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 con sidered 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.
His gut clenched painfully.
He hated Lindsay McAllister. Hated her because she made him feel something besides grief.
As mile after mile of Tennessee roadway passed by outside the SUV, Judd opened his eyes, came back to the present, and looked out of the side window of Lindsay’s Trailblazer. They had gone through Knoxville and were now on Interstate 40, heading toward the turnoff for the Douglas Lake area. He glanced at the dashboard clock: Ten to twelve. Nearly noon. They should arrive at Griffin’s Rest in another thirty minutes or so.
“When’s the last time you saw Cam?” Judd asked, realizing he hadn’t even thought about his old buddy in at least six months and hadn’t gotten in touch with him in nearly a year. Like everyone else, including Griff, Cam had pretty much given him up as a lost cause.
Lindsay gasped. “I thought you were still asleep.”
“Nope.”
“I saw Cam last fall. He came up to Griffin’s Rest and spent a few days,” she said. “We went fishing.”
“I’m surprised you two didn’t hook up. He’s always liked you.”
“Hmm …”
“Don’t want to discuss your personal life with me, huh?”
When she didn’t reply, he should have let the subject drop, but instead he said, “If you’re not screwing around with Griff, and Cam isn’t your latest lover, then you must still be—”
“Carrying a torch for you,” she finished for him.
“Are you?”
“I’m dating a very nice man. A doctor from Knoxville.”
“Are you serious about him?”
“I could be.”
“Good for you. You deserve to be happy.”
“Gee, thanks, Judd,” she said sarcastically. “I’m glad you think so.”
He chuckled. “It’s always going to be there, isn’t it? That tension between us.”
Silence.
“It’s the reason I hate you, you know,” he told her.
She didn’t even flinch, which surprised him. There had been a time when he could get to her, irritate her, and hurt her so easily. Guess she’d grown a thick skin, at least where he was concerned.
“I suppose I should be flattered that you’re capable of feeling anything for me, even if it is hatred,” she said.
“I don’t want to feel anything.”
“Hurts too much, huh?”
“I really hope things work out for you and the doctor.”
“Thanks.”
Liar. You don’t want Lindsay to care about another man. To want another man. To love another man.
Even if he didn’t love her, he didn’t want any other man to have her.
Barbara Jean found it difficult to accept what had happened to her in the past few days. Nothing seemed real, least of all losing her only sibling. She and Gale Ann had been close since childhood, always best friends as well as sisters, despite the differences in their ages and personalities. She was seven years Gale Ann’s senior and had been her sister’s caretaker and protector most of their lives—until the car wreck five years ago. Then their roles had reversed and Gale Ann became the caretaker for a while.
“Good morning, Ms. Hughes,” Sanders said when she entered the kitchen.
“Good morning.” She tried to offer him a smile, but the effort failed.
As the stocky, tan-skinned Sanders nodded in a curt, polite manner, she studied him for a few moments. Last night, she had been half-asleep when he had lifted her from the car and carried her up a flight of stairs to an incredibly lovely guest room. At the time, she had thought how very strong this man was to be able to carry her one hundred and forty pounds without breaking a sweat or even breathing hard.
Odd that although she usually hated being catered to or fussed over because of her handicap, she had felt only cosseted and protected in Sanders’s strong arms.
Her streamlined, motorized wheelchair allowed her access to all the downstairs rooms in Griffin Powell’s mansion, but she had been forced to rely on one of his agents, a big, burly man named Shaughnessy Hood, to carry her downstairs and place her in her chair this morning. At home, she maneuvered around in her one-bedroom apartment without any assistance, but unfortunately all the bedrooms in this huge house were on the second floor. She liked being as independent as possible, liked living on her own, and holding down a job. But due to circumstances beyond her control, she’d been forced to take an indefinite leave of absence from her position at Honeywell, Inc.
Powell agent Angie Sterling had explained that Mr. Hood would take over bodyguard duty today, and she would be returning this evening. Apparently, the two were rotating twelve-hour shifts.
“I’m sorry we don’t have another female agent available until tomorrow,” Ms. Sterling had said. “Griff is calling in someone and sending out one of the guys to replace her, but it’ll be tomorrow before she arrives.”
Male or female, the agent didn’t really matter, but it was nice of Griffin Powell to try to accommodate her by having women as her bodyguards. It was the fact that she actually needed to have protection twenty-four-seven that bothered her, not the sex of her protector.
“What would you like for breakfast?” Sanders asked.
She glanced around at the huge, state-of-the-art kitchen. “Are you the cook, Mr. Sanders?”
“Just Sanders, ma’am.” His dark eyes settled on her, but without the look of pity she so often recognized when people saw her disability instead of her. “And yes, in a way, I am the cook. One of them anyway. I often prepare breakfast for Mr. Powell and any guests who might be here at Griffin’s Rest. We do have a regular cook who comes in to prepare the other meals and occasionally also does breakfast.”
“Have you worked for Mr. Powell very long?”
“We’ve been together nearly eighteen years.”
Been together, not worked for. Barbara Jean understood the subtle difference in the two statements. Was this his way of telling her that he was more than an employee, more than a mere servant?
Realizing she was gawking pointedly at Sanders, she quickly said, “Griffin is a very persuasive man, isn’t he?” When Sanders continued staring at her with those expressive black eyes, she cleared her throat and added, “I mean he’s charming and understanding and—”
“He is a good man. He wishes to keep you safe and do all he can to help you.”
“I think he and Special Agent Baxter both assumed that my sister’s killer would come after me, but since I can’t identify him, I doubt he’d risk being caught by trying to kill me just because I might have gotten a passing glimpse of him.”
“Mr. Powell had pancakes this morning and I still have batter,” Sanders said, as if he hadn’t heard what she’d said. “Will pancakes suit you?”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“No trouble.” He indicated the coffeemaker on the counter. “There is coffee prepared. Would you prefer to serve yourself or—”
“I can do it myself,” she replied. “Thank you.”
She wheeled herself to the counter, reached up, and managed to lift the glass pot and pour the steaming black liquid into one of several mugs near the coffeemaker. Clutching the mug between her hands, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. Delicious.
“The coffee’s really good.”
“Hmm …” Sanders removed a plastic bowl from the refrigerator. “Where is Griffin … Mr. Powell this morning? You mentioned that he’d already had breakfast.”
“He’s in his office.”
“Would it be possible for me to see him? I need to discuss making arrangements for my sister’s funeral and—”
“I believe he has already taken care of that. I’m sure he’ll speak with you later this morning. Right now, he is quite busy.”
Sanders had a unique accent. He spoke with a slight British accent, yet there was a hint of something else, as if perhaps he had grown up in a bilingual home.
“Do you happen to know what type of job he has in mind for me to do for the Powell Agency?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, I have no idea.”
Had she been wrong to trust Griffin Powell, to accept his offer of protection and a job to keep her busy as well as pay her bills? She could have allowed Special Agent Baxter to put her under FBI protection, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being whisked away and kept hidden. She needed to bury her sister. She needed to work. And she needed to be somewhere she was not only protected, but where no one would pressure her to identify the man she’d seen leaving her sister’s apartment.
“Would you mind if I prepare my own breakfast?” Barbara Jean asked. “I like to take care of myself as much as possible.”
“Certainly,” Sanders replied. “I am here to help you in any way I can. Just tell me what you need and I will see that you have it.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite right now.” She had done little more than nibble at her food since she had discovered Gale Ann’s almost lifeless body. Had that really been four days ago? Yes, four days ago this afternoon. “I’d like to fix myself a couple of pieces of toast. And if you have orange juice, I’d like a glass of that, too.”
Sanders pointed out where everything could be located— the pantry, the refrigerator, the toaster behind one of the closed counter cupboards. When she dropped the loaf of bread on the floor, Sanders picked it up, handed it to her, and smiled. Not an overly warm or friendly smile and not a you-poor-thing smile. Just a cordial tilt to his wide mouth.
His dark hand brushed her pale fingers as she took the loaf of bread from him. She tried not to stare, but she found him fascinating. And handsome in a very exotic sort of way. An image of Yul Brynner as he looked in the old movie, The King and I, flashed through Barbara Jean’s mind.
Glancing away hurriedly, she concentrated on preparing her breakfast. A few minutes later, when she placed her buttered toast on a plate and wheeled over to put it on the table alongside her coffee and small glass of juice, Sanders removed one of the kitchen chairs so that she could park her wheelchair close to the table.
“May I join you?” he asked as he poured himself a mug of coffee.
“Please do.”
When he sat across from her, neither of them spoke for several minutes. She nibbled on the toast and sipped the coffee.
“You must not worry about anything while you are here,” Sanders said. “Whatever you need will be provided.”
“Since you’ve known Mr. Powell for such a long time, perhaps you can tell me something about him.” When Sanders didn’t reply, she continued. “I agreed to come here with him instead of going with Special Agent Baxter because I believed he wouldn’t pressure me about identifying the man I saw leaving my sister’s apartment building the day she was …” Barbara Jean swallowed hard. “What will Griffin do if I can’t give him a detailed description of the man, if I can’t give him more of a description than I already have?”
“You are under Griffin Powell’s protection and will remain so as long as you might possibly be in danger. Griffin knows that if you can identify this man, you will because you will want to do all you can to help find the person who murdered your sister and stop him before he can kill again.”
“And if I can’t identify him?”
“Then you cannot.”
I can’t. I swear I can’t.
She really hadn’t gotten a good look at the man. But the truth—the whole truth—was that she didn’t want to remember what he looked like, didn’t want to recall any specific facial features or distinguishing marks. How could she ever make Griffin or anyone else understand how terrified she was at the thought that this maniac might kill her the way he had her sister? As long as she lived, she would never be able to forget the sight of Gale Ann bound and gagged, both of her feet severed at the ankles.
Suddenly she felt a large, warm palm covering her trembling hand. Through a sheen of fresh tears, she looked from where Sanders’s hand clasped hers up to his face. Without saying a word, he pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped away her tears.