Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle
Page 77
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 Ruddy 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.
Pudge had thought for sure he’d win. After all, despite Ruddy’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 Ruddy 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 Ruddy 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 Ruddy’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 Ruddy’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 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 Jud son 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 …”
Acknowledgments
For their research assistance, a special thank you to:
Steven L. Romiti, M.D.
Philip L. Edney, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI
Stephen Kodak, Federal Bureau of Investigation
The Murder Game
BEVERLY BARTON
The Murder Game
In loving memory of my mother, Doris Marie.
Many thanks to my friend Marilyn Puett for putting me in touch with a retired FBI agent who generously agreed to help me with research.
Thank you, Former Special Agent William C. Rasmussen. Your assistance proved invaluable during the course of writing this book. Any mistakes are mine, probably because I assumed I knew something or I either misunderstood the answer to a question or simply asked the wrong question.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prolog
ue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Prologue
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 callused 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!1 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 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 but then set her free. But it hadn’t taken her long—only a matter of hours—before she realized that she was in the middle of nowhere and 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 which day it would be, so she was forced to stay alert at all times, to be prepared for yet another long, tiring match in what seemed like a never-ending 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 fifth 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 Ruddy’s death on April first of last year, he had discovered that he missed his one-time opponent and lifelong best friend more than he’d thought he would. But Ruddy’s death had been inevitable. After all, he been the loser in their “Dying Game” and the consequences 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 medal in longdistance 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 next 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 that 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 if 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.
“Game’s end,” he said.
He’s never said that before, Kendall thought.
Breathing hard, she lifted her head and stared right at him. “If you’re going to kill me, you son of a bitch, then do it.”
“What’s wrong, Kendall, are you tired of playing our little game?”
“Game? That’s all this is to you, isn’t it? Some sick, perverted game. Damn it, this is my life.”
“Yes, it is. And I hold the power of life and death—your life and death—in my hands.”
His cold, self-satisfied smile sent shivers through her.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re so very perfect.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand. All you need to do is die.”
She swallowed hard. He’s actually going to kill me this time. Icy fear froze her to the spot. “Do it, damn you, do it!”
The first shot hit her in her right leg. Pain. Excruciating pain. She grasped her bloody thigh as she fell to her knees. The second bullet hit her in the shoulder.
She stared at him through a haze of agonized tears and waited for the third shot.
Nothing.
“End it,” she screamed. “Please, please …”
The third shot entered her chest, but missed her heart.
The pain enveloped her, taking her over completely, becoming who she was. No longer Kendall. Only the torment she endured.
As she lay on the ground, bleeding to death, her captor approached. When she felt the tip of the rifle muzzle pressing against the back of her head, she closed her eyes and prayed for death.
The fourth and final bullet answered her prayer.
Chapter 1
He had killed before and he would kill again. Nothing could compare to the godlike feeling of such power.
His new game was only a few months old, yet he already realized that without an opponent, without the psychological stimulation of competition, it just wasn’t the same. The hunt was exhilarating, the kill a sublime climax, but the titillating pleasure of the preparation and planning as well as the triumph afterward were missing from his murder game. He now had no one with whom to share either.
He trusted no one the way he had trusted Ruddy, both of them knowing from their teens that they were different from others. Special. Superior. He could hardly run an ad in the paper for another partner, could he? Wanted: Cunning sadist to compete in a highly skilled game of hunt and kill. Winner takes all. Loser dies.
As Pudge crossed over the Arkansas border into Louisiana, heading toward Bastrop, he chuckled at the thought of advertising for an adversary.
It wouldn’t take long to reach Monroe, then he’d go on to Alexandria, where he’d hit Interstate 49, which would take him home. He might even stop for dinner somewhere along the way.
He had put a bullet into Kendall Moore’s head only three days ago and had returned her body to a secluded area just outside her hometown of Ballinger. As he had done with the others, he had taken a trophy. A little souvenir. Something to add to his growing collection.
Removing his gaze from the road momentarily, he glanced down at the small, round box nestled securely on the passenger side floorboard. Kendall had possessed a mane of short brown hair. Thick and curly. Like heavy satin to the touch.
Sighing deeply, he thought about touching her hair again, about caressing it tenderly as he recalled, over and over again, those final moments of her life.
Griffin Powell envied his old friend. Judd Walker had been to hell and back. Now, thanks to the love of a good woman, he had survived and had a wonderful life. A life that he appreciated in a way only a man who had come close to self-destructing could. Seeing the happiness in Judd’s eyes every time he looked at his wife and infant daughter, Griff knew how much Judd valued the priceless second chance he had been given.