by Lisa Jackson
“Right. It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Nikki was jazzed to think that finally she would see her byline on the front page. She imagined the story in print. Bold headlines would declare: “Grave Robber Strikes, Baffles Police.”
If Fink went for it.
“Your sources are impeccable?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Of course.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You’ve talked to Reed?” Fink pointed to the detective’s name in the second paragraph.
“I’ve tried. He’s not too cooperative. But I have a source close to the investigation—”
“Who?” he demanded.
“Uh-uh. I don’t reveal my sources. Not even to you.”
“You’re willing to take the stand to that effect.”
“If I have to. But I won’t. I spoke to both victims’ husbands to corroborate.”
“Wait a minute,” he clarified. “One victim. The old lady, Pauline Alexander, died of natural causes.”
She really had Fink’s attention now. Good. “So it appears. But no one’s certain.”
“Curiouser and curiouser?” he asked.
“Very.”
Some of his grim demeanor faded as he skimmed her article for the third time. “You’ve shown this to Metzger?”
Nikki couldn’t lie. Even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. Fink would find out soon enough. “No. I haven’t spoken to him.”
Fink looked over the top of his reading glasses and he didn’t look pleased. “Why not? I thought I said you two were to work together.”
Lifting a shoulder, Nikki said, “I work better alone. I think if you asked Norm, he would say the same about himself.”
“So you’ve gone off half-cocked.” He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest, his frown deepening into crevices all over again. “I told you—”
“Do you want to run this or not?” she demanded, taking the offensive. “Right now, we’ve scooped the competition. In six hours, everything in here”—she rapped the pages with an impatient finger—“will be splashed across every newspaper in the southeast and on TV and radio. Right now, we have the scoop, unless we blow it, and as to this article’s validity, I’m standing behind what’s in here one hundred percent.”
“I expect you to do that for every story.”
“Then make it a hundred and fifty percent, or two hundred. I’m telling you, Tom, this is hot. It’s damned near an exclusive.”
He snorted. Looked dubious. Chewed on the inside of his lip as if this were some kind of world debate or something when, in Nikki’s estimation, this was a slam dunk.
“Tom, really. Trust me.”
He glanced up at her. His eyes said silently, I did once before and you blew it with the Chevalier trial. But he didn’t utter the words because for over a decade, ever since that debacle, her work had been impeccable. Yet, he hesitated. And she knew why. It bugged the hell out of him that he didn’t know any of Nikki’s contacts. It had been a source of friction between them for years.
“I spent the past three hours double-checking the facts.”
Cliff Siebert had been reticent with the details, but he’d confirmed everything she’d learned from Jerome Marx. When she’d asked about Reed, Cliff had informed her that she’d better talk to the brusque detective herself. Like she hadn’t tried that already. She’d left more messages, gotten no response and decided to mention his name in the article, about how he’d been called up to Lumpkin County, that he was the connection to the murders.
“All right, we’ll run it. Page one.” Tom rubbed the back of his neck and she expected him to warn her that her job was on the line. Instead, he muttered, “Good work.”
Nikki couldn’t believe it. A compliment from Tom the Terrible? Things were definitely looking up. Before he could change his mind, she grabbed her things and was out the door where the night had settled deep into the city. Mist hovered over the street lamps and stoplights as she climbed into her car. She cranked on the ignition and the engine sputtered, coughed and died. “Come on,” she muttered. Not tonight. Her little Subaru couldn’t give out on her now. She twisted the key again and this time the reticent engine roared to life. “That’s better.” Sighing in relief, she patted the dash and drove out of the lot.
The streets were quiet. Eerily empty. Only an occasional car passed by as she drove home. She thought of the man who she’d seen after her aborted meeting with Reed, and as she pulled into her parking space at her house, she scrounged in her purse and found the note that had been left on her car. Its singular message was clear in the pale light from the security lamps.
Tonight.
Meaning this very night, right?
Was it a warning?
A threat?
Or a harmless prank?
The hairs on the back of her neck raised and she glanced in the rearview mirror. Nothing seemed out of place, though the old house was as dark as it had been when she’d left over eighteen hours earlier. She was tired, that was it. Overreacting.
Nerves strung tight, she yanked her briefcase and purse from the car and hurried along the walk to the gate. Unlatched and swinging free, as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to bother shutting it, it creaked in the wind. Nikki slid through the opening and slammed the wrought-iron latch closed behind her.
Heart hammering, she made her way along a brick path to the exterior stairs, all the while telling herself she was a fool. What was she afraid of? The night? For God’s sake, this was ridiculous! She had no time for paranoia.
Her boots clattered as she climbed, and on the final landing she saw movement, something slipping through the shadows. She nearly screamed before she recognized Jennings. “Oh, for the love of God, what’re you doing out here?” she asked as the cat pounced onto the steps and, tail aloft, raced up the final steps to her apartment. Nikki followed. Though she could have sworn she’d locked the tabby inside.
Or had she?
Maybe she’d left the bathroom window open to vent out the steam from her shower…or maybe he’d slipped past her on her way out this morning. Either way, he was meowing and pacing in front of her door. “Okay, okay, I know,” she said, scrabbling in her purse for her keys. “It’s cold out here.” She found the damned things and went to stick her house key into the lock but as she did she realized the apartment door hadn’t quite latched behind her. No wonder the cat had escaped. But…the door wasn’t ajar, either, just not quite shut. As if someone had intended to close it but had been in a hurry.
Like you. This morning.
She remembered flying out of the apartment, wearing her boots and scarf, hell-bent to tail Reed and confront him. But the door had slammed shut behind her. She was certain she’d heard the latch click. It would have locked.
And the gate would have latched.
Her lungs constricted. Fear slid through her blood at the thought that someone had been inside, was possibly still in her home. Heart in her throat, she cautiously reached into the interior, her fingers searching the wall until she found the light switch and flipped it on. The living room was suddenly ablaze with light. Jennings shot through the door before Nikki could catch him.
No one was hiding in the corners or tucked behind the curtains.
The apartment looked undisturbed.
Still nervous, Nikki walked slowly from one room to the next. Everything, down to the cat’s partially consumed food, was just as she’d left it. Cold coffee sat in the pot, her slippers were against the bureau where she’d kicked them, some of her makeup bottles still rested on the counter.
“False alarm,” she told the cat and breathed a sigh of relief as she locked the door and double-checked the windows, all of which were shut. “So why didn’t the front door latch?” she wondered aloud as she stripped out of her clothes and turned on the radio.
A syndicated talk show, Midnight Confessions, was being aired. The host was Dr. Sam, a New Orleans radio psychologist who was currently dispensing advice to any nutc
ase who had a phone. Nikki remembered the notoriety of the show a few years back when a serial killer stalked the streets of New Orleans and called Dr. Sam while she was on the air. Tonight she was talking to a woman who was thinking about starting a physical affair with a man with whom she’d had cybersex, whatever the hell that was, over the Internet. “Just what we need,” Nikki muttered, crawling into bed and petting the cat. “Other people’s perversions.” Jennings began to purr so loudly Nikki barely heard the next radio caller whining that her current husband didn’t get along with her fifteen-year-old daughter. “Big surprise. I didn’t get along with my dad, either.” She pulled the duvet to her neck and closed her mind to her own rebellious teenage years and her incredibly dysfunctional family. With a pang of guilt she realized she hadn’t spoken to her mother in almost a week. “Tomorrow,” she promised, making a mental note as she turned off the light and settled deeper under the covers. The room was chilly, the winter night seeming to seep through the window, and shadows played against the walls. Nikki closed her eyes and rolled over, her hand slipping under the pillow, her fingers touching something foreign and stiff—paper, no, an envelope.
What in the world?
She shot out of the bed, snapped on the light and tossed the pillow to one side. Jennings streaked under the bed.
There, on the blue sheets, was an envelope.
Reminding her of the note she’d found on her windshield.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, terror driving straight to her heart.
She jumped away from the bed, every muscle tense. Quickly she scanned the bedroom again, rechecking under the bed and in the closet, knowing that someone, some stranger, had been in her house. Her ears strained: She heard nothing but the sound of the wind outside and the old house groaning. Calm down, Nikki. There is no one, no one inside your apartment. You checked. The door is locked. The bolt is thrown. The windows are latched.
And yet she was shaking in the middle of the floor.
Someone had been in earlier.
And had left a message.
Trembling, she eased toward the bed, as if she expected someone to leap out from under it when she already knew no one was there. So scared she couldn’t think straight, she picked up the envelope and slowly opened it. The message leaped out at her:
IT’S DONE.
She repeated the phrase aloud. “It’s done. What? What’s done?” What the hell was this all about? How had someone gotten into her apartment? She walked to the front door, opened it slowly and looked for signs that the lock had been forced. Nothing. But she had no doubt someone had gotten in through that door and inadvertently let the cat out. Some unknown person had been in here. In her bedroom, touching her bed, lifting her pillows. Her heart was thundering. Fear and anger stormed through her. Who would do this? Who had a key? Why would someone go to so much trouble to leave her a note—no, that wasn’t it; whoever did it intended to terrorize her as well.
Trying to keep panic at bay, she tried to think logically. Someone was trying to tell her something…something important. TONIGHT and IT’S DONE. Someone had accomplished his mission, whatever that was. Deep inside, she knew it was something bad, something dark and evil. She remembered the figure in the street…early in the morning…watching her…with Reed.
Dear God, could it have something to do with Pierce Reed? That seemed farfetched and yet the notes had started after this whole Grave Robber thing began. No way. You’re leaping to conclusions that don’t make sense. Think rationally, not from fear. Who would do this to you? An enemy? Who has a key besides you and the landlord? A friend you loaned one to? She ticked off the list of people she’d given a key to, but, unless someone had made a copy, she’d always gotten her keys back. Simone had borrowed her car on occasion, and she’d asked her sister Lily to watch her apartment and Jennings when she was out of town; there was her old boyfriend, Sean Hawkes, and her father…Trina had borrowed her car and her house key had been on the ring…Dear God, there had been too many to count.
Right now, Nikki was too tired to think and didn’t believe that anyone she knew or trusted would be involved, unless they were careless and someone had made a copy. Slowly, she made her way back to bed and threw off the covers. If he’d left the note, he could have left something else as well. Something far worse. She spent the next hour going over every inch of her apartment, but found nothing else disturbed, no other indications that anyone had been inside. Only then did she prop a desk in front of the door and try to resume her life.
You should call the police.
And do what? Tell them she’d gotten two notes that meant nothing?
They do not mean nothing and you know it.
Maybe in the morning. She’d look like a fool. Tough reporter Nikki Gillette, frightened by a couple of notes.
She couldn’t sleep in the bed as it was…The thought that some pervert had been in it was too much to bear. She carried her duvet into the living room area and curled onto the couch, wondering if she would ever feel safe in the bed or this apartment again. She’d always considered this tower room as her personal haven. Now, it had been violated. “Bastard,” she muttered, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. Burrowing deep under the covers, she closed her eyes. Her ears strained to hear the tiniest noise that seemed out of sync in her home, but she heard only the sighing of the wind and a rumble of the furnace.
Who the hell was leaving the notes?
And why?
The cemetery was dark, illuminated by a slice of moon hiding behind thin, wispy clouds. A chill wind whistled through the bleached white gravestones and rattled the branches of the trees where Spanish moss danced and swayed.
The city was quiet and The Survivor heard nothing but the beating of his heart and his own ragged breathing as he hauled the old lady to her final resting place. She was in a bag, motionless but heavier than she looked. With silent footsteps he made his way unerringly to the waiting grave, a black yawning pit that already held one body. Waiting for the second. He’d already pried the casket open and inserted the microphone. He slid the body bag into the pit, then crawled in himself. Damp earth surrounded him. The scent filled his nostrils and the darkness folded around him as he worked, removing her from the bag and shoving her into the coffin. Despite the cold, he was sweating by the time he’d closed the lid and climbed out again. He began to fill the hole, dirt and rocks raining down on the coffin’s lid. Shovel after shovel. He’d expected to hear her by now. Thought she’d begin screaming, but he heard nothing as he buried her. Nothing through the ever deepening dirt, not a sound from the microphone to the receiver in his ear. “Come on, wake up you old bitch,” he ground out, working quickly, filling the damned hole as quickly and silently as possible. The cemetery was deserted, locked at night, but there was always the chance that someone was about, a security guard or kids looking for the thrill of breaking into a graveyard at midnight.
Still, there was no sound from within the damned coffin.
This was not good.
She needed to wake up.
To realize her fate.
To understand that it was payback time.
His entire body was drenched by the time the hole was filled. He considered sprinkling leaves and debris over the freshly turned soil, trying to make it blend in, but there really wasn’t any reason to. Reed would be here tomorrow anyway.
Quickly, still holding his shovel and the now-empty bag, he scaled the fence and dropped into the foliage at the rear of the cemetery near an access road. His truck was parked right where he’d left it, deep in the shadows of a live oak tree. Undisturbed. So far, so good, he thought as he opened the canopy and placed his shovel into the bed of the pickup.
Headlights flashed behind him, twin beams cutting through the darkness. Bearing down on him. On his truck.
“Shit.”
Quickly he climbed into the pickup, started it and shoved the rig into gear. The headlights rounded a corner, nearly blinding him in his rearview mirror. He made a f
ast U-turn and passed the oncoming vehicle, a battered old station wagon, in a blur. He kept his face averted as he gunned the engine and blew by the intruders. Who the hell would be on this road this late at night? Teenagers looking for a place to drink, smoke weed or make out, probably.
Damn the luck.
But at least it wasn’t a cop car.
He licked his lips, checked his mirrors and was satisfied that the wagon hadn’t turned around and followed him.
He turned off the access road and tried to stay calm. Sweat ran down his face, encased his body. He couldn’t mess this up. It was his one chance at retribution…He was The Survivor. He checked his rearview mirror and his gut clenched when he spied a police cruiser turning onto the street behind him.
Maybe whoever was in the beat-up old wagon had called the police.
But why?
Maybe someone had been in the cemetery and seen him.
Maybe—
The cruiser’s lights flashed on.
Son of a bitch!
He heard a low-sounding moan, then a pitiful cry. “Help me…oh, God, where am I?” And then a shriek of terror split through his eardrum. The old lady had finally woken up. She was sobbing, clawing, screaming and he couldn’t enjoy it. Not now.
The cop was gaining.
He couldn’t outrun a cruiser. But if he was stopped and the cop found the equipment and bag in the back, he’d be found out. Before he’d finished his mission. No way. Not now. He was too close and he’d waited too long.
The cruiser’s sirens screamed through the night. The lights were nearly blinding.
His breath was shallow, his pulse ticking wildly, his mouth dry as a desert.
“Help, me! Oh, God!” He ripped the receiver from his ear. Stuffed it into his pocket. The cop car was nearly riding up his ass. He couldn’t take the chance that the policeman, if he pulled him over, might hear the cries coming from the receiver.
