His mama's curse on the Slicer came back to him and Derek's lips curved into a slight smile. Too bad Mama would never know it worked. Jessica Bundy was dead. Gone. Mama had her revenge. Derek would have to be satisfied.
After spitting on the grave—a satisfying gesture even though his ghost mouth produced no actual saliva—Derek headed into the caretaker's cottage.
* * * * *
As Special Agent Frank Jackson pulled his blue sedan to a stop at the curb of the cemetery entrance, he punched at the face of his iPhone to cut off the ringing. No answer...again. Frank had already left a message in addition to texting his partner. But no reply from Mike Wayburn. Typical. Mike lacked the fire for promotion that burned in Frank's gut, the one that forced him to go the extra mile. Off duty meant off duty to Mike.
Not so for Frank, especially when his intuition spoke to him. That sixth sense about cases had served him well before and he'd learned not to ignore it. And every nerve ending sparked when that waitress mentioned Jonah Morrison. The closer he got to the cemetery, the more convinced Frank became that he'd find the Slicer tonight. That Morrison kid would incriminate himself and then Frank would take him down.
After getting out of the car and closing the door with as silent a click as possible, Frank proceeded closer. The cemetery gate stood open as if someone had rushed out and not taken the time to close it. Frank drew his service revolver. He held it at his side, his eyes darting about as he headed down the path to the caretaker's cottage.
No sign of Belinda Cruz. Frank hoped he wouldn't be too late to save her.
A faint knocking stopped him cold and he lifted the gun. "Jonah Morrison? This is Special Agent Frank Jackson. Show yourself with hands raised."
More knocking this time accompanied by a muffled female scream. "Help me. Please, help me."
After making a dash toward the sound, Frank found himself at the foot of a fresh grave. A shovel lay in the grass next to the mound.
The female voice, still muffled but louder now, called out, "Get me out of here. Please."
"My God." Frank shoved the gun into the holster on his belt. "That sicko buried her alive."
Shoveling as furiously as he could, Frank continued talking to the poor girl to try to calm her. No telling how much air she had. "Try to stay calm, miss. I'm with the police. I'm here to help you."
A sound—something between a sob and a burst of laughter—preceded a desperate cry, "Hurry, please."
Sweat beaded on his brow and the once pristine suit became covered in dirt by the time Frank dug six feet down. Once he reached the coffin, Frank lifted the top half of the lid. He could make out little more than a female silhouette in the sparse amount of moonlight available. A delicate hand reached out and grabbed his forearm.
"I'm here now. You're safe. Just let go of my arm and I'll help you out of there," he said, patting her clenched, icy-cold fingers.
Her vise-like grip reassured him she'd survived the lack of air, but the girl was clearly petrified.
"I'm glad you came here tonight," she said as she released her hold. "It would have been hard getting out of this coffin on my own."
Not only petrified, but also nonsensical with shock.
With his help she managed to wriggle out of the coffin. Frank climbed from the grave first and then lifted her out. At ground level, the moonlight provided a better view of the victim. Probably no more than eighteen, this girl was blonde...clearly not Belinda Cruz.
"Who did this to you?" he asked.
"Jonah Morrison," the girl replied in a monotone and then began to swipe at the dirt on her white dress.
"Sick son of a bitch," he muttered.
As she swiped at the dirt on her legs, her long ringlets fell to the side and he saw her ear, or rather lack of ear.
"You're injured."
"I know," she murmured absently. "Not very nice of Jonah to mess with my prettiness."
Frank registered details in quick succession: no blood on her skin or dress from the ear, unnatural whiteness to her skin, lips with a bluish tinge. His heart began to race. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"No." She smiled as their eyes met. His brown and wide, hers clouded over with death. "I'll be all right. A hospital won't be able to help me...or you."
Stumbling back, Frank drew his gun and pointed it at her. "Stop."
She advanced on him her lips twisted into a chilling smirk.
Frank fired...and fired again...and again.
Chapter Seven
"Please. Stop." Jonah caught up to Belinda and grasped her arm from her behind,
She let out a scream as she turned and thrashed against his hold.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "I just want to talk."
A boom startled both of them, cutting off their struggle.
Gunshot.
Acting on instinct, Jonah jerked Belinda into an embrace, turning her and shielding her with his taller body. With one hand he pressed her head into his chest and hugged her to him with the other.
Two more shots cracked.
This time, Jonah could better judge the sounds had come from quite some distance away. As the sounds faded, he questioned whether those sounds had been gunshots. Perhaps someone was playing with firecrackers. But Jonah still clutched Belinda to him. If he didn't move, he could almost fool himself that this oasis in time—a time when he still had contact with Belinda—could go on forever.
"I'm okay," Belinda murmured. "You can let me go now."
Oasis over.
Jonah released her and stepped back. "I know what happened earlier must've freaked you out," Jonah said. "Can we talk about it?"
"Not now. I can't now." Belinda stared down at the sidewalk, the light from the nearby streetlamp creating a glow on the crown of her head, but her face remained in shadow.
"Tomorrow? At the diner?" Jonah asked. "I'll explain everything."
She nodded. After wheeling around, Belinda ran off. She jogged to a house at the end of the block, ran up steps to the porch and then disappeared inside.
* * * * *
Floating in a half sleep, a remnant of a blissful dream lingered in Jonah's brain as he rolled onto his stomach, his cheek resting against the cloud-like pillow. The dream beckoned him again. Belinda in his arms, her lips on his.
“Wakey, wakey," Derek shouted in his ear, as if he stood over Jonah. "The sun is shining and it's a beautiful new day."
Jonah groaned. Keeping his eyes firmly shut, he burrowed his head more deeply into the pillow. "Ten more minutes.”
"No, doofus. You got people to see, and by people I mean Belinda."
The door to dreamland slammed shut, but Jonah kept his eyes closed pretending sleep. He knew he'd have to go and try to explain as he'd promised, but...just not yet.
"You have to get to her before she has a chance to blab to someone." Derek's voice sounded close.
Jonah cracked on eye open and saw the ghost lying on his side next to him.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jonah demanded, sitting upright, covering his lap with his hands.
"Don't worry. I've seen a guy with a morning boner before. Hell, I was that guy." Derek chuckled, propping himself up onto one elbow. "Your equipment don't threaten me none. I'm a ghost. Remember? But you're damned near impossible to wake up, my friend."
After scrambling off the bed, Jonah strode to the bathroom. "I'll thank you to stay out of my shower."
"You wound me." A smiling Derek slapped his chest. "You’re not exactly in my top one hundred choices to see naked."
“Piss off.” Jonah tossed the suggestion over his shoulder.
"Can't," Derek replied. "Ghost. I don't know why you keep forgetting."
"Aghhhhh!" Jonah slammed the bathroom door shut.
* * * * *
Austin Lawrence held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he staggered up the sidewalk to the Victorian. He had to grip the rail tightly in order to make it up the porch steps.
Once he reached the d
oor, he fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for the front door key. Inside he still had to navigate the lock on the door to his apartment. Fortunately, his was on the ground floor in what used to be the parlor and he didn't have to make it up any more stairs. What had once been a huge single-family home had been divided into four moderately sized apartments twenty-some years ago.
Eventually, he got the lock to work and then stumbled across the threshold into the dark interior. After closing the door behind him, he searched for the light switch. Austin lost balance, fell forward and crashed into a sofa side table.
Bringing himself back upright, Austin muttered, "Man. I got to stop drinking."
"That would be a shame." A soft voice spoke from the shadows across the room. With a click, the floor lamp switched on to emit a soft glow over the nearby recliner. "I love drunk Austin."
He knew that voice!
It took a moment for his blurry eyes to adjust, and the sight before him challenged his comprehension. Jessica reclined against the red velour fabric of the chair. The position of the lampshade focused the bulb's illumination on her lap and sexily crossed legs. Her face remained in dim light. Still Austin recognized his fellow party animal.
"Jessica." He put a hand to his head. He'd heard of guys so pickled their brains went schitzo with delusions. "Can't be you. You're dead."
"It's me," she said with a laugh. "I'm really here."
After blinking heavily to refocus his eyes, Austin examined her up and down. "Those are Jessica's legs. I'd know them anywhere. Best in the State."
"Thank you," Jessica said. "I think they're still pretty good under the circumstances."
Austin shook his head, but it felt like cotton candy clogged his brain cells. "No. You're dead. Either somebody slipped me a Molly or I've gone crazy."
"Honey." Jessica rose from the chair and stepped toward him, the light of the lamp backlighting her in a golden glow. "You're not drugged or crazy. I'm really back."
"How?" Austin asked.
"Doesn't matter." She sauntered closer until she was just inches away. "What matters is that I have something for you. Something you always loved more than my legs."
His mouth went dry. Jessica could always make his heart race. "What?" he whispered.
"My lips," she answered in a husky voice.
Jessica lifted a hand and placed her palm against the UGA logo on the T-shirt covering his chest. The grimy and broken nails on her slender fingers registered just before they clutched the fabric and jerked him to her. Taking him off balance, she twisted him into a dip as if they were on a ballroom dance floor. The light finally fell on her face...her dead face. Her bluish lips parted, revealing teeth encrusted with a gloppy red substance.
Fear replaced lust. He screamed and tugged at her restraint, unable to break away from her hold.
Jessica's open mouth covered his in a macabre kiss.
* * * * *
Just a hand on the shoulder startled Belinda so badly she almost dropped the coffee pot she held. Fortunately, the pot didn't slosh any of its contents onto her and the hand belonged to Kerilynn.
"You've been jumpier than a tick on meth. What happened last night?" Kerilynn asked.
Something unbelievable. Something horrible.
"Nothing," Belinda said.
She'd agreed to see Jonah this morning, but she dreaded it. What could he say that would make things better? Belinda had imagined herself falling in love with him. And it seemed as if he'd been emerging from behind some heavy shields. But how could she have imagined the secret he'd been keeping?
A soft chime signaled the diner door's opening. Belinda glanced over her shoulder and saw Jonah enter. Their eyes met and for a moment everything was okay as she lost herself in his hazel gaze. He seemed to breathe out a sigh and a small smile curved the ends of his full lips.
Belinda remembered last night and with a start headed back to the burner to replace the coffee pot. Going to the pass, she fumbled with the plates for the order for booth two. If she dropped them, Rocco would surely fire her.
As she safely delivered the order, Jonah took a seat in his usual booth.
Kerilynn approached with a water glass. "Do you want me to wait on him today?"
"No," Belinda said, shaking her head. "But would you cover for me? I'd like to take my break now so I can talk to him."
"You need to stay away from Jonah. I'm not your enabler."
"Now who's trying to be Dr. Phil," Belinda tried to joke. "Please? I need to clear something up."
After pursing her lips in disapproval for a few seconds, Kerilynn relented. "Okay. But I still think the chances that boy's the Slicer are better than the odds that my cousin, Stan, is a cross dresser. And Stan's got size thirteen stilettos in his closet, so...just sayin'."
Belinda scooted onto the bench at the booth to sit across from Jonah, but she couldn't look him in the eye. For some reason the Formica tabletop fascinated her. She found herself wringing her hands and in the process touched the bandage on her right hand.
"I cut my hand. Kerilynn was bandaging it when you came to the diner last night." Belinda couldn't bring herself to see Jonah's reaction and rushed on. "I went to the cemetery to explain. I didn't want you to think I stood you up."
"Are you okay?" The question, posed in that husky voice of his made tingles swarm in her midsection like eels. And when he reached out to run his index finger over her hand, the eels turned electric.
Jerking her hand from under his finger, she swore to herself she'd get these feelings for Jonah under control. Kerilynn was wrong about him being the Slicer, but not about him being bad news.
"The cut wasn't that deep," she replied.
"That's not what I meant."
She put her hands in her lap. "I must've hallucinated all that stuff at the cemetery. I probably lost more blood when I cut my hand than I thought. "
"I can try to explain," Jonah said. After a pause he added, "Won't you look at me?"
Shaking her head, she slid out of the booth. "No. You don't need to explain."
“But—"
"And I don't think we should see each other. Outside the diner, that is."
“Belinda—"
"Please. Just leave me alone, okay?" After venturing a glance at him, she wished she hadn't.
Jonah's pale face and stricken eyes made her feel as if she'd skewered a live animal and was roasting it in a fire pit. But she couldn't relent. "Okay?"
He nodded.
"Just tell me one thing," Belinda said. "I thought... Am I right...the Slicer was..." Belinda glanced around and then leaned in to whisper, "Jessica?"
"Yes," Jonah confirmed.
"And she's gone now?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Good."
As Belinda joined Kerilynn at the counter, Jonah left, sadness in every step.
Kerilynn let out a loud huff. "Good riddance, Slicer."
"Stop it!" Belinda burst out. "He's not the Slicer. But you'll be happy to know I'm not going to date him."
"Hallelujah, honey." Kerilynn raised her hands and her eyes to the heavens, which at the moment was the diner ceiling. "I'm more relieved than my Grampa after a box of prunes."
Belinda wished she could feel relieved. In the survey of her emotions right at this moment, relief was nowhere in the mix. Worry? Yes. Anger? A little. But overriding all of them was sadness. She'd lost something profoundly important before it even had a chance to blossom.
* * * * *
Jonah wandered away from the diner. He'd lost Belinda.
She was never yours to lose, dummy.
It felt like she could have been mine. At least for a minute there.
This is for the best. What could he offer a girl like Belinda? She deserved so much better than the town freak.
Some time later he found himself at the end of Richards Street, less than a block away from his parents’ house. He didn't want to go to number 822, but it seemed that his feet did because he soon found himself right there.
>
He hadn't been back since that day he'd found his parents dead. Since then, someone had boarded up the windows. Probably his grandfather.
Morbid curiosity impelled Jonah closer. Standing among the dead bushes, he took advantage of a loose board on the front window to see into what had been the living room. The room was devoid of furniture, light, life.
After their deaths, Grandma had tried to sell it, but in a town this small, no one wanted a "death house." So, as a result, Jonah still owned it. He supposed he should have it bulldozed. Maybe the neighborhood could use a community garden. Something pleasant and bright, not this monument to murder.
A police car siren increased in volume as it approached, abruptly cutting off what sounded like a couple of blocks away.
Jonah let the board fall back into place and ran off.
* * * * *
Special Agent Mike Wayburn flashed his badge at the sheriff's deputy on duty and then ducked under the crime scene tape blocking the sidewalk leading to the Victorian. After striding through the main front door, he noticed the open door to the first floor apartment and the bustle of the forensic team inside.
He recognized the head of the team, Pete Norton, crouched over a body.
"Are you ready for me, Pete?" Mike called.
The CSI glanced up, nodded and then waved Mike forward. "Yeah. Just come straight in and avoid the other areas. We're still collecting potential trace evidence."
Stepping carefully to avoid blood spatter, Mike approached. He never got used to this part of the job. The sight of blood and mangled bodies was bad enough, but it was the smell—eau de meat packing plant—that haunted him.
Pete pointed to the body. "This is Austin Lawrence, age twenty. The medical examiner isn't here yet, but he looks to me to have been tortured some before death," Pete continued.
Austin lay face-up in a blood pool shaped like a Rorschach test, including a particularly heavy glob at the right side of the head close to a hole where the boy's ear should have been. The victim's features had contorted and frozen. All features except for his lips, which resembled chewing gum. But as horrific as those injuries were, the heavy gash to the neck had obviously been the cause of death.
Caught Dead Page 9