The Dying Game

by Beverly Barton

  When both Special Agent Baxter and Griffin Powell had shown up, it had been like old home week. He hadn’t always been able to stay in a town the day after a kill, but more and more often now, he delayed his departure just long enough to savor his victory. These local yokels didn’t have a clue. And even the FBI had no idea who he was.

  Laughing, he started the engine and pulled out into early afternoon traffic. He would drive home today, take his time, make a few necessary stops, but he would not stay overnight anywhere. There was too much to do when he got home. Photographs to print out and place in his gallery. Memories to savor while they were fresh. And one all-important phone call to make.

  Perhaps I should also call Nicole Baxter.

  He had been tempted to telephone the lovely FBI agent in the past, if only to hear her voice. She had fascinated him from the first moment he saw her, when she had worked with Curtis Jackson before his retirement.

  If only she were a former beauty queen…

  Don’t get sidetracked. Nicole is an opponent, not a victim. She might be an extremely attractive woman, but she is not a pretty flower who needs to be picked before she begins to wither. No, Special Agent Baxter’s part in this game was that of a worthy adversary, not a victim.

  But when this game ended…

  He could not believe that the end was near. Only a couple of months until the five years would be over and the winner would claim the ultimate victory. He and his cousin had been friendly opponents, sharing the thrill of each victory in a competition neither had realized in the beginning would become a game they lived to play. And what made their little game all the more fun was that no one had figured out that there were two of them—two Beauty Queen Killers.

  He would miss the game, the rivalry, the quest to achieve the highest points. And he would miss his cousin most of all. But there could be only one winner and he intended for that honor to go to him. The alternative was to lose—not only the game, but his life.

  Lindsay and Judd picked up burgers at a fast food restaurant before having their driver drop them off at the Wingate Inn on Stone Creek Boulevard. Sanders had booked a junior suite for Lindsay and an adjoining double for Judd and Griff. Luckily, the rooms were actually ready for them when they arrived at one-thirty. Despite check-in being at three, they were welcomed and given their keys.

  “Will Mr. Powell be checking in soon?” the desk clerk asked.

  “Yes, later this afternoon,” Lindsay replied.

  When they reached the suite, Lindsay invited Judd to come inside.

  “We can share lunch,” she said, as she unlocked the door.

  Judd brought the two sacks of food into the room and placed them on the coffee table in front of the tan sofa. Lindsay parked her wheeled overnight bag in the corner. Judd dropped his carryall from his shoulder and let it fall beside her bag.

  “I don’t know why I bothered to come along.” Judd removed the two large iced colas from one sack, stripped the paper wrapper from a couple of straws and stuck them through the plastic lids. “I’ve done this too many times to think anything will come from our being here.”

  “Call me an optimist, but I still hope that sooner or later he’ll screw up and give himself away.”

  Lindsay went into the bathroom and washed her hands. When she came back out, Judd had their burgers unwrapped and their fries emptied onto the inside of the spread-apart wrappers. Sitting on the sofa, he held up a packet. “Ketchup on the side. Right?”

  She nodded. He tore open a couple of packets and emptied the contents alongside her fries; then he opened two more and spread the ketchup over his fries.

  Neither said much while they ate. She supposed there wasn’t much for them to talk about, nothing that wouldn’t be a repeat of past conversations.

  Just as Lindsay removed her piece of apple pie from the cardboard container, her cell phone vibrated. She had turned off the ringer at the press conference and had forgotten to turn it back on. When she pulled the phone from her pocket, she checked the caller ID.

  Griff.

  “Hello.”

  “How’s it going?” Griff asked.

  “Fine. Judd and I just shared a delicious meal of burgers and fries.”

  “Yummy.”

  “Do I need to ask where you are?”

  She had seen “That Look” in Griff’s eyes before, and she knew that he had chosen Brigit Henson as his next conquest. Lindsay respected Griff, liked working for him, adored him really. But she knew him for the predator he was. The seemingly cultured, well-mannered gentleman’s façade he presented to the world masked the cunning, deadly warrior that lay beneath the exterior trappings. In every aspect of his life—business and personal—Griffin Powell was a conqueror.

  “I’ll have you know that Ms. Henson and I are at the local Olive Garden,” Griff said. “She’s gone to the ladies’ room.”

  “Will you be joining us later?”

  “The verdict is uncertain. The jury’s still out on that one.”

  Lindsay laughed.

  Griff got down to business. “Sonya Todd had a boyfriend. His name is Paul Dryer and he’s the baseball coach at Tupelo High.”

  “Are you going to—?”

  “No, I want you to get in touch with him, see if he’ll talk to you. He’s more likely to open up to a woman.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “Not today. It’s too soon.” Griff paused. “Contact him tomorrow. Play the Judd Walker card. Men in the same situation. See if Judd will go along.”

  “Oh, sure, give me the easy assignment.”

  “Brigit has done her homework. The lady is a fount of information. But I don’t think she would readily share what she knows with you. You’re not her type.”

  “So, she likes the big, hairy-chested, burly type, huh?”

  “Yep. And that would be me.”

  “Why is interviewing the boyfriend going to do us any good?” Lindsay asked.

  “He’s the one who found the body,” Griff said. “And he’s the one who, like Judd, compromised the crime scene.”

  “Great,” Lindsay said sarcastically.

  Flashes of memory rattled Lindsay.

  Judd holding his dead wife in his arms. Judd tenderly caressing Jennifer’s face. His earsplitting scream.

  “Lindsay?” Two male voices called her name.

  The flashback of the night Jennifer Mobley Walker had been brutally murdered ended as abruptly as it had begun.

  Lindsay glanced at Judd, then spoke to Griff. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Sanders contacted me right in the middle of my veal parmigiana,” Griff said. “It seems a little research has turned up a possible contact within the police department.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Now, now, don’t be that way. We may be bending the law just a little, but we’re doing it for a good cause.”

  “So you keep telling me whenever you bribe someone.”

  “He’s an assistant technician at the crime lab. Sanders will contact him tonight, at home, and see if he can persuade the gentleman to give me a few minutes of his time tomorrow.”

  “If Nic Baxter gets wind of—”

  “You let me worry about Nic,” Griff said.

  “Sure thing, but it’s your funeral if she catches you.”

  Griff chuckled, then hung up.

  Lindsay turned to Judd. “Griff wants me to contact Sonya Todd’s boyfriend and arrange a meeting with him tomorrow.” When Judd simply stared at her, she continued. “He found her body this morning.”

  “Griff wants me there when you question this guy, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Judd looked past her, off into space. “You were remembering, weren’t you? When you were talking to Griff and you zoned out, you were remembering the night Jenny was murdered.”

  “Yes, I was remembering.”

  “It’s odd, but I don’t remember much of anything before I arrived at that house or what happened afterward. I rememb
er seeing Jenny lying there, her hands cut off—” Judd closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. “That memory is branded inside my head. Nothing short of a lobotomy could erase it. That’s what you remembered, wasn’t it? The sight of Jenny…”

  “Yes.”

  The sight of Jenny in your arms.

  The way you touched her so tenderly.

  Your agonizing scream.

  Chapter 14

  Griffin had known the first minute he saw her that Brigit Henson would be a really good fuck. Experience had taught him a great deal about the opposite sex, their strengths and weaknesses. For the most part, women were all similar, but it was those subtle differences that defined them, that made some worth the effort and others not. He wasn’t looking for love. Didn’t want it. Didn’t need it.

  But he did want and need sex. On a regular basis.

  And not since he turned fifteen had he ever had a problem getting laid. In high school, he’d been captain of the football team and had dated various cheerleaders. In college, as the star quarterback for UT, he’d had his pick of girls. And women. Older women, who had taught him a great deal. In his youth, he’d broken a few hearts because he’d made promises he never intended to keep. Horny young men tended to be callous and unfeeling, focused on only one thing.

  As a man, he made no promises to his sexual partners.

  Griff lay in the bed beside Brigit, staring up at the ceiling, his mind wandering. He could have left after they’d made love, but instead, he’d cleaned up and come back to bed, knowing how women liked attention afterward as much as they enjoyed foreplay.

  Cuddling against him, she traced her long nails over his chest and sighed contentedly. “You don’t have to leave, do you?” she asked. “It’s early—” she lifted up and looked past him to the digital bedside clock “—only ten-thirty.”

  Skimming his open palm over her naked hip, he grinned. “I could be convinced to stay.”

  She smiled, whipped back the covers and danced her fingertips from his chest to his thighs, then back up to circle his penis. When she lowered her head and kissed his belly, Griff cupped the back of her head, urging her in the right direction. Her tongue wet a path downward. Slowly. Maddeningly.

  She licked him from tip to shaft, then repeated the maneuver a couple of times before taking him into her mouth.

  Anticipating a really good blow job, he groaned deep in his throat.

  Within minutes, Brigit proved for a second time that Griff’s instincts about her were correct. She was a lady with a great deal of experience, a woman who knew how to pleasure a man. His last coherent thought, before the whole world centered on his dick, was a question. Just how many men had divulged classified information to this talented reporter after she went down on them?

  When Griff came in her mouth, he released his solid grip on the back of her head. She swallowed a couple of times, then licked his penis. He shivered involuntarily. She came up and over him, running her tongue over her lips, as if savoring every drop.

  She kissed him, giving him a taste of himself.

  As she lay on top of him, her small, perky breasts flat against his chest, she whispered in his ear. “I always like to wash out my mouth with some good liquor.”

  “Do you now?” He swatted her butt.

  Laughing she rolled off him and over onto the bed. “I have a bottle of Jack Daniels in my suitcase.” She started tapping her fingernails up his chest again. “And I really like my whiskey on the rocks.”

  “Is that a hint for me to go get some ice?”

  “That’s the problem with motels. No room service.” She propped up in bed, completely comfortable with her nudity. “We could have a few drinks, talk, screw around some more.” She sighed dramatically. “If only we had some ice.”

  “I’m willing to make a trek down the hall for some ice.” He rolled out of bed. Once on his feet, he grabbed his slacks off the nearby chair and slipped into them. “I’m all for drinking and screwing…”

  “But not for talking?”

  “That depends on the subject.” He put on his wrinkled shirt, leaving it unbuttoned.

  “I thought maybe we could share information about the Beauty Queen Killer.”

  “What makes you think I know more than you do?” Griff picked up the empty ice bucket on his way to the door.

  “You’ve been investigating this killer for nearly four years. You’ve been involved ever since Jennifer Mobley Walker was murdered in Chattanooga and her hubby hired you. My guess is that you know as much, maybe more, about the killer than the FBI does.”

  “Maybe I do.” With the ice bucket in his left hand, he opened the door, then glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Brigit. “But what I know isn’t for sale, not even for a damn good blow job.”

  Brigit’s self-satisfied smile vanished. “Name your price. We’ve got all night.”

  Griff winked at her, then fixed the lock to keep the door ajar and headed down the corridor toward the ice machine. He had noticed the ice-maker at the refreshment center in a small alcove earlier when he had walked Brigit to her motel room door and she’d invited him in.

  When he approached the alcove, he heard ice rattling and figured someone else was using the machine. So, he’d wait his turn.

  He rounded the corner, intending to nod cordially to the guy ahead of him, and came face-to-face with a tall, statuesque brunette in a pair of fuchsia sweats. His gaze traveled over her from head to toe, then back up to look her right in the eyes.

  She glowered at him, taking in his appearance, staring at his unbuttoned shirt and bare feet.

  “Good evening, Special Agent Baxter,” Griff said.

  They danced to the soft, jazzy tune, Jennifer following his lead as he nuzzled her neck. She smelled like Chanel No. 5, the only perfume she wore. The same perfume that her mother and grandmother had worn.

  When he slowly drifted his hand from her waist to her hip, she grasped his hand and led it back up to her waist. “People are watching us,” she told him.

  “So what? We’re married,” Judd replied.

  Offering him that famous smile that some said had won her the Miss Tennessee title a few years back, Jennifer pressed herself against him. “Behave yourself. We’re in a public place. There will be time enough later for what you have in mind.”

  He stopped on the dance floor, grasped her hand and said, “Let’s leave now. We put in an appearance. No one will miss us.”

  She gazed at him, a pouting expression on her beautiful face. “Thirty more minutes and then we’ll leave.”

  As much as he wanted to take his wife home right now and make love to her all night long, he could deny her nothing.

  He had never loved anyone the way he loved Jennifer. His entire world began and ended with her.

  As those thirty minutes ticked by and he watched from the sidelines as she danced with the mayor, a state senator, and his old friend Cam Hendrix, Judd thought about making love to his wife.

  She lay beneath him, her lush, damp body accepting him inside her, lifting up to meet each thrust, whimpering with pleasure, begging him for more.

  On the verge of climaxing, Judd gazed into her blue eyes and saw the look of love, deeper and more profound than ever before.

  Blue eyes? No, not blue. Jennifer’s eyes were brown.

  But the body lying beneath him, giving him an exquisite orgasm was not Jennifer. And the look of love was not in Jennifer’s eyes.

  “Lindsay,” Judd moaned.

  Suddenly, Lindsay disappeared. As quickly as his mind had drifted away from thoughts of lovemaking, it returned to the gala event he and Jennifer were attending. But everything began to change. The dance floor turned red. Red with blood. Jennifer lay on the floor, her severed hands turned upward, the fingers reaching out. For him? He tried to go to her, but he couldn’t move. Naked and aroused, he stood immobile as dark shadows closed in around Jennifer, separating him from her. He tried to reach her, to stop the shadows from enveloping her, but someone w
as holding him back, preventing him from going to his wife.

  “Judd, help me,” Jennifer cried as she lifted her bloody, handless arms.

  Lindsay held him fiercely about the waist, stopping him from saving Jenny.

  Let me go. I have to save her. Don’t do this. Don’t hold on to me.

  Jennifer…Jennifer!

  “I had no idea you were staying at this motel.” Nic Baxter glared sharp daggers at Griff.

  “I’m not,” he replied.

  She raised a damning eyebrow. “Let me guess—the little redheaded reporter?”

  Griff smiled. Nic didn’t.

  Griff eyed the filled ice bucket she held. “Late night drinks with a friend?” he asked.

  She bristled. “Unlike you, Mr. Powell, some of us do not mix business with pleasure.”

  Griff chuckled. “Too bad. If you did, I might be persuaded to give you a few lessons on how to relieve work stress. Getting rid of all that tension might help erase those frown lines at the corners of your eyes—” he pointed at her pensive brown eyes, his index finger only inches from her face “—and it would probably work a few inches off your hips.” His gaze appraised her curvaceous body.

  “Hell will freeze over before I’ll ever let you give me lessons of any kind,” Nic told him quite adamantly. “But I’m sure Ms. Henson can’t wait for another lesson. You shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  “She’ll be okay without me for a few more minutes.”

  Why didn’t he just get his ice and go back to the room? Why couldn’t he pass up this opportunity to ruffle Nic’s feathers?

  Because she was so easy. All he had to do was look at her to piss her off.

  Griff moved in closer until his ice bucket clinked against hers, neither of them moving aside to accommodate the other.