The Morning After
THE NEXT VICTIM
“I don’t think I’m in any danger, Reed.”
The hand around her sleeve tightened and Reed’s face grew taut with concern. “No one’s safe. Not while he’s on the loose.”
“I can’t let anyone force me from my home.” Grabbing her purse, Nikki pulled free from Reed’s grasp. “Not even the Grave Robber.”
“He’s more than a name in one of your stories, Nikki. He’s a cold-blooded killer. A guy who gets his jollies by burying people alive. I know you’ve replaced the locks, but big deal. He got in once before. We just assume he had a key, but locks can be picked.”
“Now I’ve got a dead bolt.”
“Which isn’t a guarantee.”
“You’re trying to scare me.”
“Damn straight, I am.”
“Okay. You’ve done your job. But I’m staying here. In my home.” She looked down at the fingers still wrapped around her sleeve. “So, what’s it gonna be, Reed? Are you coming up, or what?”
He shouldn’t stay.
No way. No how.
But Reed couldn’t leave Nikki Gillette alone.
Not when he had the feeling that she was a target…
Books by Lisa Jackson
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
WISHES
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
DEEP FREEZE
Published by Zebra Books
LISA
J
ACKSON
THE
M
ORNING AFTER
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Again, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Bucky Burnsed, Public Information Office for the Savannah Police Department. His help was insightful and invaluable in answering my many questions as well as helping me avoid some errors. In the course of the story, to make the plot work and to keep the characters true to their natures, I had to bend the rules, setting, and procedures of the Savannah Police Department.
There are other people who helped me in the writing of this book. Some helped with research, others critiqued, still others maintained my office and, of course, my friends and relatives provided emotional support.
Specifically I would like to thank Nancy Berland, Kelly Bush, Ken Bush, Nancy Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Alexis Harrington, Danielle Katcher, Ken Melum, Roz Noonan, Ari Okano, Kathy Okano, Betty and Jack Pederson, Sally Peters, Robin Rue, Samantha Santistevan, John Scognamiglio, Michael Siedel, and Larry Sparks. If I’ve forgotten anyone, please accept my sincere apologies.
Contents
PROLOGUE
Oh, God, it was cold…so cold…
Bobbi shivered. She was sluggish, could barely move, her mind groggy and dull. She wanted to sleep, to ignore the vague sense of uneasiness that teased at her mind. Her eyelids were heavy. As if she’d taken too many sleeping pills. An acrid odor reached her nostrils, something foul. She cringed and realized that her room was quiet. Still. Eerily so. No sound of the hall clock ticking off the seconds, or the fan from the furnace turning the air…no…the silence was deafening.
You’re not in your room.
The thought hit her hard.
You’re not in your bed.
She forced an eyelid open. She was…where?
The rancid smell made her gag. Slowly, her mind began to clear. Where the hell was she and why couldn’t she move? Her lungs were tight, the air thin, the darkness complete. Panic shot through her blood as she realized she was lying on her back, wedged against something hard, slick fabric pressed against her nose.
It was dark. Airless. She had trouble drawing a breath. And that god-awful smell…She nearly retched.
This was wrong, all wrong.
She tried to sit up.
Bam!
Her head cracked against something hard and she couldn’t move her arms. Not upward, not side to side. She was wedged tight in a small space, upon an uncomfortable bed…no not a bed, something softer and spongier and squishy, with hard points poking upward against her back. And that horrendous, rotting smell. Fear, cold as death, shrieked through her thick brain. She was crammed into some kind of tight box.
And then she knew.
With sickening clarity.
She was stuffed into a coffin?
God, no! That was impossible! Unthinkable. Her mind was just clogged, that was all. And this claustrophobic paranoia was all part of some kind of weird, macabre dream. That was it. That had to be it. But her blood was pumping frantically through her body. Sheer terror sliced through her.
No, oh, no…please, no…this has to be a dream. Wake up, Bobbi. For God’s sake, wake the hell up!
She screamed and the shriek resounded in her eardrums, going nowhere, bouncing in the tight airless space.
Think. Don’t panic! Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
Wildly she tried to kick upward, but her bare feet hit the hard surface, a toenail catching on the lining. It ripped backward. Raw pain seared up her foot and she could feel her nail hanging by a thread of flesh.
This couldn’t be happening. It was a nightmare. Had to be. And yet…with all her might she tried to push, to climb out of this horrible confining space with its satin lining and…and…Jesus Christ, she was lying on something soft in places, hard in others, a…a…
A body! You’re lying on a body!
“Noooooo! Please let me out!” She shredded the lining with her fingers, scratched, clawed and pounded, felt bones and rotting flesh and the bristle of hair against her bare skin…bare skin…dear God, was she naked? Shoved into this gruesome box without any clothes? Who had done this to her? Why? “Help! Please help me!” Her own screams echoed in her ears, ricocheting back at her. “Oh, God, oh, God…please, someone.” Jesus Christ, was she really lying on a dead person? Her skin crawled at the thought of the rotting flesh beneath her, the lipless mouth pressed against the back of her neck, the bony ribs and hands and…
Maybe it’s still alive—just comatose like you were.
But she knew better. The once-live padding beneath her was cold as death and reeked and was probably already decomposing and…
oh, please let this be a horrible, monstrous nightmare. Please let me wake up.
She heard sobbing and realized the sounds escaped from her throat.
Don’t panic. Try to figure a way out of this…while you still have air. The fact that you’re breathing means that you were probably just dropped here. Just because you’re in a coffin doesn’t necessarily mean you’re underground
…But she smelled the dank earth, knew that this death box was already in a grave. It was only a matter of time before—
Snap out of it and figure a way out of this! You’re a smart woman, think! THINK! If you’re not buried, just trapped in here, there could still be time
…But she knew the seconds were running out, each one bringing her closer to a macabre, unthinkable death.
Please, God, don’t let me die. Not like this…not…not like this
.
“Help me! Help! HELP! she cried, shrieking and scratching wildly at the top of the coffin. She tore at the smooth satin lining, her long, manicured fingernails breaking, her skin ripping, sharp pain searing up the back of her hands. The stench was overwhelming, the air so cold and thin…it had to be a dream…
had
to. And yet the pain in her fingertips, the blood flowing under her nails convinced her that she was living a nightmare so evil she could barely imagine it.
Horror strangled her and she thought she might pass out. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she kicked, banging her knees and feet, her muscles cramping, her bare skin torn and bleeding, tears running from her eyes. “Don’t let me die this way, please, oh, please, don’t let me die this way…”
But the darkness remained. The squishy body beneath her didn’t move, decaying flesh touched hers, sharp ribs poked upward against her back. She shuddered, nearly vomited, and screamed.
Above the sound of her voice she heard the chilling, resonate thud of dirt and stones raining onto the top of this hideous coffin.
“No! No!”
She pounded until her fists bled and burned, all the while pleading and crying. “Let me out! Please, please!”
Who would do this to her?
Why…oh, God, why…Who had she wronged so horribly? There were so many she’d lied to, their faces running through her half-crazed mind, chased by panic. But who would hate her enough to torture her this way? Who would have cause? Who would be so cruel?
She gasped. The air nearly gone. She was fading. Her mind spun wildly to thoughts of the men in her life and to one in particular, one who probably didn’t remember her name, one she had wronged fiercely.
Pierce Reed.
Detective with the Savannah Police Department.
A man honored, but with dark secrets of his own.
No…Reed wouldn’t do this to her, didn’t really know how deeply their lives were entwined, didn’t care.
It was another man, some monster who had trapped her here.
She began to shiver and weep.
“Let me out! Let me out,” she screamed, sobbing, her throat aching, her skin crawling with the thought of the decomposing human that was her bed. “Please, please, let me out of here…
I’ll do anything…anything, oh, please, don’t do this…”
But she didn’t even know to whom she was begging and the shovels of dirt and pebbles kept raining on the grave.
She gasped, drawing in a ragged, burning breath of what was left of the air. Her lungs were on fire from lack of oxygen and she felt suddenly weak.
Helpless.
Doomed.
She made one last vain attempt to claw her way out of her prison, but it was no use. The blackness crashed over her, crushing the fight from her, squeezing the life from her, and her hands fell to her sides. This, then, was her tomb. Forever.
Above the gruesome silence she thought she heard laughter. It sounded far away, but she knew it was meant for her to hear. He wanted her to know. To hear him before she drew her last breath.
Whoever had done this to her was enjoying it.
CHAPTER 1
“That son of a bitch is taking me back to court!” Morrisette blazed into Reed’s office and slapped some legal papers on the corner of his desk. “Can you believe it?” she demanded, her west Texas drawl all the more evident in her fury. “Bart wants to reduce my child support by thirty percent!” Bart Yelkis was Sylvie Morrisette’s fourth and latest ex-husband and father of her two kids. For as long as Reed had been with the Savannah Police Department, Sylvie and Bart had been at odds over how she raised Priscilla and Toby. Sylvie was tough as dried leather and rarely kept her sarcastic sharp tongue in check. She smoked, drank, drove as if she were in the time trials for the Indy 500, swore like a sailor and dressed as if she were pushing twenty rather than thirty-five, but she was first and foremost a mother. Nothing could bristle her neck hairs faster than criticism of her kids.
