The Morning After Read Free Page A

murder-suicide pact between lovers, in this case a couple of gay boys, one seventeen, the other almost twenty. The trigger man, the younger of the two, was still hanging on to life in the hospital. If and when he got off the ventilator and came to, he’d find himself looking at a murder charge. The third recent homicide case wasn’t as defined. A body pulled out of the Savannah River two days before. No ID and not much left of her. Just another Jane Doe. No one seemed to be looking for her, no missing persons reports were on file for a black woman whom, the ME thought, was around thirty years old, had type O-positive blood, extensive dental work, and had borne at least one child.
    Yeah, he did have better things to do. But as his gaze swept the cemetery that was the final resting place of Savannahians who died two hundred and fifty years ago, a graveyard where it was rumored ghosts resided, he had the unnerving sensation that the crank letter wasn’t the last he’d hear from its author.
    One, two, the first few. Hear them cry, listen to them die.
    What the hell did that mean?
    No doubt, he’d soon find out.
     
     
    “I seen him,” Billy Dean Delacroix insisted excitedly, the pimples on his boyish face a brighter red in the cold wind. At fifteen he was a pistol. “That ol’ buck started up over ta the hill. But he won’t get far. I nailed him, I did, he’ll be drop-pin’ soon. I seen his white tail a-flashin’, come on, Pres!” Billy Dean took off at a dead run, galloping through the undergrowth with the easy gait of a track star, his pappy’s big-eared dog streaking beside him.
    Prescott Jones, Billy’s second cousin, older by six months and heavier by fifty or sixty pounds, struggled to keep up. Berry vines pulled at his old jeans, ripping at the denim while branches scratched his face, nearly knocking off his glasses as he dashed along the old deer trail that wound along the banks of Bear Creek. A raccoon, peering from behind his dark mask, waddled quickly out of the way and deep into the bracken. Overhead, a hawk slowly circled.
    Prescott was panting by the time he reached the crest of the hill, sweating beneath his hunting jacket and his pa’s old thermal shirt. Billy Dean, dressed head to toe in camouflage, was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the ugly red-coated dog.
    “Son of a bitch,” Prescott muttered, gasping for breath. Sometimes Billy Dean could be such a bastard, running off ahead and all. He wondered if Billy had even hit the buck hard, probably just clipped him and they’d be chasing the wounded sumbitch for miles.
    Prescott caught sight of some red spots on the dried grass near the trail, enough to change his mind and make him think that the deer had been wounded badly. Good. He couldn’t handle much more of this fast-assed traipsing through the wilderness. Truth to tell, Prescott enjoyed everything about hunting but the actual tracking of the prey. Oh, he liked to shoot a squirrel, buck or fox as much as the next guy. Even fantasized about killing himself a bear or a gator and having it stuffed, but all in all, hunting was a lot of work and he much preferred the beer, weed and a bit of crank now and again that went along with the actual hunt. He liked campfires and making up stories about whores and big game, all the while getting high. The hunting itself, the tracking game, the wounding game, the gutting game and the hauling out of the game was kind of a pain.
    “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