Griff stopped at the photograph of Jennifer Mobley Walker the night she was crowned Miss Tennessee. So young. So beautiful. So full of life.
When he stared at the snapshot of Jenny sitting on the floor in the kitchen where she had died, her hands hacked off and lying on either side of her, Griff whispered her name.
“That’s Judd Walker’s wife, isn’t it?” Nic said as she came up beside Griff. “She was a beautiful woman.”
Griff nodded.
“I wonder why he chose to display pictures of these particular women,” Nic said.
“What?” Griff was still thinking about Jennifer, remembering the vibrant, vivacious woman she had been.
“Look at the photos, each one of them,” Nic told him. “Don’t count the pictures themselves, but count the number of women represented here.”
“Is there some reason you want me to play this numbers game? We know how many women he killed, so there should be—” Griff stopped rattling as his gaze swept up and down the snapshot-covered walls.
He went back to the first photo and began counting—the women, not the pictures. Nic followed him to the end of the long, narrow room and back up on the other side.
“I’ll be damned. He displayed photos of only half the women he killed,” Griff said.
“Odd, don’t you think?”
Griff nodded. “There’s probably some simple explanation. Maybe he rotated the pictures for some reason or other. After all, he was playing a sick game where with each murder he racked up points, so it wouldn’t be a huge stretch to imagine he liked to change out the photos of his victims according to the month or the season or whatever.”
“You’re probably right.”
Griff studied Nic, noting the tilt of her lips. Not a smirk. Certainly not a smile.
“What are you not sharing with me?” Griff asked.
She shrugged. “What makes you think…Oh, all right. You’ll find out soon enough when your sharpshooter—what’s his name?”
“Holt Keinan.”
“When Mr. Keinan is notified that although he did shoot Cary Maygarden, it may not have been his bullet that killed him.”
“What?”
“According to our medical examiner’s report, the bullet that entered Maygarden’s body first hit him in the neck, severing a vital artery. Keinan’s bullet hit him in the head, probably seconds before or after. Either one could have killed him.”
“So Holt shot him twice.”
“With two different rifles?”
“Two different…?”
“The bullets removed from Maygarden’s body came from two different rifles, which means—”
“He was shot by two different people.”
“Did one of your other agents shoot Maygarden?” Nic asked.
Griff didn’t reply.
“If not, then it seems we have a mystery shooter on our hands. Someone who managed to slip onto the rooftop of a nearby building without being seen. Someone with a motive to kill Cary Maygarden.”
“Is the FBI going to actively search for another shooter?”
“No, not at this time.”
“What are you going to tell the press?”
“Only the basic facts. No details. But I intend to go over every aspect of this case, from A to Z, until I figure out who other than your agent, might have killed Maygarden and why.”
“And you told me about this so that I could help you solve the mystery,” he said sarcastically, knowing full well that he would be the last person on earth Nic would ask for help.
“No, Mr. Powell, I told you because I want you to think about it, ponder over every detail, worry yourself crazy, and try your damnedest to put the puzzle together. You see, I didn’t give you all the pieces, so if anyone is going to be able to put the puzzle together, it won’t be you.”
Pudge drove all night, staying wide awake without a problem. For him, killing was like a massive shot of adrenaline, sending his heart racing and his pulse pounding.
He had known that Pinkie would get the final kill, the April Fools’ Day kill that would commemorate their first kill and end their game. If his cousin had won, then he would have lost. Lost more than the game. After all, the stakes had been high. The loser would forfeit his life at the hands of the winner.
Pudge had thought for sure he’d win. After all, despite Pinkie’s knack for murder and mayhem, Pudge was the more intelligent of the two, with an IQ that bordered on genius.
Then when the end drew near, Pudge had known what he had to do. He had kept tabs on his cousin and followed him to meet his last victim. That’s when he’d realized poor Pinkie had walked right into a trap. Being careful not to be seen, Pudge had managed to go up a flight of backstairs and station himself on the rooftop of a building across the street from the Woodruff. If Pinkie had been taken into custody, he would have sung like a bird, implicating him, naming him as a co-conspirator.
If he’d known in advance that Griffin Powell had stationed his own sharpshooter on another rooftop, Pudge could have saved himself the trouble. But even if it hadn’t been his bullet that ended Pinkie’s life, at least he had gotten the satisfaction of seeing him lose the game in a most spectacular way.
When the medical examiner discovered that there were two bullets from two different rifles in Pinkie’s body, the FBI would no doubt investigate. But since there was no way to trace the rifle to him or any reason to suspect him of having been involved, he was in the clear.
As it stood now, the Beauty Queen Killer would be laid to rest and the case closed, leaving him free to start a new game. A game of murder.
Epilogue
Spring raced by, rushing headlong into summer, which melted into early autumn, bringing chilly nights and the first frost of the season. And Lindsay’s wedding day. She and Judd had married in a simple private ceremony, with only the closest family and friends in attendance. Her cousin Callie had been her matron of honor. Griff had been Judd’s best man. Their very special guests had included Cam Hendrix, Sanders, Barbara Jean Hughes, Yvette Meng, Maleah Perdue, Rick Carson, and Holt Keinan.
Judd had offered her a honeymoon anywhere on earth, reminding her that she had married a very wealthy man and could have anything her little heart desired.
“My heart desires you,” she’d told him. “And a honeymoon at the hunting lodge.”
So they had driven one county over to the Walker lodge outside Whitwell for what was supposed to have been a two-week honeymoon. That had been nearly two months ago. After just three weeks there, they had decided to contact an architect and a contractor and make plans to renovate the place, after the first of the year.
Judd hadn’t decided if he wanted to return to practicing law or if he wanted to be a gentleman farmer. Lindsay didn’t care. Whatever made her husband happy was fine with her. After all, she had everything—well, almost everything—she’d ever want. And come late summer next year, she would have everything.
Side by side, Lindsay and Judd worked in Mimi’s old flower garden, planting the tulip and daffodil bulbs that would bloom in March and April. A row of bronze and yellow mums they had planted in early October grew in profusion along the back walkway. The next heavy frost would probably get them, but they would simply die down and then be reborn next fall.
Judd helped Lindsay to her feet, their gloved hands clasping. He put his arm around her waist and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “It’s a wonderful day.”
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Everyday with you is a wonderful day.”
“How would you feel about living here permanently?” he asked.
“Do you mean it?”
“If you’d like to. If it’s what you want.”
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “It’s exactly what I want. You know I love this place. I love fishing in the creek and skinny-dipping in the pond. I love our long walks in the woods and working in the garden together and…” She looked him square in the eyes. “And I can’t think
of a better place to raise our little girl.”
“Our little girl?”
“Well, she could turn out to be a he, but—” Lindsay laid her hand over her still flat belly “—somehow I just know our first child will be a girl.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Uh-huh. I picked up a pregnancy test at the drugstore in Whitwell yesterday and when I took the test this morning—”
Judd lifted her off her feet and swung her around and around, then eased her down his body, holding her close.
“I want to name her after your mimi,” Lindsay said. “But you’ve never told me what her given name was.”
“Emily,” Judd told her. “Mimi’s name was Emily.”
“It’s lovely.” She looked questioningly at Judd. “So, is it all right with you if our little girl is Emily Walker II?”
Judd glanced heavenward, then kissed Lindsay playfully on the nose. “Have I told you today, Mrs. Walker, just how much I love you?”
She squirmed against him. “Not since this morning before breakfast, so maybe you’d better tell me again.”
“I love you,” he said, then laid his open palm over her stomach. “And I love our little Emily II. Or possibly Judson VI.”
Savoring the joy of the moment, Judd and Lindsay embraced, and their laughter carried far and wide on the cool November wind.
Nic Baxter recognized the caller ID and thought twice about answering her phone. But curiosity got the better of her.
“Hello, Mr. Powell, what can I do for you?”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Griff said. “Are you anticipating a lovely day with family or friends or do you have to work?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I’m driving down to the Walker hunting lodge to spend the holiday with Lindsay and Judd and I got to thinking about you, wondering if you were all alone.”
“Either tell me why you really called or I’m going to hang up.”
“Ah, you’re no fun.”
Nic groaned.
“There were two of them,” Griffin told her.
“What did you say?”
“You probably figured that out about the same time I did that—Cary Maygarden had an opponent in his sick little Dying Game—but you’ve kept that information to yourself. Otherwise the bureau wouldn’t have closed the BQ Killer case.”
“It’s just a guess,” she said. “I have no proof.”
“Yeah, it’s just gut instinct with me, too. But you know what that means, don’t you? Out there somewhere, there’s still a serial killer on the loose.”
“That well may be, but there hasn’t been another BQ murder since Cary Maygarden was killed.”
“That’s because that game ended when Maygarden died. Who do you think our other shooter was that day at the Woodruff Building?”
“Maygarden’s opponent.”
“Bingo. And once a serial killer, always a serial killer. I’d say it’s only a matter of time before this guy kills again, if he hasn’t already…”
Dear Reader,
Many of you have contacted me to tell me that you enjoy reading books with connecting characters and are interested in learning about Knoxville P.I., Griffin Powell. Griff has appeared in several of my novels as a secondary character. From the moment I first introduced him, I found him fascinating and knew he had a horrible secret past. In The Dying Game, I gave you glimpses of the man he is now and hints about those ten missing years of his life, hopefully whetting your appetite for his book. You were reintroduced to Sanders, Griff’s mysterious right-hand-man, and introduced to the exotically beautiful Dr. Yvette Meng, each a dear friend from Griff’s lost years. And you met FBI Special Agent Nic Baxter, one lady who hasn’t succumbed to Griff’s irresistible charm. In fact, Nic intensely dislikes Griffin Powell, both professionally and personally. And the feeling is mutual.
As you know, Pudge still remained on the loose at the end of The Dying Game. That’s because he’s going to be back in my next thriller, ready to play a deadly new game—a game of murder. As the clever Game Hunter Killer, Pudge specifically chooses his victims—all women who are both physically and mentally superior. In his sick game, he is the hunter and they his prey. Having outsmarted the FBI and the Powell Agency once before, Pudge finds it amusing to play catch-me-if-you-can with Nic and Griff. When he contacts each with clues and dares and threats, they have no choice but to join forces in order to stop him from killing again and again. But no one knows just how personal the killer’s game will become for Nic and Griff—not until it’s too late.
Look for Griffin Powell’s book in February 2008. In the meantime, I always enjoy hearing from readers. You may contact me through my Web site at www.beverlybarton.com, or by writing to me in care of Kensington Publishing.
Warmest regards,
Beverly Barton
Prologue
I am not going to die! Damn it, I refuse to give up, to let him win this evil competition.
Kendall Moore pulled herself up off the ground where she had fallen, face-down as she ran from her tormentor. Breathless and exhausted, she managed to bring herself to her knees. Every muscle ached. Her head throbbed. Fresh blood trickled from the cuts on her legs and the gashes in the bottoms of her calloused feet.
The blistering August sun beat down on her like hot heavy tendrils reaching out from a relentless monster in the sky. The sun was her enemy, blistering her skin, parching her lips, dehydrating her tired, weak body.
Garnering what little strength she had left, Kendall forced herself to stand. She had to find cover, a place where she had an advantage over her pursuer. If he caught up with her while she was out in the open, he would kill her. The game would be over. He would win.
He’s not going to win! Her mind screamed orders—run, hide, live to fight another day. But her legs managed only a few trembling steps before she faltered and fell again. She needed food and water. She hadn’t eaten in three days and hadn’t had any water since the day before yesterday. He had been pursuing her from sunup to sunset for the past few days, apparently moving in for the kill. After weeks of tormenting her.
The roar of his dirt bike alerted her to the fact that he was nearby, on the narrow, rutted path to the west of her present location. Soon, he would come deeper into the woods on foot, tracking her as he would track an animal.
At first she had been puzzled by the fact that he had kidnapped her, then set her free in the middle of nowhere. But it hadn’t taken her long—only a matter of hours—before she realized that she wasn’t free, no more than a captive animal in a game reserve was actually free.
Day after day, he stalked her, hunted her down, and taught her how to play the game by his rules. He’d had more than one opportunity to kill her, but he had allowed her to live, and he’d even given her an occasional day of rest. But she never knew what day, so she was forced to stay alert at all times, to be prepared for yet another long, tiring match in what seemed like a neverending game.
Pudge parked his dirt bike, straightened the cord holding the small binoculars around his neck and the leather strap that held the rifle cover across his back. Kendall didn’t know it, but today was the day she would die. He had brought her here to this isolated area three weeks ago today. She would be his first kill in this brand new game that he had devised after several months of meticulous planning. Only recently had he decided that he would hunt his prey for three weeks, then go in for the actual kill on the twenty-first day.
After his cousin Pinkie’s death on April first of this year, he had discovered that he missed his one-time opponent and lifelong best friend more than he’d thought he would. But Pinkie’s death had been inevitable. After all, he had been the loser in their “Dying Game” and the consequence of losing was forfeiting one’s life.
You’d love this new game, dear cousin. I am choosing only the finest female specimens, women with physical prowess and mental cunning. Only worthy adversaries.
Kendall Moore holds an Olympic Silver Med
al in long-distance running. Her slender, five-ten frame is all lean muscle. In a fair fight, she might actually win the game we’re playing, but whenever did I fight fair?
Pudge chuckled to himself as he dismounted from the dirt bike.
I’m coming for you. Run. Hide. I’ll find you. And then I’ll kill you.
As he stomped through the woods, Pudge felt a surge of adrenaline rush through his body, heightening his senses. He had missed the thrill of taking a human life, of watching with delight the look of horror in a woman’s eyes when she knew she was going to die.
Soon, he told himself. The first victim in The Murder Game is only a few yards away. Waiting for you. Waiting for death.
Kendall knew that if her captor chose to kill her, her chances of escape were nil. He had proven to her several times that she was powerless to stop him from tracking her and finding her. He had pointed his rifle at her, dead center at her heart, more than once, then grinned with evil glee, turned and walked away. But the time would come when he would not walk away. Was today the day?
She heard his footsteps as he crunched through the underbrush, drawing closer and closer. He wasn’t trying to sneak up on her. In fact, he seemed to want her to know that he was approaching.
You have to keep moving, she told herself. Even if you can’t get away, you have to try. Don’t give up. Not now.
Kendall ran for what seemed like hours, but probably wasn’t more than ten minutes. Her muscles ached, her heart raced. Out of breath and drained of what little energy she had left, she paused behind a huge, towering tree—and waited.
Keep moving!
I can’t. I’m so tired.
He’s going to find you. And when he does…
God, help me. Please, help me.
Suddenly, as from out of nowhere, her captor called out her name. Just as she turned toward the sound of his voice, he stepped through the thick summertime foliage surrounding them. The trickle of sunlight fingering down through the ceiling of sky-high treetops hit the muzzle of his rifle, which he had aimed directly at her.
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