The Dying Game

by Beverly Barton

  “Does that mean we’re still dating?”

  “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

  “Is it what you want?”

  “Nathan, you know I’m not ready for anything serious. Not yet. But I’d very much like to continue seeing you.”

  She imagined him smiling. He had such a pleasant smile, one that always reassured her.

  “In that case, I’d like to invite you to be my date for the upcoming fund-raiser for the new free clinics we’re hoping to open next year. It’s a dinner dance, followed by an auction. It’s this weekend, and I realize this is short notice, but—”

  “I’d love to be your date.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Hearing the pleasure in his voice created pangs of guilt in Lindsay. Was she using Nathan? By continuing to date him, was she giving him false hopes about their future? But she’d been up front with him, hadn’t she? No lies, no pretenses. At least she wasn’t lying to Nathan.

  What about to yourself?

  “Give me the details so I can arrange for the day off.” She needed this date, needed to be with a man who appreciated her. Needed to get away from Judd.

  “Saturday at seven-thirty. I’ll drive out there and pick you up around five-thirty.”

  “No, don’t do that. I’ll drive into Knoxville and meet you.”

  “All right.” He paused, then asked, “I suppose I’d be pressing my luck to ask you to stay overnight.”

  She had known this moment would come, that sooner or later Nathan would want them to have sex. Maybe she shouldn’t say no. Maybe she should think about it. After all, she couldn’t spend the rest of her life celibate.

  “Let’s wait and see,” Lindsay told him. “If it seems right for both of us, I might stay.”

  “In that case, I’ll do everything in my power to make the evening as perfect for you as possible.”

  “That’s so sweet of you.” Nathan was a kind, gentle, loving man. He was almost perfect. So it should be easy to fall in love with him, right? “Look, give me the address and any other details I’ll need.”

  After they said their good-byes, she jotted down everything on a notepad she kept on the desk in her room: Saturday night. Seven-thirty. The Willows Country Club. 1018 Bonaventure Avenue. Evening attire.

  What on earth would she wear? She owned two gowns, one a black floor-length and the other a beige tea-length. Until she’d come to work for the Powell Agency, she hadn’t owned an evening gown since she’d been a high school senior. She had two gowns now because, on occasion, her assignment as a Powell agent required evening wear.

  Lindsay opened her closet, looked in the back and removed both dresses, then hung them side by side on the open closet door. Each had been dry-cleaned, each ready to wear. As she inspected the gowns, she realized that either would do. She had heels and evening bags to match both.

  Perhaps I should be more concerned with my lingerie. If I spend the night with Nathan…

  That was a big if.

  After checking his social calendar for the next couple of weeks, Griff remembered he was obligated to attend a fund-raiser at the Willows Country Club this Saturday night. One of the problems with being so damn rich was that everyone wanted a piece of the pie. And once you became known as a generous giver, your name automatically went on every invitation list known to God and man. Sometimes he simply wrote out a check and declined the invitation. Other times, after checking out the charity organization and finding it fraudulent, he notified his lawyers and turned the matter over to them.

  A fund-raiser to build much needed free clinics struck a personal note with Griff. He’d been a poor kid who had been dependent on the kindness of others. He had grown up living in rental houses that were little more than shacks, wearing hand-me-down clothes, and often going to bed hungry. If it hadn’t been for local churches, the Masonic lodge, and good-hearted neighbors, he would have found nothing under the Christmas tree many a year. He knew what it was like to need a helping hand.

  Griff tapped his finger on the calendar. The event was this Saturday. Although it was only a few days away, he could probably arrange for a date without much trouble. The problem was that he really couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to spend an entire evening with.

  What about Sara Burcham? She was a good lay, but a lousy date. The vivacious brunette had an obnoxious giggle.

  Candace Ragsdale was a possibility. An attractive, fifty-year-old widow with the body of a thirty year old. But hadn’t he heard somewhere recently that she was seriously dating Bradford Hern, the president of Tennessee Savings and Loan?

  A soft knock at his study door interrupted Griff’s musings.

  “Yes?”

  “Griffin, may I speak to you?” Yvette Meng asked.

  “Come on in.” He rose from the desk and walked across the room.

  Yvette opened the door and entered.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked. “I can have Sanders bring some tea.”

  She waved her hand in a no-no gesture. “I am fine, thank you.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

  She sat in one of the two chairs flanking the fireplace, placed her folded hands in her lap, and waited for him to take the seat across from her.

  “I believe Barbara Jean will soon be ready to recall everything about the day her sister was murdered,” Yvette said. “Perhaps in a few days.”

  “And you ascertained this by what method?”

  Yvette possessed a smile that implied hidden depths, secrets that she shared with no one. But Griff knew her secrets, as she knew his, their lives connected in a way few would understand.

  “If you wait for her to be able to tell you what you need to know, you could well be waiting for years,” Yvette told him. “But I believe that she is close to remembering, even if only on a subconscious level.”

  “Does she have any idea that you are capable of sensing what she’s feeling and thinking?”

  Yvette shook her head.

  “Obtaining the information we need by using your special abilities won’t pose a moral dilemma for you, will it?” he asked.

  “I would prefer that Barbara Jean know I am probing her thoughts. But I am afraid if she knew, she would resist and close me out.”

  “Then you’ll do what needs to be done.”

  “Yes, of course. I always do, don’t I?”

  They sat together quietly for several minutes, then Yvette rose to her feet. “We will speak later.”

  “Wait.” Griff stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “I have a fund-raiser that I have to attend this Saturday evening. Would you be interested in going with me?”

  “If you would like.”

  “I’d like very much.” He stepped aside, clearing the way to the door.

  He noted a particular glint in her eye, as if she’d suddenly been struck with a brilliant idea.

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Would you mind if I invited someone to go with us?”

  Her question took him off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Since our attending this event together will not actually be a date, I would like to invite another person to go with us. Is that all right?”

  Griff eyed her quizzically. “Yeah, sure. But who—?”

  “If he accepts the invitation, I will tell you.”

  Without another word, she slipped from the room, like a silvery vapor floating away. She moved with grace and dignity, an otherworldly quality about her. He had the greatest admiration and respect for Yvette Meng, and prized her friendship for the special gift it was.

  Just as he was closing the door, Griff’s cell phone rang. It lay on his desk, where he’d placed it after making a couple of calls earlier. Having used one of the phone’s many features, he had programmed it to various ring tones for several different people, especially those he occasionally preferred to avoid. He immediately recognized the tone he associated with Special Agent Nicole Baxter.

  He considered letting voice m
ail pick up, but curiosity got the better of him. Taking long, hurried steps, he reached his desk in a matter of seconds and picked up his phone.

  “What can I do for you, Special Agent Baxter?” He kept his tone light and friendly.

  “You can let me speak to Barbara Jean Hughes.”

  “I’m not stopping you from talking to Ms. Hughes.”

  “Then will you please tell your assistant that it’s all right to put me through to Ms. Hughes the next time I try to contact her?”

  “I can assure you that if Sanders didn’t put your call through, it was because Ms. Hughes prefers not to speak to you.”

  Nic groaned. “You’ve probably brainwashed her with all that Griffin Powell charm.”

  Griff chuckled. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”

  “Believe me, I’d never flatter you.”

  “Now, now, let’s not be nasty. Don’t you know that honey catches more—”

  “Just tell me one thing—can Barbara Jean give us a positive ID of the man she saw leaving her sister’s apartment the day Gale Ann was killed?”

  “What’s wrong—didn’t your Williamstown eyewitness come through with a detailed description?”

  “How the hell did you know about him?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Yes, and one of these days, you’re going to get caught using some of those unlawful ways,” Nic told him. “And when that happens, I hope I’m the one who’s around to slap the cuffs on you personally.”

  “I had no idea you were into anything kinky. If I’d known you were, I would have invited you over to play with my handcuffs. But it’s never too late. If you’re interested…”

  Apparently thinking his brand of humor was not funny, Nic growled in disgust.

  “Ah, come on, can’t you take a joke?” he asked.

  “I don’t find anything about the Beauty Queen Killer case the least bit amusing.”

  “Nor do I. But I wasn’t joking about the case. I was just poking some good-natured fun at you.”

  “Fine. Ha-ha. Very funny.” Nic snapped the words succinctly. “Now, tell me what I have to give you in exchange for an answer to my question.”

  “Unlike you, Special Agent Baxter, I willingly share information,” Griff said. “If and when Ms. Hughes is able to provide us with a more detailed description of our possible killer, you’ll be the first person I call.”

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?” he asked, knowing full well she hadn’t hung up.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  “I want to know who he’s chosen as his next victim so that we can stop him before he kills again.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Griffin?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  Silence again. This time she had hung up.

  Griff closed his cell phone and laid it back on his desk.

  Since their first encounter, when she’d still been one of Curtis Jackson’s underlings, Griff had wondered what made Nicole Baxter tick. Almost from the moment they met, he’d felt her animosity. She had taken an instant dislike to him. And the fact that she’d bucked him at every turn hadn’t endeared her to him.

  If he had known about her husband, about the way the man had lived and the way he had died, would he have cut her some slack? Maybe. Maybe not. But knowing about Gregory Baxter’s final days certainly explained a few things about Nic.

  Pudge both loved and hated the hundred-and-sixty-year-old, money-sucking mausoleum of a house he had inherited from his grandfather. As the only male child of an only male child, he had been the heir to a rather sizable fortune. He had grown up in what many referred to as the lap of luxury, a spoiled child who seldom heard the word no, and to this day demanded his own way in everything. One of the perks of being wealthy. He avoided most things over which he had no control, things his money couldn’t buy for him.

  He hired and fired servants on a regular basis. Few could live up to his standards, and he refused to pay good money for sloppy work. At present, he had no live-ins, only a weekly cleaning service and a cook who came in at eight each morning and left at five in the afternoon. Whenever he was out of town, she prepared meals and froze them for him. And she didn’t work weekends.

  As he walked the length of the front veranda, he thought about his cousin Pinkie and the game they had been playing for nearly five years. And although this would be their final competition, it was hardly their first. They had met when they were both sixteen, and over a period of time—letters, phone calls, and visits—they had become best friends. He knew that Pinkie loved him, as much as his cousin was capable of loving anyone. And he cared about Pinkie.

  He would sorely miss his dear cousin when their game was over.

  But all good things must come to an end.

  Pudge sighed wearily.

  He chose his favorite spot on the porch, a huge wicker rocker that had been his grandmother’s. She had died when he was two. Drowned in one of the numerous ponds on the property. Ruled an accidental death. But family rumor was that she had killed herself.

  Wrapped in a decadent fur coat that he’d purchased on his last trip to New York City, Pudge rocked steadily back and forth. Watching the sunset, he breathed in the fertile Louisiana air, rich with the scents of nature. Even in winter, there was a hint of the lushness that springtime would bring to the land.

  Rocking back and forth, enjoying the invigorating cold air, Pudge contemplated what had to happen in the near future. No doubt Pinkie had already chosen his next victim. They both knew they had no choice but to accelerate the time period between kills now that the end was near. In four weeks one of them would win their five-year game.

  On April Fools’ Day.

  Smiling at his own cleverness, he remembered that he had been the one who had decided that they should begin and end their game on the first day of April. They had flipped a coin to see who would pick the first pretty flower from the garden of former beauty queens. He had won the toss.

  He would never forget his first human kill.

  A blonde. Worth fifteen points.

  Brooke Randolph. Former Miss Baton Rouge.

  He would always remember the terrified expression on her face when she realized he was going to kill her.

  Sweet Jesus, what a feeling!

  Despite the fact that he and Pinkie had agreed that redheads were worth the most points because there were fewer of them, Pudge actually preferred brunettes. Tall, exotic, dark-eyed beauties.

  But one of his next two kills would have to be a redhead. And he had already chosen the first of the two: Sandi Ford, a former Miss Teen USA, who now lived in nearby Parsons, Louisiana. Of course, he couldn’t let Pinkie know that he had jumped the gun, so to speak. He really wasn’t supposed to choose his next victim until after Pinkie took his turn.

  Humming softly to himself as he pulled the lapels of his fur coat around his neck to block the cool breeze, he thought about what his life would be like without his cousin. He supposed they could change the rules, even this late in the game, so that the loser didn’t have to pay such a high price. He had spent the past fifteen years competing with Pinkie, the only person whose intelligence and cunning matched his own. A truly worthy opponent.

  What will you do when this game ends? You’ll be bored to tears without Pinkie.

  But there can be other games. Other opponents.

  Recently he had been thinking about a rather intriguing game, one in which his competitors would also be his victims.

  Judd found Dr. Meng in the sunroom facing the lake, exactly where Sanders had told him she would be. He had spent the entire day mulling over her suggestion of doing something good for someone and had drawn a blank. He supposed he could instruct his accountants to issue a check to some worthy cause or other, but that would require no real participation on his part. The less personally involved he was with other people the better he liked it.<
br />
  Maybe he should rent a car and drive home to the hunting lodge and stay there permanently. Stay away from Lindsay. That would be a good deed, wouldn’t it?

  He couldn’t allow things to continue the way they were. It wasn’t fair to her. If she wasn’t able to cut her ties to him, then he should do it for her.

  But no repeats of what happened six months ago.

  There was a kinder, less traumatic way to end their relationship.

  And yeah, he’d finally admitted they did have a relationship. One that oddly enough had been good for him. But bad for Lindsay.

  She deserved so much better than anything he could ever offer her.

  You can’t offer her a damn thing except more misery.

  As Judd entered the sunroom, he cleared his throat.

  Without turning to see who had come into the room, Yvette said, “Please come in, Judd.”

  Now how the hell had she known it was he who had walked up behind her?

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  “Your walk. Your scent. Your aura.”

  Had she said his aura? “Just how do you pick up on a person’s aura?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and looked directly at him. “I can see the aura surrounding you, but I can also sense it.”

  Judd walked over and sat down beside her on the rattan sofa. Looking out at the lake instead of at her, he asked, “What would therapy involve?”

  The corners of her mouth lifted the merest bit, an almost smile. “It would involve doing something that you men hate to do.”

  He glanced at her then.

  “Talking,” she told him.

  “Oh.” He grunted.

  “It would be at your own pace. I never press a patient to move faster than he or she is ready to go.”

  “Patient, huh? I guess if I do this, I’m admitting that I need help.”

  She nodded. “More than that—you will be admitting that you want help.”

  “That’s just it, you know. I’m not sure I do want to be helped.”

  “Shall we put you to the test and see?”

  Judd turned sideways on the sofa and stared at Yvette, wondering just what sort of test she had in mind.