The Dying Game (9 page)

“It’s what I want.”

He nodded, then closed the door, rounded the back of the vehicle, and got in on the passenger side. Once seated and belted, Judd said, “It should never have gotten personal between us. You’re too nice a girl to get hung up on a guy like me. I’ve got nothing to offer you and I never will. You know that, don’t you?”

Lindsay started the engine. Clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled force, she closed her eyes for a millisecond, then said, “I know. You’ve made it abundantly clear, more than once.”

She backed out of the parking place and headed the Trailblazer into the late evening traffic.

Griff had told Rick Carson to stay in Williamstown and stick close to Lindsay, to be prepared to move in and protect her from Judd if it became necessary. Although he’d known Judd a lot longer than Lindsay had—and maybe because he had—he didn’t trust his old friend’s emotional and mental stability these days. Despite enduring everything he’d put her through during the past three and a half years—like a real trooper—Lindsay couldn’t take much more. When everyone else had given up on Judd, she hadn’t. And now, once again, she’d persuaded Griff to give the guy another chance to straighten up and fly right.

God, he hoped her faith in Judd wasn’t misplaced.

“We need to talk,” Nic Baxter said, as she came toward Griff, a scowl on her face. A really pretty face.

The woman was relentless. She had followed them to the airport. What part of Barbara Jean’s I’m-going-with-Mr. Powell statement didn’t she understand?

Give her some slack
, he told himself. Baxter’s just doing her job. Curtis Jackson would be doing the same thing. He’d keep trying to persuade Barbara Jean to accept FBI protection instead of flying off in the night with the owner of a private security firm. It wouldn’t have mattered to Curtis any more than it mattered to Nic that Griff could provide twenty-four-hour-a-day protection for Barbara Jean, as well as give her a job to keep her occupied and her mind off the fact that she was a key witness.

“Give it up, Baxter,” Griff said as Nic approached him. “Ms. Hughes has made her decision.”

With a hint of pink in her cheeks—a sign of her barely con trolled anger—Nic huffed loudly. A very unladylike sound.

“I understand that you want to nail this guy every bit as much as I do, but you have to know that your interference creates problems,” Nic said. “I can’t name a specific, but what if your involvement—your agency’s involvement—some how has already jeopardized this case? Why can’t you just back off and let us do our job?”

“My agency has done nothing to jeopardize your case,” Griff said. “I’ve made sure of that. Besides, there have been a few instances when we’ve actually helped you, given you information you didn’t have.”

Nic rolled her big brown eyes. “If anything happens to Barbara Jean—”

“Nothing will happen to her.”

“You can’t be sure of—”

“Neither could you. But I think she’d much prefer living and working on my estate to being hidden away in a safe house somewhere.”

“That was the clincher—the job offer. Money talks, doesn’t it, Mr. Powell?”

“Is that why you dislike me so much—because I’m rich?”

Nic grunted. “I dislike the fact that you use your money to get what you want.”

“No, that’s not it. You dislike me, not my money and power.”

“Off the record, just between the two of us?” She eyed him hostilely.

“Off the record, tell me exactly what you think.”

“I think you are an annoying, know-it-all, arrogant bastard.” Griff chuckled. “And, off the record, Nicole Baxter, you’re a self-righteous, irritating bitch.”

She simply stared at him for a full minute, then smiled. Her smile took him by surprise. There was something damned appealing about her when she smiled.

“When Barbara Jean is ready to work with a sketch artist—” Nic said.

“I’ll call you.”

“Before or after you hire your own sketch artist?”

“After,” he admitted. “Of course, if you were willing to share with me the way I share with you, it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“You know it’s against the rules.”

“And you never break the rules?”

“No. Never.”

Griff leaned down so that they were eye to eye and whispered, “Never say never, honey.”

Ruddy had rented a late model Chevrolet, something inconspicuous so that hopefully no one would remember either him or his car. And he’d dressed in a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, and a quilted jacket he’d bought at Wal-Mart. He hoped he looked like an average Joe.

He needed to learn the reason why there had been no recent updates in the local or national news about the vicious attack on Gale Ann Cain; so he had decided the best thing he could do was find out for himself by coming to Williamstown. Incognito.

Where better to pick up local gossip than the town’s Waffle House? When he’d parked outside, he’d seen a police car and hesitated coming inside. But after reminding himself that he had nothing to fear from the local lawmen, he entered the greasy spoon as if he were just a regular guy passing through town. As luck would have it, he managed to find a booth directly behind the two patrolmen who were eating a late dinner.

A tall, skinny waitress with chopped-off blond hair, streaked with purple and pink, refilled the two cops’ coffee cups, then stopped at his table.

“Want coffee?” She eyed his overturned cup.

He quickly righted the cup, smiled at her, and said, “Yes, please.”

After filling the cup to the rim, she said, “Do you know what you want?”

“Uh …” He glanced around and saw the menu was on the table. “What would you recommend?” He smiled at the girl whose name tag read
Tammy
.

“Depends. Do you want breakfast, a sandwich, or a regular dinner?”

“Breakfast. Maybe bacon and eggs.”

“Sure thing. Toast, too? Wheat or white?”

“White.”

“Scrambled eggs?”

He nodded.

When she left to place his order, he added creamer and sugar to the dark coffee as he listened to the roaring hum of human voices mingling with the clatter of dishes and meal preparation. No doubt the food here would be horrible, nowhere close to his usual standards, but if he could pick up even a tidbit of local gossip about the recent murder, it would be well worth him having to go slumming.

The two policemen were discussing basketball, something Ruddy knew absolutely nothing about. He had always hated sports. Physical Education had been his least favorite subject in Hobart Military School.

The waitress returned to the booth where the policemen sat, two dinner plates in her hands. She placed the hot meals in front of the cops, but instead of leaving, she lingered, apparently flirting with the one she called Mike.

“So, has it been a quiet night?” she asked.

“Yeah, pretty quiet,” Mike replied.

“Folks aren’t getting out much since that Cain woman was attacked,” the other cop said.

Smiling to himself, Ruddy picked up the coffee mug.

“Wasn’t that just awful?” Tammy said. “You know, a Licensed Practical Nurse from over at Williamstown General was in here yesterday, and she said she heard the guy chopped off Gale Ann Cain’s feet. Is that true?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mike said. “That’s stuff we aren’t supposed to discuss with civilians.”

“I understand. I just think it’s odd that since Chief Mahoney made a statement a couple of days ago, there hasn’t been another word about it on the local TV or in the paper. If that nurse hadn’t told us any different, we wouldn’t know the Cain woman was still alive.”

Ruddy’s hand shook so badly that coffee sloshed out of the cup and onto his fingers. He set the cup down and wiped his hand off with a paper napkin, all the while hoping no one had noticed.

“Not anymore, she isn’t,” Mike said.

“She died?” The waitress gasped.

“Hush up, Mike. You shouldn’t be telling Tammy anything about the case.”

“It’s not a secret,” Mike said. “The chief will be making an announcement sometime tonight.”

Ruddy’s heart stopped for a split second. Gale Ann Cain had lived? How was that possible? She should have bled to death rather quickly. Unless the person who had found her had gotten to her damn fast and somehow managed to keep her alive.

But what difference did any of that make now? The woman was dead.

Ruddy picked up his cup and took a sip of the bitter coffee. “I hope she was able to give the police a description of the guy before she died,” Tammy said.

Mike lowered his voice to a soft whisper. “Keep this strictly to yourself, Tammy.” The waitress nodded, her eyes bright with anticipation. “The Cain woman wasn’t able to ID her attacker, but they say her sister saw him and might be able to give the FBI a description.”

Ruddy strangled on the god-awful coffee. Of all the local gossip he had hoped to overhear, he’d never expected this tidbit of information. The sister? Ruddy’s mind whirled, trying to make sense of what he’d just overheard. Then it hit him. Had the sister been the woman in the wheelchair, the woman who had caught a glimpse of him as he left Gale Ann’s apartment building?

Chapter 6

Sonya Todd had been born and raised in Tupelo, Mississippi, so it was only natural that once she received a degree from the University of Mississippi, she would return home. It was what everyone had expected, including Sonya. But what should have been a quick and easy route from college graduation to a teaching position at her old alma mater, Tupelo High School, had instead been a long, disappointing ten-year struggle to achieve an impossible dream. She often wondered how different her life might have turned out if she hadn’t won the title of Miss Magnolia. Would she have forsaken her dream of becoming a teacher to pursue a career as a concert violinist?

What was that old saying about hindsight being twenty-twenty? All the “if onlys” in the world wouldn’t change a damn thing. She would never be twenty-two again. Never know that feeling of being on top of the world. But at this stage of her life, she felt lucky to have been given a second chance and she appreciated what she had now.

Being the band director at Tupelo High for the past two years, Sonya went to work each day with a positive attitude and a grateful heart. She was finally back home where she belonged, living only a couple of miles from her parents and in the same county as her two older brothers, their wives, and children. And for the first time since her divorce from Tom Harding, she was seriously dating.

Sonya glanced over at Tupelo High’s baseball coach, Paul Dryer, and smiled. Like she, Paul was divorced, no children and at thirty-nine, he was ready to settle down. Sonya, too, was ready for a long-term commitment, even remarriage one of these days. She wanted kids, too, and it wasn’t as if being thirty-five meant she had to rush into motherhood. Women past forty were giving birth to first babies every day, weren’t they?

“The jazz band is fantastic,” Paul said as he turned his vintage Mustang into Sonya’s driveway. “They sounded downright professional at tonight’s concert.”

“I’ve got a bunch of really talented kids in that band. I expect each of my seniors to win scholarships.”

“They all love you, you know. They want you to be proud of them.”

When Paul killed the engine, he turned to Sonya, a hopeful look in his soulful hazel eyes. As she gazed at him there in the semidarkness, with light from the nearby streetlight casting shadows across his smooth-shaven face, she thought what a nice face he had. Not handsome. Not really good-looking at all. Nothing to remind her of Tom Harding, who’d been far too handsome. No, Paul was nothing like her ex-husband.

Paul was a giant-size teddy bear, with thinning brown hair, hound-dog cheeks, and a pair of big, broad shoulders she could always lean on. He was, without a doubt, one of the good guys. Like her dad. Like her brothers, Charlie and Brady.

“Want to come in for some decaf coffee or herbal tea?” Sonya knew that Paul understood she was inviting him in for more than drinks and conversation. They had been dating since the beginning of the school year, but they hadn’t taken their relationship into the bedroom, not once in six months. Her choice. She appreciated the fact that he had been patient and understanding, but how long could she expect him to wait?

“Are you sure?” Paul asked.

Smiling, she nodded. “I’m sure.”

Grinning like an idiot, albeit a sweet idiot, Paul jumped out of the car, raced around the hood and opened the passenger door. Before she knew what was happening, he yanked her out and onto her feet, then planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her mouth.

Laughing, she pulled away and looked up at the big galoot. “If you don’t want coffee or tea, I have beer. Your favorite brand.”

“Let’s save the beer for later.” He winked at her, then draped his arm around her shoulders and rushed her toward the porch.

“Slow down. I can’t keep up with you. Your legs are much longer than mine.”

Chuckling, Paul stopped, swept her up into his arms and carried her straight to her front door.

This felt so right. Being with Paul. Loving Paul. Planning a future with Paul.

He supposed he could wait a little longer, a few more days, even a few more weeks. But time was running out. Less than two months and the game would end. The points were adding up, the last kill worth twenty points.

A redhead. Damn, what luck!

Thirty women. All former beauty queens. All still attractive. Blondes, brunettes, and redheads.

He sighed as memories of his most recent kill replayed in his mind, like a technicolor movie. Red blood. Creamy, soft skin. Rich, royal blue carpet.

What an utterly delicious game. A brilliant plan from the very beginning. A part of him would hate to see it end. But no game was meant to be played indefinitely. Sooner or later someone had to win. And someone had to lose.

He had no intention of losing.

You can’t rest on your laurels. Being overconfident can
result in defeat. We can’t have that, can we?