The Dying Game

by Beverly Barton

  “It’s okay,” Nic said. “No one expects you to—”

  “You have no idea what it was like.” Barbara Jean grasped Griff’s arm. “It was the most horrible thing imaginable, finding my sister like that. Her feet cut off. Blood everywhere.” Barbara Jean burst into tears.

  Before Nic could say or do anything, Griff slid his chair closer to Barbara Jean’s wheelchair and draped his arm around her shoulders, offering her solace. She buried her face against his shoulder and wept.

  Although Nic hated weepy females and had become determined at an early age to never become one, she couldn’t deny that Barbara Jean Hughes had every right and every reason to cry her head off. Good Lord, who wouldn’t have been devastated to find their sister mutilated and bleeding to death. It had been Barbara Jean’s quick thinking that had saved Gale Ann’s life.

  After several minutes of sobbing, Barbara Jean lifted her head. “I’m sorry that I fell apart that way.”

  Griff pulled a soft cotton, monogrammed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his tailor-made jacket. The man’s suit probably cost more than Nic made in a month, possibly a couple of months. He dabbed the expensive handkerchief under Barbara Jean’s eyes, then handed it to her.

  “You must know that you saved your sister’s life,” Griff said as he lifted his arm from Barbara Jean’s shoulders.

  “They don’t think she’ll live.” Barbara Jean clutched the handkerchief in her tight fist. “She lost so much blood before—” She gulped her sobs. “If I’d been able to get to her more quickly…if…”

  “You can help her by helping us find the man who tried to kill her.” Griff’s voice had softened, taking on a seductive quality that set Nic’s teeth on edge.

  “How—how can I do that?” Barbara Jean gulped.

  “I understand that you caught a glimpse of a man leaving Gale Ann’s apartment building as you were arriving. Do you feel up to talking about that or would you rather wait until after you finish your lunch?”

  Barbara Jean glanced at the fried chicken, creamed potatoes, and green beans on her plate, and Nic could almost hear the woman’s stomach churn. Her right hand shook as she reached for the coffee cup, so she had to use both hands to lift the hot liquid to her lips. After several sips, she sighed.

  “Ms. Hughes, I must remind you that Mr. Powell is not affiliated with the FBI or any law enforcement agency,” Nic said, trying to keep her voice calm and friendly. “I must advise you that it isn’t in your sister’s best interest for you to discuss what happened with anyone other than—”

  “Special Agent Baxter is right,” Griff said. “I’m a private detective, not a law enforcement officer. But one of my best friends lost a wife to the killer whom we suspect tried to murder your sister. I’ve been working on his behalf for nearly four years to try to find and stop this maniac.”

  When Barbara Jean looked deeply into Griff’s eyes and offered him a trusting smile, Nic knew she had lost this particular battle.

  “I know all the residents where Gale Ann lives,” Barbara Jean said. “There are only ten apartments in the building. Two are divorcées, like Gale Ann. Two are widows, one is an old bachelor, and the other four are young couples, but only two of the couples have children.”

  “This man you saw, he wasn’t one of the residents?” Griff asked.

  Barbara Jean shook her head.

  “Could he have been a friend of one of the residents?” Nic inquired.

  “I don’t know. But I do know that in the six years my sister has lived there, I’d never seen this man before.”

  Nic opened her mouth to ask the all important question, but Griff beat her to the punch and asked pointedly, “Could you identify this man if you ever saw him again?”

  Dead silence.

  Nic gave Griff a heated glare.

  “It’s all right,” Nic said. “If you can’t ID the man—”

  “What if I can?” Barbara Jean’s gaze locked with Nic’s.

  “Can you?” Griff asked.

  “You think he’s the one who tried to kill Gale Ann, the one who cut off her feet?” Barbara Jean dropped her hands into her lap and entwined her fingers, trapping Griff’s handkerchief between her palms.

  “Possibly,” Nic said.

  “Does he know she didn’t die?”

  Nic shook her head. “The local police issued a statement to the news media that Gale Ann Cain’s body had been discovered by her sister. Nothing more. But the hospital staff could let something slip, although they’ve been warned to be careful. And there are reporters trying to get to you to find out more details. But I or another agent will be with you twenty-four-seven. There is an agent posted at the hospital, outside the nurses’ entrance to the ICU, to protect your sister.”

  “If this man knew I could identify him, he’d come after me, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, he might,” Nic admitted.

  “But we are not going to let anything happen to you,” Griff told her. “Between the FBI and the Powell Agency, you’ll be protected at all times.”

  Barbara Jean didn’t say anything for several minutes, her mind obviously absorbing all the information and mulling over her choices. “I don’t think I could identify him if I saw him again.”

  Nic groaned inwardly. She had been afraid of that. Either Barbara Jean really couldn’t ID the guy or she was so scared that she had convinced herself she couldn’t ID him.

  “Could you describe him to us?” Griff asked.

  “I already told Special Agent Baxter—”

  “Call me Nic, please.” Two could play the “let’s be friends” game.

  “I told Nic—” she offered Nic a fragile smile—“that as I was going in the front door of the apartment building—I always use the elevator since Gale Ann’s apartment is on the second floor—that I saw a man in a tan trench coat coming down the stairs. He had on a hat and wore sunglasses. I didn’t see his eyes. I think his hair was brown, but I can’t be sure. He was walking pretty fast, as if he was in a hurry.”

  “Did he see you?” Griff asked.

  “I don’t know. I—I don’t think so. He never looked my way. And I was already inside the elevator by the time he reached the sidewalk.”

  Nic’s cell phone rang. Her gut tightened. She knew before she heard Special Agent Randall’s voice that he was calling with news about Gale Ann Cain’s condition.

  “Baxter here,” she said.

  “Get the sister up here pronto,” Jeff Randall said. “Gale Ann Cain has regained consciousness.”

  Lindsay’s gaze traveled up the stairs and caught sight of the man’s jean-clad legs. Long, lean legs. Faded, dirty jeans. Inch-by-inch, the rest of his body came into view as he trudged down the steps like a slug crawling along the ground. He wore a tattered, plaid flannel shirt over a dingy thermal undershirt. When she saw his face, she gasped. At first glance, she barely recognized Judd, and wouldn’t have known who he was except for his pale amber eyes, eyes as lifeless as the world outside. Winter dead. His tawny brown hair hung almost to his shoulders, and a heavy beard obscured his handsome face.

  “You look like hell.” She said the first thing that came to her mind.

  He stopped when he reached the foot of the stairs. “Did I hear you right—the latest victim didn’t die, she’s still alive?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did he do to her?”

  Lindsay hesitated. “He chopped off her feet.”

  Judd didn’t flinch. And why should he? It wasn’t as if he were actually capable of feeling any human emotion, other than his thirst for revenge.

  “Where is she?”

  “A county hospital in Williamstown, Kentucky.”

  “Is Griff—?”

  “He flew up there immediately.”

  “And he sent you to tell me the good news.” Judd walked past her and straight to the coffeemaker. After lifting the pot, he asked, “Want some?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She turned and faced him.

 
; He removed another cup from the overhead cabinet, poured both cups full, and held one out to her. She went over, took the cup from him, and lifted it to her lips. The brew was strong and bitter. She suspected it had been sitting on the warmer for quite some time. Possibly since early morning.

  “Can she identify her attacker?” Judd asked.

  “I don’t know. We were told that she lapsed into a semi-coma in Recovery, shortly after regaining consciousness for a few minutes following her surgery.”

  “She probably won’t come out of the coma.”

  “She might.”

  “Wishful thinking isn’t worth a damn.” Judd pulled out a chair from the table, set down his coffee cup, and slumped into the chair.

  Standing behind him, Lindsay watched as he sipped the black-tar coffee. Judd Walker, multimillionaire, former playboy, former distinguished and respected lawyer, looked like a homeless bum. God in heaven, his long hair was dirty, greasy, and matted, as if it hadn’t been washed or combed in weeks.

  Lindsay walked over to the other side of the table so that she stood directly in front of him. “If you want to go to Kentucky—”

  His vicious laughter chilled her to the bone. “Is that why Griff sent you this time? He thought you could persuade me to give a damn?”

  “He sent me because he thought you’d want to know that this could be our first real break. He actually thought you might still want to see your wife’s murderer brought to justice.”

  Judd’s mocking smile vanished. “What I want is to have five minutes alone with him. Just five minutes.”

  “I doubt you’ll ever get that chance,” Lindsay said. “But if he’s captured and then convicted, I’m sure it can be arranged for you to be there when he’s executed.”

  “It won’t be quite the same if I can’t do the job myself.” Judd downed the remainder of the liquid sludge he called coffee. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve pictured this monster in my mind? I never see a face, only his hands holding a meat cleaver and chopping, chopping…chopping. And then suddenly he’s not the one with the cleaver. I am. And I’m the one doing the chopping. I’m chopping him into a hundred little pieces.”

  Judd repeatedly pounded the table with his big fist. Over and over again. The table shook. Judd’s heavy strikes grew harder and harder. His breathing became deeper and louder. His eyes glazed over as if he were in a trance.

  Lindsay placed her cup on the counter behind her, then turned back to Judd, and grabbed his wrist. He flung her off him so forcefully that she toppled backward and landed against the refrigerator. Her back hit the fridge with a resounding thud. Judd shot up out of the chair and glared at her.

  She stood there, straightening herself to her full five-four height, her gaze riveted to his as he came toward her. When he reached her, he spread his palms out flat against the refrigerator, on either side of her head, and brought his face down to hers so that their noses almost touched.

  “I know why Griff sent you here,” he said. “What I don’t know is why you came.”

  Chapter 4

  Lindsay hunched down just enough to slip under Judd’s outstretched left arm, managing to escape his searing glare and his big, hovering body. Sucking in several deep breaths and mentally warning herself not to participate in Judd’s manipulative game-playing, Lindsay psyched herself up for the inevitable battle of wills. Chuckling as if he found her actions amusing, Judd turned around to face her. She hated that cold, insincere grin he had perfected over the past few years. There was something disturbing about a smile that projected misery instead of mirth.

  “What’s wrong, Lindsay—afraid you can’t resist me?”

  She clenched her teeth, a scathing comment on the tip of her tongue. He’s baiting you. He wants an outraged reaction. Don’t give it to him.

  “If you plan to go with me to Kentucky, you’ll have to take a shower and—”

  “I’m not going.”

  He’s still playing his little game, she reminded herself.

  “Fine by me,” she said. “I’m just Griffin Powell’s messenger.” She reached for the cell phone clipped to her belt. “I’ll call him and tell him—”

  “Why did you come here? Really?”

  “My boss sent me to share some information with a client we couldn’t reach any other way.” That’s it, Lindsay, you tell him.

  Judd studied her, his gaze raking over her insultingly. “Are you sure you didn’t come back for a repeat performance?”

  She felt the heat as it rose up her neck and flushed her cheeks. An involuntary reaction that she could not control. Pink-cheeked embarrassment. The curse of blondes with fair skin.

  Don’t tell him what you think of him. Do not give him the satisfaction of knowing what happened between the two of you the last time you saw each other devastated you. You’ve worked through it, have come to terms with the humiliation, convinced yourself that you never actually loved Judd.

  “I’m heading back to Knoxville. I’ll call Griff and tell him you no longer have any interest in the Beauty Queen Killer.” Lindsay turned and headed out of the kitchen.

  “Wait!”

  Keeping her back to him, she paused.

  “If she doesn’t die…if she can give Griff a description…let me know. Okay?”

  “I’ll pass along the message.”

  “You hate me now, don’t you?”

  He’s still playing you. Never forget that you cannot trust Judd. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, for me to hate you?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry, but no, I don’t hate you. I feel sorry for you.”

  She walked straight down the hall and to the side door leading to the porch.

  “Lindsay!”

  She opened the door and went outside, increasing her pace, wanting nothing more than to get away, to escape from this place and the man who still had the power to rip out her heart. A part of her did hate Judd, hated him as much as she loved him. And yes, damn it, she did love him. She probably always would. The heart wants what the heart wants, even if it wants something cruel and destructive.

  After sitting down on the soft, gray leather seat inside her Trailblazer, she closed her eyes and willed herself under control. No tears. Not one. She had cried her last tear over Judd Walker. As far as she was concerned, he could rot in hell.

  She made a quick call to Sanders for an update on the situation in Kentucky and was told she needed to contact Griff before bringing Judd to Williamstown. No point now. She inserted the key into the ignition and started the engine, then made the mistake of glancing through the side window at the lodge.

  Judd stood on the front porch. Watching her.

  Crap!

  She hit the button to lower the window and called out to him. “Gale Ann Cain’s sister discovered her in time to keep her alive until the paramedics arrived. The sister caught a glimpse of a man in a trench coat and sunglasses leaving the apartment building just as she arrived. He could have been our Beauty Queen Killer.”

  When Judd came down the steps, Lindsay’s pulse raced. He walked over to the car and leaned down so that they were eye to eye.

  He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stared right at her. As she reached for the electronic button to roll up the window, Judd said, “If you’ll give me thirty minutes, I’ll clean up before we head out for Kentucky.”

  Lindsay realized that somewhere buried deep inside him, Judd still felt something. Even if it were nothing more than an undying thirst for revenge, that was an emotion, wasn’t it?

  “All right. You go ahead. I’ll phone Griff, get an update, and tell him we’re on our way.”

  Pinkie was beginning to worry. He had neither read nor heard anything new about the murder in Williamstown, Kentucky—not in local or national press coverage. A few hours after the paramedics arrived on the scene, a spokesman for the Williamstown Police Department had issued a statement that a young woman, a former Miss USA named Gale Ann Cain, had been brutally attacked and her body discover
ed by her sister, who had immediately called 911. That had been over forty-eight hours ago. Why hadn’t the local law enforcement called in the FBI? Surely they knew that Gale Ann’s death could be attributed to the Beauty Queen Killer. Wasn’t his signature all over the murder scene? The victim had once won a beauty contest. Her talent in the contest had been lyrical dance, so he had cut off her feet. She was a redhead, so he had left behind a yellow rose. He had used the same nylon rope to bind her hands as he always used. Were the local yokels too stupid to recognize the work of a genius?

  Many criminals returned to the scene of their crime. Not Pinkie. He was far too smart to do something so stupid. But unless he could somehow find out what was going on in the Gale Ann Cain murder case, he might have no choice but to make a trip back to Williamstown. He could always come up with some legitimate reason to visit. To purchase a horse. To visit an antique mall where he would buy something outrageously expensive. Or he could simply be driving through on his way to somewhere else. Or he could simply wear a disguise and use a fake ID.

  He had tried his best to dismiss a disturbing thought, one that had plagued him since the evening he had killed Gale Ann. Just as he was leaving the apartment building using the stairs, he had noticed that a woman in a wheelchair was entering through the front door. Had she seen him? Probably not. After all, she’d been concentrating on maneuvering her wheelchair so that she could hold the door open long enough to move inside.

  But what if she did see me?

  So, what if she had seen him? What exactly had she seen? A man in a trench coat, hat, and sunglasses. It wasn’t as if she’d seen his face and could identify him. And the clothing he wore that night had been properly disposed of, burned in the old furnace in the basement. The items he wore when he executed a game plan were inexpensive, off-the-rack items that he picked up at various chain stores. He wasn’t fool enough actually to wear many of his personal tailor-made clothing or speciality items.

  If only he knew what was going on, exactly how the Williamstown police were handling Gale Ann’s case, he would sleep better tonight.