The Chosen

BEVERLY BARTON

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain as The Dying Game by HarperCollins 2008

This eBook edition published 2018

Copyright © Beverly Barton 2007

Cover design © Diane Meacham Design 2018

Cover photograph © Shutterstock

Beverly Barton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847560209

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780007281855

Version: 2018-06-04

Dedication

To Tyrone Power, Loretta Young, Sonja Henie, Richard Greene, John Payne, Maureen O’Hara, John Wayne, Errol Flynn, Olivia De Havilland, Alice Faye, Don Ameche, Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, Henry Fonda, Anne Baxter, James Stewart, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Greer Garson, Clark Gable, James Cagney, and countless other movie stars who shined so brightly in black and white on the old silver screen and brightened my childhood, filled my with life with romance and magic, and ignited my innate creativity.

Thank you, Daddy, for sharing your love of classic movies with me.

Contents

Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Epilogue Acknowledgments Keep Reading … About the Author Also by Beverly Barton About the Publisher

Prologue

The intensely bright lights blinded her. She couldn’t see anything except the white illumination that obscured everything else in her line of vision. She wished he would turn off the car’s headlights.

Judd didn’t like her to show houses to clients in the evenings. But her career as a Realtor was just getting off the ground and if she could sell this half-million dollar house to Mr. and Mrs. Farris, her percentage would be enough to furnish the nursery. Not that she was pregnant. Not yet. And not that her husband couldn’t well afford to furnish a nursery with the best of everything. It was just that Jennifer wanted the baby to be her gift to her wonderful husband and the nursery to be a gift from her to their child.

Holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the headlights, she walked down the sidewalk to meet John and Katherine Farris, an up-and-coming entrepreneurial couple planning to start a new business in Chattanooga. She had spoken only to John Farris. From their telephone conversations, she had surmised that John, like her own husband, was the type who liked to think he wore the pants in the family. Odd how, considering the fact that she believed herself to be a thoroughly modern woman, Jennifer loved Judd’s old-fashioned sense of protectiveness.

When John Farris parked his black Mercedes and opened the driver’s door, Jennifer met him, her hand outstretched in greeting. He accepted her hand immediately and smiled warmly.

“Good evening, Mr. Farris.” Jennifer glanced around, searching for Mrs. Farris.

“I’m sorry, something came up at the last minute that delayed Katherine. She’ll be joining us soon.”

When John Farris raked his silvery blue eyes over her, Jennifer shuddered inwardly, an odd sense of uneasiness settling in the pit of her stomach. You’re being silly, she told herself. Men found her attractive. And it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t do anything to lead them on, nothing except simply being beautiful, which she owed to the fact that she’d inherited great genes from her attractive parents.

Jennifer sighed. Sometimes being a former beauty queen was a curse.

“If you’d like to wait for your wife before you look at the house, I can go ahead and answer any questions you might have. I’ve got all the information in my briefcase in my car.”

He shook his head. “No need to wait. I’d like to take a look around now. If I don’t like the place, Katherine won’t be interested.”

“Oh, I see.”

He chuckled. “It’s not that she gives in to me on everything. We each try to please the other. Isn’t that the way to have a successful marriage?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s certainly what Judd and I have been trying to do. We’re a couple of newlyweds just trying to make our way through that first year of marriage.” Jennifer nodded toward the front entrance to the sprawling glass-and-log house. “If you’ll follow me.”

“I’d be delighted to follow you.”

Despite his reply sending a quiver of apprehension along her nerve endings, she kept walking toward the front steps, telling herself that if she had to defend her honor against unwanted advances, it wouldn’t be the first time. She knew how to handle herself in sticky situations. She carried pepper spray in her purse and her cell phone rested securely in her jacket pocket.

After unlocking the front door, she flipped on the light switch, which illuminated the large foyer. “The house was built in nineteen-seventy-five by an architect for his own personal home.”

John Farris paused in the doorway. “How many rooms?”

“Ten,” she replied, then motioned to him. “Please, come on in.”

He entered the foyer and glanced around, up into the huge living room and to the right into the open dining room. “It seems perfect for entertaining.”

“Oh, it is. There’s a state-of-the-art kitchen. It was completely gutted and redone only four years ago by the present owner.”

“I’d like to take a look,” he told her. “I’m the chef in the family. Katherine can’t boil water.”

Feeling a bit more at ease, Jennifer led him from the foyer, through the dining room, and into the galley-style kitchen. “I love this kitchen. I’m not much of a cook myself, but I’ve been taking gourmet cooking lessons as a surprise for my husband.”

“Isn’t he a lucky man.”

Jennifer felt Mr. Farris as he came up behind her. Shuddering nervously, she started to turn to face him, but suddenly and without warning, he grabbed her from behind and covered her face with a foul-smelling rag.

No. No … no, this can’t be happening.

* * *

Had she been unconscious for a few minutes or a few hours? She didn’t know. When she came to, she realized she was sitting propped up against the wall in the kitchen, her feet tied together with rope and her hands pulled over her head, each wrist bound with individual pieces of rope that had been tied to the door handles of two open kitchen cabinet doors.

Groggy, slightly disoriented, Jennifer blinked several times, then took a deep breath and glanced around the room, searching for her attacker. John Farris loomed over her, an odd smile on his face.

“Well, hello, beautiful,” he said. “I was wondering how long you’d sleep. I’ve been waiting patiently for you to wake up. You’ve been out nearly fifteen minutes.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice a ragged whisper.

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“What do you think I intend to do?”

“Rape me.” Her voice trembled.

Please, God, don’t let him kill me.

He laughed. “What sort of man do you think I am? I’d never force myself on an unwilling woman.”

“Please, let me go. Whatever—” She gasped, her mouth sucking in air as she noticed that he held something shiny in his right hand.

A meat cleaver!

Sheer terror claimed her at that moment, body and soul. Her stomach churned. Sweat dampened her face. The loud rat-a-tat-tat of her accelerated heartbeat thundered in her ears.

He reached down with his left hand and fingered her long, dark hair. “If only you were a blonde or a redhead.”

Jennifer swallowed hard. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me with that meat cleaver. He’ll chop me up in little pieces …

She whimpered. Oh, Judd, why didn’t I listen to you? Why did I come here alone tonight?

“Are you afraid?” John Farris asked.

“Yes.”

“You should be,” he told her.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

He laughed again. Softly.

“Please … please …” She cried. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

He came closer. And closer. He raised the meat cleaver high over her head, then swung it across her right wrist.

Blood splattered on the cabinet, over her head, and across her upper body as her severed right hand tumbled downward and hit the floor.

Pain! Excruciating pain.

And then he lifted the cleaver and swung down and across again, cutting off her left hand with one swift, accurate blow.

Jennifer passed out.

Chapter 1

There are some things far worse than dying. Judd Walker knew only too well the agony of simply existing, of being neither dead nor truly alive. For the past three years, eight months, and two days, he had lived in a world without Jennifer. In the beginning, the pain had been unbearable. His anger and rage had nourished him, keeping him breathing, allowing him to continue from one day to the next in a fog of torment. And then a few months after his sweet Jenny’s funeral, the fog had lifted and his one goal in life had become clear— to find and destroy his wife’s killer.

A part of him—some far removed, distant part—still loved Jennifer. Except for that faint, lingering emotion, he felt nothing, only a goddamn, blessed numbness. Even the anger and rage had burned out, leaving him little more than subhuman, caring for nothing and no one. Wanting—needing—only one thing from life: Revenge! His goal of tracking down his wife’s killer had become his only reason for living.

Judd dropped to his knees beside the snow-covered grave. He hadn’t wanted to come here, had tried his best to stay away; but the overwhelming need to be near Jennifer on their anniversary controlled his actions. February the fourteenth. Valentine’s Day. Jennifer had been a hopeless romantic, a trait that he’d thought silly in other women, but had found utterly charming in the woman he loved.

The woman he loved …

Judd reached out and ran a shaky hand over the chiseled letters on his wife’s headstone. She had been laid to rest here in the Walker private cemetery, in Hamilton County, alongside his parents, his older sibling who’d died as an infant, and countless noteworthy ancestors who were a part of southeastern Tennessee history.

As his father before him, Judd had been one of the most sought-after bachelors in the state. A real catch. A former Chattanooga district attorney with a reputation as a man who genuinely cared about the welfare of the citizens of his county. The only surviving child of parents who had each inherited an ungodly fortune, Judd had known wealth and privilege all his life. But he’d wanted more—more than being Judge Judson Walker IV’s son, more than being Senator Nathaniel Chisholm’s grandson. And more had been expected of him. He had been brought up to believe that he was, and always would be, one of the good guys, a man destined to help his fellow man.

“Why you, Jenny? Why did it have to be you?” Judd shivered as the damp and cold seeped through his jeans, the slushy, wet snow dampening his knees. The winter wind whipped through the old, battered, leather jacket he wore.

In his mind’s eye, he could still see Jennifer, the way she had looked the last time he’d seen her alive. Beautiful. Vibrant. Happy.

God help him, he should feel something—anything. He should be crying … ranting … raving. Or at the very least, his wife’s memory should evoke a sentimental melancholy.

Nothing.

Dry-eyed, cold, and somber, Judd rose to his feet. Before leaving the cemetery, he gazed down at Jennifer’s grave one final time. He wouldn’t come back again, not even next year on their anniversary. There was no point in pretending to mourn, not when there was only emptiness left inside him, only embers of his once fiery emotions.

“You deserved better, Jenny.” Judd’s voice blended with the howling winter wind. “If it takes me the rest of my life, I promise that I’ll find him, and I’ll make him pay for what he did to you.”

Judd walked down the narrow path that led to the arched wrought-iron gates guarding the family cemetery. Gazing up at the night sky, he blinked as the melting snow hit his face. With moisture coating his beard stubble and shaggy hair and beading on his leather jacket, he yanked open the driver’s door on the old Mercedes that had belonged to his father. He glanced over his shoulder and took a deep breath.

“Happy Anniversary, Jenny.”

He slid behind the wheel, inserted the key into the ignition, started the car, and drove away.

The only reason Griffin Powell had accepted Jillian and Gil Russell’s invitation to their dinner party was a long, lean, luscious redhead named Laura Barrett. Laura and Jillian had been best friends since their sorority days at Vanderbilt, and Griff and Laura had become casual lovers when he’d invested in her father’s faltering horse breeding farm several months ago. He found Laura, as a person, mildly interesting; as a lover, she was quite talented. Even though she might have originally had a misguided idea that their relationship would lead to marriage, they both understood that this trip to Knoxville would be her last, that their affair was coming to an end.

Laura tightened her grip on Griff’s arm. “There’s someone you simply have to meet.”

“Is there?” Griff replied.

“Yes, darling. It’s Royce Palmer.” Laura all but dragged Griff across the crowded room.

“Who’s Royce Palmer?”

“My ex-fiancé.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not the least bit jealous, are you?”

Before Griff could think of a diplomatic response, Henry Lewis waylaid them. The University of Tennessee professor placed his thin, bony hand on Griff’s shoulder. “Still getting all the pretty girls, I see.”

Griff smiled at Hank despite the fact that the feel of the man’s hand on his shoulder made him slightly uncomfortable. Even when they’d been students together at the university, Griff had sensed something a little off-center about the guy. They had never been friends, but now ran into each other occasionally at various functions because they both belonged to the alumni association and traveled in the same social circle. The only difference was that Hank had been born rich and thus entitled. Griff had come by his vast wealth through a combination of blood, sweat, and tears.

“Laura Barrett, may I introduce Hank Lewis.” He eyed the lanky, slightly balding man. “Or would you prefer to be introduced as Professor Henry Lewis?”

Laura faked a smile. Hank removed his hand from Griff’s shoulder and grasped Laura’s hand, much to her surprise. She gasped softly.

While Hank babbled his way through what he probably thought was some witty repartee, Griff zoned out and leisurely scanned the Russells’ massive living room. The crème de la crème of Knoxville society was in attendance, along with several out-of-towners. Interior designer Mark Crosby spied Griff, raised his hand and waved. Mark was the best in the state, and that was the reason Griff had hired him to decorate both his office suite and his home.

Who was the man talking to Mark? Griff wondered. He looked vaguely familiar, but Griff couldn’t quite place him.

“Who’s the fellow with Mark?” Griff interrupted the going-nowhere conversation between Laura and Hank.

Gazing up thankfully at Griff, Laura said, “That’s Cary Maygarden, from Nashville. We met him at the Fentons’ New Year’s Eve Ball in Atlanta. Don’t you remember?”

“Is he in the country music business?” Hank asked.

“Goodness, no.” Laura laughed. “The Maygarden family is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most prestigious in Nashville. Cary’s great-great-something-or-other was a contemporary of Andrew Jackson.”

Griff grunted.

“Please excuse us, Hank.” Laura tugged on Griff’s arm. “We simply have to say hello to an old friend before we leave.”

“We’re leaving?” Griff grinned. Nothing would please him more.

“Of course we are. I’m returning to Louisville in a few days. I want you all to myself for a little while this evening.”

Hank choked on his own saliva and awkwardly excused himself.

“Very effective,” Griff said, once Hank was out of earshot.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You as good as told old Hank that you intend to have your way with me tonight.”

“I do,” Laura said, a wistful expression on her lovely face. Then her expression changed, hardened; and she laughed. “Let’s call it what it is, shall we?”

“And that would be?”

Still smiling, she lowered her voice ever so slightly. “A farewell fuck.”

Never let it be said that Laura didn’t know how to make a point. Griff placed his hand on her back and let it trail slowly downward, stopping just below her waist. When she started to speak, he grasped her elbow and maneuvered her forward, directly toward her former fiancé. Before they reached Royce Palmer, Griff leaned down and whispered in Laura’s ear.

“I think a farewell fuck should always be memorable, don’t you?”

As if she hadn’t even heard him, Laura held out her hand to the man she had once been engaged to. “Royce, darling, how good to see you.” She turned to Griff. “Sweetheart, this is Royce Palmer, an old and dear friend.” She hugged closely to Griff’s side as she zeroed in on the other man. “You know Griffin Powell, don’t you? The Griff Powell, UT legend, and one of the most sought-after bachelors in the state of Tennessee.”

Shortly after three in the morning, Ruddy removed his tuxedo jacket and hung it in the closet, then removed the diamond cuff links from his white shirt and placed them in the jewelry case. He’d left the party rather early because he’d been bored.

Ruddy hated being bored.

But a man in his position had to attend a certain number of these mundane affairs. It was expected.

After removing his shoes and stripping out of his other clothing, he retrieved a pair of silk pajamas from the wardrobe drawer. He stroked the luxurious fabric. Ruddy bought only the best.

Once attired in his pajamas, leather house slippers, and quilted satin robe, Ruddy went downstairs and entered his study. After pouring himself a small nightcap, he walked straight to the wall of bookshelves on the right, removed a specific book, pressed the button on the wall, and waited for the secret compartment to open. That’s what he loved about this old house—the secret chambers. Like something out of a 1930s movie. How utterly delicious. There was one chamber between the study and the front parlor and another in the basement. Since he seldom went down to the basement, except when he personally retrieved a bottle of wine, he preferred the small, private, upstairs chamber.

Entering this room transported Ruddy into another world, a realm of pleasure and satisfaction that he had created for himself four and a half years ago. He flipped on the light switch. Soft, mellow illumination filled the eight-by-fourteen-foot room. He moved slowly along the back wall, studying the photographs mounted side by side. Thirty-two enlarged photos of sixteen different women, each one a true beauty. Ruddy paused in front of the most recent addition to his collection: Gale Ann Cain—before and after. The before photograph had been taken years ago when she’d won the Miss USA contest and gone on to compete in the Miss Universe Pageant. The after snapshot had been taken with Ruddy’s tiny digital camera moments after he had killed her, less than forty-eight hours ago.

“Thank you, my pretty flower,” Ruddy said.

After months of searching, he had specifically chosen Gale Ann because of her fabulous red hair. Redheads were the most rare, the most precious.

His fingertips traced his handiwork, gliding smoothly across the snapshot, pausing on her slender ankles.

The sound of her screams echoed inside Ruddy’s head.

The first kill had been the most difficult. He had hated the woman’s screams. But with each kill, the act itself had become easier, and eventually, he had begun to enjoy hearing their screams.

* * *

“The Beauty Queen Killer has struck again.”

The words were no sooner out of Sanders’s mouth than Lindsay McAllister shot out of bed and ran barefoot to the open doorway of her bedroom where her boss’s personal assistant stood. He had awakened her moments before with a loud knock and an urgency in his voice when he called her name.

“Have you gotten in touch with Griff?” she asked, knowing their employer had probably spent the night with his latest lady friend, a Kentucky divorcée who was visiting her sorority sister in Knoxville. The woman’s family raised thoroughbred Derby winners, and Griff had invested in the faltering horse-breeding farm last fall. She often thought her boss had a white knight complex. He seemed to like nothing better than rushing in to save the day.

“Yes,” Sanders replied. “He’s on his way home. He should be here soon.”

“Give me fifteen minutes to shower and dress,” Lindsay said.

Sanders nodded. Not for the first time, she noticed the man’s military bearing. Although she had worked with him for three and a half years, she knew absolutely nothing about his past, but she suspected that at sometime in his life, he had been a soldier. She had no idea how old he was, but guessed his age to be somewhere between fifty and sixty. At five-ten, he was not a large man, but stocky-built, and with his head shaved as slick as a billiard ball, he looked like a muscular, physically fit fireplug. But what set him apart more than anything else were his eyes. An intense brown so dark that they appeared black. And there was an emptiness in those hypnotic eyes that perpetually puzzled Lindsay.

“I’ll have coffee ready for you when you come down.” Sanders turned to leave.

She called to him, “Who, where, and how?”

Sanders paused, but kept his back to her. “Gale Ann Cain. Williamstown, Kentucky. He chopped off both of her feet.”

“She was a dancer.” Lindsay voiced the comment more to herself than Sanders. The killer that the Powell Agency had been tracking for nearly four years murdered his victims in various ways, each specific to the former beauty queen’s talent in her pageant’s contest.

Sanders’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly. “Lyrical dance. She’s a former contestant in the Miss Universe Pageant.”

“You mean she was,” Lindsay corrected.

“No, I mean she is. Ms. Cain is still alive.”

“What!”

“She didn’t die. Her sister found her before she bled to death.”

“My God! Do you know what this means?”

Sanders nodded, then walked away.

Lindsay’s heartbeat accelerated. Her pulse pounded loudly in her ears. After over three and a half years of searching for a manically clever killer, they had finally gotten a break. If the victim was still alive …

Lindsay closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for a woman she had never met, for a woman lying in a Kentucky hospital, missing both of her feet, the victim of a man to whom murder was some sort of sick game.

After closing her bedroom door and heading to the bathroom, Lindsay shucked off her oversized orange Vols T-shirt and slipped out of her white lace bikini panties.

When she had first moved from Chattanooga to Knox County to take a job with the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency, she’d taken Griffin Powell up on his offer to stay at his sprawling twenty-room mansion situated on a hundred acres bordering Douglas Lake, near the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. She had intended to stay only until she’d found an apartment of her own, but what should have been a one-month stay had turned into three years and counting.

Lindsay turned on the shower, then gathered up a couple of towels and a washcloth. After placing the towels on the mat outside the ceramic-tiled shower unit, she stepped beneath the warm water and quickly lathered her short hair.

Some people assumed that because she not only worked closely with the big man himself but she was the only Powell agent who lived in Griff’s home, the two were lovers. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Through their years together—each of them having their own agenda for being obsessed with the beauty queen murders— she and Griff had formed a bond of friendship. He had become more like a protective big brother than anything else.

Stepping out of the shower, Lindsay towel-dried her curly hair and hurried through her daily morning routine. She was a low-maintenance kind of woman. Short hair, short nails, a little blush on her cheeks, light lip gloss, and a whiff of fresh linen body spray. On her downtime, she dressed for comfort. On the job she preferred a casual look—slacks, shirt, and jacket, all in neutral shades. Her only jewelry, other than a sensible Fossil wristwatch, was a pair of diamond ear studs. A Christmas present from Griff.

After dressing hurriedly, Lindsay ran down the backstairs that led to the massive kitchen. Sanders stood behind the granite-topped bar, a glass coffeepot in his meaty hand. Griffin Powell, his unbuttoned overcoat hanging apart to reveal his rumpled white shirt and tuxedo, halted in the doorway leading into the kitchen from the mudroom, and wiped his snow-smeared dress shoes off on a sturdy floor mat.

Lindsay paused on the bottom step as her gaze zipped from Sanders to Griff. A silent understanding passed between her and her boss. They were both thinking the same thing— how will this affect Judd?

“Do you want me to call him?” she asked.

Griff shook his head. “I’ve already tried. Both his home phone and cell phone are no longer in service.”

Lindsay groaned. “I’m not surprised.”

“Neither am I.” Griff shook the snow from his short, platinum-blond hair, then removed his overcoat and tossed it over a nearby kitchen chair. “The last time I saw him, he was just one step away from being a mad hermit.”

“Will you try again to contact him or—?”

“Why don’t you drive down there this morning and see what you find,” Griff said. “If he’s even halfway sane, tell him what’s happened, stay with him and try to keep him in line as much as possible.”

The thought of seeing Judd again—how long had it been, six months?—rattled Lindsay’s nerves. When the Beauty Queen Killer struck three months ago, right before Thanksgiving, she had begged off working with Judd. And knowing their past history, Griff had allowed her one free pass. Apparently she wasn’t due another.

“And if I’d prefer not to work with Judd, not to see him …?”

Sanders cleared his throat. “Either of you want breakfast?”

“No,” they both said simultaneously.

Sanders placed the coffeepot back on the hot plate, then without saying a word, walked out of the kitchen.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” Griff said. “Your life has been Judd Walker-free for six months. You’ve been dating that hotshot young doctor, so I thought maybe you might have finally worked through your personal demons.”

“Getting rid of those personal demons is a work-in-progress.” Lindsay went over to the coffeemaker, lifted the pot from the hot plate, and poured coffee into the two mugs Sanders had placed on the counter.

With filled mugs in hand, she walked across the room and offered one to Griff. He accepted the mug, took a sip of the hot brew and locked his gaze to hers.

“Judd has been one of my best friends for a long time,” Griff said. “If I thought we could save him, I’d move heaven and earth to do it. But Lindsay, honey, you can’t save a man who doesn’t want to be saved. He may be too far gone now. He lives for nothing but revenge. Not justice. Not salvation. Not peace. Just revenge.”

“Then why send me down there to help him, if he can’t be helped?”

“Even if neither of us can save Judd, we’re the only two people left who give a damn about him. No matter what, we need to see this thing through to the end with him. It’s what we both have to do.” He hesitated for a millisecond, then added, “And it’s the only way you’ll ever be completely free.”

Emotion welled up inside Lindsay, feelings she had tried so very hard to keep deeply buried, after she had realized she couldn’t vanquish them altogether. “What if he wants to go to Kentucky and see Gale Ann Cain?”

“I’m flying up to Williamstown later this morning,” Griff said. “I’ll keep you posted on Ms. Cain’s condition. And if Judd is acting like himself enough actually to give a shit about Ms. Cain, then don’t try to stop him from coming to see her. As a matter of fact, drive him straight to the hospital yourself.”

Chapter 2

Last night’s snow had turned into a cold, relentless rain. The windshield wipers on Lindsay’s two-year-old Trailblazer LT swished back and forth at high speed, barely able to keep one step ahead of the heavy downpour. She was at the halfway point between Griff’s home in Knox County and the old hunting lodge in Marion County that had belonged to the Walker family for several generations. She had headed out at nine-thirty this morning, shortly after dropping Griff off at the private airstrip where he kept his personal jet. Actually, it was the company’s jet—Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency—but since Griff was the sole owner, it was a moot point. In good weather, she could easily make the trip in a little over two hours, but with visibility practically nil, she’d be lucky to arrive at her destination in three hours.

Griff had known she didn’t want to see Judd again, yet he’d sent her off on this assignment anyway. She could have questioned him about his decision or even refused, but she’d known Griff long enough to realize he never did anything without a reason.

And that reason would be? she questioned herself.

Maybe it was because Griff knew that if this new Beauty Queen Killer case didn’t snap Judd back to life, from out of that no-man’s-land where he existed, then nothing ever would. Now, with a victim who had actually survived, this was the first real break they’d gotten in tracking down Jennifer Mobley Walker’s killer. If Gale Ann Cain could identify her attacker…

If … if … i f…

What if she couldn’t identify the madman who had chopped off both her feet? What if she never came out of the coma? What if she died? Was it fair to build up Judd’s hopes, to make him believe they actually had a shot at finding out who had killed his wife?

As the windshield wipers’ mesmerizing song hummed in rhythm to the drumming raindrops, and the miles along Highway 28 zipped by, Lindsay’s thoughts wandered backward to a day she would never forget—her first case as a brand new homicide detective for the Chattanooga Police Department. She had been partnered with Lt. Dan Blake, a veteran cop who had been her dad’s partner ten years earlier, before her father had been shot down by an escaping felon. Dan had taken her under his wing, guided her through her rise in the CPD, from rookie to detective, and had become like a second father to her.

They had arrived at the house shortly after midnight and took over from the uniformed officers—Marshall and Landers— who’d been first on the scene.

“The call came in from Ms. Walker’s boss, the owner of Archer/Hert Realty. It seems Mr. Walker became concerned when his wife was late coming home and he couldn’t reach her on her cell phone, so he called her boss. Mr. Archer was also unable to contact Ms. Walker on her cell, so he drove out to the house she’d been showing and found—” Officer Landers swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen anything like it and I hope I never—”

“That bad, huh,” Dan said as he passed by Landers and entered the sprawling seventies ranch house. Lindsay followed, pausing in the foyer when Dan stopped to take a look around. Officer Marshall stood in the foyer talking quietly to a small, gray-haired man who looked as if he’d been crying.

The minute Officer Marshall heard the door open, he turned to face Dan. “Lieutenant, this is Mr. Archer. He’s the one who found Mrs. Walker’s body.” The officer nodded the direction. “In there, in the kitchen.”

“It’s the most god-awful thing I’ve ever seen.” Archer’s voice quivered with emotion. “How could anyone have done something so terrible to Jennifer?”

“Take Mr. Archer outside and let him get some fresh air,” Dan said. “And let me know the minute the CSI boys arrive.” He turned to Lindsay. “Are you ready for this?”

She nodded.

“If you get sick, don’t worry about it,” he told her. “It’s happened to all of us at least once.”

“I’ll be okay.” She felt quite confident that she could handle whatever they found. After all, she had watched several autopsies and hadn’t experienced more than momentary nausea, hadn’t she? And she had viewed pictures of countless corpses in various stages of decomposition and hadn’t even flinched.

Dan slipped on his disposable gloves and headed through the house, inspecting one room at a time. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lindsay mimicked his actions. When Dan stopped abruptly in the kitchen doorway, Lindsay almost skidded into his back. She managed to sidestep him and wound up to his right, which enabled her to glance around him and into the kitchen.

Barely restraining a shocked gasp, Lindsay stared in disbelief at the slender young woman sitting on the floor, her head bowed, as if praying, her mane of long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Thin nylon rope crisscrossed her ankles, binding her feet together. Her arms, pulled up above her head, were bound with the same type of rope and were attached to two open cabinet doors.

“Sweet Jesus,” Dan said.

The woman’s hands, severed at the wrists, lay on either side of her hips, only a few inches from her thighs. Two large pools of rich, drying blood permeated the kitchen, emitting a distinct metallic scent and creating ebony-red stains where the victim’s life’s blood had drained from her body.

“The son of a bitch chopped off her hands.” Dan glared at the discarded meat cleaver lying at the dead woman’s feet.

Lindsay didn’t know what to say, had no idea how to respond to her partner’s comments. She wasn’t sure Dan expected her to reply.

As she surveyed the dead woman from head to toe, Lindsay noted one small item that seemed totally out of place in the gory scene. “There’s a flower in her lap.”

“A red rose,” Dan said. “Probably our killer’s calling card.”

Lindsay made a mental check of red rose connotations she’d heard during her lifetime. The one that came to mind first was that a red rose means I love you. Nope, that couldn’t be it, could it? Then the lyrics to an old song hummed through her head. It was called “Red roses for a blue lady” she seemed to remember.

“Let’s just back out of here and wait for our CSI team. If we’re lucky our guy left more than a red rose behind.” Dan closed his eyes, grunted and shook his head in disgust. “Why do some of them have to resort to slicing-and-dicing their victims?”

She was certain that comment had been rhetorical, so she kept quiet and took several steps backward, giving Dan room to turn around. But before Dan could close the kitchen door, a ruckus of some sort broke out from the foyer. The sound of Officer Landers’s voice rang out loud and clear.

“Sir, you can’t go back there,” Landers said.

“The hell I can’t,” the agitated baritone replied.

Feet stomping. Grunts. Curses. A thud.

“Mr. Walker, come back here,” Landers cried. “Stop now!”

Judd Walker, former Chattanooga District Attorney and presently a successful lawyer who was expected to run for office in the next gubernatorial race, came storming toward Dan and Lindsay.

“Where is she?” Judd demanded.

“Mr. Walker …” Dan approached the victim’s husband.

Lindsay eased backward, placing herself in front of the closed kitchen door.

Judd glared at Lindsay. “Get out of my way. I want to see my wife.”

“No, sir, you don’t want to see her.” Dan reached out to grab Judd’s arm, but Judd shook off Dan’s tentative grasp and moved past him.

With Dan behind him and Lindsay in front of him, Judd paused for a split second and glowered at Lindsay. “Don’t try to stop me. I’ve never hit a woman—”

“Then don’t start now.” Dan grabbed Judd from behind.

Judd whirled around and shucked off Dan’s grasp. He drew back his closed fist and punched Dan in the stomach before either Dan or Lindsay realized the man’s intentions. Groaning, Dan doubled over in pain.

Lindsay took a deep, bracing breath, and the minute Judd turned, she sent a swift right hook into his jaw, momentarily stunning him. Staggering slightly, obviously startled by her unexpected attack, Judd quickly focused on his single objective. While Dan managed to recover enough to draw his pistol from his shoulder holster, Judd shoved Lindsay aside, an easy feat for him since she was half his size. At that precise moment, Lindsay decided she needed to master some type of martial art.

Judd Walker thrust open the kitchen door.

“Please stop, Mr. Walker,” Lindsay called to him. “Don’t go in there. Don’t touch anything. You’ll compromise the crime scene.”

Dan tromped past Lindsay, halted just inside the kitchen, and aimed his Magnum at Judd Walker’s back.

“You’re not going to shoot him,” Lindsay said.

Shaking his head, Dan lowered his weapon. “God damn it. I should have been able to stop him, but he caught me off guard. I must be getting too old for this job.”

Lindsay barely heard a word Dan said and hardly noticed Officers Landers and Marshall, who had arrived seconds too late to assist them. She watched as Judd Walker dropped to his knees and pulled his wife into his arms. He didn’t cry, didn’t rant and rave. He held her tenderly, his trembling fingers caressing her pale cheek.

“We’ve got to get him out of there.” Dan motioned to Landers and Marshall.

As Dan and the officers cautiously entered the kitchen, it happened, stopping them dead in their tracks. Judd Walker let out an earsplitting scream, the sound so horrific that Lindsay heard it in her nightmares for years to come.

Swish, swish. Back and forth. The wipers smeared the freezing rain across the windshield of Lindsay’s metallic blue SUV. Damn, that cold rain had turned into a rain/ice mix. Just what she needed. The state and county work crews would keep the main roadways clear, but the Walker hunting lodge was off the beaten path, the last five miles on a gravel road. A four-wheel drive did great in snow, but was no better than any other vehicle on ice.

Did she hope the roads became impassable? Was she looking for any excuse to avoid seeing Judd again? Probably. No, not probably. Definitely. The last time she’d had to deal with him, she’d sworn never again. The man was an unfeeling bastard. Yes, he’d lost his wife, his beloved Jennifer. Yes, the former Miss Tennessee had been murdered— her hands whacked off—by a psycho monster. Yes, Judd had deserved sympathy, compassion, and understanding. And she had given him all three, in spades, as had Griff. Hell, everybody who’d ever known him—and countless others who had never met him personally—had felt the man’s pain. But it had been nearly four years since Jenny Walker’s death, and it was way past time for Judd to return to the land of the living.

Of course, he would never be the man he once was. How could he be? No one expected that to happen. But where at one time Lindsay had held out hope that Judd would go through the grieving process and shed his crazed vigilante persona, she now accepted the fact that his grief and rage had sucked all other human emotions out of him. If not for his thirst for revenge, Judd Walker wouldn’t exist.

As soon as Griffin’s plane landed at the small commercial airport in Williamstown, Kentucky, he called Sanders.

“Any word on Gale Ann Cain’s condition?”

“Nothing, other than she’s still alive,” Sanders said.

“Heard anything from Lindsay?”

“No, but we didn’t expect to this soon, did we?”

“Not really.”

“You’re concerned about her having to confront Mr. Walker again.”

Griff didn’t reply immediately, hating to admit that he actually was concerned about Lindsay. “She’ll be all right. She’s tough.”

“Yes, sir.”

Whenever Sanders became formal enough with Griff to say “sir” to him, he immediately understood that his assistant was showing his disapproval. “Judd needs her,” Griff said. “She’s the only one who has a prayer of reaching him on any level.”

Silence.

“It’s not as if she’s a lamb being led to the slaughter.”

“No, sir.”

Griff knew when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em, especially with Sanders. It was definitely time to fold ’em.

“If you hear from her—”

“I’ll contact you, sir.”

Damn it, Lindsay McAllister was tough. She was a former police officer who’d done a short stint as a Chattanooga PD detective. Her old man had been a cop, as had his father before him. She had grown up as a tomboy, or so she had told him, preferring to play baseball with the boys instead of Barbie dolls with the other girls. Small-boned, petite, and slender, Lindsay should have projected an image of dainty femininity. Instead, with her pale, curly blond hair cut short and very little makeup covering her freckled nose and cheeks, she came across as a no-nonsense, no frills woman. If anyone made the mistake of thinking she was fragile, all they had to do was cross her. Since he had first met her, she had acquired topnotch martial arts skills, had become an expert marksman, and hid the emotional side of her nature as well as any man.

He liked Lindsay. Respected her. And in many ways had come to think of her more as a kid sister than an employee.

They had met almost four years ago, shortly after Jennifer Walker’s brutal murder. Lindsay had been partnered with Dan Blake, the lead detective on Jenny’s murder case; and he’d never seen anyone more determined to solve a crime than she had been. At first, he had chalked up her perseverance in finding Jenny’s killer to a rookie detective’s need to prove herself. But as the weeks and months went by, he realized that the case had become personal to Lindsay. Sometime between meeting Judd at the scene of his wife’s murder and becoming acquainted with him as a grieving widower obsessed with revenge, Lindsay had fallen in love with Judd Walker.

Griffin slid behind the wheel of the rental car, a two-year-old Lincoln. He’d never been to Williamstown, Kentucky, so he’d asked for directions to the hospital before he left the airport. He doubted that, in a town this size, even a direction-challenged person could get lost.

Three miles from the small airport, Griff took a left on Elmwood Street, which meant he should be less than five minutes from the hospital where Gale Ann Cain lay in a semi-coma, heavily drugged, and teetering between life and death. The former Miss Universe contestant was only one in a long line of former beauty queens who had been savagely attacked in the past four and a half years. By Griff’s—and the FBI’s—count, Ms. Cain was victim number twenty-nine. But neither he nor the FBI could be sure that all twenty-nine murders had been committed by the same person, and therefore weren’t positive that the murders were all connected. Nor could they be certain that there hadn’t been other victims.

Griff’s gut instincts told him all twenty-nine had a definite connection.

The victims had not been confined to one city, county, or state, making their killer nomadic, a guy who traveled around in search of the perfect target. But these women had not been chosen at random. Not by a long shot. The common denominator in these crimes was the fact that each woman had been a winner in some kind of beauty pageant—local, statewide, national, or international. Not one victim had been older than thirty-five. And each had still been beautiful.

Jennifer Mobley Walker had possessed a flashy kind of beauty: Big brown eyes, lustrous dark hair, full lips, large breasts, and long legs that went on forever. And she had been blessed with a bubbly, enthusiastic personality that drew people to her. To know Jenny was to love Jenny.

No one had been more surprised than Griff when his old friend, Judd Walker, a confirmed bachelor, had fallen head over heels for the former Miss Tennessee and married her less than a year after their first date. Women throughout the state had mourned the loss of such a desirable catch. Rich, handsome, and charming.

That had been then—five years ago.

The three-story hospital came into view as Griff neared the turnoff on to Pickler Avenue. If Gale Ann Cain lived long enough to ID her attacker, they would have a chance of catching this guy and stopping him before he killed again. Griff wasn’t sure that arresting the man and bringing him to justice could save Judd’s soul, but it was sure and certain that nothing else would. During the nearly four years he had worked on this case, he had done his utmost to stay detached, as much as it was possible when a friend was involved. But both he, Sanders, and especially Lindsay had become borderline-obsessed with seeing justice done.

After parking the rental car in the crowded visitors’ lot, Griff slipped on his leather gloves, tightened the silk scarf around his neck, and buttoned up his water-repellent overcoat. The harsh February wind bombarded him, chilling his face, and putting a giddyup in his step.

At the information desk in the lobby area, he acquired instructions on reaching the ICU unit.

As he stepped off the elevator, he unbuttoned his tan overcoat and unwrapped the scarf from his neck. He hated the sounds, smells, and sights in a hospital. Medicinal scents blended with the aroma of cleaning products and the stench of human sickness and death. Passing by patients’ rooms, he tried not to glance inside the open doors, tried to avoid viewing the weak, infirm, ill men and women. His avoidance came not from empathy, but from a lack of it, and Griff hated the phlegmatic elements in his nature that were so alien to his former self. A by-product of surviving at all costs, he surmised.

When he entered the intensive care waiting room, a twelve-by-fourteen-foot, windowless cubbyhole filled with a small group of bleary-eyed, rumpled men and women, he removed his leather gloves and stuffed them into his overcoat pocket. A few of the people in the room appeared to have slept on the two brown vinyl sofas and in the mismatched collection of uncomfortable-looking vinyl chairs. An assortment of small pillows and blankets of various sizes and colors lay scattered about haphazardly on the furniture and the floor.

Griff had no idea if Gale Ann Cain had a husband or siblings or parents besides her sister who might be here. The information Sanders had received had been sketchy, just a brief conversation with their government contact, an acquaintance of longstanding.

Pausing in the open doorway, Griff scanned the area. Several people turned and stared at him; just as many others, engrossed in their own tragedies, ignored him completely.

A woman sitting in the right back corner, deep in conversation with a lady who was sitting in a wheelchair, seemed to have sensed his presence. Her shoulders tensed. She sat up straight. After giving the other woman’s hand a gentle squeeze, she lifted her dark head and glanced over her shoulder.

Damn! He should have known she’d be here. The bane of his existence, the thorn in his side when it came to the Beauty Queen Killer case.

She rose from the chair to her full five-ten height and faced Griff. Frowning, her pale tan eyes narrowed and her nostrils slightly flared, Special Agent Nic Baxter walked toward him, her gaze never wavering.

He stepped out into the hallway and waited for her. If there was going to be a confrontation—and there always was whenever they shared the same space—it was better for the two of them to exchange insults out of earshot of other people. Especially people with loved ones in the ICU.

She followed him into the hall. They faced each other.

“You’re not glad to see me,” Griff said.

“I’m never glad to see you,” she replied.

“I noticed you were doing some hand-holding. Is she the sister of Gale Ann Cain or just a friend?”

“I can’t order you to leave, as much as I’d like to, but I can warn you not to interfere in my investigation.” She shook her finger in his face. “Sooner or later, I’ll find out who keeps tipping you off and when I do—”

“Why can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours that we’re on the same side?” Griff understood that federal agents could be territorial, that they often had to deal with inept local law enforcement and well-meaning civilians, but he was neither.

“And why can’t you get it through your thick skull that tracking and apprehending serial killers is the bureau’s job, not a game for some know-it-all private dick?”

Griff cocked one eyebrow and gave her a blistering glare. “Where’s Special Agent Jackson?”

When the corners of Nic’s mouth lifted ever so slightly in a hint of a smile, he knew he wasn’t going to like her answer. “Curtis retired last month. Didn’t your mole in D.C. tell you?”

Shit!

Special Agent Curtis Jackson had been in charge of the Beauty Queen Killer case from the very beginning, heading up the FBI task force. He had liked and respected Jackson. A guy in his late fifties, with years of experience and a macho attitude that matched Griff’s, Jackson and he had gotten along just fine, even though the guy never shared any info with him and had warned him repeatedly to keep his nose out of federal business. Griff kept a professional profiler on the Powell Agency payroll. But despite having a likely description of their culprit, they were no closer to apprehending this monster than they had been three years ago. He suspected it was the same for the FBI.

Nicole Baxter had come in on the case as a five-year veteran of the bureau, and although she’d graduated at the top of her class at Quantico, she’d had little field experience. From the moment they first met, she and Griff had mixed like oil and water. He didn’t like women who tried to prove that they were better at everything than men were. Maybe Special Agent Baxter wasn’t a die-hard feminist, but she came close enough to filling the bill.

“If Jackson retired, does that mean you’ve taken over the Beauty Queen Killer case?” Griff knew, but he had to ask.

She nodded. “That’s right. I’m heading up the task force now.”

“Is there any way we can bury the hatchet and work together?”

“Only if I can bury it in your back.”

Griff let out a quiet yet dramatic groan. “You’re not going to give an inch, are you, honey?” He tacked on the generic endearment because he knew it would piss her off.

She glowered at him. “I can be reasonable, honey.”

“You can’t prove it by me.” He shouldn’t have mouthed off, but couldn’t help himself. She brought out the worst in him and apparently he did the same for her.

“Keep insulting me and see where that gets you.”

“I guess I should apologize.”

“That would be nice.”

Damn, she actually expected him to grovel. “All right. I apologize.”

She flopped her hand across her heart. “How sincere.”

“It’s all you’re going to get. Take it or leave it.” Griffin Powell didn’t grovel. Not for anyone. Not ever again. He’d rather die first.

“Look, if you’re willing to acknowledge that this is my case, that I’m the one who calls the shots and makes the decisions, I won’t cut your balls off and hand them to you on a silver platter.”

Go to hell, bitch had been on the tip of his tongue. “In order to safeguard my balls, what do I have to do, sign an oath in blood that I’ll stay out of your way?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Believe me, Special Agent Baxter, I would never intentionally tempt you.”

Nic groaned. “Believe me, you have nothing to worry about on that count.”

He held out his hand, offering her a truce. “Let’s agree to disagree. I’ll stop hoping for cooperation from you, and you don’t put up any roadblocks in my path.”

She stared at his hand as if it were a poisonous snake, then reluctantly shook hands with him. A quick, let’s-get-this-over-with exchange.

“If you start interfering, our deal is off. Understand?”

He nodded. He understood all right; he just wasn’t sure how long he could play nice in the sandbox with this particular she-cat.

Seemingly satisfied, Nic nodded toward the ICU waiting area. “The woman in there is Barbara Jean Hughes. She’s Gale Ann Cain’s older sister and the one who found her only moments after she was attacked and left for dead.”

Griff’s gut instincts kicked into play. “Tell me that the sister caught a glimpse of our killer.”

“I might as well tell you since I can’t stop you from talking to Barbara Jean. And you are going to talk to her, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

Frowning, Nic said reluctantly, “When Barbara Jean was entering her sister’s apartment building over on Loretta Street, she saw a man in a trench coat and sunglasses coming down the stairway.”

“Can she describe him in more detail?”

“I think she can,” Nic said. “But she’s scared to death—for herself and her sister.”

“So, even if the sister dies, we’ve still got a possible witness.”

“You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Powell. You know that, don’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“One other thing, Mr. Powell—we, as in you and I, don’t have anything. I gave you the info about Barbara Jean because you’d get it anyway. But that’s it. The sister is the bureau’s eyewitness. And it will be our responsibility to protect her, if that becomes necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

Griff grinned. “Crystal clear, honey.”

Nic groaned.

Chapter 3

The old hunting lodge looked deserted, as if it hadn’t been occupied in a decade or longer. Actually, the place hadn’t been used for its original purpose in well over fifteen years, not since Judge Judson Walker IV died. Judd had not enjoyed hunting as much as his ancestors had, instead preferring polo and tennis to killing for sport. He had turned the old lodge into a weekend getaway, and as a young bachelor had hosted numerous parties for his friends; but word had it that because his bride hated the great outdoors and roughing it in the woods, Judd had closed up the place during his brief marriage.

The road leading to the lodge had never been paved and was now little more than a winding path overgrown with snow-topped grass, weeds, and dead leaves. Towering trees surrounded the drive and the old lodge itself: Ancient hardwoods, worth their weight in gold to any lumber company, their limbs bare and coated with a thin layer of ice; huge cedars shimmering with a frozen glaze; pines tipped with small, glistening snowballs.

A two-story structure created out of native stone and brick, the hundred-year-old building boasted numerous long, narrow windows, four chimneys, and a wraparound front porch. Out back, there was a small carriage house that had been converted into a garage in the late 1930s. Peeling paint on the eaves and window seals of both the house and garage exposed their neglected state. Two broken windowpanes on the second story of the lodge begged for repair.

Lindsay pulled her Trailblazer to a halt directly in front of the wraparound porch, but she left the truck’s motor running. The freezing rain had stopped a good twenty miles back, and the sun was fighting to make its way through the thick clouds. The temperature gauge on the dashboard read thirty-four degrees, which meant it had warmed up just enough to begin the thawing process. But by nightfall, those temps would drop again, probably into the twenties, and refreeze any remaining moisture.

If possible, the place looked sadder and more dilapidated than when she’d last seen it over six months ago. Dripping icicles hung from the edges of the roof. Melting snow clung in clusters to the grassy lawn and several inches of the white stuff, hidden in corners protected from the struggling sunlight, rose several inches high. Lindsay’s gaze traveled up the stone and brick front steps to the porch, then to the huge wooden door with decorative black iron bars crisscrossing the series of descending four-by-six-inch glass panes.

Inside, she remembered, just beyond the front entrance, lay a small foyer that opened up on either side to large sitting rooms. Each room boasted a massive stone fireplace, hardwood flooring, and dark wood paneling. In the room to the left, trophy deer heads hung on either side of the fireplace; in the room to the right, mounted and framed prize catches from the Tennessee River lined the walls, three fish on either side of the fireplace. She had not seen the upstairs bedrooms, but she assumed that they, too, screamed macho domain, no women allowed.

The thought of facing Judd, of looking into those cold, topaz gold eyes, kept Lindsay from leaving the warm safety of her SUV. Repeatedly, she had told herself that she didn’t love him, that she never had. She had felt sorry for him, wanted to comfort him, tried to help him.

All those introspective talks she’d given herself over the past six months had convinced her that what she felt for Judd Walker was a combination of sympathy and lust, not love.

So, if she didn’t love him, why was she so afraid of seeing him again?

You can’t put it off forever, you know. Get out of the car and go knock on the door. Face your fears. Prove to yourself that Judd no longer has any power over you.

After donning her red knit cap and matching gloves, Lindsay buttoned her navy peacoat, shut off the ignition, and opened the car door. As she stepped down, her black leather boots hit a slushy spot on the ground, shooting muddy ooze over the one-inch heels and rounded toes. By the time she reached the porch, the wet grass she’d trekked through had absorbed most of the mud on her boots.

Taking a deep breath, she faced the front door. Stretching her gloved fingers back and forth, she garnered up her courage, then lifted her right hand and knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

No response.

She knocked again. Harder. Louder.

Still nothing.

She banged repeatedly. “Judd, if you’re here, let me in. I have some news for you. It’s about the Beauty Queen Killer case.”

Silence.

Damn it. Maybe he wasn’t here. Maybe he’d moved away to some unknown location. A part of her prayed that he had.

Lindsay tried the front door knob, twisting it this way and that. The door didn’t budge. Locked. So much for that.

She went to the nearest window and peered in through a fine layer of dirt and grime. The left parlor lay in semidarkness, the furniture still covered with protective cloths. After checking out the other parlor through an equally filthy windowpane, she walked the expanse of the wraparound porch, stopping at a side door leading through a narrow hall into the kitchen. She tried the door and surprisingly found it give. Unlocked. The door creaked loudly as she pushed it open. She hesitantly entered the dark hallway. Cobwebs shimmied along the walls.

“Judd, are you here?” she called as she made her way toward the kitchen.

No answer.

She found the kitchen empty. But a half-full coffeepot sat on the warmer, and a stained mug rested on the counter beside the coffeemaker.

He was here. Upstairs? In the basement? Taking a walk in the woods?

If he was in the house, he would have heard her calling him. Unless he was asleep or passed out drunk. The first year after his wife’s death, Judd had drunk himself into a forgetful stupor on a fairly regular basis. But the last time Lindsay saw him, he’d been stone cold sober. A drunk Judd she could deal with more easily than a sober Judd. Drunk, he was hateful and belligerent. Sober he was apathetic and deadly.

“Judd, if you’re here, please answer me. Don’t make me search the whole house for you.”

Nothing.

“The Beauty Queen Killer has struck again, but this time his victim didn’t die. Not yet. She’s still alive.”

No reaction. No response.

“Did you hear me?”

Creak. Stomp. Creak. Stomp.

Lindsay heard heavy footsteps on the backstairs that led from the kitchen to the second floor. Her heartbeat accelerated.

“Judd?”

The footsteps grew louder as they descended the creaking stairs.

Lindsay crossed the linoleum-floored kitchen and waited at the foot of the stairs, her pulse racing as she clutched both hands into tight fists on either side of her hips.

Barbara Jean Hughes, confined to a wheelchair since a terrible car crash five years ago, responded to Griffin Powell’s charm the way most other women did—she practically melted into a puddle. Good grief! Nic didn’t get it. Yes, he was good-looking, masculine to the nth degree, dressed like a GQ model, drove a fancy sports car, and was reported to be a multimillionaire. Those qualities alone would be enough to make the average female swoon. But if there was one thing Nicole Baxter had never been, it was average.

Powerful, macho, overconfident men turned her off. From the time she matured early at the age of eleven, she’d had to deal with the opposite sex. Snide remarks about her breasts. Jokes about her height. Envy because she was the smartest kid in her class—even smarter than the smartest boy.

Men might like women with big breasts, but most didn’t like highly intelligent women who graduated from college at the age of eighteen, stood eye to eye with many, and towered over some. She was—always had been—too tall, too big, and too smart. Not to mention far too opinionated and outspoken.

“Ms. Hughes, why don’t you let us take you down to the cafeteria and get you something to eat. A late lunch,” Griff said.

Nic had been trying to convince Barbara Jean that she needed to eat, but the woman had refused to leave the ICU waiting area.

“What if Gale Ann wakes up? Or what if she … No, I can’t leave.” With Nic, Barbara Jean had been adamant.

When Barbara Jean didn’t respond to Griff’s suggestion, only stared up at him through a mist of tears, he reached down, grasped her hand tenderly and said, “When your sister regains consciousness, she doesn’t need to see you haggard and worried, now does she? You have to eat and rest to keep up your strength.” He paused momentarily to allow his comments to sink in, then added, “For Gale Ann’s sake, you have to take care of yourself.”

Gag me with a spoon, Nic thought. Griff was as smooth as silk. Too damn smooth to suit her. He was one of those guys who could charm the birds from the trees. A real silver-tongued devil.

It was obvious by the tentative smile on Barbara Jean’s face that Griff’s charisma had affected her. What would be the point in warning her about Griffin?

“You’re right, I suppose.” Barbara Jean sighed heavily.

Griff squeezed her hand. “Of course I am.” He glanced at Nic. “Special Agent Baxter will speak to the nurse in charge of the ICU and make sure we are contacted if there’s any change in your sister’s condition.”

Gritting her teeth, Nic managed a fake smile as she nodded her head in agreement. “I’ll speak to the nurse right now.” She gave Griff a blistering stare. He just couldn’t help himself, could he? To him, taking charge came as naturally as breathing. In the past, the FBI had cautioned family members about cooperating with any private agency, including the Powell Agency, but legally, the bureau’s hands were tied.

At one-fifty in the afternoon, the cafeteria wasn’t crowded, so it was easy enough to find seating. Griff chose an isolated table in the back of the dining area and parked Barbara Jean’s wheelchair so that she was not near a window and her back was to a side wall. Nic understood his reasoning. If Gale Ann’s attacker had any idea that Barbara Jean had seen him and could possibly identify him, her life was in grave danger.

“Is there anything in particular you want to eat?” Griff asked as he laid his overcoat and silk scarf on an empty chair.

“Anything will be fine,” she replied.

Nic and Griff were able to go through the line rather quickly, getting coffee for themselves and a meal for Barbara Jean. No way was she leaving Gale Ann’s sister alone with him. Legally, she could not prevent him from talking to Barbara Jean or offering her his big broad shoulders to lean on; the best she could do was keep a close watch on the woman. Griff handed the cashier a hundred dollar bill. The biggest bill in Nic’s wallet was a twenty. The difference between being rich and simply having a good job.

After slipping the change into his wallet, Griff lifted the tray laden with a full meal, dessert, and three cups of coffee, and carried it to the back table where Barbara Jean waited for them. After removing the plates, silverware, and cups from the tray, he placed it on a nearby empty table, then he pulled out a chair and offered it to Nic. She forced another fake smile—God, her face was going to crack—and allowed him to assist her.

Charming. Gentlemanly. Infuriating son of a bitch.

Their gazes met for half a second, a confrontational exchange. Hostility simmered just below the surface, a reality neither of them could deny. Nic suspected that Griff disliked her as much as she did him, both professionally and personally.

Barbara Jean eyed the plate of food in front of her, then glanced over at Griff. “Everything looks delicious. Thank you.”

“Just eat what you can,” he told her, sympathy and understanding in his voice.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“It’s okay,” Nic said. “No one expects you to—”

“You have no idea what it was like.” Barbara Jean grasped Griff’s arm. “It was the most horrible thing imaginable, finding my sister like that. Her feet cut off. Blood everywhere.” Barbara Jean burst into tears.

Before Nic could say or do anything, Griff slid his chair closer to Barbara Jean’s wheelchair and draped his arm around her shoulders, offering her solace. She buried her face against his shoulder and wept.

Although Nic hated weepy females and had become determined at an early age to never become one, she couldn’t deny that Barbara Jean Hughes had every right and every reason to cry her head off. Good Lord, who wouldn’t have been devastated to find their sister mutilated and bleeding to death. It had been Barbara Jean’s quick thinking that had saved Gale Ann’s life.

After several minutes of sobbing, Barbara Jean lifted her head. “I’m sorry that I fell apart that way.”

Griff pulled a soft cotton, monogrammed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his tailor-made jacket. The man’s suit probably cost more than Nic made in a month, possibly a couple of months. He dabbed the expensive handkerchief under Barbara Jean’s eyes, then handed it to her.

“You must know that you saved your sister’s life,” Griff said as he lifted his arm from Barbara Jean’s shoulders.

“They don’t think she’ll live.” Barbara Jean clutched the handkerchief in her tight fist. “She lost so much blood before—” She gulped her sobs. “If I’d been able to get to her more quickly … if …”

“You can help her by helping us find the man who tried to kill her.” Griff’s voice had softened, taking on a seductive quality that set Nic’s teeth on edge.

“How—how can I do that?” Barbara Jean gulped.

“I understand that you caught a glimpse of a man leaving Gale Ann’s apartment building as you were arriving. Do you feel up to talking about that or would you rather wait until after you finish your lunch?”

Barbara Jean glanced at the fried chicken, creamed potatoes, and green beans on her plate, and Nic could almost hear the woman’s stomach churn. Her right hand shook as she reached for the coffee cup, so she had to use both hands to lift the hot liquid to her lips. After several sips, she sighed.

“Ms. Hughes, I must remind you that Mr. Powell is not affiliated with the FBI or any law enforcement agency,” Nic said, trying to keep her voice calm and friendly. “I must advise you that it isn’t in your sister’s best interest for you to discuss what happened with anyone other than—”

“Special Agent Baxter is right,” Griff said. “I’m a private detective, not a law enforcement officer. But one of my best friends lost a wife to the killer whom we suspect tried to murder your sister. I’ve been working on his behalf for nearly four years to try to find and stop this maniac.”

When Barbara Jean looked deeply into Griff’s eyes and offered him a trusting smile, Nic knew she had lost this particular battle.

“I know all the residents where Gale Ann lives,” Barbara Jean said. “There are only ten apartments in the building. Two are divorcées, like Gale Ann. Two are widows, one is an old bachelor, and the other four are young couples, but only two of the couples have children.”

“This man you saw, he wasn’t one of the residents?” Griff asked.

Barbara Jean shook her head.

“Could he have been a friend of one of the residents?” Nic inquired.

“I don’t know. But I do know that in the six years my sister has lived there, I’d never seen this man before.”

Nic opened her mouth to ask the all important question, but Griff beat her to the punch and asked pointedly, “Could you identify this man if you ever saw him again?”

Dead silence.

Nic gave Griff a heated glare.

“It’s all right,” Nic said. “If you can’t ID the man—”

“What if I can?” Barbara Jean’s gaze locked with Nic’s.

“Can you?” Griff asked.

“You think he’s the one who tried to kill Gale Ann, the one who cut off her feet?” Barbara Jean dropped her hands into her lap and entwined her fingers, trapping Griff’s handkerchief between her palms.

“Possibly,” Nic said.

“Does he know she didn’t die?”

Nic shook her head. “The local police issued a statement to the news media that Gale Ann Cain’s body had been discovered by her sister. Nothing more. But the hospital staff could let something slip, although they’ve been warned to be careful. And there are reporters trying to get to you to find out more details. But I or another agent will be with you twenty-four-seven. There is an agent posted at the hospital, outside the nurses’ entrance to the ICU, to protect your sister.”

“If this man knew I could identify him, he’d come after me, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, he might,” Nic admitted.

“But we are not going to let anything happen to you,” Griff told her. “Between the FBI and the Powell Agency, you’ll be protected at all times.”

Barbara Jean didn’t say anything for several minutes, her mind obviously absorbing all the information and mulling over her choices. “I don’t think I could identify him if I saw him again.”

Nic groaned inwardly. She had been afraid of that. Either Barbara Jean really couldn’t ID the guy or she was so scared that she had convinced herself she couldn’t ID him.

“Could you describe him to us?” Griff asked.

“I already told Special Agent Baxter—”

“Call me Nic, please.” Two could play the “let’s be friends” game.

“I told Nic—” she offered Nic a fragile smile— “that as I was going in the front door of the apartment building—I always use the elevator since Gale Ann’s apartment is on the second floor—that I saw a man in a tan trench coat coming down the stairs. He had on a hat and wore sunglasses. I didn’t see his eyes. I think his hair was brown, but I can’t be sure. He was walking pretty fast, as if he was in a hurry.”

“Did he see you?” Griff asked.

“I don’t know. I—I don’t think so. He never looked my way. And I was already inside the elevator by the time he reached the sidewalk.”

Nic’s cell phone rang. Her gut tightened. She knew before she heard Special Agent Randall’s voice that he was calling with news about Gale Ann Cain’s condition.

“Baxter here,” she said.

“Get the sister up here pronto,” Jeff Randall said. “Gale Ann Cain has regained consciousness.”

Lindsay’s gaze traveled up the stairs and caught sight of the man’s jean-clad legs. Long, lean legs. Faded, dirty jeans. Inch-by-inch, the rest of his body came into view as he trudged down the steps like a slug crawling along the ground. He wore a tattered, plaid flannel shirt over a dingy thermal undershirt. When she saw his face, she gasped. At first glance, she barely recognized Judd, and wouldn’t have known who he was except for his pale amber eyes, eyes as lifeless as the world outside. Winter dead. His tawny brown hair hung almost to his shoulders, and a heavy beard obscured his handsome face.

“You look like hell.” She said the first thing that came to her mind.

He stopped when he reached the foot of the stairs. “Did I hear you right—the latest victim didn’t die, she’s still alive?”

“That’s right.”

“What did he do to her?”

Lindsay hesitated. “He chopped off her feet.”

Judd didn’t flinch.

“Where is she?”

“A county hospital in Williamstown, Kentucky.”

“Is Griff—?”

“He flew up there immediately.”

“And he sent you to tell me the good news.” Judd walked past her and straight to the coffeemaker. After lifting the pot, he asked, “Want some?”

“Yeah, sure.” She turned and faced him.

He removed another cup from the overhead cabinet, poured both cups full, and held one out to her. She went over, took the cup from him, and lifted it to her lips. The brew was strong and bitter. She suspected it had been sitting on the warmer for quite some time. Possibly since early morning.

“Can she identify her attacker?” Judd asked.

“I don’t know. We were told that she lapsed into a semicoma in Recovery, shortly after regaining consciousness for a few minutes following her surgery.”

“She probably won’t come out of the coma.”

“She might.”

“Wishful thinking isn’t worth a damn.” Judd pulled out a chair from the table, set down his coffee cup, and slumped into the chair.

Standing behind him, Lindsay watched as he sipped the black-tar coffee. Judd Walker, multimillionaire, former playboy, former distinguished and respected lawyer, looked like a homeless bum. God in heaven, his long hair was dirty, greasy, and matted, as if it hadn’t been washed or combed in weeks.

Lindsay walked over to the other side of the table so that she stood directly in front of him. “If you want to go to Kentucky—”

His vicious laughter chilled her to the bone. “Is that why Griff sent you this time? He thought you could persuade me to give a damn?”

“He sent me because he thought you’d want to know that this could be our first real break. He actually thought you might still want to see your wife’s murderer brought to justice.”

Judd’s mocking smile vanished. “What I want is to have five minutes alone with him. Just five minutes.”

“I doubt you’ll ever get that chance,” Lindsay said. “But if he’s captured and then convicted, I’m sure it can be arranged for you to be there when he’s executed.”

“It won’t be quite the same if I can’t do the job myself.” Judd downed the remainder of the liquid sludge he called coffee. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve pictured this monster in my mind? I never see a face, only his hands holding a meat cleaver and chopping, chopping … chopping. And then suddenly he’s not the one with the cleaver. I am. And I’m the one doing the chopping. I’m chopping him into a hundred little pieces.”

Judd repeatedly pounded the table with his big fist. Over and over again. The table shook. Judd’s heavy strikes grew harder and harder. His breathing became deeper and louder. His eyes glazed over as if he were in a trance.

Lindsay placed her cup on the counter behind her, then turned back to Judd, and grabbed his wrist. He flung her off him so forcefully that she toppled backward and landed against the refrigerator. Her back hit the fridge with a resounding thud. Judd shot up out of the chair and glared at her.

She stood there, straightening herself to her full five-four height, her gaze riveted to his as he came toward her. When he reached her, he spread his palms out flat against the refrigerator, on either side of her head, and brought his face down to hers so that their noses almost touched.

“I know why Griff sent you here,” he said. “What I don’t know is why you came.”

Chapter 4

Lindsay hunched down just enough to slip under Judd’s outstretched left arm, managing to escape his searing glare and his big, hovering body. Sucking in several deep breaths and mentally warning herself not to participate in Judd’s manipulative game-playing, Lindsay psyched herself up for the inevitable battle of wills. Chuckling as if he found her actions amusing, Judd turned around to face her. She hated that cold, insincere grin he had perfected over the past few years. There was something disturbing about a smile that projected misery instead of mirth.

“What’s wrong, Lindsay—afraid you can’t resist me?”

She clenched her teeth, a scathing comment on the tip of her tongue. He’s baiting you. He wants an outraged reaction. Don’t give it to him.

“If you plan to go with me to Kentucky, you’ll have to take a shower and—”

“I’m not going.”

He’s still playing his little game, she reminded herself.

“Fine by me,” she said. “I’m just Griffin Powell’s messenger.” She reached for the cell phone clipped to her belt. “I’ll call him and tell him—”

“Why did you come here? Really?”

“My boss sent me to share some information with a client we couldn’t reach any other way.” That’s it, Lindsay, you tell him.

Judd studied her, his gaze raking over her insultingly. “Are you sure you didn’t come back for a repeat performance?”

She felt the heat as it rose up her neck and flushed her cheeks. An involuntary reaction that she could not control. Pink-cheeked embarrassment. The curse of blondes with fair skin.

Don’t tell him what you think of him. Do not give him the satisfaction of knowing what happened between the two of you the last time you saw each other devastated you. You’ve worked through it, have come to terms with the humiliation, convinced yourself that you never actually loved Judd.

“I’m heading back to Knoxville. I’ll call Griff and tell him you no longer have any interest in the Beauty Queen Killer.” Lindsay turned and headed out of the kitchen.

“Wait!”

Keeping her back to him, she paused.

“If she doesn’t die … if she can give Griff a description … let me know. Okay?”

“I’ll pass along the message.”

“You hate me now, don’t you?”

He’s still playing you. Never forget that you cannot trust Judd. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, for me to hate you?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry, but no, I don’t hate you. I feel sorry for you.”

She walked straight down the hall and to the side door leading to the porch.

“Lindsay!”

She opened the door and went outside, increasing her pace, wanting nothing more than to get away, to escape from this place and the man who still had the power to rip out her heart. A part of her did hate Judd, hated him as much as she loved him.

After sitting down on the soft, gray leather seat inside her Trailblazer, she closed her eyes and willed herself under control. No tears. Not one. She had cried her last tear over Judd Walker. As far as she was concerned, he could rot in hell.

She made a quick call to Sanders for an update on the situation in Kentucky and was told she needed to contact Griff before bringing Judd to Williamstown. No point now. She inserted the key into the ignition and started the engine, then made the mistake of glancing through the side window at the lodge.

Judd stood on the front porch. Watching her.

Crap!

She hit the button to lower the window and called out to him. “Gale Ann Cain’s sister discovered her in time to keep her alive until the paramedics arrived. The sister caught a glimpse of a man in a trench coat and sunglasses leaving the apartment building just as she arrived. He could have been our Beauty Queen Killer.”

When Judd came down the steps, Lindsay’s pulse raced. He walked over to the car and leaned down so that they were eye to eye.

He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stared right at her. As she reached for the electronic button to roll up the window, Judd said, “If you’ll give me thirty minutes, I’ll clean up before we head out for Kentucky.”

Lindsay realized that somewhere buried deep inside him, Judd still felt something. Even if it were nothing more than an undying thirst for revenge, that was an emotion, wasn’t it?

“All right. You go ahead. I’ll phone Griff, get an update, and tell him we’re on our way.”

Ruddy was beginning to worry. He had neither read nor heard anything new about the murder in Williamstown, Kentucky— not in local or national press coverage. A few hours after the paramedics arrived on the scene, a spokesman for the Williamstown Police Department had issued a statement that a young woman, a former Miss USA named Gale Ann Cain, had been brutally attacked and her body discovered by her sister, who had immediately called 911. That had been over forty-eight hours ago. Why hadn’t the local law enforcement called in the FBI? Surely they knew that Gale Ann’s death could be attributed to the Beauty Queen Killer. Wasn’t his signature all over the murder scene? The victim had once won a beauty contest. Her talent in the contest had been lyrical dance, so he had cut off her feet. She was a redhead, so he had left behind a yellow rose. He had used the same nylon rope to bind her hands as he always used. Were the local yokels too stupid to recognize the work of a genius?

Many criminals returned to the scene of their crime. Not Ruddy. He was far too smart to do something so stupid. But unless he could somehow find out what was going on in the Gale Ann Cain murder case, he might have no choice but to make a trip back to Williamstown. He could always come up with some legitimate reason to visit. To purchase a horse. To visit an antique mall where he would buy something outrageously expensive. Or he could simply be driving through on his way to somewhere else. Or he could simply wear a disguise and use a fake ID.

He had tried his best to dismiss a disturbing thought, one that had plagued him since the evening he had killed Gale Ann. Just as he was leaving the apartment building using the stairs, he had noticed that a woman in a wheelchair was entering through the front door. Had she seen him? Probably not. After all, she’d been concentrating on maneuvering her wheelchair so that she could hold the door open long enough to move inside.

But what if she did see me?

So, what if she had seen him? What exactly had she seen? A man in a trench coat, hat, and sunglasses. It wasn’t as if she’d seen his face and could identify him. And the clothing he wore that night had been properly disposed of, burned in the old furnace in the basement. The items he wore when he executed a game plan were inexpensive, off-the-rack items that he picked up at various chain stores. He wasn’t fool enough actually to wear many of his personal tailor-made clothing or specialty items.

If only he knew what was going on, exactly how the Williams town police were handling Gale Ann’s case, he would sleep better tonight.

Ruddy removed a key from his pocket, bent over, and unlocked the bottom desk drawer where he kept a supply of disposable paid-in-advance phones. He slipped one of the phones into his jacket, locked the drawer, and pocketed the key.

He would take the Bentley out this afternoon and go for a nice long drive. Maybe a few counties over. He’d contact the Williamstown police, the newspaper, and TV station and inquire about Gale Ann’s murder. If he couldn’t find out anything, he’d have no choice but to rent a car, using an assumed name and fake ID and drive to Williamstown to personally check on the situation.

“I’m a distant cousin and haven’t been able to reach anyone in the family.” That’s what he’d say. Now, what was Gale Ann’s maiden name? He always did research on his victims, learning as much as possible about them before he made his meticulous plans.

Hughes! That was it. Her parents were dead. She had one sister—never married—named Barbara Jean. She had no children, and she’d been divorced for over six years.

Ruddy had learned at an early age—when he was enduring his father’s cruel temper tantrums—to listen to his gut instincts. Those unerring instincts had saved him from more than one beating by the old man, and had allowed him to rack up a whopping score of two hundred and fifteen points in the marvelously macabre game he referred to as “Picking the Pretty Flowers.”

He should listen to his instincts now.

Something was off about this latest kill. There was a problem. He didn’t know what it was, but he intended to find out.

When Griff, Nic, and Barbara Jean arrived back at the ICU waiting area, they were whisked into the inner sanctum. A nurse whose name badge read Huff stopped Nic and Griff, while another wheeled Barbara Jean down a row of cubicles and directly to the one in which her sister lay fighting for her life.

“What’s going on?” Nic asked.

“Excuse me, are you a relative?” Nurse Huff asked.

“Neither of us are relatives,” Nic replied as she whipped out her FBI badge and ID. “I’m Special Agent Nicole Baxter with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m working with the local police department on this case. I need to question Ms. Cain as soon as possible. I spoke to your supervisor, Ms. Canton, less than an hour ago and—”

Frowning, Nurse Huff nodded. “Ms. Canton is involved in an emergency with another patient, but I’ll speak to Dr. Clark. However, I don’t think it will matter.”

“What do you mean?” Griff asked. “Why won’t it matter?”

Nurse Huff cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She nodded toward the closed door leading to the waiting area. “You two need to go back outside, please. We’ve been instructed to contact Police Chief Mahoney. If you have any further questions, please direct them to him.”

Griff sensed Nic’s heels digging in, and suspected she didn’t appreciate the local law not instructing the hospital staff that the bureau—meaning Special Agent Baxter—was in charge of this case.

Griff grasped Nic’s arm gently and urged her into movement, effectively leading her back through the waiting room and into the hallway. When they were out of earshot of the ICU families, she yanked free and faced him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nic glowered at him.

“Saving you from throwing a very unbecoming hissy fit,” Griff said. “You know you really should work on trying to control that hair-trigger temper of yours. It’s a bad habit, especially in a federal agent.”

Nic huffed. Her nostrils flared. For a minute there, Griff halfway expected her to snort and bellow and for steam to shoot out of her ears. Instead, she breathed deeply, swallowed hard, and blew out an aggravated breath.

“First of all, you are not my keeper,” she told him. “And secondly, I was not about to throw a hissy fit.”

“Are you saying you’re not upset that the local police chief didn’t inform the hospital staff that you’re in charge?”

“I’m working with the local police department. This is their case as well as mine. You’re acting as if I’m some rookie agent who doesn’t know how to—”

“Special Agent Baxter,” a female voice called.

Nic and Griff glanced at the doorway to the ICU waiting room. Nurse Huff walked toward them, a concerned expression on her face.

“Ms. Hughes is asking for both of you, and Dr. Clark has given permission for the two of you to join her in Ms. Cain’s room.”

“Has something happened?” Nic asked.

“I believe Ms. Cain is trying to communicate with her sister and is becoming highly agitated.” Nurse Huff shook her head. “I’m afraid that if she doesn’t calm down, we’ll have to restrain her.”

Anxious for them to see Gale Ann Cain before it was too late, Griff barely managed to stop himself from grasping Nic’s arm again and rushing her into the intensive care unit. But as it turned out, he didn’t need to. Nic all but ran through the waiting area, urging Nurse Huff to keep up with her.

In less than an hour, it would be dark. The days were getting a bit longer in mid-February, but with an overcast sky, night would fall early today. Lindsay was thankful that it wasn’t raining or snowing, although either was a possibility before morning. They had driven straight from the Walker hunting lodge, not stopping for lunch, and were now almost to the Kentucky state line. Highway 127 would take them straight through Monticello and with only one turn onto a county road, they’d be in Williamstown no later than six o’clock this evening.

“I’ll have to stop soon and get gas,” Lindsay said to the somber man sitting rigidly in the passenger seat. “I’m going to pick up a burger and a Coke after I use the restroom.”

“Stop at a mini-mart,” Judd said. “I’ll pump the gas. You go in and get the food. We can eat on the way.”

“Sure. That suits me.”

“Griff will call if the woman dies, won’t he?”

Lindsay gripped the steering wheel tightly. “He’ll call if he has any news—good or bad.”

“Hmm …”

In the three hours they had been on the road, neither had spoken more than a few words now and then, maintaining a palpable silence, as tangible as the heavy fog that lay ahead. Damn! That’s all they needed, a thick fog slowing their progress.

“By the way, how is Griffin these days?” Judd asked.

Totally surprised by the question, Lindsay snapped her head around and stared at Judd.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” he told her.

She refocused on the highway. “Why are you asking about Griff? You don’t really care, do you?”

“Griff’s an old friend. Why shouldn’t I ask about him?”

“Griff’s Griff,” she said. “He’s fine.”

“You two having sex yet?”

Lindsay clenched her teeth. So that’s what it’s all about— Judd just wanted to needle her.

“That’s none of your business,” she said.

“I could give him a few pointers, if you want me to. I could tell him what you like, what turns you on, what—”

“You can shut the hell up!”

Judd chuckled. A mirthless, cold chills-up-the-spine laugh.

“You’re a real bastard, you know that, don’t you.”

“What’s the matter, darlin’? Haven’t you told Griff about us?”

“There is no us.”

“There almost was. You were willing.”

She’d been willing all right. God help her, she’d been more than willing. She’d been eager. She had fallen in love with Judd in those first few months after his wife’s murder when she and her CPD partner Dan Blake had seen Judd on a regular basis. Dan had tried to warn her not to become personally involved. If only she had been able to take his advice. But ever since she’d been a kid, she had been the one who brought home stray dogs and cats, nursed wounded birds, and stood up to bullies in defense of those they harassed.

Her father had told her that she had a tender heart, just like her mother. She couldn’t bear to see anyone—human or animal—in pain.

And Judd Walker had been in torment. Day by day she had watched him as he mourned his wife, as he became more and more withdrawn, as the anger—the pure rage—inside him had devoured him.

Her heart had ached for him. Her stupid bleeding heart.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Judd said. “Thinking about that night?”

“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was actually thinking about those first few months after Jennifer was murdered, and Dan and I worked so hard to try to find her killer.”

“And here we are nearly four years and numerous beauty queen murders later, and Jenny’s killer is still out there chopping off hands and feet, arms and legs, slitting throats… destroying lives.”

“He’ll be caught and punished,” Lindsay said. “Griff and I made you a promise that we intend to keep. And Nic Baxter isn’t going to give up until she catches this guy. She’s as determined as Griff and I and—”

“And me?”

“Are you still determined, Judd? Do you still actually care?”

“I don’t care about anything. You of all people should know that.”

“But you want to see Jennifer’s killer punished, don’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s the only thing I do want. My one thought, my single reason for living is the hope that one day I can kill him myself.”

“And if that actually happened, if you could kill him yourself … hack off his hands, his feet, his arms and legs, chop him into little pieces—what then?”

“Are you asking me if I’d be at peace then?”

“No. I’m asking what then, when your single reason for living is gone?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “And I really don’t care.”

But I care. Damn you, Judd, I care.

Dr. Clark met them at the entrance to Gale Ann Cain’s cubicle and motioned them to step back a few feet. Once he had them alone, he glanced from one to the other.

“Ms. Cain remains in critical condition,” the doctor said. “Her chances of survival are not good. She’s trying to talk, trying to tell her sister something, and has indicated she wants to speak. We’ve explained to her that we cannot take her off the ventilator at this point. She’s highly agitated and if she doesn’t calm down soon, we’ll have no choice but to restrain her and sedate her. Her sister, Ms. Hughes, asked that you two be allowed to see Ms. Cain, while she’s conscious. She hopes one of you might be able to help her decipher her sister’s sign language.”

“Sign language?” Griff asked.

“Since Ms. Cain can’t speak, she’s using her hands and facial expressions to try to convey a message of some sort.”

“How long will it be before you can take her off the ventilator?” Nic asked.

Dr. Clark shook his head. “It’s too soon to say. Maybe days or weeks. Maybe never.”

“Are you saying—?”

“She has a living will,” Dr. Clark said. “If she isn’t able to breathe on her own after a period of time and if we see no hope for her …”

“We understand.” Nic glanced at Griff.

“I will allow the two of you five minutes with Ms. Cain,” Dr. Clark told them. “But if she becomes upset or even more agitated, I’ll ask you to leave.”

Nic nodded.

Griff said, “Okay.”

When they entered Gale Ann’s cubicle, Barbara Jean, who was holding her sister’s hand, glanced up and offered them a pitiful smile. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Gale Ann, they’re here. Special Agent Baxter and Mr. Powell. Tell them what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

Gale Ann Cain’s mane of shoulder-length, copper red hair contrasted sharply with the white bed linens on which she lay. Her cat-green eyes opened wide and stared upward, first at Nic and then at Griff.

She jerked her hand out of Barbara Jean’s grasp, and despite the fact that both arms were connected to a series of tubes and wires, she lifted her hands in the air, palms open, fingers spread apart, then clutched her hands into fists. As quickly as she had fisted her hands, she opened them again and spread apart all ten digits.

“She keeps doing that over and over again,” Barbara Jean said.

Nic moved in closer to Gale Ann and asked, “Are you trying to tell us something about your attacker?”

Gale Ann nodded and repeated the flashing fingers. Ten fingers.

“How about getting her a pad and pencil?” Griff said. “Maybe she could write it down.”

“We tried that, but she can’t seem to do anything except scribble,” Barbara Jean explained. “And that just upset her even more.”

“Ten fingers,” Nic said. “The number ten?” she asked Gale Ann.

Gale Ann shook her head and repeated her flashing hands one more time.

“She’s doing it twice,” Griff said. “Twenty.”

Gale Ann nodded.

“What does the number twenty have to do with her attacker?” Nic wondered aloud.

Gale Ann pointed to her head, slowly but surely twining her index finger around a strand of her hair.

“Your hair and the number twenty,” Nic said.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Barbara Jean looked from Nic to Griff, her expression one of hopelessness.

Gale Ann yanked on her hair, then pointed to the foot of the bed. When she realized that no one understood what she was trying to tell them, her actions became frantic. She grasped the ventilator tube and tried to pull it out of her throat. Barbara Jean screamed for a nurse.

“Calm down, Gale Ann,” Griff said as he hovered over the bed.

Nic rushed to the cubicle entrance and cried out, “Hurry, please! Ms. Cain is trying to remove her ventilator tube.”

A second too late, Griff grabbed Gale Ann’s hand that held the trachea tubing she had brutally yanked from her throat. She gasped for air.

“Twenty points.” She barely managed to say the two whispered words before the nurses and Dr. Clark shoved Griff out of the way. Then, Gale Ann gulped one final word, “Game.”

One of the nurses shooed Griff and Nic out of the cubicle and pushed Barbara Jean’s wheelchair out directly behind them. With the white curtains pulled and the door closed, they were cut off from the frantic efforts to save Gale Ann’s life.

“What did she say to you?” Barbara Jean asked before Nic had a chance to ask.

“She said three words,” Griff told them. “Twenty points. And game.”

“Dear God!” When Nic’s gaze met Griff’s, she knew that they were thinking the same thing.

“Killing is a game to him,” Griff said. “He must have told Gale Ann that she was worth twenty points.”

Nic nodded. “She kept tugging on her hair. There has to be a connection.” Nic gasped loudly. “It’s because of her red hair that she was worth twenty points.”

“In his sick game, redheads are worth twenty points.”

Chapter 5

Lindsay and Judd arrived at Williamstown General Hospital at six-ten that evening and went straight to the intensive care unit on the second floor. As they marched straight toward the waiting area, Lindsay caught sight of Griff outside in the hallway. He stood off to the side, talking quietly with a man she recognized as Special Agent Josh Friedman, who had worked his first case with Nic Baxter and Curtis Jackson this past year. Three months ago. The last Beauty Queen Killer case: Carrie Warren. Throat slit. Tongue cut out. In the talent segment of the Miss Dixie Belle contest ten years ago, she had sung a heartrending aria from Puccini’s opera, Madama Butterfly.

As if sensing their approach, Griff paused in his conversation and glanced down the hall. Lindsay flinched when she saw the way Griff looked at Judd. The news would not be good.

“She’s dead,” Judd said.

Lindsay slowed her hurried pace and glanced at Judd. “What makes you think that?”

“You saw the expression on Griff’s face.”

She wanted to contradict Judd, to tell him she didn’t know what he meant, but what was the point in trying to give him false hope? One glimpse at Griffin Powell’s tense features and she’d had the same gut reaction as Judd had. Gale Ann Cain was probably dead.

Special Agent Friedman nodded to Judd and smiled at Lindsay. “How are you Ms. McAllister?”

“Getting by,” she replied. “You?”

“Yeah, about the same,” Josh said. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.” He turned and shook hands with Griff, then headed down the hall toward the elevators.

“The guy’s got the hots for you,” Judd said. “Who is he, a new Powell agent?”

Before Lindsay could reply, Griff responded. “He’s Special Agent Friedman. He joined Curtis Jackson’s investigative team on the last Beauty Queen Killer case. You remember Carrie Warren, don’t you, Judd?”

Judd narrowed his gaze, glowering at Griff.

“You don’t remember her name, do you?” Griff snorted. “Oh, that’s right, you spent most of November and December drunk. How could you possibly remember anything about the last case.”

“There’s only one name that matters to me,” Judd said. “Jennifer Walker.”

Griff clenched his jaw.

Wanting to ease the growing tension between Judd and Griff, Lindsay asked, “How is Gale Ann Cain?” Dear God, please let her be alive.

Judd chuckled, the sound as cold as the February night.

Griff looked right at Lindsay. “She died about thirty minutes ago.”

“Without identifying her killer, no doubt,” Judd said.

Griff directed his gaze to Judd’s bearded face. “You’re right, she didn’t ID him. But she did give us some information we can use, something we didn’t know about him before now.”

“You’ve got notebooks filled with info.” Grinning mockingly, Judd shook his head. “What good does new info do? What good is the profile you have of him? What good—?”

“You want me to drop this case?” Griff asked. “Just say the word and—”

“Don’t feed me that line of bullshit,” Judd said. “You forget, we go back a long way. I know you. You wouldn’t quit this case if your life depended on it.” He sneered at Lindsay. “And neither would you.”

Griff glanced at Lindsay. “I’ve got things to do.” He inclined his head toward Judd. “You keep Happy Jack here on a leash.” He glowered at Judd. “If you give Lindsay any trouble, I’ll—”

“He won’t,” Lindsay said.

Griff sighed heavily. “Gale Ann’s sister found her minutes after the attack.”

“Then I want to talk to the sister,” Judd said.

“Not tonight,” Griff told him.

“Why not tonight?”

“Damn, Judd, the woman just lost her sister.”

“Yeah, and that makes her victim number what? Twenty-nine? Thirty? If I’d found Jenny only minutes after the attack, I …” Judd’s voice trailed off. He clenched his teeth tightly and squinted his eyes as he looked at Griff. “Can she ID the guy?”

Griff clasped Judd’s shoulder. “Here’s the deal. I want you to leave the hospital. Lindsay will book you a local motel room for the night, or I can get Carson to drive you straight back to Tennessee right now. Or if you can behave yourself, you can come to Griffin’s Rest tomorrow and meet Gale Ann’s sister Barbara Jean.”

Two thoughts instantly flashed through Lindsay’s mind: One, she hadn’t known that Griff had brought Powell agent Rick Carson to Kentucky; two, why had Barbara Jean Hughes agreed to spend a few days at Griff’s home?

“Ms. Cain’s sister is going to be staying with us?” Lindsay asked. How on earth had Griff managed that? By using his charm, she told herself. That’s how. Griffin Powell most certainly had a way with the ladies.

“I’ll bet Nic Baxter is hopping mad that you’ve whisked her eyewitness right out from under her nose,” Judd said. “I’m sure she demanded that you back off and leave protecting a witness to the FBI.”

The corners of Griff’s lips twitched, a hint of amusement in the expression. “Special Agent Baxter explained to Ms. Hughes the benefits of allowing the FBI to safeguard her. But when I offered her not only the security of my home and my protection, but a job, too, Barbara Jean agreed that my offer was more acceptable to her.”

Lindsay wondered just what sort of job Griff had offered the woman. Apparently, providing her a position with the Powell Agency had tipped the scales in his favor. Knowing Griff as she did, she had no doubt that he would create a position for Ms. Hughes if that’s what it took to secure her safety within the Powell compound. And an added bonus would be one-upping Special Agent Baxter. Even though Curtis Jackson hadn’t been happy to encounter Griff and his agents at every turn during the past three years, he and Griff had managed to remain cordial to each other. But with Nic Baxter and Griff, cordiality didn’t come into play. Lindsay wondered how Griff would react if she suggested he allow her to deal with Nic during this case and for him to steer clear of the lady.

“Just answer one question for me—did the sister see the killer?” Judd asked.

Griff grimaced. “She’s not sure.”

“What do you mean she’s not sure?”

“Look, this is not the time or the place to have this discussion.” Judd shrugged off Griff’s grasp. The two men stood almost eye to eye. Judd did have to glance up a bit to make direct eye contact since Griff was a couple of inches taller.

“If you didn’t want me here, why send your Girl Friday to fetch me?” Judd’s upper lip curled in a snarl.

“Damn it!” Griff cursed under his breath. “If you want to take an active part in this investigation, then shape up, stay sober, and treat the people who are trying to help you as if they have feelings.”

Lindsay’s cheeks warmed. Griff was talking about her and they all knew it.

“And if I really just don’t give a damn anymore?” Judd’s tense stance eased slightly.

“You give a damn,” Griff told him. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. So listen up—stop wallowing in self-pity and start acting like a civilized human being.”

Judd bristled. Lindsay could all but hear the thundering roar of anger rushing through his body. She braced herself for the worst.

Without warning, the sound of soft weeping caught their attention, and for a split second Lindsay was grateful that something—anything—had diffused the mounting tension between the two men. The last thing she wanted was to have to put herself between Griff and Judd.

Nic Baxter escorted an auburn-haired, wheelchair-bound woman out of the ICU waiting room. Barbara Jean Hughes held her head high as she patted her damp cheeks with a handkerchief that Lindsay instantly recognized as one of Griffin Powell’s. The large embroidered black “P” on the edge of the expensive linen was a dead giveaway.

As the FBI agent and the victim’s sister approached, Lindsay studied Barbara Jean. Attractive, but not classically pretty. Neat. Slender. Delicate. Probably in her early forties.

In contrast, Nic was tall—very tall—with an Amazonian, hourglass-shaped body, and was a decade younger than the other woman. One thing for sure, no one would ever use the word delicate to describe Special Agent Nicole Baxter.

“That’s the sister, right?” Judd said, and before anyone realized his intentions, he stepped directly in front of Barbara Jean’s wheelchair and confronted her. “Did you see him? Can you can give us a description of the man who killed your sister, the same man who killed my Jenny?” Judd leaned down, grasped the arms of her wheelchair and demanded, “If you don’t help us now, he’ll kill another woman before we can stop him. Is that what you want?”

Reacting immediately, Nic Baxter came around the side of the wheelchair, straight toward Judd. But before she could reach him, Griff clamped his hands down on Judd’s shoulders and yanked him away from Barbara Jean. She stared wide-eyed and mouth agape at the man who had accosted her.

Judd jerked free, barreled around, and lifted his fists to attack Griff. Acting purely on instinct, Lindsay stepped in between the two big men. From out of nowhere, Rick Carson appeared behind Griff. Apparently, he had been only a few steps behind Nic and Barbara Jean.

Griff bristled. The skin tightened over his sharp cheekbones and his ice blue eyes squinched with anger.

Judd froze to the spot and glared at Lindsay, her intervention acting as the deterrent she had hoped it would. Apparently, Judd wasn’t so far gone that he would actually resort to hitting her.

“Get Mr. Walker under control or I will,” Nic told Griff.

Griff motioned for Lindsay to move, then when she did, he locked his fierce gaze to Judd’s. “Is that what you want? You want to be taken into custody by the FBI?”

Judd didn’t respond verbally, simply loosened his tightly fisted hands and relaxed his battle-ready stance.

Observing Judd’s withdrawal, Griff spoke to Lindsay, “Carson will take over and get him out of here. You’ll fly home with me.”

When Rick Carson came forward, Judd backed away, and Lindsay feared another confrontation. But Rick made no move to touch Judd, who seemed more than ready to cause an even worse scene in the hospital corridor.

Lindsay moved closer to Griff in order to speak privately with him. “Let me take care of Judd. He’s less likely to resist going with me than he is if you try to send him with Rick.”

“It’s obvious that Judd’s emotional and mental stability has worsened,” Griff said. “He’s dangerous now.”

“I know,” she replied. “But he’s more dangerous to himself than to anyone else.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She had never lied to Griff, and she wasn’t actually lying now. She wanted to believe that Judd did not pose a physical threat to her, despite knowing that he still possessed the power to destroy her emotionally.

Griff nodded. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Griff then turned to Barbara Jean Hughes, bent down on his haunches, and clasped the woman’s hands.

Meek as a lamb, Judd left the hospital with Lindsay. His submissive attitude worried her far more than if he’d been openly belligerent. She tried to think of something to say to him, but she came up blank. When they walked outside, the cold night air blasted them the minute the hospital doors closed behind them. She paused long enough to button her coat before heading to the parking deck.

Judd lifted his face to the wind, as if he liked the feel of the bitter cold. “So, what now, my little savior?” he asked, the tone of his voice strangely amicable.

Looking over the parking lot in front of them, an area reserved for doctors and VIPs, Lindsay succinctly explained her plan. “We’re going to find a decent restaurant and eat supper. Then we’re getting a couple of rooms at a local motel for tonight. Come morning, we’re going back to Tennessee.” She removed her gloves from her coat pocket and slipped them on. “I can either drive you back to the hunting lodge and dump your sorry ass off, and leave you to drown in self-pity …” She paused, expecting a snide remark of some type. When he didn’t respond, she continued, “Or if you can behave yourself, I’ll take you to Griff’s and you can be part of our investigation again, the way you were in the beginning.” “Either or, huh?”

“Take it or leave it.” Uncertain what Judd would do, she headed toward the two-level parking deck on the west side of the hospital.

He caught up with her before she reached her Trailblazer parked on the bottom level. “I’d like a big, juicy steak for supper. How about you?”

Lindsay released a deep breath. She hadn’t known for sure how he would react to her issuing orders and giving him an ultimatum. Relieved by the normalcy in his voice, she replied, “A steak sounds great.”

When she clicked the unlock button on the remote device attached to her key chain, Judd came around to the driver’s side and opened the door for her. His gentlemanly action surprised her, so much so that she gasped and then glanced over her shoulder.

“I’m just showing you that I can be a good boy,” Judd said, smiling. But his smoky topaz eyes remained void of any real emotion.

She nodded. “If I take you home with me to Griff’s place—”

“I’ll behave myself.”

“If you don’t …” No, don’t issue him another warning. Just tell him exactly what’s what. “Griff’s your friend, or at least he’s tried to be. But you haven’t made it easy. If you screw up this time, it will be the last time as far as Griff is concerned. You’ve used up all your second chances with him.”

“What about you? Are you ready to wash your hands of me, too?”

Lindsay got inside her SUV, slid behind the wheel, and glanced up at Judd, who stood by the open door. “If you want me to help you one more time, let’s not make it personal.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“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 controlled 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?

Time to choose another victim. If he could find another redhead … A blonde would do. Fifteen points would be enough. For now.

Turning around in the oxblood leather swivel chair at his Jacobean desk, he faced the computer screen and typed in the password that would open a very secret file.

With a sense of anticipation, he watched as the file opened and the list of twenty names, addresses, and personal information appeared on the nineteen-inch screen. Ten names in all. It had taken endless hours of research to find ten perfect candidates. Such a pity that there wouldn’t be time to kill all of them.

Pick and choose. Pick and choose.

Which pretty flower shall I pick today?

There was only one redhead on the list.

Save her for later, just in case you need twenty points closer to the end of the game.

Five brunettes and four blondes.

A blonde this time. Definitely a blonde.

Shelly Hall. Ashley Gray. Sonya Todd. Heather Johnson.

Tapping his index finger against his chin, an amused tilt to his lips, he studied the profiles of each of the four blondes. Then he lifted his finger to the screen and counted off, eeney-meeny-miney-mo.

Griffin’s plane landed shortly before eleven that evening. As instructed, Sanders had brought the limo and was waiting for them. Griff relied on Sanders in a way he relied on no other human being. He trusted Damar Sanders with his life. He could say that of no other man. Not even his old UT teammate, Jim Norton, or his former friend, Judd Walker. A stint in the belly of hell could unite two men in a way nothing else could.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Sanders spoke respectfully to Barbara Jean Hughes as Griff stopped her wheelchair at the right rear door.

“Hello.” Barbara Jean openly stared at Sanders, not an uncommon reaction upon first meeting the extraordinary man.

“I’m Sanders, ma’am,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sanders.”

“This, of course, is Ms. Hughes,” Griff said.

“Please, call me Barbara Jean,” she told Sanders.

He simply nodded.

“I’ll lift you up and into the car,” Griff said. “And don’t be alarmed. One of my agents, Angie Sterling, is inside the limo. Angie will be one of your private bodyguards while you’re our guest.”

Barbara Jean’s eyes widened in surprise. She gulped softly, then nodded. “Thank you. I—I appreciate everything. I really do. It’s just I never imagined I’d ever be in this position and need a bodyguard. I may be a paraplegic, but I’m not helpless. I have great upper body strength, you know. I manage to live alone and can get in and out of my wheelchair with out assistance. I hold down a job and can take a taxi wherever I need to go.”

“We hope you won’t need a bodyguard for very long and can return home soon,” Griff said. “But while you do, we’ll keep you so busy that you just might forget you have a guardian angel keeping watch over you.”

Sanders opened the door. Griff lifted Barbara Jean into his arms and placed her inside the limousine. Griff closed the door; then Sanders folded the wheelchair and put it in the trunk.

“Are we ready to go?” Sanders asked.

Griff nodded. “Yes, and when we get inside, lift the privacy window. I have some phone calls to make and I’d rather Ms. Hughes not be bothered.”

Thirty minutes later, they arrived at what many called the Powell Compound. Actually, the estate, with part of the acreage on Douglas Lake, had a name: Griffin’s Rest.

Two massive stone arches flanked the locked gates, which Sanders opened electronically from within the limo. Bronze griffins, the mythological beast with the head, forepart, and wings of an eagle and the body, hind legs, and tail of a lion, had been imbedded into the stonework of both arches. The winding paved road from the highway to the house passed through a thickly wooded area before opening up to a lake-front vista. Griffin’s home itself was not enormous, merely ten-thousand square feet and two stories high, but there were other buildings on the property, including a barn, stables, and three guest cottages. He supposed his estate was a compound, of sorts. Without a doubt, it was a secure area, monitored around the clock, both with surveillance equipment and manpower.

Tonight the gray snow clouds obscured the half-moon, leaving only the limo’s headlights to illuminate the road. Griffin had checked in with Rick Carson and his “friend” in D.C., getting all his ducks in a row before arriving home.

Home.

He supposed Griffin’s Rest was as much of a home as a man such as he would ever have. These sprawling acres in northeast Tennessee provided him with privacy, giving him a sanctuary from the world when he chose to leave business and the social scene behind him. As for family—Sanders was his brother, in spirit if not in blood. And during the past few years, he had come to think of Lindsay as his kid sister, although she did not—and never could—know the man he truly was.

As Sanders pulled the limousine up in front of the two-story portico, Griffin glanced into the back and saw that Barbara Jean Hughes had fallen asleep. He made eye contact with Angie, who nodded in understanding. Griffin had instructed Sanders to provide a mild sedative for Angie to place in a thermos of hot tea that she would provide for Ms. Hughes. He wanted his special visitor to rest, to get the first full night’s sleep she’d had in more than forty-eight hours.

Sanders turned to Griffin. “Ms. Hughes’s room is ready. Do you want me to take her in and put her to bed?”

“Yes, please,” Griff replied, knowing that Sanders would see to it that one of the staff members took care of the limo. “And make sure Angie understands that she is to keep watch over our guest until she is relieved by another agent in the morning.”

Griff emerged from the limo and went directly to the front door. He punched in the code, which was changed periodically for security reasons. After opening the double doors, he walked into the foyer, leaving the doors open behind him. Instead of going upstairs and directly to bed, he entered the room on the left, a two-story den, with a rock fireplace large enough that, if he so chose, he could walk right inside it. He went straight to the liquor cabinet, retrieved a crystal tumbler, and a bottle of The Macallan, a vintage single malt whiskey. Taking bottle and glass with him, he went over and placed both on the silver tray that topped the old tea table in front of the forest green leather sofa. He removed his coat, gloves, and scarf, then sat on the sofa and took off his shoes.

Sighing heavily, he gazed into the blaze glowing in the massive fireplace. His orders were that, in winter, a fire be kept burning in this fireplace day and night. He often slept here on this sofa. That’s one reason, when he had special-ordered it, he had requested a seven-foot length. He had a perfectly fine bed upstairs in his suite. King-size. Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like silk to the touch. But more often than not, he found it impossible to rest in his own bed.

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 coffee 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.

Odd how he could now think about her, even about her brutal murder, and not get a knot in his belly or a lump in his throat. Odd that despite having once loved her madly, he now felt practically nothing. Just a vague numbness. And an occasional twinge of bittersweet memory. Odder still was the fact that the only person, living or dead, who made him feel much of anything was Lindsay.

In those early days, she’d been around almost all the time. At Jennifer’s funeral, in his home, at the police station where he’d been questioned repeatedly. Always in the background, always with Lt. Dan Blake. He’d been aware of her presence, but little more than that—until about a month after his wife’s murder when he’d been called to police headquarters one more time. His lawyer had explained that the husband is always a suspect. Being a lawyer himself, intellectually he understood the reasoning behind such an assumption. But being a mourning widower, half out of his mind with grief, he couldn’t understand how anyone could think he would have harmed a hair on Jennifer’s beautiful head. He had adored her, worshipped her, loved her insanely. And yet even weeks after her murder, the police were still questioning him. Looking back, he realized the reason had been desperation on their part because they had no other suspects, just the unknown, unseen “client” whom Jennifer had supposedly met that night.

During that final interrogation, he truly saw Lindsay for the first time. Not as Lieutenant Blake’s shadow, not as just some woman whose face he could barely recall, but as a person.

He hadn’t slept all night through in weeks, not since Jenny’s death less than a month ago. And every waking moment was sheer torture. If he wasn’t remembering her smile, her laughter, the feel of her lying next to him, he was recalling the way she had looked in death, her arms bound above her head, her hands missing. Some nights he woke up in a cold sweat after dreaming of her. Her masklike face lying against the pale pink satin lining her casket. Her arms reaching out to him, hands missing, pleading for him to save her.

Sleep deprived and grief-stricken, he showed up at the police station that day accompanied by his longtime friend and fellow lawyer, Camden Hendrix. He and Cam had met in law school—the two of them exact opposites in nearly every way. Cam had grown up poor, fatherless, and determined to one day be rich. Very rich. They had become fast friends immediately. Cam had been the best man at his wedding.

“You’ve got to be the luckiest damn son of a bitch I’ve ever known.” Cam had slapped him on the back and shook his hand when he told him that Jennifer had accepted his proposal.

Cam had loved her just as Griff had. Everyone who knew his Jenny had loved her.

As usual, when Lieutenant Blake questioned Judd, Sergeant Lindsay McAllister was present. Cam had mentioned, just in passing, that he thought the young officer was mighty cute, and he just might ask her out. Judd had been oblivious to Lindsay’s attractiveness, and that day was no different. He barely glanced at her.

Lieutenant Blake threw question after question at Judd, going over the same tired old material. Judd managed to reply in a reasonably calm manner for the first half hour, but suddenly the detective’s tone changed and he began hammering away at Judd.

“You don’t have an alibi for the time your wife was killed,” Blake said. “And we have two witnesses who saw you and your wife in an argument the day before she was murdered. What were you arguing about?”

“Damn it, I’ve told you over and over again. The argument was about nothing,” Judd said. “I wanted to reopen the family’s hunting lodge for the weekend and she didn’t want to. She didn’t like the country. She wanted to go to a party some friends were having. We ended up deciding to do neither, to just stay home and spend some time alone together.”

The same honest explanation he’d given repeatedly didn’t satisfy Lieutenant Blake. “Your wife was very beautiful and men adored her, didn’t they? That must have bothered you, knowing your wife was such a flirt—”

“Jennifer was not a flirt!” Judd came up out of the chair and lunged at the detective, whose combative reaction spurred Judd on.

Cam reached for Judd, who was by that time halfway across the table separating him from his tormentor. Cam grabbed hold of Judd’s shoulders just as Lindsay McAllister plopped herself down on the table right in front of her partner, creating a barrier between Judd and the lieutenant.

“My God, Dan, stop this! Enough’s enough. Mr. Walker shouldn’t have to go through this insanity.” Lindsay defended Judd in a loud, authoritarian voice, as if there was not one doubt in her mind that he was an innocent man. “Any fool can see that this man loved his wife, and he’s suffering unbearably.”

Judd allowed Cam to yank him back into his chair. All the while his gaze focused on Lindsay, seeing her for the first time as more than a nonentity.

“That’s quite enough, Sergeant McAllister,” Lieutenant Blake said, his tone calm and even.

Lindsay slid off the table and stood at attention, her cheeks flushed bright pink, and her jaw tightly clenched.

She wasn’t beautiful. She didn’t have a knockout figure. But Cam had been right—she was cute. Short, slender, with an all-American girl wholesomeness. The strangest notion went through Judd’s mind. He bet she liked the great outdoors, probably enjoyed camping and fishing and …

Suddenly he realized that he was thinking of her the way a man does a woman he’s interested in getting to know. His wife had been dead for less than a month and he found another woman attractive and interesting.

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