Slow Burn. Heather Graham Pozzessere
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a husky voice asked.
“Don’t know…something,” was the muttered reply.
She flattened herself against the stone, afraid to exhale her pent-up breath. She had to look. She peered around again. One digger had remained standing perfectly still, staring in her direction. It was dark, she was in shadows…and she’d been seen.
She stared at the figure in black and felt the figure’s stare in return. Felt the eyes, felt the danger…
She didn’t think—there was no time to think. She stood and ran, tearing down the central path, aware that her best bet would be to head for the main street. She was fast, she’d always been fast. And she knew the layout of the cemetery well enough.
But figures were tearing after her at tremendous speed.
She veered off the main path, around the huge, central mausoleum. She tore along a pathway to a gate but found it locked.
She could hear footsteps coming closer. Furtive, but moving quickly, coming in her direction.
She burst away from the mausoleum, ducking low to run behind angels and Madonnas that rose high against the shadows and the fog. She ducked behind one and listened. Running footsteps passed her by. She remained where she was, thinking herself an absolute idiot for the thousandth time. There was enough danger in Dade County. She hadn’t needed to go looking for it. And these people had come to rob a new grave for body parts. They seemed to like them fresh. The fresher the better.
Hers would be very, very fresh….
She leaped up, bordering on panic. She could see a figure farther along one of the trails. She turned to run the other way.
Fingers suddenly curled around her ankle.
A scream of sheer terror rose in her throat, but she never managed more than a strangled gasp. Even as she inhaled, she was falling to the earth, falling into a hole, into darkness, into what seemed like an incredible void.
She landed against flesh. Terror wound more tightly within her, but she couldn’t catch her breath to scream. It was like a nightmare.
A hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and horrible visions of the living dead raced into her panicked mind. The scent of the fresh damp earth filled her lungs, and it seemed as if it was the smell of death.
She felt herself being lifted and righted. Then she heard a whisper, hushed, dictatorial. “Shush! Whatever the hell you do, don’t scream. It’s me. David.”
She was shaking. She’d probably never been more frightened in her life. She registered slowly that it was David—she really had run into David in a freshly dug hole in the middle of the cemetery in the middle of the night. It seemed impossible.
“Get down!” he told her.
Easy to do—her knees were buckling beneath her. She could scarcely breathe, and she was willing herself not to pass out.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she demanded in a whisper. It felt as if the blood had drained from her body. Her hair had probably turned completely white.
She clenched her fingers tightly. Wound them into white-knuckled fists.
“Damn it, David.”
“Shut up, Spencer!” he repeated in an emphatic whisper.
She managed to make a few observations. Basic black was really in. David, too, was in black. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black cotton jacket. She had a feeling that he was wearing a shoulder holster beneath the jacket.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again, barely mouthing the words. Despite the darkness, she was sure he heard her.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in return.
“Watching for the grave robbers,” she admitted flatly.
“Well, they’re watching for you now, Spencer, so please, can we talk later?”
She gritted her teeth, and leaned back. She came against a wall of dirt. Very damp dirt. She looked up at the night sky and realized that she was six feet under. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
It was very dark. She could barely see David, but she could sense his movements, at least. He’d reached into his jacket. For his gun, she was certain. But then she heard him talking. Softly, barely a whisper.
Number sequences, the name of the cemetery, the address. “Southeast of the main mausoleum,” he said at last.
He was on a very small cellular phone, she realized, and stared at him incredulously.
“A phone, no gun?” she said softly.
He replaced the phone and pulled his gun, arching a brow at her. “Six of them, one of me. I’m good, Spencer, but, hey, cut me a little slack here, huh?”
She started to answer then went still again as they both heard trees rustling nearby and felt the tremor of the earth near them. Loose particles fell around them. Spencer felt the blood draining from her face.
David motioned to her to get down. She shrank against the wall of the grave, hunching as low as she could. Someone came nearer and nearer, very near. So near that he was looking into the open grave…
Suddenly David pressed away from the opposite wall, catching the man’s ankle as he had caught hers, causing him to plummet wildly into the grave. He landed with a hard whack, sending dirt flying into Spencer’s face. In the darkness she barely saw him raise his head. A moonbeam caught the light of his eyes against their frame of knit ski mask, making them glitter. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Spencer heard a click as David cocked his gun.
“Rise slowly, quietly—and carefully,” David warned.
The figure began to follow instructions. Even as he did, Spencer could hear the sound of sirens in the night. Closing in. But she was still standing in an open grave—empty other than the living, she prayed—with David and a grave robber. The space seemed to be way too small for the three of them.
She became aware of shouting, the grave robbers calling out in anger, warning one another, some cries in English, some in Spanish. Lights were flaring, and there were other calls now. “Halt, police! Stop, or we’ll shoot!”
The cemetery suddenly seemed ablaze as the beams of flashlights cut across it.
“Can we get out of here?” Spencer asked David.
David shrugging, keeping an eye on the robber who was sharing their hole in the earth. “Since the police have just warned everyone that they’ll shoot, we might be better off down here for a few minutes.” He grinned. “Then we can let our friend crawl up first.”
Was it seconds, minutes or eons longer? Eventually someone called out, “Delgado, where are you?”
“Here!” David cried.
In a few moments a uniformed officer was staring down at the three of them, perplexed. Spencer realized that she knew him. She had danced with him one year at the policemen’s ball. His name was Tim Winfield. “Mrs. Huntington?” he inquired incredulously.
“Give the lady a hand up, Officer Winfield,” David suggested.
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
Tim Winfield was young but strongly muscled. He clutched Spencer’s hands, lifting her easily out of the grave. He kept staring at her once she was standing by his side.
“Now you,” David told his captive. He looked at the young cop. “Might want to give this fellow a hand, too, Winfield. But keep an eye on him while you do.”
David hopped out of the grave even as Tim Winfield pulled the ski-masked culprit up to ground level. When they were all standing, a plainclothes man Spencer hadn’t met before came forward. She might not know him, but David did.
“Lieutenant,” David acknowledged.
“Mr.