“I know, there’s a big story out there just begging Nikki Gillette to write it.”
Nikki smiled as she opened her wallet, then groaned. In her haste to get home and pick up the new keys, she hadn’t run to the bank. She didn’t have a dime on her. “You won’t believe this.”
Simone laughed. “Don’t worry about it. The tea’s on me. Besides, when you become a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, you can buy!” Simone raised her hand, intending to flag down the waitress, but stopped. Her smile faded and her eyebrows slammed together. “Who’s that guy?”
“What guy?”
“The guy that was in the booth over there…” She hitched her chin toward a corner booth located close to a side door that was swinging shut. “He was seated facing me and I caught him looking our way a couple of times…. I thought I recognized him, but…” Little lines of frustration showed between her eyebrows. “Oh, maybe it was nothing.”
Nikki’s mouth went dry. She stared through the glass door, peering through the panes into the darkness, but saw only the darkened, empty sidewalk beyond. Her gaze moved quickly to the bank of windows in the front of the restaurant, but again didn’t catch a glimpse of anyone loitering just outside the window’s warm light. No partially hidden figure. “He was watching us?”
“Oh, maybe not.” Lines of frustration creased Simone’s brow. “I’m probably imagining things. I’ve been jumpy lately.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Lately, I’ve just had this feeling…” her voice trailed off and she sighed. “I really do have to get out of this town.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Simone pulled her purse from under her chair and slung the strap over her shoulder. “It’s nothing.” When Nikki didn’t seem convinced, she added, “Really. Remember, I’m so screwed up that now I’m chasing gay guys.”
Nikki thought about the note that had been left on her bed and her skin crawled just at the thought of it. If she confided in Simone now, she’d only upset her friend further. “If there’s something bothering you…”
“It’s probably just the time of year. Christmas and all. Andrew and I got together about this time of year…but that was a long time ago, too, wasn’t it? Nearly thirteen years. You know, the weird thing is that you and I could have been sisters-in-law…you might have been my kids’ aunt. Auntie Nik, how does that sound?”
“Familiar. Lily’s daughter calls me something like that.”
Obviously Simone hadn’t dealt with Andrew’s death any better than had the rest of the family. Maybe she
should
get away for a while. Away from the memories. Away from her best friend who just happened to be the sister of the man she’d loved. Away from the ghosts of the past.
The waitress finally caught on, sauntered over to the table and Simone asked for the check while Nikki asked about the guy who’d been sitting in the corner booth.
“Never seen him before. But then, I just started last week.”
“Thanks.”
“It was probably nothing,” Simone said as she eyed the bill.
“Next time, it’s my treat.
Really
.” Nikki gathered her purse.
“I’ve heard that one before. Besides, you’re a cheap date. One glass of tea.” Simone dropped bills onto the table and they walked together to their cars. Nikki’s beat-up hatchback was parked two spaces down the street from Simone’s six-month-old BMW convertible.
The cobblestone street was deserted and dark, but Nikki saw no one hiding in the shadows. Nonetheless, she was edgy, a little nervous, so she checked the interior of her car before climbing in and starting the engine. It died. Again. Pumping the accelerator, she twisted the ignition and watched Simone pull away from the curb. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She tried again and the engine coughed before sputtering and dying. Simone’s taillights became distant points of red. Nikki was starting to sweat. Remembered the guy Simone had said was staring at them from the corner booth in the Bijou. But she wasn’t alone; there were other patrons coming out of the building and she had her cell. She wrenched on the key again, and the engine fired. Carefully, Nikki gave the car some gas and then pulled away from the curb. Relief settled over her until she tried to negotiate the next corner and took it a little fast.
She was running late, as usual.
No matter what, she didn’t want to miss her meeting with Cliff Siebert.
The Subaru wobbled in the middle of the turn. Felt out of kilter. The steering all wrong…
“Damn it all.” Nikki pulled over to the curb and climbed out of the car to spy the problem. Her rear left tire was flat as a fritter. The others were losing air fast. “Son of a—” She kicked the flat tire and swore under her breath. She was going to miss her meeting with Cliff. No way could she make it now.
Of all the luck.
She whipped out her phone and punched in the numbers of his cell. It was dark, but she knew how to use a jack and change a tire. But she couldn’t change all four.
One ring.
No answer.
Two rings. “Come on, come on!”
Or she could call AAA…or maybe Cliff would offer…
Three rings. “Oh, for crying out loud—” A van pulled up beside her and a guy in a baseball hat rolled down his window.
“Trouble?”
Four rings.
“A flat. Actually four flats.”
“Want some help?”
“No…I’ll be fine. My, uh, my husband is on his way,” she lied, hoping he didn’t notice her ringless fingers.
The cell phone clicked and Cliff’s stock message about leaving a message at the tone played.
“I could stay with you and wait until he gets here.” The stranger smiled and a gold capped tooth winked eerily in the streetlights.
“No, that’s fine. He’s on the phone and only a few blocks away. What?” she said into the cell. “Oh, no, it’s just a guy offering help. No, that’s fine. I’ll tell him it’ll only be a minute or two…. I love you, too.” Glancing back at the van’s driver, she forced a smile she hoped didn’t wobble. “He’ll be here in a second.” Her throat was tight and she was shaking inside as she thought about the men who had been lurking in the streets, the break-in of her apartment, the notes she’d received, and the serial murderer stalking Savannah. Her blood turned to ice. “Thanks.”
Another car pulled up behind the van and the driver touched the brim of his hat in a mock tip. “Whatever you want, honey.”
Her skin crawled as he pulled away.
Honey
. Lord, why would he call her that? Intent on identifying him, she glared at his license plate as he drove off, but there was no light on the back of his van and the letters and numbers were too dark to read. All she knew was that it was a navy blue Dodge Caravan with Georgia plates. Which wasn’t much.
And he could have just been a Good Samaritan.
Yeah, right.
Her cell was still in her hand. She hung up and dialed Triple A, giving the dispatcher the location of her car and explained that she’d meet the repairman at the Bijou. It was less than half a mile down the street and at least there it would be well lit and crowded.
Safe.
She started jogging.
Sweating on the outside, deathly cold inside, Nikki picked up the pace. Traffic lights blurred, the darkened shrubbery seemed sinister and she felt completely alone.
For the first time in her life Nikki Gillette felt fear—dark, mind-numbing fear.
CHAPTER 15
Reed tossed his keys and mail onto the desk in his apartment, three joined rooms on the first floor of what had once been a grand old home. He was lucky enough to end up with a bay window, tiled fireplace surrounded by bookshelves, and the original hardwood floors. In exchange he’d ended up with a minuscule kitchen and a bedroom that barely housed his bed and bureau, not that he needed much more space. Tonight he was bone tired, his body crying for sleep, his mind far too wired to even consider it. Try as he might he couldn’t shake the image of Bobbi Jean in that coffin, nor dispel the terror she had to have felt. The horrid panic.
And she’d been pregnant.
Maybe with your kid.
“Jesus,” he muttered as he picked up the remote, flipped on the television to the news, and hoped to quiet the demons screaming in his head. He found a pizza in the freezer, turned on the oven and popped a beer. Who would want to kill Bobbi? Who would hate her enough to throw her in an occupied coffin and bury her alive? The same sicko who did it to Roberta Peters. So the killer wasn’t Jerome Marx. Unless he was cagey enough to kill another person in the same manner just as a decoy. But why go to all the trouble of burying the person alive? That was an act of rage…deep-seated hatred and premeditation. Then, there was the microphone. Whoever had killed them had listened to them die. Gotten his twisted rocks off by the sheer panic he’d created.
“Bastard.”
The preheat button on the oven dinged. Reed tossed his frozen pizza, ice crystals and all, onto the rack, then walked back to the living area where he hoisted his laptop onto the desk. With a flick of a switch the computer hummed to life as he half listened to the television. A newscaster was summing up the basketball scores. The Miami Heat had lost, but Atlanta had pulled out a nail-biter. Reed scooted his desk chair closer and went directly to his E-mail where he had over thirty messages waiting for him.
Sifting through the spam and a couple of stale jokes that had been recycled a few times, he finished his beer and came to an E-mail with a subject line that read: GRAVE ROBBER ON A ROLL.
“What the hell?”
He clicked on the E-mail and read:
NOW, WE HAVE NUMBER FOUR.
ONE THIRD DONE,
WILL THERE BE MORE?
“Shit!” Reed hit the print button. The buzzer on the stove went off. An error message flashed and he realized he wasn’t hooked up to his printer. Quickly connecting the printer cable, he hit the print key just as weird, ghost-like images appeared. Photos of Barbara Jean Marx, Pauline Alexander, Thomas Massey and Roberta Peters. The pictures of the victims floated eerily over the screen, then turned to dust and skeletons before Reed’s eyes. “Holy shit.” His blood froze in his veins.
One third done?
Four victims already. Meaning there would be
twelve
total?
The printer began spewing out a page and Reed hurried into the kitchen, turned off the timer and the oven, then left the pizza. He was back at the computer in an instant, reading the pages, checking the E-mail address, knowing it was phony.
Twelve victims?
Why tell him? Why would the killer tip his hand? What did the four have in common and who were the remaining eight? How were they linked?
Jaw set, he responded to the E-mail.
Doubted he’d get a response.
Forwarded everything to Bentley, a guy in the office who was a computer specialist for the department, then sent a copy to Morrisette.
Grabbing his phone, he punched in Morrisette’s home number. On the third ring she answered, her voice thick with sleep. “Hullo?”
“It’s me. The Grave Robber contacted me again.”
“What?”
“E-mail. I’ve forwarded it to Bentley and to you. Check it out.”
“I will. Give me five and I’ll call you back.” Suddenly awake, she hung up. Reed kept looking at the E-mail, hoping that there was a return path that would lead him to the killer. Was the guy that stupid? Or just that bold?
The phone chirped.
He snapped it up. “Reed.”
“Jesus H. Christ, what’s this fucker up to?” Morrisette said, and he could tell that she was lighting a cigarette as she spoke.
“I wish I knew.”
“Twelve? Goddamn it, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better figure it out, and fast. Do what you can, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Right.” She hung up again and Reed was left to stare at his computer screen and the sick images twisting and turning like leaves in the wind.
If only the bastard would slip up. Reed would nail his sorry hide. And love doing it.
WILL THERE BE MORE?
Not if Reed had anything to do with it.
“Where the hell did you git this?”
“Wh-what?” Billy Dean opened a bleary eye and made out the silhouette of his pa looming over his bed. The old man’s face was set and hard and his outstretched hand held the ring—the damned ring Billy Dean had found at the grave.
“This here ring, that’s what!”
“I dunno what ye’re talkin’ ’bout,” Billy lied and knew he was making a mistake. No one lied to Merle Delacroix and got away with it.
“And I don’t s’pose ya know anythin’ about this neither?” He reached into the front pocket of tight, worn jeans and pulled out Billy’s little blue pipe—specially tooled for weed.
Crap!
Slowly, Billy pulled himself to a sitting position and tried to think. Fast. But he was scared. “You bin lookin’ through my things?”
“No shit, Sherlock. That’s exactly what I’ve been doin’ and don’t give me any sass about your private stuff, cuz it won’t hold water with me. No, sir. You live under my roof, you live under my rules, and my rules are damned explicit when it comes to stealin’ and smokin’ dope. God only knows what else ya been doin’.” He glanced around Billy’s messy room, the one he shared with the old dog. Merle ran a hand through his thin hair and snorted his loathing. “This here is a pigsty.”
“You shouldn’t go through my stuff,” Billy Dean said under his breath.
“And you shouldn’t be stealin’. Don’t you know it’s agin the law and God’s commandments. You do remember, ‘thou shalt not steal,’ don’t ya?” So angry he was quivering in rage, Merle dropped the pipe onto the old comforter covering Billy’s bed. “You know what you are, a liar and a sneak and a thief.”
This was trouble. Big trouble.
“I didn’t—”
Quick as a rattler striking, Merle grabbed Billy by the back of his T-shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Now, you looka here, boy. I ain’t takin’ no lies from you, nor any of that smart-assed back talk. If you want to keep on livin’ here, you tell me what the hell this is all about.”