studied her body in the soft light, and decided she was perhaps even more beautiful as a mature, fully blossomed woman than the young girl he’d met fifteen years before. And it wasn’t just her body. He was captivated by the strong woman inside.
He let his hand drift across her naked belly. Their child floated under his palm, safe and warm.
“That was nice,” she said. “We should go out on dates more often.”
“Yes. That ice cream must have had something special in it.”
“I’m sure you’ll go order a gallon of it to be delivered every week now, but next time it’ll take more than an ice cream cone to charm me, buster. Maybe a whole sundae,” she teased him.
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said. Quite naturally, the next thing out of his mouth was, “I love you, Claire. Did you know?”
“I know.”
Morgan laid his head against her breast and drifted. He heard Claire’s heart surging beneath him, bringing him back into rhythm with the world. In a few moments, maybe longer, he began to dream. Claire let her fingers skim lightly across his shoulders and he awakened with a start. He didn’t know if he’d slept for seconds or hours; time had fallen out of rhythm again.
“I’m tired,” he said. He rubbed his eyes and groped for his pants. “I should go back down to the paper and get the stuff. It’ll only take a few minutes, then we can turn in early. We’ll go for a drive tomorrow, up to the Sun-Seven. We’ll visit Aimee’s grave and see the place where she lived.”
Claire covered her nakedness with a small pillow and blew him a kiss.
Morgan dressed again, minus the tie, and walked back down to the paper. It was only five blocks but his legs felt heavy, his eyelids stiff. The front door was locked but the alley door was open.
He stacked the plates, silverware and leftovers in the cooler, then began to fold Claire’s checkered tablecloth.
Malachi Pierce’s letter fell to the floor.
Morgan picked it up and slumped into his chair, weighted down by it. He tapped the torn envelope against his knee and studied the coarse handwriting on it, but didn’t open it again.
As a police reporter, he’d spent much of his professional life in close quarters with bad people who got what they wanted through intimidation. Most of their threats — menacing phone calls, hateful letters, petty vandalism, almost always anonymous — were empty. Morgan knew every crime reporter was a lightning rod for the simmering contempt of the people he covered. It came with the territory.
That’s why Pierce’s letter disturbed him. He’d only felt real fear once before, that Halloween night in 1993 when the phone rang at his home in Oak Park.
P.D. Comeaux was on the other end.
“Trick or treat, Jeffie. This here’s your favorite boy comin’ ‘round to see what kind of sweets you’ve got at your house tonight,” the unmistakably voluble voice of the serial killer drawled over the line, as clear as if he were next door.
A jolt of ice-cold adrenaline surged through Morgan’s veins. It had been more than a year since Illinois extradited Comeaux to South Dakota, where he was convicted and sentenced to die at the maximum-security prison in Sioux Falls. The last time Morgan heard P.D. Comeaux’s voice was at his sentencing, when the remorseless killer told the Hispanic judge to “kiss my lily-white ass.”
Now Comeaux seemed to be in the same room. Had he escaped and come looking for the man who helped end his malignant life on the road?
Jesus Christ , he could hardly breathe as the fear tumbled through him, Claire had taken Bridger trick-or-treating and hadn’t returned.
Comeaux’s voice undulated smoothly through the receiver, like the ripples on warm water.
“Sweet things you got, too, Jeffie. That pretty wife of yours, so blond. I bet she’s a natural blonde, too, huh, Jeffie? Like that bitch I done in Sturgis. You remember her?
He let his hand drift across her naked belly. Their child floated under his palm, safe and warm.
“That was nice,” she said. “We should go out on dates more often.”
“Yes. That ice cream must have had something special in it.”
“I’m sure you’ll go order a gallon of it to be delivered every week now, but next time it’ll take more than an ice cream cone to charm me, buster. Maybe a whole sundae,” she teased him.
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said. Quite naturally, the next thing out of his mouth was, “I love you, Claire. Did you know?”
“I know.”
Morgan laid his head against her breast and drifted. He heard Claire’s heart surging beneath him, bringing him back into rhythm with the world. In a few moments, maybe longer, he began to dream. Claire let her fingers skim lightly across his shoulders and he awakened with a start. He didn’t know if he’d slept for seconds or hours; time had fallen out of rhythm again.
“I’m tired,” he said. He rubbed his eyes and groped for his pants. “I should go back down to the paper and get the stuff. It’ll only take a few minutes, then we can turn in early. We’ll go for a drive tomorrow, up to the Sun-Seven. We’ll visit Aimee’s grave and see the place where she lived.”
Claire covered her nakedness with a small pillow and blew him a kiss.
Morgan dressed again, minus the tie, and walked back down to the paper. It was only five blocks but his legs felt heavy, his eyelids stiff. The front door was locked but the alley door was open.
He stacked the plates, silverware and leftovers in the cooler, then began to fold Claire’s checkered tablecloth.
Malachi Pierce’s letter fell to the floor.
Morgan picked it up and slumped into his chair, weighted down by it. He tapped the torn envelope against his knee and studied the coarse handwriting on it, but didn’t open it again.
As a police reporter, he’d spent much of his professional life in close quarters with bad people who got what they wanted through intimidation. Most of their threats — menacing phone calls, hateful letters, petty vandalism, almost always anonymous — were empty. Morgan knew every crime reporter was a lightning rod for the simmering contempt of the people he covered. It came with the territory.
That’s why Pierce’s letter disturbed him. He’d only felt real fear once before, that Halloween night in 1993 when the phone rang at his home in Oak Park.
P.D. Comeaux was on the other end.
“Trick or treat, Jeffie. This here’s your favorite boy comin’ ‘round to see what kind of sweets you’ve got at your house tonight,” the unmistakably voluble voice of the serial killer drawled over the line, as clear as if he were next door.
A jolt of ice-cold adrenaline surged through Morgan’s veins. It had been more than a year since Illinois extradited Comeaux to South Dakota, where he was convicted and sentenced to die at the maximum-security prison in Sioux Falls. The last time Morgan heard P.D. Comeaux’s voice was at his sentencing, when the remorseless killer told the Hispanic judge to “kiss my lily-white ass.”
Now Comeaux seemed to be in the same room. Had he escaped and come looking for the man who helped end his malignant life on the road?
Jesus Christ , he could hardly breathe as the fear tumbled through him, Claire had taken Bridger trick-or-treating and hadn’t returned.
Comeaux’s voice undulated smoothly through the receiver, like the ripples on warm water.
“Sweet things you got, too, Jeffie. That pretty wife of yours, so blond. I bet she’s a natural blonde, too, huh, Jeffie? Like that bitch I done in Sturgis. You remember her?
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