four years earlier, three in Atlanta, and numerous others in New Orleans and across the States. Most had been solved, although one case in the hills of North Carolina had never been closed.
A satanic cult in the Tennessee mountains had also stolen bodies to burn as a sacrifice. A case in eastern Kentucky noted a serial killer who dismembered corpses after he killed the victims—the killer had been tried and convicted, and was now on death row.
Some bodies had been stolen from morgues around Halloween for pranks. Other cases involved stealing comatose patients for organs to sell on the black market.
A schizophrenic man in North Carolina had stolen corpses because he swore he heard voices telling him to turn them into vampires.
He paused, rubbed his hand over his face. Even though he’d been a cop for years, the depravity of humans still stunned him.
Having read about the questionable projects a few doctors had been involved with at CIRP, he ran a search for medical purposes for which a corpse could be used. Research experiments and medical educational facilities topped the list. But those bodies were donated to science, not stolen. There was no report indicating they had a shortage of donors for either.
Knowing any one of the above could be the motive for the current body snatcher, or that they might be dealing with yet a different scenario, he made a note of the various motives.
One of the nurses poked her head in. “Mr. Kilpatrick?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Whitehead suggested I give you a sleeping pill to help you relax before your surgery tomorrow.”
“I don’t need a pill.”
She shrugged. “All right, but I’ll be in to get you bright and early.”
Her cheerful smile irritated him. “Fine. I’ll be here,” he mumbled. As if he’d be anywhere else.
He checked the morgues housing the bodies for reports of impropriety but found nothing. In spite of his resolve to work, exhaustion wore on him. Another downside of his injuries; he’d yet to regain his stamina. And he would need his energy to force himself to endure the agonizing therapy following tomorrow’s ordeal.
Within seconds after his head hit the pillow he faded into sleep, but images of Grace’s blue eyes flashed into his mind. He didn’t need her at his side, but he couldn’t help but wish she’d show up anyway. Just hearing her voice before he went under the knife would give him comfort.
DARK STORM CLOUDS HOVERED in the sky, obliterating the moon and stars as Grace drove to Tybee Island and the cottage her parents had owned. Thunder rumbled and lightning crisscrossed the darkness above the palm trees, signs of an impending storm.
Grace hated storms. There had been a terrible one the night her parents died.
Worse, all the Halloween decorations in town and on the island reminded her of the ghost stories and legends of pirates and lost souls in the area, adding to her paranoia.
She tried to focus on the reason she’d moved back to the cottage—because it was so peaceful. She craved the lulling sound of the ocean in the background, the warm fall air, the smell of the marsh and the sway of the palm trees in the late-night breeze. During the summer months when most of the cottages were inhabited, either by homeowners or renters, the island came alive with bikers, joggers, walkers and children. But fall sent vacationers home, and the island felt isolated, even deserted and eerie at times.
Especially at the end of the street tucked back into the cove where she lived.
Tonight, in light of the ghouls and goblins hanging on door fronts and trees, the recent wave of vandalism and stories of missing corpses, she felt on edge, as if someone was watching her. Someone who was waiting in the shadows, ready to leap out and grab her.
Maybe she shouldn’t have returned to her parents’ home. It had stirred all kinds of memories. But pleasant ones mingled with the sad. The rare times when her father had taken vacation days, rented a fishing boat and taken her and Bruno fishing in the inlet. The crabbing expeditions in the marsh. The long walks on the beach searching for sea turtles and shells. Building sand sculptures and flying kites in the spring.
Although her parents hadn’t died in this house, she thought about them more and more since she’d returned.
She parked in the clamshell drive, lifted her hair off her neck to let the breeze brush her skin as she let herself in the cottage. The wind chimes on the front porch tinkled, and inside, lavender and cinnamon scented the air. Remembering the figure running into the woods the night before at the graveyard, she paused in the doorway, listening for an intruder. What if the man in the woods thought she had seen him?
What if he came looking for her?
Chapter Three
Shivering, Grace flipped on the TV and checked the news while she ate a salad. Maybe they’d found the culprit and he was in jail now.
The report was already midway: “Tonight, we’ve had another case of what the police believe to be vandalism.” The camera panned to a cemetery outside of town. “Someone flooded the graveyard by Shiloh Church, saturating the ground so badly that several feet of dirt washed away and caskets have risen to the surface. A Halloween prank or is someone robbing graves now?”
Grace frowned and waited to see if they mentioned the corpse from the night before, but the reporter spent most of the segment on interviews at the church scene. Sighing, she chided herself for worrying, took her salad plate to the sink, rinsed it and stuck it in the dishwasher, then stepped outside on the back patio. The smell of the marsh assaulted her, and the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore filled her ears. But thunder rattled her nerves, and the wind brought the whisper of her brother’s voice.
“Help me…”
She froze. She must have imagined the words, had been thinking about Bruno too much lately because of these missing corpses.
That and the fact that his killer had never been caught.
Suddenly exhausted, she went back inside, stripped her clothes and slipped into a cool, cotton nightshirt. For a brief moment she allowed herself to think about Parker Kilpatrick, and imagined him beside her, watching her undress. Imagined him smiling as he ran his hands over her bare breasts. Imagined him erasing thoughts of dead bodies and replacing them with an erotic night of lovemaking.
But the image of his frown when he’d told her to leave returned, drowning out the fantasy, and she crawled into bed, reminding herself that nothing could happen between them.
He was a cop. She’d lost her mother and the two most important men in her life, everyone she had ever loved, to the job, and she refused to take the chance on that again. Besides, he wasn’t interested in her.
Feeling claustrophobic, she left the window open so she could feel the breeze and hear the waves during the night and soon fell into a deep sleep.
But rest didn’t come. Instead nightmares of her childhood did.
THE STORM RAGED outside, shaking the walls and beating the thin windowpanes. She was seven years old, huddled in bed with her teddy bear, trying to drown out the noise by covering her ears with her hands. Her little
