The Morning After (3 page)

“Hey! Over here! Pres! C’mon. Just over the ridge…What the hell?” Billy’s voice came from down in a holler, one deep in shadow. Prescott followed the sound, noticed a few more splashes of fresh blood on the bent grass and curled up leaves on his way down an overgrown trail. Through tall pines and scrub oak, he eased his way down. The path was steep, cut into the side of a cliff, and precipitous enough that his hunting boots slid a time or two. Prescott’s heart was thumping. Holding on to his pa’s hunting rifle with one sweaty hand, Prescott feared he might pitch himself over the cliff. But all along the way down he spied a smattering of blood. Maybe Billy hadn’t lied, after all. Just because the boy was known for telling whoppers didn’t mean he hadn’t actually struck the whitetail in a vital organ.

Prescott eased his bulk through a thicket of saplings to a small patch of dead grass, a shadowy clearing in this dark ravine. Ringed by scraggly woods, the clearing saw very little sunlight.

Billy Dean was standing to one side of a snag that bore the charred bark of a tree hit by lightning. In front of the dead tree and Billy Dean was a thick mound. At first, Prescott thought it was the lifeless buck, but as he got closer he could see that he was wrong. Dead wrong. Billy Dean was scratching the side of his face nervously while staring down at a pile of dirt and rocks that was about seven or eight feet long and over two feet wide. Billy’s dad’s old dog was whining and pacing around the edge of the neat, unnatural heap.

“What is it? What you got there?” Prescott asked and noticed that the red dog held his nose up, into the wind.

“It’s a grave.”

“What you say?”

“A grave, man, look. And it’s big enough for a human.”

“No way…” As Prescott, breathing hard, walked closer, he saw that Billy Dean was right.

The dog whimpered, his fur shivering.

Prescott didn’t like the looks of it. A grave out here in the woods near Blood Mountain. No, he didn’t like it at all. “What d’ ya think we should do?”

“Dunno.”

“Dig it up?”

“Maybe.” Billy Dean nudged a pile of soft dirt with the barrel of his gun, something his daddy would skin him alive for if he ever caught him.

The hound was still acting weird. Jumpy. Whining and staring across the clearing. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

Billy Dean leaned down. “There’s somethin’ here. A ring…hell, yes, it’s a weddin’ band.” He reached down and picked up a gold band with several stones. Billy wiped it on his pants and a diamond, a big sucker, winked in the poor light. Smaller red gems glittered around the diamond as the nervous old dog whined. “Jesus. Look at the size of it. Must be worth somethin’.” Squinting, he studied the inside of the band. “It’s got something etched into it. Listen to this: To Barbara. Love forever. Then there’s a date.”

“Whose is it?”

“Someone named Barbara.”

“Duh! I
know
that.” Sometimes Billy Dean could be so damned dense. He might be able to run like a gazelle, but Prescott figured he weren’t no smarter than one of his daddy’s half-breed dogs. “But Barbara who? And why’s it here?”

“Who cares? Too bad, though. The inscription prob’ly means it’s not worth as much.”

“So what? You ain’t thinkin’ of stealin’ it.” But Prescott knew better. Billy Dean had a larcenous bent to him—not that he was bad, just poor and sick to the back teeth of never havin’ anything. The dog let out a low growl. Lowered his head. Prescott saw the reddish hackles rise.

“I’m not stealin’ nothin’. I just found it. Tha’s all.” Billy pocketed the ring, then before Prescott could say anything else, let out a whoop. “Looka there. Now don’t tell me this ain’t my lucky day. There’s the buck! Shit-o-day! Look at him. It’s a damned four-point!”

Sure as shootin’, the deer had dropped and breathed his last damned breath just on the other side of a pair of knotty oaks. Billy Dean had poked it to make sure it was really dead, and satisfied, was already unsheathing his knife, but Prescott didn’t help. He felt a chill as cold as the devil’s piss. It skittered down his spine from the base of his skull clean to his tailbone and it had nothin’ to do with the wind whippin’ and screamin’ down the holler.

No, it was somethin’ more.

A feeling, the kind that warned him of danger.

Just like ol’ Red, the hound.

Prescott glanced over his shoulder, his eyes squinting behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

Was someone watching them?

Demon eyes peering through the dark foliage near the abandoned old logging road?

Why did the damned dog keep watch, staring at the darkest part of the forest?

The spit dried in Prescott’s mouth. He suddenly wanted to pee. Bad. “I think we best git outta here.”

“Why?” Billy Dean was already on one knee, slitting the buck’s belly from sternum to his privates.

The dog growled again.

Low.

A warning.

“I got me a buck to gut,” Billy said, “then I figure we’ll dig up the grave.”

“What? No way!”

“Hey, there might be more where that there ring came from.”

“Maybe we should call the police.”

“Why?”

“Cuz there’s somethin’ evil here,” Prescott whispered, edgy as he eyed the other side of the clearing where the brush was dense and dusky. The dog showed his teeth and began to circle, his eyes never moving from the shadowy trees. Prescott’s insides nearly turned to water. “It’s somethin’ we don’t want to mess with.”

“Speak fer yerself. I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I field dress this sumbitch, dig up the grave and see what’s what. Maybe there’s some more damned jewels—some kinda treasure.”

“Why would there be?”

“Who knows?” Billy Dean rocked back on the worn heels of his boots and squinted one eye up at the sky as if to see better.

Dark clouds shifted. An omen if ever there was one.

Billy didn’t seem to see it that way. “I figure this here is God payin’ me back fer all the times He shit on me.” Billy turned back to his work. He’d already sliced the four-point’s hide just far enough not to puncture any innards. The guts rolled out on the ground in one glistening lump. “I know, I know I shouldn’t talk that way about the Lord, but He never did much fer me. Till now. I figure He finally’s squarin’ things up a bit.” Shoulders hunched, Billy worked at cutting the buck’s bowel and tying it off.

“I don’t reckon so,” Prescott argued, fear making his skin crawl as stubborn Billy worked. “Come on, Billy Dean. We need to get out of here. Now.”

“I’m not leavin’ my kill. And I’m diggin’ up the damned grave. What’s got into you?” Billy stood, then turned, still holding his hunting knife in his left hand, blood dripping from the blade and staining his fingers. The skin across his face appeared more mottled than ever as he glared at his cousin. “Ye’re scared, ain’t cha? Jesus H. Christ.” His voice was filled with disgust. Billy’s eyes moved to the shaded woods. “What is it? What’d you see?”

“Nothin.’ I ain’t seen nothin’, but that don’t mean there ain’t somethin’ there.” Prescott caught a movement, shadow on shadow, a bit of leaf twisting unnaturally in the wind. The dog’s growl was low enough to seem unworldly. “Come on,” Prescott ordered, starting back up the trail at a jog. “We need to get goin’,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Now!” He didn’t stop to see if Billy Dean was following him, just took off as fast as he could, running hard up the trail. The dog streaked past him on the fly, tail between his legs.

Damn it all to hell, Billy Dean had better come along. No deer or no damned ring was worth dealin’ with the pure evil Prescott sensed had trod through this stretch of backwoods. The path was steep, his feet unsteady, his lungs threatening to give out as he breathed hard enough to fog his glasses. Sweat poured down his face, into his eyes, under his collar.
God, please help me git outta here alive and don’t blame me for Billy Dean’s attitude. He’s an idiot, God, please
…His lungs were on fire, his heart pumping crazily as he stumbled past a fork in the path and around a steep switchback. This was the right way. Or was it? Had he passed that split oak—

Something moved…shifting in the hazy light filtering through the trees. Jesus! Whatever it was, slid through the undergrowth. A person? A dark figure. A man? Or the embodiment of Satan himself? Prescott’s heart froze. He spun around too quickly, twisting his ankle.

Pain splintered up his leg.

Oh, shit! Prescott let out a squeal, then bit his tongue. He didn’t want Lucifer to find him.

Run! Now!

He had to hide. He bolted. Up. Down. Wherever the trail led while the pain in his leg shrieked through his body.

Don’t think about the pain. Don’t think about Billy Dean. Just get away. Fast!

The forest, bracken, scraggly trees, scrub bush flashed by in a blur.

From the trail ahead the dog let out a frightened, painful yelp. The cry echoed through the canyons.

And then there was silence.

Deadly, empty silence.

Oh, God.
Prescott felt a fear as deep as he’d ever known.

He froze, his ankle screaming in agony. He strained to see through the foggy, smeared lenses. Where was the dog? Where the hell was the damned dog? And the dark figure? Holy shit, where had that devil gone? Maybe it had all been a figment of his imagination. That was it. A trick of gloomy light in shadows? And where had it been—the black image? Higher on the ridge, or had he been turned around with the switchbacks and offshoots on the trail? He couldn’t think, could barely breathe.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!

He had to keep moving!

Deep in his boot, his ankle throbbed. Sweat covered his body. He was half blind. The crest of the ridge seemed hundreds of feet above him, the ravine abutting the trail a deep, dark abyss. How would he ever make it out of here? Why hadn’t he tried to follow that damned old logging road? If only Billy Dean would show up and help him and…

Snap!

Somewhere nearby a twig broke.

He froze.

His pulse throbbed in his ears.

God help me.

Fear sliced through his heart.

Did he hear someone behind him? Footsteps on the blanket of dry leaves?

Prescott spun.

Again too fast.

Agony ripped through his ankle and it buckled.

Pebbles on the path skittered beneath his feet as he slipped toward the edge of the ravine. His arms waved frantically, but it was too late. He lost what frail footing he had. Screaming, he scrabbled wildly in the air, catching only a glimpse of a shadowy, tall man in the trees as he fell backward, pitching headfirst over the edge.

CHAPTER 2

“Come on, Nikki, give it up. Let’s go out for a few drinks.” Trina Boudine paused at the edge of Nikki Gillette’s cubicle, stretching her model-slim black frame over the edge that separated their desks. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“I’ve heard. But I don’t know who ‘they’ are, and they probably weren’t concerned about paying the rent.” She glanced up at Trina. “And, just in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Johnny, and I’m not a boy.”

“Details, details.” Trina’s dark eyes flashed as she smiled and showed off white teeth that were crooked enough to be interesting. She flipped a sleek wrist where half a dozen copper bracelets jangled. “What’re you working on that’s so damned intriguing? Last I heard you were doing a series on the budget cuts to the school district.” She clucked her tongue. “Mighty fascinatin’ stuff, that.”

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.” Nikki rolled her chair away from her computer and hoped Trina didn’t catch any of the text she’d written as her story had nothing to do with money, budget cuts, or public outcry over lack of school funding. Instead, she was writing another crime piece, about a woman fished out of the river two days earlier. It wasn’t really her story. Norm Metzger had been given that assignment, but Nikki couldn’t help herself. Crime fascinated her. It always had and it had nothing, not one little thing to do with the fact that her father was Judge Ronald “Big Ron” Gillette. She frowned at the thought of her father, then glanced up at Trina. “Okay, so I’ll meet you. When and where?”

“Sevenish for drinks and hors d’oeuvres at Bridges. Aimee and Dana will be there. We’re celebrating. Aimee’s divorce and Dana’s engagement. Kind of both ends of the romance spectrum.”

“Sounds fun,” Nikki muttered sarcastically.

“Well, you can see why we need a few more people. I’m hoping maybe Ned, Carl and Joanna can join us—you know, make it a party. Aimee is having some trouble getting enthusiastic about Dana’s engagement, but Dana wants to celebrate.”

“Even though she was married twice before?”

“You know what they say—”

“Third time’s a charm, yeah, yeah. You’re just full of pearls of wisdom today, aren’t you?”

“Always.” Trina’s phone rang and she rolled her eyes as Nikki’s computer screen flipped crazily.

“This damned thing,” Nikki growled. “I thought Kevin was going to fix it.” Kevin Deeter was the editor’s nephew, a part-time student and full-time electronic whiz whose sole job at the
Sentinel
was to keep all the electronics working. A loner who told weird jokes, he kept mostly to himself. Which was a blessing. She frantically punched the escape key, then rebooted and the computer came back to life.

“Kevin was by earlier.”

“Did he do anything to the computer?”

“Sorry. I was busy. Didn’t notice.”

“Great,” Nikki mumbled testily. She didn’t really like Kevin, but tolerated him for his computer skills. It certainly wasn’t for his sense of humor. “I swear, he messes up more than he fixes. Damn.”

Trina gave a quick shake of her head, a warning that Nikki caught. From the corner of her eye Nikki spied Kevin lurking by the coatrack, earphones plugged into his cassette recorder. He probably hadn’t heard her and even if he did, he needed to know that he was supposed to fix things, not make them worse. And what was with the earphones? If Tom Fink caught anyone else tuned into headphones while on the job, that employee would be out on his ass.