The Morning After

by Lisa Jackson

  “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.”

  Billy nearly peed his pants. “I found the ring.”

  His father yanked harder on the shirt and gave him a shake hard enough that his eyeballs seemed to rattle. “Yeah, you found it, all right. In some old lady’s dresser.”

  “No!”

  Another yank and this time his old man twisted on the fabric so that it tightened around Billy’s neck. “Don’t you lie to me.”

  “I ain’t!” Billy insisted, gasping for breath. “I…I found the ring…Really…at that grave. Honest to God.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “At the grave?”

  “Yeah, it was there in the dirt and I…I took it. Didn’t figure it would harm nothin.’”

  “But it weren’t yours and that’s tamperin’ with evidence or somethin’. Goddamn it, boy, I swear, sometimes you have shit for brains. You’re a fool. A damned, slow, sorry-assed fool! Hell.” Disgusted, he let go of the T-shirt and Billy coughed as he pulled in a lungful of air. “I s’pose you found that pipe there, too.”

  The old man was baiting him. Billy didn’t fall for the trap. “No, sir.”

  “It’s yours?”

  “No…”

  “I warned you. No lies.”

  “It…belongs to one of my friends.”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Oh, yeah, you can, and you will.” Big muscles bunched under his plaid shirt. Merle’s nostrils flared and his eyes were dark as the obsidian ring he wore. His fists curled, showing huge knuckles.

  “Pa, please…”

  “Who?”

  Merle’s fists tightened.

  “Crap.”

  “You got a name for me, Billy?”

  Billy Dean swallowed hard and lied through his teeth. “It’s Preston’s, Pa.”

  Merle’s jaw worked. “Shoulda known,” he muttered. Sighing, he relaxed his hands. “Well, I s’pose that boy has all the trouble he needs right now, all busted up in the hospital the way he is. The good Lord saw fit to punish him right. But what about you and what’re we gonna do ’bout this here ring?”

  “I dunno.”

  “What say we call the sheriff’s department in the morning?”

  “If we have ta.”

  “Don’t you think it would be the right thing to do?”

  Billy Dean nodded. Felt bad about lying about Preston but figured it didn’t hurt anything.

  “Thought so.” His old man pocketed the ring and winked before shutting off the light. “G’night, boy.”

  “Night, Pa,” Billy Dean said, and as the door closed, he pounded his fist into his pillow. He shoulda sold that ring right away, gotten rid of it and made a few bucks. As it was now, he was shit outta luck. Seemed as if his old man was right. He was a damned fool.

  Heart drumming, sweat drenching his body, The Survivor slid into the side entrance of his home, an old house in a respectable, if not expensive, part of town. Without turning on a light, he hurried down rickety stairs to the basement with its cobweb-strewn beams and low ceiling. It was damp down here, smelling of the earth that surrounded it, the few high windows covered with bars on the inside and vines on the outside.

  He was getting careless.

  And he couldn’t afford to.

  Not now.

  Not when he was so close to accomplishing everything he’d planned for so long.

  Nikki Gillette’s friend had seen him. Perhaps recognized him.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  When he’d been so careful for so long.

  That was two mistakes…. First, the kid in the woods, and now, this encounter in the restaurant. No more…He couldn’t afford another one. As it was, he’d have to deal with the problem up north with the kid who’d looked him in the eye and now…He gritted his teeth. How had he been so foolish, so heedlessly bold?

  But it had been so tempting, a seduction he couldn’t resist when, after sending the E-mail to Reed, he’d realized he’d have time to follow Nikki…

  And then, he’d messed up.

  He slapped his head.

  Hard.

  The voice came, then…with agonizing precision. It seemed to reverberate through this tiny cellar and straight to his soul.

  What are ya, a girl? Damned dumb-assed cunt, that’s what you are. Can’t do anything right! Stupid little shit!

  The insults cracked through his brain, ricocheting through his skull, causing fear to jet through his blood. In his mind’s eye he viewed a thin lip curled into a disgusted sneer, witnessed a long, wicked belt snaking out of dirty denim loops, pulled by thick, hairy fingers with big knuckles and bitten-down nails, a strap of well-worn leather ready to slash welts into his backside.

  “No!” he yelled, tasting the salt of sweat on his lips, focusing on the here and now and what he had to d
o. He was smart. A smart man. Not a girl. A man! Not a cunt.

  “No, no, no!” Tears of shame burned his eyes even though he told himself that those ancient insults held no water, that they’d just been spouted from the mouth of an ignorant, useless and mean son of a bitch. Yet his breath came in short, scared bursts and the taunts he’d carried with him for a dozen years preyed like demons in his mind.

  He’d prove they were wrong. That everyone had been wrong about him. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t a girl…he wasn’t shit!

  On unsteady legs he moved the bookcase with its boxes of old, forgotten junk and stooped to enter his private room, the space he’d devoted to his other self, his private self. The strong self.

  Just stepping into his private hideaway, he felt more stable. In control.

  The Survivor.

  And Grave Robber.

  Smarter than the rest.

  From one shelf he extracted his scrapbook, then laid the album open on his homemade table. Yellowed newsprint with grainy pictures and faded text was pressed flat between clear plastic sheets. His eyes devoured the articles that he knew by heart.

  Slowly, he flipped the pages until he reached the back of the book where the photographs he’d collected stared up at him. All the faces, some smiling, some grim, others distracted, were innocently unaware that they would face the same fate.

  But they would learn.

  He had survived.

  They would not.

  Because they were weak. And stupid.

  He left the album on the table and walked to the bureau. Inside the second drawer were more pieces of lingerie. Some old, some new…but nothing as pretty as Bobbi Jean’s slip or Nikki Gillette’s panties. He opened the bags and touched his treasures, then closed the drawer firmly. He had no time for this. He touched the drops of dried blood on the dresser top and reminded himself of his mission.

  It would all be over soon.

  He would prove himself strong.

  And then he could rest.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Do you know what the hell time it is?” Cliff Siebert grumbled, his voice sounding as if he’d just woken up.

  “Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry,” she said, driving toward his place south of the historic district. The car was running fine now that her slashed tires had been replaced with retreads she’d bought after her car had been towed to a local garage. The whole process of locating four tires she could afford and that would fit on her car had taken several hours, but she was up and running again and just burned that some thug had vandalized the Subaru and now her credit card was maxed out. Worse yet, she felt certain that her car was targeted on purpose. The crime was unlikely indiscriminate because of the notes she’d received…. Someone knew which car was hers, as well as where she lived. That thought chilled her to the bone. The fact that she’d used all the credit left on her card also ticked her off. “I still need to talk to you,” she insisted, holding onto the cell phone as she took a corner a little wide.

  “Whoa, honey. You had your chance and you stood me up.”

  “I left a message on your cell and explained all that,” Nikki said. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Headlights appeared as a car swung around the same corner she’d just negotiated. “Someone slashed my tires, Cliff. And I think I apologized and groveled enough that you could forgive me.”

  He sighed and muttered something unintelligible under his breath about hardheaded career women.

  “I really need to talk to you and I could be at your house in fifteen minutes.”

  “No!” he said emphatically. “I can’t take the chance that someone sees you or your car here.”

  “Then meet me where we originally planned. Weaver Brothers truck stop.”

  He hesitated, but she knew that he lived only minutes from the place.

  “Please, Cliff. I don’t want to print something that’s not right.” The car behind her turned off and she let out a sigh.

  “Something wrong?”

  “You could say that.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “I should be shot for even listening to you. Okay. I can be there in half an hour.”

  “I’ll owe you.”

  “Oh, darlin’, you’re in debt to your eyeballs as it is.”

  “I’ll see you in a few.” With the police band crackling, she turned around and headed toward Weaver Brothers and told herself to be wary, just not so paranoid that she was paralyzed. She thought about the three-year-old Mace in her purse, the kickboxing lessons that she was always missing, the alarm system she didn’t have, and made a mental note to improve the security in her life.

  Even after a quick stop at an ATM, she made it to the truck stop in less than half an hour.

  Cliff’s truck was parked near the back entrance, between a semi and a van. It was after midnight, there was only one solitary rig in the parking lot. As Nikki entered, she noticed a few patrons who idled at the counter, or sat at a sprinkling of tables. Cigarette smoke vied with the aromas of sizzling steaks and day-old grease from a deep-fat fryer.

  Nikki spied Cliff in a high-backed booth near the swinging doors to the kitchen. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, a jean jacket with the collar turned up and glasses that were tinted a light gray. He pretended to examine a menu that nearly covered his face.

  “Hi.” She slid onto the tufted faux-leather bench across from him.

  “I shouldn’t be seen with you.”

  “So, who’s seen you?” Her gaze swept the restaurant. It was nearly deserted. Not even the waitress glanced in their direction. She was too busy flirting with two customers up front. “Besides, we’re old friends.”

  “Is that what we are?” he asked and she inwardly cringed at the bitterness in his tone. He was obviously out of sorts. Agitated. Distant.

  “Of course.” She smiled despite his chilly attitude. “We’ve known each other forever.”

  “Humph.”

  “You’re my favorite cop.”

  “Because I spill my guts.”

  “Hardly.”

  The waitress, a thin woman with permanent laugh lines finally took notice and swung by. “Can I get you anything to drink to get you started?”

  “Coffee for me. Regular.”

  “Seven and seven.” Cliff barely looked up even while the thin woman rattled off the specials in a raspy voice that hinted of too many cigarettes.

  “I’m not hungry,” Nikki said. “Just the coffee.”

  Cliff glanced at the plastic-ensconced menu. “I’ll have the chicken fried steak, fries and biscuits.”

  “That’s it?” The waitress scribbled on a pad and looked skeptically at Nikki.

  “Think so.”

  “Then, I’ll be back with those drinks in a sec.” She whipped off the top sheet from the pad as she headed to the kitchen.

  “What’s this about your tires being slashed.”

  “Just that.” Nikki explained about her evening and the scowl on Cliff’s face darkened.

  “Geez, you’ve got to be careful. Probably just punk kids.”

  Nikki didn’t correct him. Didn’t voice her fears. She thought of the note she’d received, but decided this wasn’t the time. She’d only worry him.

  “Let me buy you dinner,” he offered.

  “It’s too late for me to eat and besides, I was out at the folks’ tonight for dinner. Even though it was hours ago, they force-fed me. I’m still stuffed.”

  Some of Cliff’s hostility melted. “How are they?”

  “About the same. Mom’s frail. Dad doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t want to. They get along all right, but sometimes I wonder. It seems…well, you know. Strained, I guess.” She shrugged. Didn’t want to think of the disintegration of what had once been such a vibrant family. “Kyle avoids Mom and Dad like the proverbial plague. I think it has to do with him being the only boy once Andrew died. He never stepped into Andrew’s shoes, well, none of us did, y
ou know that, but Kyle resented that he was expected to be an athlete and scholar and all that tripe. He’s kind of a loner, puts in sprinkler systems and doesn’t even date as far as I know. Mom worries that he’s gay, Dad won’t address the issue, and I just wish he’d find someone to be happy with.” She sighed. Wished she’d been closer to her younger brother; knew she never would be.

  “As for Lily, she sees the folks more than I do. She seems to have mended some of those fences she shattered with Mom and Dad, probably because of Phee, I mean Ophelia, my niece. After the initial shock that Lily was having a baby sans husband, Mom and Dad regrouped. The baby came and they turned to mush, which, all things considered is a good thing.”

  “A very good thing.”

  The waitress appeared, dropped off their drinks and caught the high-sign from a customer in a cowboy hat who’d slid onto a stool at the counter. When she was out of earshot, Cliff folded his arms over the edge of the table. “You know, Nikki, I can’t keep this up. If I keep giving you inside information, it’ll cost me my job.”

  “You’re just informing the public of their right—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it a million times before. Can it. It’s not about rights or the public or any of that other crap. I tell you stuff because I’m pissed off and need to let off steam. You print it because you want a story no matter what.” A muscle worked alongside his jaw as the waitress swept by on her way to the kitchen. When Cliff spoke again, his voice was hushed. “You’re using me, Nikki.”

  “We’re using each other.” She stirred cream into her coffee.

  One of his eyebrows lifted. “Not the way I’d like.”

  She paused for a minute, then put her spoon down. “I know, but we’ve been over this before. It would be messy. Emotionally, way too messy.”

  His lips tightened. “It already is.”

  “Not if you don’t let it.”

  He took a long sip of his drink and eyed her over the rim of his glasses. Through those gray lenses his eyes seemed colder, more distant than she’d ever noticed before. “What’s in this for me?”