The Morning After by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

box were two bodies, one nearly hidden by the other. The smell of death, of rotting flesh, was overpowering. The bright lights seemed eerily out of place in these dark woods as they illuminated a ghastly scene. Reed stepped closer, squinting in disgust. The body on the top was that of a naked woman, her skin blue-white with death, bruises discoloring her face, arms and legs where she’d obviously tried to force herself out of this tomb.
    For the love of Christ, she’d been buried alive.
    He tried not to think of her horror until he studied her face.
    Sweet Jesus, no…it couldn’t be. He thought he might throw up as he looked past the bruises to the fine, cultured features, the hands where manicured nails had now been ripped off, the open, terror-riddled dead eyes of Barbara Jean Marx. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, turning away for a second and drawing in a fresh lungful of air. Bobbi? No!
    When he turned to face the horror again, he was certain it was she. Naked, long legs bruised, perfect breasts flat against her ribs now as she rested, stripped bare, on the rotting remains of another person. She’d obviously been dead a short while, perhaps less than a day. Blood had run from her ears, and her hands were clenched into bloodied claws as if rigor mortis had set in while she was still trying to scrape her way to freedom.
    “Know her?” Baldwin asked.
    Reed’s insides clenched. His throat closed. He fought the urge to puke. “Yeah,” he finally whispered, still disbelieving, his gaze riveted on the dead woman. Dear God. Was it possible? Bobbi? Vibrant, sexy, naughty Bobbi? Time seemed to stand still. The noises of the night faded. Images flashed behind his eyes, hot, erotic pictures of this woman with her sultry brown eyes, hard, well-muscled body, wispy red teddy that showed off large breasts with incredible nipples. She’d mounted him slowly, with narrow-eyed intention, her fingers grazing each of his bare ribs, nails softly raking over his chest as he’d sweated, watching, gasping for breath, his erection hard and aching. God, how he’d wanted her.
    Now, staring at her pale, lifeless form, he cleared his throat and forced the sensual thoughts to disappear. They seemed nearly profane at the moment. A muscle worked in his jaw and he felt not only sad and repulsed, but suddenly weary. How had she come to this? Who had done it to her? “Her name is Bobbi Jean. Barbara Jean Marx.” His voice was husky and rough, even to his own ears. He hadn’t loved her, but still…
    “How did you know her?” the sheriff asked, and there was just a hint of suspicion in the raise of his eyebrows.
    Reed gritted his teeth. Took a deep breath. Felt the eyes of half a dozen cops on him. “Barbara Marx and I?” He turned away from what had become of her and fought the rage that tore through his soul. “Yeah, I knew her.” In the biblical sense. No reason to hide the truth. It was bound to come out now. “A couple of months ago we were lovers.”

CHAPTER 3
     
     
    “The microphone inside the coffin, does it work?”
    Oh, yeah , The Survivor thought, it works just fine. So does this little tape player. That’s the beauty of high tech.
    Pierce Reed’s voice was coming in with only a little distortion even though he was half a mile away. Higher on a hillside, hidden in the trees, binoculars trained on the spot where klieg lights rained illumination onto the forest floor, he listened, his recorder getting every sound. It was impossible to see much with all the vegetation blocking his view, but he felt a sense of well-being, of retribution nonetheless as he peered through the pine branches.
    “We think so. The mike looks new,” a male voice finally responded.
    “Then the bastard could be listening in right now.” Pierce Reed’s voice. Even after all the intervening years The Survivor recognized it and the hairs on the back of his neck raised.
    “Always that chance,” one of the other voices agreed, maybe that redneck