Slow Burn by Heather Graham Page B

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.
    â€œGet 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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œDamn it, David.”
    â€œShut 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.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” she asked again, barely mouthing the words. Despite the darkness, she was sure he heard her.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he demanded in return.
    â€œWatching for the grave robbers,” she admitted flatly.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œA 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