The Dying Game

by Beverly Barton

  “So, how did he kill her? Cut off her hands or—”

  “He chopped off both of her arms.”

  Judd clenched his teeth. He and Lindsay stared at each other, but neither of them spoke again. She turned and walked down the hall. He closed the door, shut his eyes, and leaned his head against the door as memories of Jenny engulfed him. Jenny sitting on the kitchen floor, her arms tied above her head, her hands hacked off and lying on either side of her body.

  God in heaven, would he never be able to erase that memory from his mind?

  The Powell jet landed at the Tupelo Regional Airport shortly before noon. A Town Car, ordered by Sanders, waited in the parking lot, and the chauffeur met them inside the terminal. Their driver was a tall, lanky black man named Devin Chamness, who owned and operated his own limo service in the Tupelo area. He often escorted wealthy visitors and politicians. Lindsay knew that if Sanders had hired Mr. Chamness, the man was topnotch, the best in his field, and the type to keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut as far as his client’s business was concerned.

  The short drive from West Jackson Street, where the airport was located, into downtown Tupelo took them along Madison and straight onto Court.

  “I spoke to Chief Winters before we left Knoxville,” Griff had told them during the flight. “Lieutenant Bobby Skillman is the CID detective in charge of the Sonya Todd case. The chief told me that his department would cooperate with us, up to a point.”

  Up to a point could mean that local law enforcement would share no more with them than what they told the press or it could mean they would share almost everything with them. On past Beauty Queen Killer cases, Lindsay had seen the locals clam up completely and resent the Powell Agency’s presence. She’d also seen police chiefs or sheriffs who were very forthcoming with information—until the FBI showed up and took over the case. If Nic Baxter was already on the scene, she would be doing all within her power to lock Griff out of the inner circle.

  Griff, who was sitting up front with the driver, turned and looked into the backseat at Lindsay and Judd. “Lieutenant Skillman is set to make a statement to the press at noon outside the crime lab on Court Street.”

  Lindsay checked her watch. “It’s five till.”

  “We’re only a block away,” Devin informed them, but kept his gaze focused straight ahead.

  A horde of people, mostly local and state press, congregated on the sidewalk at 324 Court Street, many of them spilling out into the street. Camera crews zeroed in on the plainclothes detective at the makeshift podium, a guy in his early forties, with thinning black hair and a slight stoop to his broad shoulders.

  Devin slowed the Town Car, but didn’t stop. Griffin rolled down his window to get a better look. Cold air seeped into the car’s interior. Despite the warm noon sunshine, the temperature hovered near fifty. The loudspeaker broadcast the detective’s deep, aw-shucks, Mississippi drawl.

  “Park up the street,” Griff said. “We’ll walk back.”

  Within minutes, Devin had pulled the Lincoln into a parking place a block away; and before he killed the engine, Griff swung open his door and got out. He was several steps ahead of them before Lindsay and Judd caught up with him. The three of them hung back, staying on the periphery of the assembly, listening to the completion of the officer’s statement, waiting for their chance to approach him after the press conference ended.

  “There have been no arrests in this case,” Lieutenant Skillman said. “And at this time we have no suspects.” He took a deep breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll now take a few questions, but please make them brief. Y’all have five minutes.”

  The news people bombarded him with questions, which seemed to fluster him greatly. No wonder. A brutal murder occurring in Tupelo was hardly an everyday event. It wasn’t as if the detective was accustomed to answering these types of questions. Finally, Lieutenant Skillman pointed to a man closest to the podium. “Yeah, you, Joe Mitchell.”

  Mitchell barked out his question, “How was Sonya Todd murdered? We’ve heard she was hacked up into little pieces.”

  “I am not at liberty to reveal that information at this time,” Lieutenant Skillman replied.

  A collective groan spread through the reporters, along with a couple of boos and one distinct hiss.

  A petite redhead shoved her way through the throng, all the while shouting her question. She might be little, but she had a big voice. “Is it true that the police department suspects that the notorious Beauty Queen Killer is responsible for Sonya Todd’s death?”

  “No comment.” Lieutenant Skillman’s cheeks flushed and perspiration dotted his forehead despite the February chill.

  The Powell Agency already knew more than the press did. The fact that Griffin had been given details that were not being revealed to the press told Lindsay that Griff had somehow persuaded the local chief to divulge classified information.

  Lindsay stood on tiptoe and, in order to be heard over the den of the crowd, shouted into Griff’s ear, “What did you do, use the ‘I’m Griff Powell, former UT football star’ to make brownie points with the chief?”

  Griff frowned at her. “You underestimate my notoriety as a rich and famous private investigator. Chief Winters was very interested in the fact that I was hired by one of the victim’s husbands to search privately for the Beauty Queen Killer.”

  “Well, I’m impressed. You didn’t have to bribe him or anything, huh?”

  Before Griff could respond, another reporter managed to shout louder than the others and make his question heard above the clamor.

  “Has Chief Winters called in the FBI?” The tall, skinny, forty-something TV reporter had a cameraman behind him taping everything.

  Lieutenant Skillman had that deer-trapped-in-the-headlights expression, and he stuttered when he tried to respond. “At this time…er…we…that is Chief Winters…has…er…has—”

  “The FBI was notified,” a strong, clear feminine voice called out from the back of the crowd, on the opposite side from Griff, Lindsay, and Judd.

  All but strutting, Nic Baxter parted the reporters, like Moses parting the Red Sea. “I’m Special Agent Baxter, and as of now, the lieutenant will not be answering any further questions. This is officially a federal case.”

  “Shit,” Griff mumbled under his breath.

  “She’s not going to let us get anywhere near Lieutenant Skillman,” Lindsay said.

  “Probably not,” Griff replied. “But as we all know, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  Chapter 13

  Yvette Meng understood grief, from a personal standpoint as well as from her years of training and experience as a licensed psychiatrist. And she understood fear in a way only the victim of cruelty and abuse could comprehend it. She knew what it was like to have her life hanging in the balance, to be at the mercy of another for the very air she breathed.

  Barbara Jean Hughes grieved for the sister that she loved, but her grief was in the first stage, where one cannot fully comprehend that the other person is truly gone. Forever. It is as if nature protects a person’s fragile emotions for days, sometimes for weeks, after the event. If not for this, one might go mad.

  As Judd Walker had done?

  She had seen it happen before, with strong, aggressive people, especially men who were accustomed to being in complete control of their own lives and the lives of others. Not madness in the truest sense of the word, but an anger and thirst for revenge that bordered on madness.

  Over three years ago, Griffin had wanted her to help Judd. But first, one must want to be helped. Judd had spurned all offers. Even now, he was not ready to free himself from the past. He had become comfortable with his pain, had embraced it above all else.

  “Would you care for more tea?” Sanders asked as he held the teapot over Yvette’s china cup.

  “Yes, thank you.” Yvette loved Damar Sanders, as she loved Griffin Powell, as one loved brothers. “More tea would be nice and perhaps a few more of Inez
’s delicious little cakes.”

  Taking his cue to leave, Sanders replied, “I will see if she has more. If not, I am sure there are some of her homemade oatmeal raisin cookies.” He nodded curtly, the motion showing gentlemanly deference to her and Barbara Jean.

  Once Sanders left, Yvette turned her attention on the woman who had been sitting quietly, her hands in her lap, watching the interchange between Yvette and Sanders. “You are wondering about our relationship?”

  “No, I—your relationship is none of my business,” Barbara Jean said.

  Smiling, Yvette reached over and laid her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Sanders is a brother of my heart. We have known each other for many years.”

  “He—he’s a good man? I mean, he seems to be very kind.”

  “He is more than kind.”

  Barbara Jean nodded.

  A marked silence fell over the room. Barbara Jean avoided eye contact with Yvette.

  Sometimes the direct approach is best. This woman was not stupid. She had to at least suspect why Griffin had brought a psychiatrist to Griffin’s Rest.

  “I will be staying here for a few weeks,” Yvette said. “I am available to you, day or night, whenever you may need me. If you wish to talk, we will talk. If you prefer that I—”

  “I can’t identify him.” The declaration whooshed from Barbara Jean in one gasping breath. “I’ve told Griffin all that I remember about the man. I swear that—”

  Yvette patted Barbara Jean’s arm. “It is all right. There is no need to upset yourself. I am not here to pressure you, only to be at your service should you need me.”

  Barbara Jean stared skeptically at Yvette, apparently wondering if she could trust her. “I won’t remember anything else. I know that for sure and certain. I–I can’t.”

  Keeping a pleasant expression on her face, Yvette pulled back and picked up her cup of tea. “Sanders makes delicious tea. My favorite is this Earl Grey. I remember my mother drinking it when I was a child.”

  The change of subject seemed to relax Barbara Jean. “Gale Ann liked our Grandma Hughes’s sassafras tea. When we were girls, she’d make it for us. I detested the stuff. It tasted too much like licorice to me and I can’t stand licorice.”

  “I never knew either of my grandmothers,” Yvette said. “I was an only child, as was my mother. And my father’s sister died as a young girl. So you see, when my parents died, I had no family.”

  “Gale Ann and I were so lucky to have each other.” Tears gathered in Barbara Jean’s eyes. “It’s so unfair that she…” A soft gulp. “It should have been me. I’m older and I’m…” she glanced down at her useless legs. “I’m crippled. If one of us had to die, it should have been me.”

  Yvette waited. Tears trickled down Barbara Jean’s cheeks.

  “If you could have, you would have died for your sister.” Yvette spoke softly, sympathetically. It was simply in her nature to be caring. And it was in her unique makeup to share the emotions another person felt more intensely than the average person did.

  “Yes. Yes, I would have. I wish—wish I could have.” Barbara Jean wept, releasing some of the emotions she had been keeping bottled tightly inside her.

  Facing reality could be a devastatingly painful experience, but it was necessary. Acceptance was cathartic and could lead to the next stage of grief.

  “I’m sure your sister knew that you would have exchanged places with her,” Yvette said. “And I’m certain that, had the situations been reversed, she would be feeling now, just as you are.”

  Barbara Jean continued crying.

  Yvette sensed his presence before she glanced at the door and saw Sanders standing there with a platter of tea cakes and oatmeal cookies in his hand. He hesitated. Yvette shook her head. He eased backward and disappeared down the hall. He would return, of course, in five minutes or so, when Barbara Jean was no longer crying.

  Griffin watched Nic Baxter as she took over the press conference and succinctly ended it with one statement. “The Sonya Todd murder is now a federal case. I will issue a press release tomorrow morning, at the earliest. Until then, do not approach any federal or local officer with questions.”

  The crowd grumbled. Loudly. But everyone seemed to understand Special Agent Baxter’s take-no-prisoners attitude. All except the ferocious little redhead who apparently wasn’t as intimidated by Nic as the rest of the press corps. Or perhaps she simply wasn’t smart enough to know when to back down.

  “Are we to assume that since the FBI is now involved that this is another Beauty Queen Killer murder?” the redhead asked.

  Nic’s hot gaze melded with the redhead’s. “What’s your name?”

  “Brigit Henson, the Memphis Commercial Appeal.”

  “Well, Ms. Henson, I suggest that you assume nothing.”

  Finale. Complete. Over and out.

  Brigit opened her mouth to speak again, but before she got out a word, Griff interceded. “Special Agent Baxter!” Griff’s deep baritone voice rumbled like thunder in the hush of the dispersing crowd. Like in a freeze frame, no one moved.

  Nic searched and found him in the crowd, not difficult to do since he stood a tad over six-four and weighed a good fifty pounds more than he had when he’d played ball for UT. Muscle, not fat. He prided himself on keeping fit.

  She glowered at him, but didn’t respond.

  “Why make these people wait?” Griffin said. “Within an hour, every one of these reporters can find out that you’re the special agent in charge of the Beauty Queen Killer cases. And any idiot can put two and two together and come up with four.”

  Nic bristled. Her brown eyes glimmered with anger. “Now they won’t have to wait, will they, Mr. Powell, since you’ve shared the information with everyone present.”

  He knew he’d pissed her off. He didn’t care. Getting a rise out of Nic Baxter had become one of his favorite pastimes. She would put up every possible barrier to keep him out of the loop. Of course, that was part of her job. He understood. Yet he resented the hell out of her attitude.

  “Why not make a statement now?” He was playing with fire and he knew it. She could arrest him for interfering in a federal case. And she was just the type who would.

  If Griff thought playing nice in the sandbox would get him anywhere with Nic, he’d be the nicest guy she’d ever met. But he had tried charming her. Hadn’t worked. Wouldn’t work. Apparently, she was not only immune to his charm, she had an aversion to it.

  While the dispersing crowd lingered, waiting for Nic’s reaction, she ignored Griff completely. She turned, grasped Lieutenant Skillman’s arm and led him toward the front door of the Tupelo crime lab. Nic’s assistant, Special Agent Josh Friedman followed, but kept glancing over his shoulder, his gaze connecting with Griff’s a couple of times.

  A few reporters zeroed in on Griff. One had recognized him, remembered him from his UT days. The two men and one female reporter—Brigit Henson—questioned Griff about his connection to the case.

  “My client, Judd Walker, lost his wife to the Beauty Queen Killer almost four years ago. Mr. Walker hired me to do an independent investigation, but unfortunately, I have had no more luck than local and federal law enforcement agencies in tracking down this monster. However, when this psychopath killed Gale Ann Cain in Kentucky last week, he was seen leaving the woman’s apartment complex.”

  “Are you saying there is an eyewitness, someone who can identify the killer?” Brigit asked.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Who is this person?” This question came from one of the male reporters.

  “She is the sister of the murder victim.”

  All three reporters shot question after question at Griff, who told them that he could give them no further information. “Not at this time.”

  Griff made the finality of his statement clear by walking away, back to where Judd and Lindsay waited several feet down the sidewalk.

  “You all but invited the killer to come after
Barbara Jean Hughes,” Judd said.

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

  “But you didn’t mention where she was,” Lindsay said.

  “I will.” Griff smiled. Unless he missed his guess, Brigit Henson was heading straight in his direction.

  Barbara Jean was as safe as the gold in Fort Knox. No one could possibly harm her as long as she was at Griffin’s Rest. But he had no qualms about using her to tempt this madman into making a wrong move. It was highly unlikely that he would be stupid enough to try anything. They couldn’t get that lucky. But Griff wanted him to sweat, to spend sleepless nights worrying about an eyewitness being able to identify him.

  “You could have asked my permission before you gave the press my name.” Judd looked past Griff. “Here comes your little pigeon, homing in on you.”

  “The fact that you’re my client is old news.” Griff kept his gaze focused on Judd, acting as if he had no idea Ms. Henson was directly behind him. “But it was worth repeating. You inherited the vast Walker fortune. You’re always newsworthy. But the real news is that I have Barbara Jean Hughes safely tucked away in my home outside Knoxville.”

  Brigit Henson cleared her throat.

  Griff turned around slowly, only a hint of surprise on his face. He didn’t want to overplay his hand. “Ms. Henson, I trust that you won’t repeat what you’ve just heard.”

  Her hazel green eyes rounded wide and sparkled with mischief. “Why not give me an exclusive, Mr. Powell, and we’ll discuss terms.”

  “Please, call me Griff.” He offered her one of his cocky, self-assured smiles, the kind that made unspoken promises to a woman. And in this woman’s case, the promises were both professional and personal. He’d never been a man adverse to mixing business with pleasure.

  Brigit laced her arm through his. “Well, Griff, why don’t we go somewhere for a cup of coffee and talk things over.”

  Griff glanced at Judd. “You two take the car and I’ll meet up with y’all later, at the Wingate.”

  He walked up Front Street and then onto Barnes Street where he had parked his Ford Taurus. Smiling at his own cleverness, he unlocked the door, then removed his hat and coat and tossed them into the backseat. Losing himself in the throng of reporters had enabled him to be front and center when the lead detective on Sonya Todd’s murder case made a statement to the press. Not that he had revealed anything of importance. But that was to be expected. The police always liked to keep things under wraps.