After pouring himself half a tumbler of the fine old Highland Scotch whiskey, he leaned back, burying his shoulders into the sofa, and took a hefty swig from the glass.
Life was never what it seemed to be. People were never who you thought they were. He would give every penny of his immense fortune if he could erase ten years of his life. Ten years when he had faced death and lived, been sent to hell and survived, played the devil’s game and won.
Lindsay’s cell phone rang. She rushed out of the bathroom, where she was brushing her teeth, and hurried into the bedroom to pick up the phone off the dresser. After checking the caller ID, she blew out a what-do-I-tell-him? breath and flipped open the phone.
“Good morning, Griff.”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I’ve been up about thirty minutes.”
“Where’s Judd?”
“In the room next to mine,” she replied. “Or at least that’s where I left him last night around nine-thirty, after we had a late supper.”
“How was he when you left him?”
“Sober.”
“I guess that’s something.”
“I want to bring him to Griffin’s Rest later today,” she said. “Are you okay with that?”
“I’m not sure. Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“I think Judd needs to be part of the investigation again. No matter how low he’s sunk—and I admit he’s just about hit rock bottom—he still wants to find his wife’s killer. Finding Jenny Walker’s murderer is the only thing he has to live for. We can’t take that away from him.”
“Nobody took anything away from him,” Griff said. “What’s happened to Judd, he did to himself.”
“Yeah. I know. Judd is his own worst enemy.”
“If the guy had a lick of sense, he’d wake up and realize he has a lot more to live for than revenge against Jenny’s killer.”
“Don’t go there, Griff. There’s no point.”
Silence.
“Will you let me bring him to Griffin’s Rest?” she asked.
“There’s something you need to know, something I want you to tell Judd and see how he reacts, then you decide if you should bring him here.”
“And if he reacts badly?”
“I guess you know that Carson has been assigned to watch your back.”
Lindsay smiled to herself as she crossed the room, pulled back the edge of the drapes, and looked outside. Rick Carson’s car was parked next to her Trailblazer. He was inside behind the wheel and appeared to be asleep. It was so like Griff to worry about her. To protect her.
Maybe she shouldn’t have told him what happened between Judd and her last year.
“I know when I’m being tailed.” She let the drapes fall back into place. “Rick’s parked outside. He didn’t have to sleep in his car last night.”
Griff chuckled.
“So, what do I need to know? What do you want me to tell Judd?”
“Barbara Jean says she can’t ID the man she saw coming out of her sister’s apartment building just as she was going in, only moments before she discovered Gale Ann bleeding to death. She claims she didn’t get an up-close-and-personal look, but I think, if we’re patient and understanding with her, she’ll eventually be able to give a halfway decent description to a sketch artist.”
Lindsay let out a long, low whistle.
“How do you think Judd will react to this news?” Griff asked.
How would Judd react? Would the news give him hope? Would it whet his appetite for revenge? Could he wait and give Barbara Jean Hughes the time she needed to admit to herself that she could indeed ID her sister’s killer?
“I honestly don’t know how he will react,” Lindsay said. “I don’t know Judd anymore. I’m not sure I ever really knew him.”
“There are other men out there, you know. Someone who would appreciate you for the wonderful woman you are.”
Griff’s words created a tight knot in her belly, the one that formed whenever she thought about her feelings for Judd Walker. “Look, I don’t have any false hopes where Judd’s concerned. I know that he’ll never love anyone except Jenny.”
“He doesn’t even love her anymore. Judd isn’t capable of human emotions, other than hatred and revenge.”
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t have sent you out on this case, but I thought … Hell, I don’t know what I thought, maybe that you needed to confront your demons, conquer them, and walk away a stronger person.”
“Watch out, Griffin Powell. You’re on the verge of exposing your soft underbelly, and you don’t want to do that, do you?”
“You know me too well.”
“Not really. I don’t think anyone knows the real you.”
“If you change your mind, hand Judd over to Carson, and come on home alone.”
“Is there anything else I need to know, anything else I should tell Judd?”
When Griff didn’t respond immediately, she realized that there was more. “Griff?”
“Killing is a game to him.” Griff paused. “Redheads are worth twenty points. Gale Ann was able to tell us that much before she died.”
“Son of a bitch.” Information swirled through Lindsay’s mind. She discarded some facts and categorized others. “The roses! A yellow rose for each redhead. A pink rose for each blonde and a red rose for each brunette. We figured that out about a dozen murders ago. Now we know he’s using a point system. Twenty for redheads. How much for a blonde? For a brunette? Oh, God, Griff, how many points was Jennifer Walker worth?”
Judd ordered a large breakfast—three scrambled eggs, a stack of pancakes, hash browns, and both bacon and sausage. He ate ravenously as if he were starving to death. Lindsay picked at her French toast while she watched in fascination as her companion devoured his meal. The local Waffle House had been the closest restaurant that served break fast and since the place suited Judd, it suited her. She mostly wanted some strong black coffee. She hadn’t slept more than three hours last night, so it was either prop toothpicks under her eyelids to keep them open or get a wake-up boost from caffeine. “You’re not eating.” Judd eyed her plate.
“I need to ask you something.”
Judd sliced off a hunk from his stack of pancakes, put it in his mouth and chewed, then washed the food down with a big gulp of coffee. He looked right at Lindsay. “So ask.”
“How badly do you want to be part of the Powell Agency’s investigation into the Beauty Queen Killer murders?”
Judd shrugged.
“I’m serious. If you want to go to Griffin’s Rest with me, you have to convince me that we can trust you not to come unraveled.”
Judd chuckled.
The cold, unemotional sound chilled Lindsay.
“Griffin believes, if given enough time, once she feels completely safe, Barbara Jean Hughes can work with a sketch artist to identify the man she saw coming out of her sister’s apartment.” Judd gripped his fork so fiercely that he actually bent it half in two. As if suddenly realizing what he’d done, he dropped the fork. It fell from his hand onto the floor, clanging against the tiled surface.
“She cannot be pushed,” Lindsay told him. “She can’t be bullied. Do you understand?”
His dark eyes glazed, his mind only God knew where, Judd nodded.
“There’s more,” Lindsay said.
“Tell me.”
“Before she died, Gale Ann was able to tell Griff that killing is a game to this man.” She checked Judd’s face for a reaction. Deadly calm.
“Go on.”
“Gale Ann said that killing her was worth twenty points to him because she had red hair.”
Silence.
Judd stared at her—not really at her but through her—his jungle cat yellow gaze transfixed on something he could see only in his mind’s eye.
“Judd?”
He didn’t respond.
She reached out to touch him at the same moment the waitress came over to refill their coff
ee cups.
“Either of you need a refill?” the middle-age woman asked.
The waitress’s question apparently snapped Judd out of his mental fog. He pulled away from Lindsay’s approaching touch, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of her hand on his.
“Yeah, thanks,” Judd told the waitress. “Fill ’er up.”
As soon as the waitress finished refilling their cups and moved on to the customers in the next booth, Lindsay asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He wasn’t all right, and they both knew it.
“Do you want to go to Griffin’s Rest with me and become an active member of the team again?” Lindsay asked. “If you do, then you have to promise me you can act like a civilized human being.”
“Did Griff leave the decision up to you about whether to take me at my word or not?”
“Yes.”
“And if I swear to you that I can behave myself, that I won’t run around like a madman and scare the bejesus out of Ms. Hughes, will you believe me?”
“Yes. If you’ll be completely honest with me about something else, too.”
“What?”
“Tell me where your mind went, what you were thinking there a few minutes ago when I told you that killing was a game to this guy and that he was using some sort of insane points system.”
“You know what I was thinking.”
“Say it out loud.”
“How many points was my Jenny worth to him?” Judd glared at her. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Yes.”
Judd wiped his mouth with his napkin, crumbled it in his fist, and tossed it atop his empty plate. “Can we go now?”
“Sure.” She picked up the tab, left a generous tip, and headed for the cash register.
Chapter 7
He had spent the night at an inexpensive motel in Jackson, used a phony ID, and paid in cash. As he so often did on the morning of a “kill,” he woke early, eager to play the game once again. The drive from the state’s capital to Tupelo had been uneventful, the stretch of Interstate 55 between Jackson and Batesville desolate and dull. He’d used Highway 278 to go from Oxford to Tupelo, a medium-sized Mississippi city.
In the past, he had taken more time to study the pretty little flower before he severed her life-giving stem. But that had been in the beginning, when time had been of no importance and the years stretched before him, seemingly endless.
Odd how that five years could pass so quickly. He supposed the old adage about time flying when you were having fun was true. What had begun as a lark had turned into a passion far greater and all-consuming than he could have ever imagined. Who knew that life-and-death game-playing could be so exhilarating?
Participating in “The Dying Game” gave him a high unlike anything he’d ever experienced. And it was as addictive as any of the drugs he had experimented with over the years.
He hated to see it all come to an end, but the game would be over in less than two months. And he intended to be the winner. His life depended on it.
As he drove the Ford Taurus—rented using his fake ID— along the street where Sonya Todd lived, he recalled the information he had collected on her. She was thirty-five, divorced, no children, and lived alone. She was the high school band director, but since this was Saturday and no band contests were scheduled for Tupelo High, there was a good chance she would be at home.
Should he make contact with her today? Introduce himself into her life as a nonthreatening stranger? Or should he simply study her from afar during the day and wait for the perfect moment later on, perhaps tonight, to surprise her?
During the long, boring drive here, he had worked up a couple of different scenarios. His favorite was simply to ring her doorbell, introduce himself, and ask about houses for sale in the neighborhood. If there was one thing he knew how to do—and do well—it was playact. As a youngster, he had entertained his sisters with his antics, keeping them amused so that they wouldn’t torment him with their teasing: Rolypoly. Fatty-fatty. Pudgy-wudgy.
He had learned how to turn their taunting into self-inflicting jokes that endeared him to Mary Ann and Marsha. They considered him a funny little brother. Fat and rosy-cheeked. Easily manipulated. Mary Ann never knew that he’d been the one who had poisoned her pet cat, Mr. Mackerel. And Marsha still thought one of the servants had stolen her prom dress, the one their mother had bought on a shopping spree in Paris. But he knew better. That dress, which he’d ripped to shreds, was buried in the woods near their family home, along with the bones of numerous small animals he had taken great pleasure in torturing to death.
He didn’t see much of either sister these days, only at weddings, funerals, and an occasional holiday. Both had married well, reproduced darling little brats like themselves, and lived in the same type of social whirlwind their mother had thrived on.
Reciting Sonya Todd’s street numbers in his mind, he slowed the car almost to a standstill when he came to 322. A woman wearing hot pink sweats and man in a heavy jacket stood on the front porch, holding hands, looking dreamily into each other’s eyes. The hulk of a man kissed the woman, then headed down the steps onto the sidewalk. When he was halfway to the SUV parked in the drive, he glanced over his shoulder, grinned and waved. The woman blew him a kiss, then waved back at the guy.
Guess that big oaf got lucky last night.
Naughty, naughty of you, my little pink rose.
The midthirties’ Sonya Todd bore a striking resemblance to the young woman in the old Miss Magnolia photograph he had brought with him. Still slender and shapely. Still a blonde, although the shade was now darker, richer, more golden. But a blonde was a blonde, be she platinum or dishwater. And every blonde was worth fifteen points. Killing Sonya would put him in the lead, one step closer to winning the game.
He drove past Sonya’s house and glanced from right to left, as if he were searching for a street address. Then he circled the block slowly, giving her boyfriend time to leave. When he returned to 322, as luck would have it, Sonya walked out into her yard to pick up the morning newspaper. He eased the Taurus to a halt, rolled down the window, and called to her.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
She looked directly at him and smiled. “Morning.”
“Could I trouble you for just a minute?”
“Sure, what can I do to help you?”
“Well, I’m heading home after a business trip here in Tupelo.” He stayed in the car, maintaining his distance so as not to alarm her. “It looks like I’ll be transferring here, and I thought I’d take a look at some of the newer housing developments. This area looks like someplace my wife and kids would just love.”
“Tupelo is a fantastic place to live, and Pine Crest Estates is one of ‘the’ places to live if you’re an up-and-coming young professional family.”
“What about the school system?” he asked. “I’ve got ten-year-old twins.”
Sonya smiled. What a lovely smile. It was nice to see a woman who didn’t let herself go just because she was past thirty.
Such a sweet, friendly lady. Unsuspecting. She had no idea that she was conversing with the man who had come to town expressly to add her to his collection of pretty flowers. Pretty dead flowers.
As she rubbed her hands up and down her arms in an effort to warm herself from the chilly air, she walked to the edge of her driveway. And while she talked, telling him that she was the high school band director and that the school system in the area was one of the best, if not the best in the state, he noticed how she used her hands as she spoke. Long fingers. Sculptured pink nails.
She was a violinist, wasn’t she? She’d even had aspirations of being a concert violinist. Unfortunately, her talent was limited, and she had never reached the heights of success about which she had once dreamed.
As he studied those beautiful, animated hands, he thought about tonight and how he would hack off those slender hands she used to play the violin in such a
mediocre way. Actually, he would probably chop off both of her arms entirely.
Judd adjusted the passenger seat to recline slightly, closed his eyes, and dozed off not long after they crossed the Kentucky state line and entered Tennessee. When he awoke, he glanced out the side window and realized they were going through Knoxville. Roadwork seemed to be the norm in this city. Expansion always creates the need for bigger and better. He hazarded a quick glimpse at Lindsay. Focused on the heavy traffic, she didn’t glance his way.
Judd closed his eyes again.
It was better for both of them if Lindsay thought he was still sleeping. That way neither of them had to make an effort at conversation. From the very beginning of their relationship, things had been strained between them. Now more so than ever.
Judd grunted silently.
Relationship? Could you actually call whatever existed between them a relationship? They weren’t friends or lovers. Nor were they enemies. But if he was completely honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he often hated Lindsay. She didn’t deserve his hatred; she had done nothing to warrant such an extreme reaction from him. For a man whose emotions were pretty much dead, the very fact that Lindsay could elicit any emotion from him bothered him on a gut-deep level.
Each new murder—now totaling twenty-nine that they knew of—evoked thoughts of those first few weeks after his wife had been killed. Last night in the Williamstown motel, he’d been unable to rest. Memories of Jenny had plagued him.
And thoughts of Lindsay.
Yeah, thoughts of Lindsay McAllister.
He’d spent nearly four years telling himself that the reason his recollections about those first few horrific days, weeks, and months after Jennifer was murdered centered as much on Lindsay as they did on Jenny was because Lindsay had been involved with the murder case on a day-to-day basis. She’d been partnered with the lead detective.
He knew she’d been there that night at the scene of Jennifer’s murder when he barged in like a madman. But to him that evening was little more than a blurred nightmare. Even now, he could still feel the deadweight of Jenny’s slender body as he sat on the floor and held her in his arms. Not all the time in the world would ever erase that bloody scene from his mind. Jenny’s hands lying beside her, her perfectly manicured nails a bright coral. He had loved her hands, those long fingers that stroked the piano keys with such expert ease.
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