by Lisa Jackson
The woman was writhing beneath him, whispering his name, sweating and hot. White, slick skin, breasts with dark areolas, legs that wound around his as he made love to her. “Pierce,” she whispered against his ear, and his blood sizzled in his veins. God, she was hot. And slick. The scent of her perfume mingled with the heady, musty odor of sex.
Her back arched and he opened his eyes, staring down at her dark eyes. She licked her red lips, her tongue flicking outward. He pumped harder. Faster.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered and he felt a niggle of doubt. As hard as he was, he sensed something wrong. “He’ll kill me.”
“What?”
Oh, God, he was gonna come. He held onto a breast, felt it shift and looked into her eyes again, but they were no longer a deep, warm brown, but green, her hair a red-blond, a dusting of freckles bridging her nose. “Nikki?”
She smiled up at him, a naughty provocative smile, her eyes nearly laughing. He felt a moment’s confusion, but she reached up and wound her arms around his neck, dragged his head down to hers, kissed him hard, her mouth opened to him, inviting more. Her tongue found his, twisted and mated. God, he wanted all of her. He lifted her legs to his shoulders and plunged deeper into her moist warmth.
“That’s it, Reed,” she whispered throatily, moving with him, her heart beating wildly, her breath as rapid as his own. “More…more…”
Dear God, he was lost inside her.
“Help me! Pierce, please…I’m cold…please…” She screamed beneath him, but not the wild, abandoned cry of passion. It was an ear-splitting, terror-riddled shriek that tore through his brain. She changed then, morphing from Nikki to Bobbi in his arms, and her eyes, so recently burning with desire, widened in terror and glazed over, her face becoming a death mask. He tried to move and realized that he couldn’t. That they weren’t making love in a bed, but a box…a coffin, and someone was bolting down the lid.
His heart seemed to stop. He tried to move, but couldn’t as the coffin’s lid was pushing downward, against his shoulders and back, pressing him into Bobbi, now dead, her flesh disintegrating beneath him, the stench overpowering…“No!” he yelled.
His eyes flew open at the sound of his own voice.
Heart thudding, he found himself in his dark apartment, only the ghoulish light from the television giving off any illumination whatsoever. “Damn it,” he muttered, running a shaking hand over his chin. Sweat dried on his body as his erection withered, thankfully, but his muscles were still tense. His half-drunk beer was on the side table where he’d left it as he’d clicked on the eleven o’clock news. Which was now long over. Instead, Jay Leno was interviewing Nicole Kidman. Reed clicked off the set, then snapped on a table lamp. Jesus, where had that dream come from? His skin crawled when he remembered the feeling of sheer panic at being locked in the coffin…and why had he pictured himself making love to Bobbi, then Nikki, then Bobbi as a corpse…as if they were all one woman?
He’d been working too hard, that was it. The case was consuming him. He rubbed the kinks from his neck and picked up the can of beer. It was now warm. He downed it anyway.
Though he wasn’t officially on the Grave Robber case, he spent all his time away from the office trying to piece the clues together. Morrisette was reticent to give him much information and Cliff Siebert was worse, clamming up whenever Reed was around, glaring at him as if he were somehow the enemy.
Why?
They were all on the same team.
Or were they?
Reed had done a little digging on the younger detective and discovered that over ten years ago, before he was on the force, Siebert had been friends with Andrew Gillette, Nikki’s older brother, who, from all outward appearances, had taken a leap off a deck at a frat party. Suicide? Accident? Who knew? All the reports Reed had sifted through had been inconclusive. But Siebert was connected to Nikki Gillette and, at least according to one of Siebert’s college roommates, had been “hot” for her.
Well, join the club, Cliff.
Reed would hate to examine his own feelings for the wild-haired reporter. Lately, they’d become blurred. Confused.
To the point that now he was having erotic dreams or, more correctly, erotic nightmares about her.
That couldn’t be good.
Rather than go to bed, he decided to do some more work. He had a few loose ends to tie up, some information to double check before morning. And he didn’t trust himself to sleep right now. Not when the dream about Nikki Gillette still lingered and the effect of it was still evident in the hardness pressing against his fly.
Man, he was pathetic. Nikki Gillette was the last woman he should be lusting after. The very last one.
The Survivor gritted his teeth. It had been a long, drawn-out night. One where he’d had to hide within the mask that was himself, where he’d had to pretend, to watch, to wait…and then, rowing and digging…The exercise had been good, but now he needed sleep. It was almost dawn. He had precious few hours to rest and regain his strength.
But first he had one last duty.
Safe within his private space, he sat at the table and as the smell of damp earth permeated the walls, he pushed the rewind button on his tape player, then hit play and listened to the damning words again.
“Well…look what we have here…” The female voice that came in through the microphone was that of one of the cops who had searched Nikki Gillette’s apartment the night before. He’d seen the cop cars and the vans, even caught a glimpse of Nikki huddled next to Detective Reed, that prick. Reed had been protective of Nikki, his hand had been curled over her arm, as if he owned her.
“See that, here in the fan…” the woman cop was saying. She sounded smug and overconfident. The Survivor hated her.
“Yeah, right there…clever, huh?…another mike. Wireless. Looks like the same kind we found in the coffins. The bastard’s probably listening to this right now.”
That’s right, bitch. It is. And now I’m listening again, and you know what? You can’t find me.
“What a sicko,” the cop said, and her voice bothered him, grated on his brain.
“Too bad, the party’s over you useless piece of shit,” the cop said, directly to him. “No more free radio. You’ll have to get your jollies somewhere else. Say-o-nara.”
There was rattling and a scraping and then the microphone went dead.
You useless piece of shit. No-good, lazy, scumbag. What’re you good for? Nothin’ that’s what…
The Survivor quivered inside, wanted to run away and hide. As he had so long ago, hearing the voice that had haunted him for years ricochet off the walls of his brain.
Stupid, stupid, stupid…I’m gonna teach you a lesson, boy. One I promise ya, you’ll never forgit…
Rage roiled up inside him.
He wasn’t stupid. He was smart. IQ tests had said so and they don’t lie, right? But maybe he’d screwed up.
You are a screw-up. Worthless. No good.
He flung himself away from the table, toppling over his chair as he threw his hands over his ears to shut out the noise, the recriminations, the accusations. “I’m not stupid. I’m not!” he yelled, his chin wobbling.
So, now ye’re gonna cry. Little girlie-boy. Go ahead, cry…show me what a stupid little girl you are.
“I’m not a girl. I’m not stupid!” he yelled, gasping, his breath flying in and out of his lungs.
He was lying. To himself.
He had been foolish. Again.
He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand over and over again and his hairpiece fell off to lie like a small, denuded dog on the floor.
The cops weren’t supposed to find the microphone and figure it out. At least not so quickly. Nikki Gillette, that blabbermouth cunt, had told someone and she was ruining everything. He’d have to up his schedule. That was it. Accelerate.
Slowing his breathing, forcing his heart rate to lower, he climbed off the dirt floor. Picked up the toupee and hung it on a hook. With the oth
ers. He had to remain calm, remember his agenda, never falter. Already the next grave was being readied…
Calmer, he removed the contacts that turned his eyes from a clear blue to an impenetrable brown. It was time to trim his goatee to a moustache and grow out his sideburns.
His disguises were many. They fooled most people. No one seemed to remember him as he was and that was the way he wanted it. Of course, he’d been much younger then.
He pulled out his scrapbook and found the picture of Nikki—she’d been younger, too, freshfaced and green as a reporter. Her red-gold hair had been longer, her eyes bright and vibrant. Without fear. A daughter any man, even the bastard judge, should take pride in.
But fathers rarely did.
Born of privilege, athletic and beautiful, Nikki Gillette had never had to struggle. “Cunt,” he muttered and slammed the book shut.
You expected her to go to the police once she got the note, didn’t you? Everything’s fine…stay calm…stay focused.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the dots of sweat from his forehead. He couldn’t lose it now. He had too much work to do. And it was all coming together. He slipped his fingers into his pocket again and withdrew the tiny cell phone. Neat. Compact. A flip phone. Kind of sexy. Just like its owner.
CHAPTER 22
“Just tell me you’re not the fuckin’ snitch, okay?” Morrisette was mad as a wet hen as she strode into Reed’s office. It was late morning and she had obviously gotten up on the wrong side of bed.
“You know me better than that.”
“Do I?” she demanded, slamming the door shut behind her. “The truth of the matter is that I don’t know shit. Well, that’s not entirely right. I do know that you are off the Grave Robber case, and yet you were with Nikki Gillette last night, and both your and my asses are gonna be in slings if you don’t get smart. So tell me again and repeat it slowly, ‘I’m not the snitch, Sylvie.’”
He stared at her. “Bad night?”
“Christ, yes. You were there.” She ran stiff fingers through her hair, making it stand even farther from her head. With a look over her shoulder to make sure the door was still closed, she lowered her voice, planted both hands on his desk and leaned closer to him. “You and I both know that in order for you to be anywhere near this case you had better keep a low profile, and I mean low. You might want to risk your job, but I don’t. I have two kids to support, Reed, so don’t fuck with me!”
“This is getting us nowhere.”
She stopped short. “Okay. You’re right. I just want to nail this bastard.”
“So do I.”
“Well, do it from the sidelines, will ya? No, better yet, don’t do it at all. Leave it to me. I need this job, though, sometimes, I gotta tell ya, I’m ready to take my retirement and run. I do have a life, you know, outside of this place.”
“How’s it going?”
“Just swell. Bart’s decided that he shouldn’t have to pay a nickel. Not one nickel, and so we’re going to court. Well, you knew that. Priscilla’s talking about living with Daddy, and my son…well, some kids in preschool are giving him trouble. And then there’s this fuck—er, effin’ Grave Robber case I’m supposed to crack.” She thumped a finger on the paper tucked on the corner of Reed’s desk. “You know—the one in which one of the victims was pregnant and involved with my partner and—” She must’ve read something in his eyes, because she came up short. “Jesus. I need coffee. At least two gallons. Maybe three.”
“Don’t you want to know what I’ve found out?”
“You’re not a part of the investigation. Remember?”
“Last night Sheriff Jed Baldwin got in to see the kid who was attacked in the woods, Prescott Jones. Baldwin faxed me a copy of his interview. It’s not much more than we already had, but it’s something.” Reed slid the three sheets across the desk. “Also, I got hold of Angelina, the maid for Roberta Peters. Here’s the address.” He slid another sheet onto the first three.
“Also, I’ve got addresses for most of the people who had access to Nikki Gillette’s apartment—filled in the ones she couldn’t remember. Some have phone numbers.” Another sheet skidded onto the ever-growing pile. “And I was finally able to connect with Reverend Joe. I left a message and he called me back, none too happy about being phoned at five A.M.—it was meditation hour or some such garbage—but when I got through all the double-talk, I figure the mission was taking Roberta Peters financially, but they weren’t beneficiaries on her insurance policy. Turns out she has a niece in Charlotte, North Carolina, who gets the bulk of her estate, including Maximus, that’s her cat. Here’s the name of Roberta Peters’s lawyer and the address and phone number of the niece.” He pushed those papers onto the pile. “I’ve also come up with a list of my enemies, people I’ve wronged and those I’ve put away. Jerome Marx is number one.”
“Airtight alibi.”
“I know, but I still included him along with the creeps that I sent to prison and are now out. Take a look at this—there are twelve.”
“What?” Morrisette froze.
“Twelve who’ve gotten out since I’ve been back in Savannah.” He pointed to his compiled list.
“That’s downright scary.”
“Mmm. The last guy is our good buddy LeRoy Chevalier.”
“Shit.” She picked up the paper, scanned the list of lowlife bastards who should never have been allowed back into society. “You have addresses for these guys?”
“Got calls into the parole officers, but I gave them your name. As you pointed out, I’m off the investigation. Start with Chevalier, though, his conviction was twelve years ago. The twelfth guy, in the twelfth year. It could be nothing, but there was something about that trial that bothers me.”
“What?”
He glanced out the window where Morrisette saw the usual group of pigeons crowding the ledge. “First of all, the judge was Ronald Gillette, Nikki Gillette’s dad.”
“He presided over a lot of cases.”
“But Nikki was just working part-time and she nearly got the case thrown out of court.”
“If we looked up all the cases where a reporter was out of line, we’d fill this room.”
“I know, but there has to be some connection. I think we should, no, you should find Chevalier. His parole officer will have an address.”
“I’ll check out all of these jokers. See that they’re walkin’ the straight and narrow,” Morrisette agreed. “Twelve of ’em. In twelve years. You don’t suppose they’re in this together…I’ve been considering the apostle angle, but it’s not fitting.”
“Farfetched.”
She eyed the typed pages. Ran her thumb along the edge of the stack. Looked up at him and let out her breath. “Jesus, Reed, don’t you ever sleep?”
“When I have to.”
“Should I know anything else?” she asked, obviously mollified.
“Yeah.” Skewering her with his gaze, he reached for his jacket. “You should know one final thing. I’m not the fuckin’ snitch.”
“So, now the killer’s talking directly to you?” Norm Metzger didn’t bother hiding his skepticism as he hung his bomber jacket on one of the pegs on the coatrack near the back door of the Sentinel’s offices.
Dealing with Norm was the last thing Nikki wanted to do. It was nearly noon and even though she should have been keyed up because her story had hit page one again, she was too tired to feel her usual rush. Metzger only made her lack of enthusiasm worse. She hooked her raincoat over a peg and hoped he would shut up.
No such luck.
“A dialog with the killer.” Unwrapping his scarf, he added, “That’s damned convenient.”
“Convenient?” she fired back. “Oh, yeah, right. Real convenient when the guy breaks into my place.” She was tired and grouchy from a short, sleepless night in the bed she’d slept in as a kid. Her body had been weary, but her mind had raced, as if she’d downed eight cups of coffee before trying to burrow under
the covers. She’d kept thinking about the Grave Robber, about the victims, about her house, about the number twelve, about Simone and Andrew and about Pierce Reed. Her mind had been a revolving carousel of images that had whirled faster and faster and driven sleep away. When she’d finally dozed she’d had dreams of corpses filling her apartment only to disintegrate in front of her eyes. The skeletons had turned to dust while somewhere in the shadows a killer had laughed, a chilling sound that had caused her heart to race and a cold sweat to cover her skin.
She’d forced herself out of bed only to face her parents, creeping down the stairs to hear the tail end of an argument that evaporated the minute she walked into the kitchen and her tight-lipped mother had caught sight of her. Charlene had shot her husband a don’t you say a word glare and then managed a smile.
In the next hour, while guzzling coffee and trying to wake up, Nikki had heard a dozen times over all the reasons why she should give up her interest in crime reporting. Even her father had suggested she go back to school, get a degree in law, follow the old man’s footsteps…
No way. Law had been her father’s dream. Andrew’s ambition. But now, facing Norm’s petulant diatribe, she wondered if maybe she should take her mother’s advice.
“The killer broke into your apartment?” Norm demanded.
“A couple of days ago.”
“That what was going on last night?” he said. “I heard about it on the police band, but I was tied up and…Wait a minute, are you all right?”
“The truth?” she asked, hiking her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “No, I’m not all right. Not by a long shot. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not willing to”—she held up one finger—“A. Sell my soul”—another finger shot up—“B. Sell my body”—she raised another finger—“or C., allow some creep to break into my place and touch my stuff just for a story.” She started to walk away then when she noticed Kevin Deeter, earphones in place, hanging out near the candy machine. He was eyeing the display as if the vending machine were dispensing the word of God, backlit in neon, all for a dollar. As she started to walk by she saw his reflection in the glass covering the Snickers bars, Cheetos and red licorice. His expression was dark, his eyes sliding to one side, as if he wasn’t interested in the snacks at all, but had been listening to her conversation with Norm.
