The Dying Game

by Beverly Barton

  He knew what it felt like on the other side, from the victim’s husband’s point of view. But now he had an inkling of the toll it probably took on the people trying to solve the crimes.

  Judd followed as Lindsay walked Dryer to the door of the motel suite. With tears glazing his eyes, the guy looked right at Lindsay.

  “I hope y’all find him,” Dryer said. “When you do…”

  Damn it man, don’t cry, Judd thought.

  Lindsay grasped Dryer’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you for talking to us.”

  He nodded. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  “You’ve done all you can do,” she told him.

  Dryer turned to Judd and held out his hand. Judd hesitated, then shook the guy’s hand.

  “Tell me it gets easier,” Dryer said. “Tell me that somewhere down the line the pain will go away.”

  How the hell was he supposed to answer that? Was he supposed to be honest and tell this man that the pain would never go away?

  Or was that actually the truth? He was no longer certain of anything.

  When Judd didn’t reply, Lindsay said, “You’ll find a way to deal with what happened. It’ll take time, and you’ll never forget Sonya, but…”

  “If you focus on the rage and hate, it will destroy you,” Judd said. “She wouldn’t want that for you, would she?”

  Where the hell had that bit of wisdom come from? From the depths of your twisted soul, Judd told himself.

  Dryer swallowed hard and clenched his teeth in an effort not to cry. With his face contorted in a agonized frown, he nodded, then hurried out the door and down the hall.

  Lindsay didn’t respond as Judd had thought she would. She didn’t say, “Jenny wouldn’t want that for you either, would she?” Instead she said, “Since we skipped breakfast, I’m heading out for an early lunch before I have Devin drive me over to Sonya’s neighborhood. You can go with me or—”

  “Lunch sounds good.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed her shoulder bag off the bed.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you this afternoon.”

  “Sure, it’s fine with me, but more than likely it won’t amount to anything.” Lindsay headed for the door. “But there’s always a chance that some stay-at-home busybody might have seen something.”

  “Lindsay?”

  “Huh?”

  “About what I told Dryer…”

  With her hand on the door handle, she paused and glanced back at him. “You gave him some good advice.” She opened the door, entered the corridor, and hurried away.

  Was that all she intended to say? No lecture? No sermon?

  Judd caught up with her when she was halfway to the lobby. “Wait up, will you?” When she slowed her pace, he added in a light tone, “You sure are in a hurry to eat.”

  She didn’t respond, but waited until he was at her side, then immediately rushed through the lobby and outside to the waiting limo. Devin Chamness smiled and said good morning, then closed the limousine door after both Judd and Lindsay had slipped inside.

  Judd waited for her to speak, waited for her to give him one of her famous lectures on straightening up and flying right. For nearly four years, she had been preaching the same sermon, doing her best to convert him to her way of thinking. Life is for the living. Her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. But after spending six months apart from Lindsay, he had come to realize just how much he had missed her. Missed her caring about him, worrying about him. Hell, he’d even missed her get-on-with-your-life speeches.

  “About last night…” Judd said.

  She kept her gaze focused straight ahead, apparently determined not to make eye contact. “You had a nightmare. I startled you. You thought I was Jenny. Beginning and end of story.”

  She entwined her fingers together and placed her hands in her lap. Judd inspected her from head to toe, all the while wondering what she was really thinking. Lindsay possessed the fresh, wholesome looks of an all-American girl. A young, healthy, blue-eyed blonde. Petite and trim. Not beautiful, but pretty. Her clothing was always simple. Understated. Never sexy.

  But she didn’t need to dress provocatively to be sexy.

  “I knew who you were when I kissed you,” he told her.

  She snapped her head around and glared at him, her gaze questioning him, silently accusing him of lying.

  “The nightmare I had was about Jenny,” he admitted. “But it was about you, too. It was like most nightmares, all mixed up and screwy. It didn’t really make any sense.”

  “Let’s just forget it, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Fine with me.”

  I hurt you again, didn’t I? And this time, I didn’t mean to.

  I’m sorry. Honest to God, I’m sorry.

  Pinkie enjoyed the lobster bisque almost as much as the delicious spice cake Cook had prepared for his lunch. One of the perks of being a multimillionaire was fine dining, even at home. He picked up the half-empty bottle of Stella Artois, a premium dry beer from Belgium that he especially liked, and carried it with him to his study. After closing and locking the door, he went straight to the bookshelves, removed one of the books, and pressed the button that opened the shelves to reveal his secret chamber. He flipped on a light switch that created instant illumination to this private “trophy room.”

  But he wasn’t here to bask in past glories, to fantasize about all the kills he’d made. No, he was here to do some research, to seek and find the next pretty flower, ready to be plucked before she withered. If possible, he would prefer a blonde this time, but a brunette would do. After all, he had scored twenty points with Gale Ann Cain. She’d been his redhead for this year.

  Only one redhead per year. That’s what he and Pudge had decided when they set the rules for their little game, almost five years ago. Redheads would be worth the most since they were rare. Blondes would be worth fifteen points and brunettes ten. With less than two months remaining until they tallied five years’ worth of scores, all he needed to win was twenty-five more points: One blonde and one brunette. It really didn’t matter in which order, did it? After all, even if Pudge found himself a redhead next time, he wouldn’t stay in the lead for long.

  Pinkie picked up his laptop from the desk and carried it with him over to the comfy brown chenille armchair. He lifted up his feet, decked out in size ten Cole Haan shoes, on the matching chenille ottoman, and opened his computer. He loved modern conveniences, little things like wireless Internet.

  As he played around with various sites, searching for just the right woman, Pinkie’s mind began to wander, back sixteen years ago. He had always hated family reunions, had thought them a useless plebeian pastime. But he’d been sixteen that year, still under his parents’ rule and had been given no choice but to attend the event. Every five years, the maternal side of his mother’s family met to celebrate their revered ancestors, those men and women who had first set foot in the New World in the late eighteenth century. One of his austere, four-times great-grandfathers had been a revolutionary war hero, a contemporary of Washington, Franklin, and Jefferson.

  Absorbed in his memories of the past, his senses came into play. The sights, scents, and sounds of a weekend spent with relatives he barely knew and for the most part disliked. April in Louisiana was preferable to any of the summer months, but the moist heat of springtime had been unpleasant enough that year. Pinkie recalled his first glimpse of the antebellum mansion belonging to his mother’s third cousin. The structure hadn’t been all that impressive, just one more old house where distant relatives lived. His mother had an absolute passion for visiting aunts, uncles, and cousins, and she never missed a reunion. He had found the older generation little more than doddering fools; his parents’ age group social-climbing gossipmongers; and his own peers nothing but silly pea-brains.

  All except Cousin Pudge, the owner of the old Louisiana mansion’s grandson. The fat, dark-eyed sixteen-year-old had appraised Pinkie as judgmentally as Pinkie had him. However, f
ive minutes into their first conversation, they had known they would be friends for life.

  Hmm…

  Friends for life.

  How odd that they actually thought of each other that way, especially considering the terms of the deadly game they had been playing. Winner take all. Loser…

  Pinkie preferred not to even consider the possibility of losing.

  Losing was unthinkable.

  If he lost…

  But what if I win? Can I actually claim the ultimate prize?

  Perhaps a better question to ask himself was if he lost, would Pudge follow through and demand payment on their wager?

  Tall, thin, with a birdlike appearance, silver-haired Janice Nix lived across the street from Sonya Todd. Out of half a dozen neighbors Lindsay had questioned, Janice was the first one to mention seeing a stranger jogging along Sunrise Avenue the day that Sonya was murdered.

  “You’d never seen this man before?” Lindsay asked.

  “No, I hadn’t seen him before and I haven’t seen him since. And I know everyone who lives in Pine Crest Estates.” Janice’s dark, beady eyes peered over the rims of her wire-frame glasses, her gaze riveted to Lindsay’s. “I’m the president of the Homeowners’ Association, so I keep close track of who moves in and who moves out.”

  “Can you describe this man?” Lindsay held her breath. What if the man Janice had seen was the Beauty Queen Killer?

  “Sure can.” Janice huffed. “He wasn’t much to look at. Not ugly, mind you, but very ordinary.”

  When Judd asked, “How do you mean ordinary?” Lindsay glanced at him, silently cautioning him not to push this woman, not to frighten her the way he had Barbara Jean.

  “You know, ordinary. Not short or tall. Not real fat or skinny. Maybe a little on the hefty side.” Janice looked from Judd to Lindsay, then back to Judd again. “It was hard to tell in those bulky sweats he wore. As for his age, I’d say late twenties, early thirties.”

  “Can you describe him in more detail?” Even if she can give you a detailed description, that doesn’t mean he’s the man who killed Sonya, Lindsay reminded herself.

  “I didn’t see him close up, just through the window over there.” Janice nodded to the living room’s double windows that faced the street. “I don’t know about his eyes or his hair. He wore a cap of some kind and a jogging suit, but he had fair skin. His face was pink, maybe chapped from the wind, but he definitely had plump, rosy cheeks.”

  “If you saw him again, would you recognize him?” Judd asked, his voice calm.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe. If he was wearing the same getup.”

  Lindsay rose from the sofa. “Thank you, Mrs. Nix. I appreciate your taking the time to tell us about this man.”

  Judd got up quietly, kept his composure, and acted like a normal, rational human being. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing him act in a logical manner.

  Janice came up out of her easy chair. “Do you think he might have been the man who killed Sonya?”

  “We don’t know,” Lindsay replied. “It’s possible.”

  As Janice walked them to the front door, Judd asked, “Did you tell the police about this man?”

  “I haven’t. Not yet. No one from the police department has asked me anything, but some FBI agent knocked on my door first thing this morning. Real nice lady named Baxter. She was as interested in hearing what I had to say as you two were.”

  Lindsay and Judd exchanged glances. Neither were surprised that Nic had gotten here first.

  Five minutes later, when they were heading out of Pine Crest Estates, resting comfortably in the back of the limo, Lindsay sent a text message to Griff.

  Stranger jogging on Sonya’s street day of murder. Neighbor’s description similar to one BJH gave you. Nic knows.

  “Contacting Griff?” Judd asked.

  “Uh-huh.” She closed her cell phone and turned to Judd. “The description Janice Nix gave us of the jogger is similar to the one Barbara Jean gave Griff of the man she saw leaving her sister’s apartment.”

  “And just as worthless.” Judd grimaced. “An average-looking white male, medium size and height. That really narrows it down for us, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s more than we’ve had in the past.”

  “But not enough to help us catch this monster.”

  Lindsay wanted to reach over and take Judd’s hand in hers. She wanted to promise him that eventually they would catch Jennifer’s killer and bring him to justice. But in the end, would it really make a difference? Once Jennifer’s murderer was behind bars, would Judd be free from the past? Could he ever recover from losing his wife?

  “You were good with Mrs. Nix,” Lindsay said.

  Judd huffed. “You mean you’re thankful I didn’t lose control, shake her until her teeth rattled, and demand she give us an exact description.”

  Lindsay managed a weak smile. “I wish she could have given us a more detailed description, just in case the jogger was our murderer, but a witness can only tell us what he or she remembers.”

  “What about Barbara Jean—do you think she really can’t remember any more about the man or do you think she’s blocked it out of her mind because she’s afraid he’ll come after her?”

  “I have no idea. But I feel certain that if she’ll allow Dr. Meng to work with her, she’ll eventually remember if she knows anything else.”

  “You have a high opinion of Dr. Meng, don’t you?”

  What was Judd really asking her? “She’s good at her job. And she’s a kind, understanding person.”

  “She helped you, didn’t she? After…” Judd frowned, his expression filled with pain. “I’m a real bastard. What I did was unforgivable.”

  “Do you want forgiveness?”

  “What?”

  “I asked if you wanted my forgiveness.”

  He glanced away quickly, terminating their connected gazes. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

  “Forgiveness is earned,” she told him.

  He nodded.

  Silence.

  Lindsay leaned her head against the back cushion and closed her eyes. Don’t make too much of this. It isn’t a declaration of love. It’s nothing more than Judd’s conscience bothering him. Once he finally realized that his actions had achieved the desired effect six months ago, maybe he actually had second thoughts about cutting me out of his life. After all, without me, he truly is all alone in this world. Even Cam has given up on Judd; and Griff would have, too, if not for my intervention.

  Griff drove his rental car into the parking lot of the Wingate at three-forty-two. Just as he killed the engine and reached to open the door, his cell phone rang. From the caller ID, he knew Sanders was contacting him.

  Griff flipped open his phone. “Yeah?”

  “We received notification from the Williamstown PD that Gale Ann Cain’s body will be released tomorrow,” Sanders said. “Everything has been arranged for the funeral. All I need is a day and time to let the funeral director know when to plan the service.”

  “What are Barbara Jean’s wishes?”

  “I believe she would prefer to have the funeral as soon as possible.”

  “Day after tomorrow?” Griff asked.

  “Yes, I think that would be suitable.”

  “How is she?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Is Yvette with her now?”

  “Yes, they’ve taken an afternoon walk, with Angie, of course.”

  “Does Barbara Jean have any idea that I’ve revealed to the press that she is an eyewitness, that she saw her sister’s killer?”

  “No. We have done as you requested and made sure that she hasn’t seen any news reports on television, the radio, or in the paper.”

  Griff heard a hint of disapproval in Sanders’s voice.

  “She’s safe there at Griffin’s Rest,” he assured Sanders. “You must know that I would do nothing to put her in danger.”

  “I know that is what you believe.”

>   “If there is the slightest chance we can lure the killer—”

  “I have the information you requested on Special Agent Baxter’s husband.” Sanders cut him off, abruptly changing the subject.

  Griff knew better than to press the matter about Barbara Jean or to try to placate his old friend in any way.

  “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  “To begin with, Nicole Baxter’s husband is dead.”

  Chapter 16

  Pilkerton Funeral Home in Williamstown, Kentucky, provided their most expensive and elaborate service for Ms. Gale Ann Cain. Money had not been an object since Griffin Powell and Judd Walker were picking up the tab. A local Baptist church choir had provided the music in the chapel for the main service and a soloist and violinist had accompanied the large crowd of mourners to the graveside. Lindsay wondered how many of the several hundred onlookers were local and national reporters and curiosity-seekers and how many had actually known Gale Ann.

  While Griff and Sanders sat on either side of Barbara Jean and Angie Sterling stood directly behind her, five other Powell agents mixed in with the crowd. Lindsay stood on a rise above the burial site, near an ancient cypress tree that shot a good thirty feet into the sky. From this vantage point she not only had a perfect view of the service, but also of the mourners and a large section of the small cemetery.

  Judd stood beside her, stiff as a poker, his gaze riveted to Gale Ann’s pale pink, metallic casket.

  Jennifer Walker’s casket had been white, with pink satin lining.

  Lindsay had been startled when Judd asked to accompany them here for the funeral. In the past, he had never attended a victim’s funeral, not once since he had buried his wife. Lindsay would never forget Jennifer Mobley Walker’s funeral, attended by the Who’s Who of Tennessee society. It had been a lavish affair, which she later learned had been planned and orchestrated by Camden Hendrix. Cam was Judd’s friend, and he, like she and Griff, had gone that extra mile for Judd these past few years. But eventually, Cam had had enough and called it quits. Judd had pushed Cam away, as he had his other friends, as he’d tried to push her and Griff away.