood to talk about what I want to talk about . . .” She uncrossed her arms, glanced at her wristwatch, tapped the glass face and said, “Five minutes. That’s as long as I’ll wait for you to tell me something that interests me.”

  Browning remained silent for four minutes. The silence in the large, nearly empty room echoed with the sound of their quiet breathing. One guard cleared his throat. Another coughed a couple of times.

  “You’re here because you think I might know who has mimicked my unique modus operandi almost perfectly and has recently killed four people.”

  Finally.

  “And do you know who he is?” she asked.

  As if believing he now had the upper hand for the time being, he smiled and shrugged.

  “All right,” she said. “You tell me what you want in exchange for answering my question.”

  “Ah, Maleah, my sweet beauty, you’re very bright. You catch on quickly. Games are so much fun, don’t you think?”

  “You’re wasting time,” she told him.

  “All right. I’ll cut straight to the chase.” He chuckled. “I want to know what color panties you’re wearing.”

  Good God! Without blinking an eye, she said, “Beige. With lace trim.”

  He closed his eyes, licked his lips as if savoring a delicious morsel and sighed with a sickening sound of satisfaction.

  “I assume the copycat killer is an admirer,” Jerome said. “I assume he has studied my work. Perhaps, he’s even communicated with me.”

  “Has he?”

  “That’s another question that requires payment.”

  Damn you, Browning.

  “You haven’t answered the first question yet. Not to my satisfaction.” She looked him in the eye.

  “I don’t know who the copycat killer is,” he said, and then hurriedly added, “Not exactly, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “There are things I do know. Things that can help you find him.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  He grinned.

  “Even if you answer every question I ask, how would I know whether or not you were lying to me?” she asked.

  “You’d have to take me on faith. But if you do that, I can promise you that in time, you’ll discover everything I tell you is true.”

  “Okay, let’s say I take you on faith. But first, you’ll have to give me something right now, something to prove to me that I can believe you.”

  “He’s going to kill again soon, if he hasn’t already.”

  She snorted. “That’s it? Sorry, Jerome, but you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “I’ll tell you something about the next person he’s going to kill, if you’ll tell me something I’d love to know.”

  “My bra matches my panties,” she said glibly.

  “That information paints such
an erotic picture in my mind,” he told her. “But that wasn’t my question.”

  “Then what is it?”

  As nonchalantly as if he were asking her about her favorite flavor of ice cream, he asked, “Was he your first?”

  She stared at him, puzzled by his question.

  “Noah Laborde,” Browning said. “Was he your first lover?”

  She should have been prepared for this, but she wasn’t. Damn it. She wasn’t.

  “You do remember Noah, don’t you? Good-looking young man, fresh out of college. Quite an up-andcomer in the Atlanta business world about twelve years ago.”

  Get hold of yourself, Maleah. He’s trying to rattle you. Don’t let him get away with it. Show him what you’re made of.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I remember Noah Laborde. And yes, he was my first lover.”

  Browning smiled as if he thought he had won a great victory. He hadn’t. But she had. He just didn’t know it yet.

  “He’s going to begin varying the sex of his victims. You won’t know from one kill to the next if he will choose a man or a woman.”

  “We learned that from your files, so we assumed if he followed your lead, he wouldn’t stick with two female kills followed by two males.”

  “Looks like you’re a step ahead of me.”

  “Tell me something else, something I don’t already know.”

  “Why should I? It’s not my fault that I told you something you already knew.”

  “Ah, come on, Jerome. Fair’s fair.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Do I?”

  “I believe I may have underestimated you, sweet Maleah.”

  “If you have, you wouldn’t be the first.” She stood up and glared down at him. “Pay your debt. Give me some information that I can use. If not, when I walk out of here today, I won’t be back.”

  “You could be bluffing.”

  “Only one way to find out—call my bluff.”

  She turned around and walked toward the exit door, her escort following. Just as he unlocked the door and opened it, Browning called out to her.