The Dying Game

by Beverly Barton

  Suddenly a horrific boom of thunder shook the house, rattling the windows and scaring the holy crap out of her. Her hand holding the glass trembled so badly that a few drops of wine splattered over onto her fingers.

  She hated winter rain. It was always so cold and made the world look even more dismal than it already was. But she supposed rain was preferable to snow. They didn’t get much snow in Tupelo, but she’d heard that parts of Tennessee had gotten blanketed with the white stuff a few days ago.

  As she carried her wine into the living room, she paused to pick up the remote and turn on the TV before sitting down to relax. The evening news had just come on. Sitting alone in the semidark room, lightning streaking the night sky and thunder roaring, Sonya shivered. Odd, she wasn’t scared of storms so she shouldn’t be nervous.

  By the time the weather report came on, she had finished the wine and felt a little sleepy. She’d better get a shower now before she relaxed even more.

  Once in the bathroom, she removed her robe, hung it on the door hook and set the showerhead to spray, then turned on the water. Just as she stepped beneath the warm mist, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then everything went pitch-black.

  Damn!

  Don’t panic.

  She had candles in the kitchen and a flashlight in her nightstand drawer. But her hot water heater was electric, as was her heating unit.

  Get out of the shower carefully, dry off, put on your robe, and get your flashlight, then double-check the front and back doors.

  More than likely the electricity wouldn’t stay off more than an hour, two at the most. She could crawl into bed, cover up, head and ears, and go to sleep. The house would cool off quite a bit in a couple of hours, but by morning it would have warmed up again, and she should have plenty of hot water to shower and wash her hair.

  Feeling her way out of the shower, she reached for a towel, finally found it, and dried off hurriedly. Why didn’t this bathroom have a window? At least a flash of lightning now and then would give her a little illumination.

  After she managed to put on her robe, Sonya went into the bedroom. Even though she moved slowly and thought she was being careful, she stubbed her toe on the edge of the dresser. Cursing under her breath while her big toe throbbed, she made it over to the nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and rummaged around inside for the flashlight.

  Found it!

  She sighed with relief when the yellow-white beam streamed across her bedroom. She just hoped the batteries weren’t low. She didn’t think she had any replacements.

  First she checked the front door—locked—and then headed for the kitchen. Just as she passed the double windows over her sink, a flash of brilliant lightning zipped across the sky, catching her immediate attention. When she glanced out the window, she screamed. Had that been a face peering into the window, looking right at her?

  She pointed the flashlight at the window. There was no one there. Another loud clap of thunder rumbled. Trembling from head to toe, she blew out a shaky breath. What was the matter with her? Why was her imagination working overtime? It wasn’t like her to be a Nervous Nellie.

  Hurrying, she tried the backdoor to make sure it was locked. It was.

  She walked over to the sink and looked outside again. Utter darkness. Nothing. No one. Certainly no faces staring in at her.

  Suddenly another zigzag of lightning brightened the sky. When she looked outside, she saw only her driveway and her neighbor’s three-year-old son’s tricycle. Cody was always leaving his toys strewn about in his yard and often in hers.

  Get a grip, Sonya. There is no one out there.

  For some unknown reason, she was as jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  Judd ate only to live, but occasionally, like tonight, he actually enjoyed a good meal. Griff’s cook, Inez, wasn’t a world-renowned chef, just a woman who knew how to prepare good, old-fashioned country meals, Southern meals, like the fried chicken, fried potatoes, and cornbread she had put on the table tonight. To top off dinner, she had served a mouthwatering blackberry cobbler. Wild blackberries, not the cultivated ones with huge seeds. When he complimented her on the dessert, she informed him that she had personally picked the wild berries on Griffin’s land last year and canned them herself.

  During dinner, Judd had found himself actually interested in those in attendance: Griffin Powell, Lindsay McAllister, Sanders, Dr. Yvette Meng, and Barbara Jean Hughes. Three men, three women, almost as if they were paired into couples. Sanders seemed unusually interested in Ms. Hughes, something that puzzled Judd because he’d never actually thought of Sanders as an ordinary man who had a perfectly natural interest in the opposite sex. In truth, he’d seen the quiet, reserved man as little more than Griffin’s shadow. Griff’s attitude toward Yvette Meng intrigued Judd. It was apparent the two were old friends, probably lovers, if not now, at sometime in the past. He suspected that the lovely Yvette knew some of Griff’s deep, dark secrets.

  And then there was Lindsay. His Lindsay. Odd how he thought of her that way. His. As if she belonged to him. She didn’t, of course.

  He had observed her periodically, all through dinner, and as if seeing her for the very first time, realized she was cute and funny and sexy. Not sexy in the obvious way that Yvette was, but in her own more subtle way.

  In the past he had used her, abused her, taken advantage of her, and had expected her to take every cruel, thoughtless thing he dished out and still be there for him, even when he tried to send her away. If she had loved him once, surely she didn’t any longer. But then, he didn’t want her love. Love was wasted on him.

  After dinner, Sanders escorted Barbara Jean to Griff’s office to show her the lay of the land, so to speak. Apparently, the lady was going to teach Sanders basic computer skills. He supposed, considering the fact that the man could probably build a computer from scratch, this ruse had been something Griff was using to keep his houseguest occupied.

  Griff excused himself, saying he needed to contact his agents in Williamstown and asked Lindsay to accompany him. Naturally, this left Judd alone in the living room with Dr. Meng.

  “Do I have a stain on my sweater or food between my teeth?” Yvette asked.

  “Neither,” Judd replied. “I’m staring at you because I’m trying to figure out a gentlemanly way to tell you I’m not interested in being psychoanalyzed.”

  After offering him a mysterious smile, she turned her back on him and went to the bar area. “Would you care for an after-dinner drink, Mr. Walker?”

  “Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Whiskey. Neat.” She poured some of Griffin’s expensive liquor into two glasses.

  Judd grinned. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type of woman who drank whiskey.”

  She turned, handed him one of the glasses, then saluted him with her glass, and took a sip of the liquor. Not one gasp or cough. The lady was accustomed to the hard stuff.

  “I’m not here to psychoanalyze you,” she told him. “Griffin asked me to help Ms. Hughes.”

  “Yeah, he probably did, but didn’t he tell you that if you got a chance, to study his crazy old friend Judd?”

  “Are you crazy?” She sauntered across the room, like a sleek little black cat who knew she was beautiful and far smarter than the average feline.

  When she sat down on one of the two overstuffed sofas that faced each other, Judd sat across from her, crossed his legs, and took a hefty swig of his whiskey.

  “Haven’t you heard—I’m mad as a hatter. Mad with grief. Mad with anger and a thirst for revenge.”

  “Wanting to see your wife’s killer caught and punished doesn’t make you mad.”

  He downed the remainder of the liquor, blew out a hot breath, and set his empty glass on the floor at his feet. “How about wanting to do the job yourself? I have dreams of chopping the guy into pieces.”

  Yvette scrutinized him, her dark eyes seeming to see beyond the physical realm. Sensing that she had invaded t
he darkness of his soul, Judd shivered involuntarily.

  Squinting calculatingly, he gazed into her black eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re downright spooky?”

  She smiled. “I was born with a gift that few understand and many ridicule.”

  “Don’t tell me—you’re psychic,” Judd said cynically.

  “All right, I won’t tell you.”

  Judd didn’t believe in any of that woo-woo nonsense. If he couldn’t experience it with his normal, five basic senses, it didn’t exist. Yeah, so a time or two when he’d been out of his mind drunk, he had thought he felt Jenny’s presence. A hint of her Chanel No. 5 perfume. The whisper of her voice. The light, tender touch of her hand. None of it had been real, just liquor-induced wishful thinking.

  “Where the hell did Griff find you?”

  “If you really want to know, you should ask Griffin.”

  “Okay, then when did you two meet?”

  “Many years ago, when we were both very young.” She sipped the whiskey, then set the glass on one of the soapstone coasters resting on the large mahogany and iron coffee table between the two sofas. “And if you wish to know more, only Griffin can tell you.” Her gaze met Judd’s head-on. “Such questions as were we once lovers, do I know where he was those ten missing years of his life, and do I know how he acquired his vast fortune?”

  “I see part of your special gift is reading minds.”

  Her full, red lips parted, the edges lifting in a curious smile. “I find you interesting, Mr. Walker, especially knowing what I do about you.”

  “I’m flattered that Griff and Lindsay would bother filling you in about a hopeless case like me.”

  “Shortly after your wife was murdered, Griffin told me that you needed help, but he knew you would refuse to see me or any psychiatrist. And I met Lindsay only six months ago. I was her doctor for a brief period of time. I tell you this only because I know she has already mentioned it to you.”

  “She told you all about what happened, didn’t she?” When Yvette did not respond, he slid to the edge of the sofa, lurched forward, and focused directly on her. “I’m not going to open up to you and spill my guts. If you were able to help Lindsay realize that I’m no good for her and that she should give me up as a lost cause, then I’m grateful. Beginning and end of story as far as I’m concerned.”

  Judd shot to his feet, accidently knocking over his empty whiskey glass. “Good evening, doctor. See you around.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Walker.”

  He made his escape. Almost. Just as he exited the living room, Yvette Meng’s soft, compelling voice called to him, “You must not be afraid of your feelings for Lindsay. Allow yourself to love her. She is your salvation.”

  Judd froze to the spot for a millisecond, then fled as if the hounds of hell were on his heels.

  Chapter 11

  He loved storms. The loud, rumbling thunder. The dangerous lightning. The torrential downpour. Storms were powerful and deadly, just as he was. He felt a strong kinship with tonight’s violent tempest. Carrying the shiny new axe in one hand, the weapon held against his thigh, and the key to Sonya Todd’s house in the other hand, he scanned the area around her backdoor. Who in their right mind would be outside after midnight when it was raining like crazy? He didn’t mind getting wet, didn’t care that his clothes were drenched, that his skin was cold and damp. Somehow it all simply heightened his excitement, added to his anticipation. After he unlocked the backdoor and eased it open carefully, he stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. Quietly.

  Listening for any sound to indicate that his entrance might have alerted her to his presence, he placed the axe against the wall, then patted his soggy jacket pocket. Ah, yes, it was still there, coated with raindrops, but otherwise unharmed. He removed the long-stemmed pink rosebud, then took the tiny key-ring flashlight from his other jacket pocket and used it to search the room. Taking hesitant steps, not wanting to bump into anything and make a noise, he paused as he passed the kitchen table and laid the rose there for safekeeping. He would need it later. A tribute. One lovely flower for another.

  He felt inside his pants pocket, checking on the small digital camera. An important part of the game was photographing the kill.

  The house was middle-of-the-night quiet. Only the hum of the electric heat pump and the ticking of a rather loud clock disturbed the stillness. Sonya was probably sound asleep. She had made this almost too easy for him, as if she were asking for it. But she would never suspect that a mysterious stranger would use the key she thought was so cleverly hidden to enter her home. In the dead of night. With the intention of killing her.

  Wouldn’t she be surprised.

  A gleeful chuckle escaped his lips.

  Shh…Must be quiet. Don’t want her to scream. Can’t have her telephoning for help.

  Using the tiny flashlight to guide his steps, he crept through the house, into the living room and down the hall. Two doors lay on either side, one door closed, the other open.

  His heartbeat accelerated, his breath quickened. He passed through the open doorway and straight into Sonya’s bedroom. He could barely make out the dark shadow that rested under the covers in her bed. The power had stayed off for a little over an hour, but it was on now and with a flip of a switch he could cover her room in light. No, that wasn’t what he wanted. When he had her subdued, then he might turn on a bedside lamp to provide just enough light so that she could see what he was going to do to her. So that he could watch the terror in her eyes as he chopped off her arms.

  Apparently, she had left a nightlight burning in the bathroom, because a glimmer of illumination wafted beneath the closed bathroom door.

  On tiptoe, he made his way to the side of the bed, then eased one knee down on the edge.

  She was such a sound sleeper.

  He smiled to himself.

  Easy. So easy.

  He slithered into the bed alongside her. She grunted and flopped over, from her side onto her back. He propped himself on one elbow and stared down at her. Lovely, even at thirty-five. Her shoulder-length blond hair draped her oval face. He barely resisted the temptation to curl a strand of her hair around his finger.

  The covers clung to her from the waist down, leaving the upper half of her body exposed to the night’s chill and to his scrutiny. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his night vision improved, enough so that he could see she wore nothing under the silk robe that had parted just enough to reveal the inner curve of her luscious breasts.

  His penis twitched. Hardened.

  He would not have to be inside her to experience pleasure. That would come later, once the deed was done, the pictures taken, and he was safely away.

  In one swift, calculated move, he rose up, threw one leg over her body and straddled her; simultaneously, he covered her mouth with one hand and pressed himself on top of her, trapping her beneath him.

  Her eyelids flew open and she stared up at him in shock and disbelief.

  For the first few terrifying moments, Sonya thought she was asleep and having a horrible nightmare. But she quickly realized that the man bearing down on her, his breath hot on her face, his warm, damp hand on her mouth, was all too real. She struggled against the force of his weight and shook her head from side to side. He lay down on top of her, his mouth at her ear and spoke in a whispery yet threatening voice.

  “Be very still and very quiet.”

  She tried to speak, tried to beg him not to hurt her, but all she managed was a jumble of mumbling sounds caught under his open palm.

  “Shh…my pretty little flower. Don’t fight me.”

  He was going to rape her. She could feel the outline of his erect penis as it twitched against her through the sheet and thin blanket.

  Dear God, help me!

  Although he wasn’t as tall and big as Paul, he was not a small man. From the weight of his body pressing against hers, she suspected that he was rather heavy. A detail she needed to remember to tell the police
. Later. When it was over and he was gone.

  As his cheek brushed against hers, she noted that he was clean-shaven. Another detail not to forget.

  He squirmed around, but kept her completely trapped beneath him until he moved one shoulder, just enough so that she managed to free her right hand. When she did, he yanked the pillow from the other side of the bed and pressed it down over her face as he lifted his hand from her mouth.

  She tried to scream, but it was useless. The pillow muffled the sound.

  Was he going to smother her?

  She felt him jerk something out of his pants pocket; then he grabbed her wrist and lifted it above her head.

  No, don’t. Please don’t. She struggled when he yanked first one and then her other wrist over her head.

  He pressed the pillow against her face with his elbow, effectively cutting off her air. So panicked at the thought he was going to suffocate her, she didn’t realize at first what he had done. Not until he lifted the pillow. She gasped for air, but before she could cry out, he placed his hand over her mouth and tossed the pillow onto the floor.

  He had tied both of her wrists with some type of cord and had secured each to opposite sides of the intricately carved headboard.

  Now he would rape her.

  Sonya’s heart beat wildly. Her pulse throbbed in her temples.

  Suddenly, before she realized his intent, he stuffed a rag in her mouth, then fastened a piece of cloth around her face to hold the gag in place.

  While she stared at him pleadingly, he eased up and off her. She tried to make out his face in the semidarkness. He turned his back to her as he stood.

  What was he doing? Removing his clothes? Unzipping his pants?

  She wiggled about, testing the sturdiness of the ropes that bound her. Ouch. There was no give in the rope. She wasn’t going anywhere, not until he chose to release her.

  He switched on the bedside lamp, casting a forty-watt glow over the room. The man turned around and smiled at her. She tried to scream, but the wad of thick cotton in her mouth made it impossible.