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The Watcher
BEVERLY BARTON


Whether you run or whether you hide, he’ll find you. And then he’ll kill you…The game is simple–he is the Hunter. They are the prey. And they’re both entangled in a terrifying game of hide and seek…Private investigator Griffin Powell and FBI agent Nicole Baxter know a lot about serial killers – they took one down together. But this new killer is as sadistic as they've ever seen. He likes his little games, and he especially likes forcing Nicole and Griff to play along.Every unsolvable clue, every posed victim, every taunting phone call – it's all part of his twisted, elaborate plan.And then the Hunter seeks out his most precious prey of all and Griff finds himself playing for the biggest stakes of his life.







BEVERLY BARTON

The Watcher









Copyright (#ulink_c7b07f55-9aa9-56cb-88fc-a96ddcaccd0c)


Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

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

This eBook edition published 2018

Copyright В© Beverly Barton 2008

Cover design В© Diane Meacham Design 2018

Cover photograph В© 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: 9781847560599

Ebook Edition В© May 2018 ISBN: 9780007281824

Version: 2018-06-04




Dedication (#ulink_b9af9f15-e19b-5156-abb2-fed2dc19a5fa)


In loving memory of my mother, Doris Marie.


Many thanks to my friend Marilyn Puett for putting me in touch with a retired FBI agent who generously agreed to help me with research.

Thank you, Former Special Agent William C. Rasmussen. Your assistance proved invaluable during the course of writing this book. Any mistakes are mine, probably because I assumed I knew something or I either misunderstood the answer to a question or simply asked the wrong question.


Contents

Cover (#u7f8449f7-c4a0-5393-9eae-e1d696040c50)

Title Page (#uf5f928fc-7570-5e7c-ad94-fb3e41e10817)

Copyright (#uc7d34c14-a62c-5521-a1bf-44366623b402)

Dedication (#ubb08fed8-7249-541c-8951-ffcab9d5d452)

Prologue (#u76890d7a-7d68-5db0-a907-89b0990d6826)

Chapter 1 (#u9439e831-41e1-5101-a598-95c888505444)

Chapter 2 (#ue9d80337-c9dc-5f91-ad5a-bb01fc1cc8e3)

Chapter 3 (#ufe2fb52a-c503-59ec-887d-10f2c37be0d2)

Chapter 4 (#u185f5534-1d59-5a0e-864c-1e5e4e2fd803)

Chapter 5 (#uc0773394-956e-5a65-9fd9-b06626923a4c)

Chapter 6 (#u14a6b898-5147-5d65-b885-a0fd05d7304c)

Chapter 7 (#u57a81174-fe0f-53b1-b19e-b5969d2aad5f)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Beverly Barton (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#ulink_fef8949b-c964-5ee7-b0cd-3e1e70d58a3a)


I am not going to die! Damn it, I refuse to give up, to let him win this evil competition.

Kendall Moore pulled herself up off the ground where she had fallen, face-down, as she ran from her tormentor. Breathless and exhausted, she managed to bring herself to her knees. Every muscle ached. Her head throbbed. Fresh blood trickled from the cuts on her legs and the gashes in the bottoms of her callused feet.

The blistering August sun beat down on her like hot, heavy tendrils reaching out from a relentless monster in the sky. The sun was her enemy, blistering her skin, parching her lips, dehydrating her tired, weak body.

Garnering what little strength she had left, Kendall forced herself to stand. She had to find cover, a place where she had an advantage over her pursuer. If he caught up with her while she was out in the open, he would kill her. The game would be over. He would win.

He’s not going to win!1 Her mind screamed orders—run, hide, live to fight another day. But her legs managed only a few trembling steps before she faltered and fell again. She needed food and water. She hadn’t eaten in three days and hadn’t had any water since day before yesterday. He had been pursuing her from sunup to sunset for the past few days, apparently moving in for the kill. After weeks of tormenting her.

The roar of his dirt bike alerted her to the fact that he was nearby, on the narrow, rutted path to the west of her present location. Soon, he would come deeper into the woods on foot, tracking her as he would track an animal.

At first she had been puzzled by the fact that he had kidnapped her but then set her free. But it hadn’t taken her long—only a matter of hours—before she realized that she was in the middle of nowhere and that she wasn’t free, no more than a captive animal in a game reserve was actually free.

Day after day, he stalked her, hunted her down, and taught her how to play the game by his rules. He’d had more than one opportunity to kill her, but he had allowed her to live, and he’d even given her an occasional day of rest. But she never knew which day it would be, so she was forced to stay alert at all times, to be prepared for yet another long, tiring match in what seemed like a never-ending game.

Pudge parked his dirt bike, straightened the cord holding the small binoculars around his neck and the leather strap that held the rifle cover across his back. Kendall didn’t know it, but today was the day she would die. He had brought her here to this isolated area three weeks ago today. She would be his fifth kill in this brand-new game that he had devised after several months of meticulous planning. Only recently had he decided that he would hunt his prey for three weeks, then go in for the actual kill on the twenty-first day.

After his cousin Ruddy’s death on April first of last year, he had discovered that he missed his one-time opponent and lifelong best friend more than he’d thought he would. But Ruddy’s death had been inevitable. After all, he been the loser in their “Dying Game” and the consequences of losing was forfeiting one’s life.

You’d love this new game, dear cousin. I am choosing only the finest female specimens, women with physical prowess and mental cunning. Only worthy adversaries.

Kendall Moore holds an Olympic silver medal in longdistance running. Her slender, five ten frame is all lean muscle. In a fair fight, she might actually win the game we’re playing, but whenever did I fight fair?

Pudge chuckled to himself as he dismounted from the dirt bike.

I’m coming for you. Run. Hide. I’ll find you. And then I’ll kill you.

As he stomped through the woods, Pudge felt a surge of adrenaline rush through his body, heightening his senses. He had missed the thrill of taking a human life, of watching with delight the look of horror in a woman’s eyes when she knew she was going to die.

Soon, he told himself. The next victim in The Murder Game is only a few yards away. Waiting for you. Waiting for death.

Kendall knew that if her captor chose to kill her, her chances of escape were nil. He had proven to her several times that she was powerless to stop him from tracking her and finding her. He had pointed his rifle at her, dead center at her heart, more than once, then grinned with evil glee, turned, and walked away. But the time would come when he would not walk away. Was today that day?

She heard his footsteps as he crunched through the underbrush, drawing closer and closer. He wasn’t trying to sneak up on her. In fact, he seemed to want her to know that he was approaching.

You have to keep moving, she told herself. Even if you can’t get away, you have to try. Don’t give up. Not now.

Kendall ran for what seemed like hours but probably wasn’t more than ten minutes. Her muscles ached, her heart raced. Out of breath and drained of what little energy she had left, she paused behind a huge, towering tree—and waited.

Keep moving!

I can’t. I’m so tired.

He’s going to find you. And when he does …

God, help me. Please, help me.

Suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, her captor called out her name. Just as she turned toward the sound of his voice, he stepped through the thick summertime foliage surrounding them. The trickle of sunlight fingering down through the ceiling of sky-high treetops hit the muzzle of his rifle, which he had aimed directly at her.

“Game’s end,” he said.

He’s never said that before, Kendall thought.

Breathing hard, she lifted her head and stared right at him. “If you’re going to kill me, you son of a bitch, then do it.”

“What’s wrong, Kendall, are you tired of playing our little game?”

“Game? That’s all this is to you, isn’t it? Some sick, perverted game. Damn it, this is my life.”

“Yes, it is. And I hold the power of life and death—your life and death—in my hands.”

His cold, self-satisfied smile sent shivers through her.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re so very perfect.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand. All you need to do is die.”

She swallowed hard. He’s actually going to kill me this time. Icy fear froze her to the spot. “Do it, damn you, do it!”

The first shot hit her in her right leg. Pain. Excruciating pain. She grasped her bloody thigh as she fell to her knees. The second bullet hit her in the shoulder.

She stared at him through a haze of agonized tears and waited for the third shot.

Nothing.

“End it,” she screamed. “Please, please …”

The third shot entered her chest, but missed her heart.

The pain enveloped her, taking her over completely, becoming who she was. No longer Kendall. Only the torment she endured.

As she lay on the ground, bleeding to death, her captor approached. When she felt the tip of the rifle muzzle pressing against the back of her head, she closed her eyes and prayed for death.

The fourth and final bullet answered her prayer.




Chapter 1 (#ulink_abec8d26-c7de-592d-9055-9aaace8bd217)


He had killed before and he would kill again. Nothing could compare to the godlike feeling of such power.

For five years he had played the dying game with his cousin and their rivalry had been part of the excitement, part of the thrill. But Ruddy was dead, their wonderful game over.

His new game was only a few months old, yet he already realized that without an opponent, without the psychological stimulation of competition, it just wasn’t the same. The hunt was exhilarating, the kill a sublime climax, but the titillating pleasure of the preparation and planning as well as the triumph afterward were missing from his murder game. He now had no one with whom to share either.

He trusted no one the way he had trusted Ruddy, both of them knowing from their teens that they were different from others. Special. Superior. He could hardly run an ad in the paper for another partner, could he? Wanted: Cunning sadist to compete in a highly skilled game of hunt and kill. Winner takes all. Loser dies.

As Pudge crossed over the Arkansas border into Louisiana, heading toward Bastrop, he chuckled at the thought of advertising for an adversary.

It wouldn’t take long to reach Monroe, then he’d go on to Alexandria, where he’d hit Interstate 49, which would take him home. He might even stop for dinner somewhere along the way.

He had put a bullet into Kendall Moore’s head only three days ago and had returned her body to a secluded area just outside her hometown of Ballinger. As he had done with the others, he had taken a trophy. A little souvenir. Something to add to his growing collection.

Removing his gaze from the road momentarily, he glanced down at the small, round box nestled securely on the passenger side floorboard. Kendall had possessed a mane of short brown hair. Thick and curly. Like heavy satin to the touch.

Sighing deeply, he thought about touching her hair again, about caressing it tenderly as he recalled, over and over again, those final moments of her life.

Griffin Powell envied his old friend. Judd Walker had been to hell and back. Now, thanks to the love of a good woman, he had survived and had a wonderful life. A life that he appreciated in a way only a man who had come close to self-destructing could. Seeing the happiness in Judd’s eyes every time he looked at his wife and infant daughter, Griff knew how much Judd valued the priceless second chance he had been given.

If anyone knew about second chances, Griff did.

Judd slapped Griff on the back. “Come on outside and help me put these steaks on the grill.” He held up the tray of marinated meat in his other hand. “Cam’s got it all fired up and ready to go.”

“Just how many chefs do you need manning the grill?” Griff asked before upending his beer bottle to finish off the last drops.

Judd shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I thought you might want to get away from the ladies for a few minutes. That is, unless you’re dying to listen once again to all the details of how we decorated the nursery, went through childbirth classes together, and how I nearly fainted during Emily’s delivery.”

Griff smiled as he glanced across the room to where the visiting ladies—Rachel Carter, Cam’s latest girlfriend, and Griff’s date, Lisa Kay Smithe—sat at the kitchen table chatting with Lindsay Walker. Little Miss Emily Chisholm Walker slept soundly in her mother’s arms. Lindsay McAllister, now Lindsay Walker, had traded her Private Investigator license and 9mm for a bucolic life out in the country with her husband and baby.

Griff had never seen her happier.

Lindsay deserved to be happy. She’d earned it.

He loved her like a little sister and wanted only the best for her.

“I think I’ll leave all the baby talk to the ladies,” Griff said as he followed Judd outside and onto the patio. Judd had added the patio to the old Walker family hunting lodge that he and Lindsay had renovated shortly after their marriage last year.

Griff wasn’t much for family get-togethers and backyard barbecues. Not that he wasn’t enjoying himself today. Not that there was anywhere else he’d rather be. He could count true friends on his fingers, a short list, with Judd and Lindsay among the chosen few. Griff and Judd went back quite a few years, pre-Lindsay years. They’d been playboy pals even before Judd’s first marriage. And Judd had been buddies with Camden Hendrix since the two attended law school together. Like Griff, Cam had come from nothing and was a self-made man, while Judd came from generations of old Tennessee money. And Griff and Cam were both confirmed bachelors fast approaching their fortieth birthdays.

“How do you like your steak, Griff?” Cam asked as he took the tray from Judd and placed it on the side table by the state-of-the-art built-in grill.

Realizing that through all the years they’d known each other, this barbecue was a first for them, Griff eyed Cam with a raised eyebrow. The All-American blue-eyed, sandy-haired trial lawyer was casually dressed, wearing a white apron over his University of Tennessee T-shirt and cutoff jeans. “Medium,” Griff replied to the question.

Cam grinned. “Really? I’d have pegged you for a rare kind of guy.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t like it raw, huh?” Cam chuckled as he nodded toward the back door. “Wonder if Ms. Smithe would prefer a guy who does take it raw?”

Griff’s good-natured smile never wavered. “You’re more than welcome to ask her. But what about the lady you brought to the dance? Won’t she expect you to dance that last dance with her?”

“We could swap partners,” Cam suggested.

“Will you two stop that?” Judd glanced at the screened door that led from the patio to the screened porch. “I’m an old married man and if my wife heard such talk out of you two, she might forbid me to ever invite y’all back.”

Cam and Griff laughed out loud.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Griff said.

“He’s pussy-whipped,” Cam joked.

“Sure am,” Judd told them. “And damn proud of it.”

Griff knew that if any man on earth was devoted to his wife, Judd was. And he didn’t blame him. If a woman ever loved him the way Lindsay loved Judd …

There had been a time when they had exchanged girlfriends, had passed them around, and none of the women had objected in the least. As a matter of fact, Judd, Cam, and he had speculated that the ladies they dated were probably keeping score, comparing each man to the other two and sharing their preferences with one another. When Jennifer Mobley entered their lives, they had vied for her affection, each of them dating her in turn. Judd had won that particular prize. He’d fallen head over heels for Jenny. They were still newlyweds when Jenny had become one of the Beauty Queen Killer’s victims. That had been more than five years

ago.

And lucky son of a bitch that he was, Judd had found the right woman for a second time.

Griff figured that sooner or later, Cam would succumb to love. When he least expected it, the right woman would come along and knock his socks off.

But Griff didn’t expect to ever marry or father a child. He had far too much baggage to bring into any relationship. A past that no woman would understand. Demons plagued him. Soul-deep demons, from which he could never escape.

Nicole Baxter sprawled leisurely on the rustic wooden chaise lounge with thickly padded cushions in a hideous floral print. The day was hot, the breeze slightly humid, the air heavy. She lifted the large glass from the deck floor up to her lips and sipped the sweet tea. As she glanced high overhead and saw an eagle in flight, she rubbed the cool glass across one cheek and then the other. Nearby the soft trickle of a small stream drummed melodically in her ears and the rustle of the moist air through the towering treetops reminded her that the weather forecasters had mentioned an afternoon rainstorm.

If it rained, she’d go inside the rental cabin, choose one of the half dozen paperbacks she had brought, then curl up on the sofa and read. If it didn’t rain, she’d probably change clothes and go hiking.

Glancing down at her seen-better-days shorts, oversize cotton T-shirt, and bare feet, she sighed. Maybe she wouldn’t go anywhere. Maybe she’d sit right here for the next four or five hours, drinking tea, napping, trying her best to get the rest and relaxation her boss had told her she needed.

Maybe Doug was right. Maybe she’d become so consumed with her two-killer theory that she wasn’t thinking straight. And an agent who couldn’t think straight couldn’t do her job.

Besides that, she hadn’t taken a vacation in years, not since Greg died and she’d thrown herself into her work. Work had saved her sanity when she lost her husband. Work had become her passion, her only passion.

Hell, who was she kidding? From the day she’d been recruited by the FBI, a green kid fresh out of college, she’d been consumed with proving herself, showing everyone that a woman could be the best. The very best.

And, yeah, maybe her attitude had a great deal to do with her male chauvinist father.

Damn it, Nic, let it go. You came to terms with your father’s overbearing influence a long time ago. Don’t rehash the past. It serves no purpose.

Six months of grief counseling had done more than help her deal with Greg’s death—it had made her open up to a therapist about her life in general, especially the formative years that had created Nicole Baxter, the real woman, the woman few people ever truly knew. To be honest, there were times when she wasn’t sure even she knew who she was.

“Take two weeks off.” Doug Trotter, one of the Special Agent’s in Charge at the D.C. field office where she worked, hadn’t given her much choice.

“I’ll go nuts,” she’d replied.

“Give it a try. Go somewhere fun. Go to the beach. Put on a bikini. Flirt with beach boys. Get drunk and get laid.”

If she and her boss hadn’t been good friends as well as colleagues, he never would have added that final comment.

“I’ll take two weeks off,” she’d told him. “But I’m not into boys. If I’m going to get laid, I want a man doing the

job.”

Doug had laughed.

So, here she was in a rental cabin in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. She had arrived last night. Slept like the dead. Ate a big breakfast she’d cooked herself. Soaked in the hot tub for twenty minutes, then showered and thrown on some old, comfy clothes.

Day One in her first week of R&R and she was bored out of her mind.

Pudge exited off Interstate 49, took a right turn at the end of the ramp, and went in search of Catfish Haven, which was advertised on the FOOD AND LODGING sign. There it was, up ahead on the left. The restaurant was housed in a new building, constructed of old lumber to give it that aged quality, and possessed a rustic metal roof, a sprawling front porch, and a large parking lot half-filled with vehicles.

Pudge eased his rental car into a slot near the entrance. Good parking karma. He smiled. The gods were looking down on him today.

Before he went inside and dined on the local cuisine, he had two phone calls to make. Thinking about a solution to his problem as he’d been driving, he had come up with a brilliant idea. Just the thought of it excited him.

He didn’t need a partner in crime in order to have a competitor. All he needed was an adversary. Someone with whom he could share certain aspects of his planning, execution, and subsequent triumph. Someone intelligent. Someone who would have no choice but to play the game with him. What fun it would be to outsmart that person, to stay one step ahead of him or her.

Leaving the motor running so that the air conditioner would keep him cool—Pudge hated to be uncomfortable— he opened the glove compartment and removed one of the four prepaid phones he had placed there before leaving for Arkansas three days ago.

He had both cell numbers memorized, of course.

Which to call first? Hmm …

Save the best for last.

As he tapped the first number into the cell phone, he imagined the look on the man’s face the moment he realized there was a new game under way.

Griff had forgotten to put his phone on vibrate, so when it rang during dinner, he apologized to the others and excused himself. While everyone continued their meal that was spread out on the two tables near the pool in Lindsay and Judd’s backyard, Griff walked around the side of the house and found some shade under a couple of massive old oak trees.

Even though he didn’t recognize the caller’s number, he answered on the fifth ring. Only a handful of people had his private number.

“Powell here.”

“Hello, Griffin Powell. How are you today?”

Griff didn’t recognize the voice. Clearly not disguised. Southern accent. A tenor voice, bordering on alto, soft and slightly high-pitched for a man. But it was definitely male.

“Who is this and how did you get my number?”

Laughter. “There’s a new game afoot.”

“What did you say?”

“Does Mrs. Powell’s little boy want to come out and play?”

Griff’s muscles tightened as he gripped the phone. A rush of pure adrenaline raced through his system.

“That depends on the game,” Griff said.

“Tell me what you and I know about the Beauty Queen Killer that others don’t know and I’ll tell you a little something about my new game.”

Griff’s heartbeat accelerated. Goddamn! Was this guy for real?

“Cary Maygarden had a partner,” Griff replied.

More laughter. “Very good, Griffin. Very good indeed.”

Griff’s instincts told him that this caller was the second Beauty Queen Killer, the one who had gotten away because no one knew he existed. Only Griff and Special Agent Nic Baxter believed Maygarden had had a partner. And try as she might, Nic had been unable to convince her superiors to reopen the Beauty Queen Killer case because she had no substantial evidence, no way to prove there had been a second killer.

“When do you intend to start your new game?” Griff asked.

“I’ve already begun the new game.”

A sick feeling hit Griff square in the gut. This lunatic had already killed again?

“When?” Griff asked.

“I’ll give you a clue—Stillwater, Texas. Four weeks ago.”

Before Griff could respond, he heard dead silence at the other end of the line. His caller had hung up, effectively ending their conversation.

As lightning streaked the sky and rumbles of thunder echoed through the mountains, Nic sat curled in the chair-and-a-half in the corner of the cabin’s wood-paneled living room. The paperback she’d been reading lay open in her lap as she struggled to stay awake. If not for the occasional booms of thunder, she’d probably be snoring right now.

Suddenly a vicious crackle of lightning hit somewhere nearby and startled Nic from her semiasleep state. Mercy! That was close. She shifted in the chair, accidentally dumping the book and the lightweight cotton throw she’d wrapped around her bare legs onto the floor. A gentle surge of cold air coming from the nearby floor vent wafted across Nic and created tiny goose bumps on her bare legs and arms.

Just as she reached down to pick up the book and the throw, she heard her cell phone ring. Why hadn’t she just turned off the damn thing? Since she was officially on vacation, the call wouldn’t be work-related. That meant it was personal. So it was probably her mother, her brother, or her cousin Claire.

If it was her mother, she’d call back. She always did. She would call and call and call until Nic responded.

If it was her brother, he’d leave a message and she would return his call. She and Charles David had been close all their lives and despite the fact that they lived three thousand miles apart—he in San Francisco and she in Woodbridge, Virginia—they spoke often and visited at least once a year.

Kicking aside the cotton throw at her feet, Nic got up and walked across the room to where she’d deposited her purse, key chain, and cell phone last night.

She picked up the phone, checked the caller ID, and realized she didn’t recognize the number. Not that many people had her cell number, so unless it was a wrong number …

She flipped opened the phone. “Hello, you’ve reached Nicole Baxter’s—”

“Hello, Nicole Baxter. How very nice to hear your lovely voice.”

“Who is this?”

“A man who admires you for your beauty and your brains.”

“How did you get my cell number?”

“I have my ways.”

“I’m going to hang up. Don’t ever call me again.”

“Don’t hang up. Not yet. Not before I tell you the good news.” He paused for effect. “There’s a new game afoot.”

Nic’s heartbeat went wild. “What did you say?”

Laughter. Sinister and chilling.

A shiver of foreboding tiptoed rapidly up Nic’s spine.

“Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t hang up?”

“What kind of game?” Nic asked, all the while knowing the answer. Fearing the answer.

“What do only you and I and Griffin Powell know about the Beauty Queen Killer?”

Nic barely managed to stifle her gasp. “Cary Maygarden did not act alone. There were actually two killers.”

“Very astute of you, my dear Nicole. Now, I’m going to allow you and Griffin to play my new game with me. And here’s your first clue—Ballinger, Arkansas. Yesterday.”

“What kind of clue is that?”

Silence.

The son of a bitch had hung up on her.

Nic flipped her phone closed, curled her fingers around it, and clutched it tightly.

My new game.

Damn it. Did this mean he planned to start a new killing spree? After five years and more than thirty murders, Cary Maygarden had been shot in the head and stopped forever. After his death last year, Nic had tried her best to convince the powers-that-be at the bureau to investigate further, but without any real proof that there had been two Beauty Queen Killers instead of just one, the case had been closed and her concerns had been put on the back burner.

During the past year, she had moved on to other cases. Unfortunately, a nagging certainty lingered in the back of her mind, a certainty she shared with only one other person. They both believed that Cary Maygarden had worked with a partner in a series of murders in which each death represented a certain number of points and at the end of the game, the loser lost not only the game but also his life.

Nic paced the floor. The last person on earth she wanted to see ever again was Griffin Powell. The billionaire playboy owner of Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency was a swaggering, macho asshole. And because Griff was the only other person who believed as she did, Nic now realized that fate had a really warped sense of humor.

She would rather eat glass than contact Griff, but her gut instincts told her that this guy—whoever the hell he was—knew that she and Griff believed in his existence. So, the odds were he either had or would call Griff.

Suck it up and do what you have to do.

Damn it, had she kept Griffin Powell’s cell number on her list or had she, after the Beauty Queen Killer case had been closed, deleted it?

She flipped open her phone and scanned her personal phone book. His number was still there. Why she didn’t know. She should have deleted it last year.

Hesitating for a moment, she glanced outside as the summertime storm washed across the mountainside. High winds and a torrential downpour. But no more thunder and lightning.

Stop procrastinating. Call him. Do it now.

Nic hit CALL and waited as the phone rang.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite FBI agent calling.” Griffin Powell’s voice was a deep, gravelly baritone and sandpaper rough.

“Did he call you?”

“Did who call me?”

“Stop jerking me around and just tell me. Did he or did he not call you?”

“He did. Not five minutes ago. When did he call you?” Griff asked.

Nic swallowed hard. “Just now.”

“We were right.”

“Yeah, I know, but I wish we’d been wrong.”

“Did he tell you that he’s already begun playing his new game?”

Nic groaned. “Yes, so that means he’s already killed again.”

“Did he give you a clue?”

“Yes. Did he give you one?”

“Stillwater, Texas.”

Nic shook her head. “The clue he gave me was Ballinger, Arkansas.”

“Son of a bitch. He’s already killed twice. One woman in Texas and another in Arkansas.”

“We need to find out for sure,” Nic said.

“Any chance the bureau will—”

“Not without some sort of evidence.”

“Then I’ll handle things.”

“Not without me, you won’t.”

Griff grunted. “Are you suggesting we work together?”

It pained Nic greatly to reply, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”





Chapter 2 (#ulink_6c49d14e-0bb7-580b-84ff-683067e10b1f)


“Do you want me to come to you or do you want to—?”

“I’m not at home,” Nic told Griff. “I’m in a cabin in Gatlinburg.”

“Alone?”

“That is none of your business.”

Griff smiled to himself. He pictured the look of indignation on Nicole Baxter’s pretty face. Such a shame that a woman so attractive tried so hard to prove to the world that she was the equal of any man. Not that he didn’t think of women in general as equals, but he was old-fashioned enough to like women who enjoyed being utterly feminine. If that made him a male chauvinist, so be it.

“Since you’re not far from Knoxville, why don’t we make plans for you to come to my house?” Griff suggested. “I’m not at home either, but I can head out soon and be there in about three hours.”

“Won’t she object to your leaving?” Nic asked sarcastically.

Griff chuckled. “I’ll drop Lisa Kay off on the way home. We’re outside Whitwell, near Chattanooga, at Lindsay and Judd’s.”

Silence.

“You still there?” he asked.

“I hadn’t thought about how this would affect them,” Nic said. “If they find out that there were two Beauty Queen Killers—”

“There’s no need for them to know, now or ever.”

“This guy has started a new game and has probably killed two women already.”

“Unless his MO is the same and he’s picking up where he and Cary Maygarden left off last year, then there’s no way to connect him to the BQ killings.”

“So you’re saying that we start this case off as if it’s not connected to—?”

“The Beauty Queen Killer case is officially closed. I can see no reason to reopen it, can you? How will that help us find this guy and stop him before he escalates his new game?”

“You’re probably right. But if he’s killing beauty queens again—”

“Let’s find out,” Griff said. “I’ll put in some calls and see if there have been any recent murder cases in Ballinger, Arkansas, and Stillwater, Texas. If there are two with similarities, then we can bet it’s our guy.”

“The bureau probably won’t become officially involved right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my credentials to get information from local law enforcement. You should let me handle things. I can make those calls on the drive to your place.”

“If we make this a competition, it’s going to be difficult working together.”

Nic groaned. “Oh, all right. You contact Stillwater and I’ll contact Ballinger. See, I’m perfectly capable of cooperating.”

“Do you need directions to my place?”

“I think I can find it.”

“I’ll leave word that you’re to be admitted as soon as you arrive.”

“What does it feel like, Mr. Powell, living on a compound with around-the-clock guards?” She wished back her damn sarcastic question the second it came out of her mouth.

“It feels secure, Ms. Baxter. Safe and secure.”

Pudge arrived home well before dark, after turning in his rental car in Opelousas and picking up his own car. As a boy he had intensely disliked his family’s hundred-and-sixty-year-old estate, the house an antebellum structure built before the War Between the States. But as a man, he had grown fond of the home place. He had a love/hate relationship with his heritage. He had adored his mother, hated his father, and tolerated his two sisters, Mary Ann and Marsha. Thank God he saw them only at holidays and on very special occasions. He could trace his ancestry back to Europe on both the paternal and maternal sides of the family. His father had been Ruddy’s mother’s third cousin, but in certain families even distant relatives were considered part of the clan. The two of them had met at a family reunion held here at Belle Fleur when they were boys and they had become friends for life.

He never would have guessed that he’d miss Ruddy so much, that his cousin’s death would leave such a strange void in his life.

Pudge parked the BMW in the carriage house garage on the estate, retrieved his suitcase from the trunk, and made his way along the stepping-stone path to the back entrance. He no longer kept live-in servants. Decent help was almost impossible to find and he’d rather do without than deal with incompetence. He made do with a weekly cleaning service and a cook—old Allegra Dutetre—who, when he was in residence, came in at nine in the morning and left in the afternoon. He had known Allegra all his life. She’d been the family’s cook as long as he could remember. She was probably nearly seventy, but was still quite spry even if she wasn’t all that bright. Not mentally retarded, just a little slow. He was good to Allegra because she was one of the few people who had always treated him with the respect he deserved.

And she never pried into his business.

Thank God the sun had set and a humid breeze was blowing in off the river. He’d walked from the garage and already his skin was damp with perspiration. Going into the house through the back porch and kitchen, he tapped off the alarm code on the keypad as he entered, then dropped his suitcase and round trophy box on the floor. There was very little in the suitcase except his disguises. Wigs, makeup, fake mustaches, and beards. Even several sets of colored contacts. He had disposed of all the clothes he’d worn on his trip to and from Ballinger, placing them in various Dumpsters along the return route.

After removing his jacket and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair, he unbuttoned his shirt to midchest, then sat down and removed his shoes and socks. He eyed the trophy box and smiled. He supposed he could wait until tomorrow to add the new acquisition to his small but exclusive collection. But why wait? After all, his special room in the basement of the mansion had been empty for over a year, until a couple of months ago. When, in April last year, he had won his five-year game with his cousin and had taken Ruddy’s life as the ultimate prize, he had removed all the mementos from his numerous Beauty Queen kills. That game was part of the past, as was Ruddy. Now he was playing a new game, with new adversaries and new rules.

Pudge stood, picked up the box, and headed for the door that opened to a set of wooden steps leading into the basement. He flipped on the light switch just inside the door and made his way carefully down the stairs. The first room in the musty cellar was used for storage and was piled high with discarded items from generations past. To his left was the pantry, empty now and never used. To the right was the wine cellar, to which only he had a key. Straight ahead at the far back side of the basement, past the row of rusting chains hanging from the ancient brick walls, lay a very private room, one he had personally converted into a trophy room. And like the wine cellar, only he possessed the key.

With trophy box in hand, Pudge approached the locked door. The dim lighting along the narrow passageway cast shadows across the slimy walls and the remnants of the heavy, rusted chains that had once bound unruly household slaves.

His sisters had been afraid of the basement and to his knowledge had never set foot down here. But he had been fascinated by the subterranean area, especially the chains. Even as a boy he had fantasized about what it would be like to bind a person to the wall and whip them into submission. Unfortunately, the years had taken a toll on the chains, leaving them all but useless.

When he reached the door, he paused, stuck his hand in his pocket and removed his key ring. After unlocking the door, he shoved it open. He felt along the inside wall for the light switch, flipped it on, and then walked into the 14’ x 14’ room. The wall to the right was lined with shelves and sitting on the shelves were glass cases, all of them empty except for four. Soon the fifth case would contain his latest prize.

He set the box on the round table in the center of the room, removed the lid, and reached down inside. The moment his hand touched the silky softness, he closed his eyes and sighed.

Kendall Moore had been the strongest, the bravest, and the fiercest prey he’d ever hunted. He hoped that his next quarry would provide him with as much pleasure during the hunt.



Nic could not believe she was doing this. Never in her wildest nightmares would she have thought the day would come when she would join forces with Griffin Powell. The man was charming and could play the part of a gentleman quite well. But underneath all that GQ cover-model façade beat the heart of an uncivilized warrior.

You’re not joining forces with him. You’re simply working with him on a temporary basis and only because he is, as far as you know, the only other person the second BQ Killer contacted with the news that he has started a new game of murder.

When she drove her rental car up to the front gates of Griffin’s Rest—how like the egotistical man to name his estate after himself—she realized she’d have to contact the house to be allowed entry. Two massive stone arches, with huge bronze griffins embedded in the stonework on both, flanked the locked gates. The moment she pushed the CALL button, a man’s voice responded. She gave him her name and nothing more, and it wasn’t until the gates opened that she realized there had to be a hidden camera that had conveyed her image to the house and she had been instantly recognized.

The road to the house wound around through a heavily wooded area before opening up onto a lakefront view. Although the mansion was an impressive two-story structure with a columned front portico that faced away from the lake, Griffin’s home was not as large as she had expected. Probably somewhere between eight thousand and ten thousand square feet. Rather modest for a man reported to be worth billions. Although twilight was descending over the lake, with the dying embers of sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water, the outdoor security lights along the road and surrounding the house kept the property well lit.

Slinging her leather bag over her shoulder, she emerged from the car, stretched to her full five ten height, and marched confidently across the drive and up the front steps. She crossed the veranda and rang the doorbell. In less than a minute, the front doors opened to reveal Sanders, Griffin Powell’s right-hand man.

Nic had to admit that she was as curious as everyone else was about those ten missing years of Griffin’s life, when he had disappeared off the face of the earth at twenty-two and reappeared again a decade later. He had returned from only God knew where, filthy rich and accompanied by a mysterious man named Damar Sanders.

“Please come in, Special Agent Baxter.” Sanders stepped back to allow her space to enter.

She hesitated for half a second, something elemental within her warning her of danger. Entering Griffin Powell’s home was the equivalent to a princess entering the dragon’s lair.

When she stepped over the threshold, Sanders gestured with a sweep of his arm. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the way to Griffin’s study.”

“Is Mr. Powell here?”

“He just arrived.” Sanders looked directly at her, the expression in his dark eyes emotionally neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. “He asked that you wait for him in the study.”

She nodded, then followed the stocky, middle-aged man with the leather-brown skin and shaved head. His ethnic heritage was as much a mystery as the man himself, but his voice possessed a hint of an English accent, although she doubted that English was his native language. He left her at the open door to the study, excusing himself with a curt head bow. After taking a deep breath, she entered the two-story room.

Wow! A massive rock fireplace, so large that several people could easily stand upright inside it, dominated the impressive den. This was an extremely masculine room with paneled walls and hardwood floors. A seven-foot green leather couch resided parallel to the fireplace and sat far enough away from the opposite wall to allow for the placement of a sofa table behind it. Two brown leather armchairs flanked the fireplace and a sturdy antique desk claimed the corner by the windows overlooking the lake.

Griff had put his stamp on this room. Knowing him as she did, she recognized the den for what it was. His sanctuary. This was where the great man came to escape from the world.

Nic felt his presence before he entered, before he spoke her name. Every nerve came to full alert. Every muscle tensed. She took a deep, closed-mouth breath and turned to face him.

“Hello, Nic.”

She liked her nickname, but on his lips it sounded like an insult.

With her gaze meeting his head-on, she replied, “Hello, Grr …iff.” She made his nickname sound like a two-syllable word by stretching it out.

“Would you care for a drink?” he asked, his gaze traveling to the decorative liquor cabinet in the opposite corner from the desk.

“No, thank you, but feel free to—”

“Sit.”

Command or request? With Griffin, she figured they were the same thing.

She chose the right side of the large sofa.

He sat on the sofa, taking the left side.

“What did you find out about the Texas victim?” she asked.

“Not much. There have been two murders in the Stillwater, Texas, area in the past couple of months. One man was stabbed to death by his business partner. The other victim was a young woman whose body was found by some kids in a city park. She was hanging from a large tree limb, upside down, her feet bound together.”

Nic closed her eyes for a split second before looking at Griff. “Had she been shot in the head?”

Griff nodded. “Yeah.”

“Had she been scalped?”

Clenching his jaw, Griff grunted. “Damn! You found out about an identical murder in Ballinger, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t enough that he killed them, execution style. He had to scalp them, too.”

“Trophies,” Griff said.

Nic shot up off the sofa. “I want this guy. I want to stop him before the body count rises. But my boss will tell me that two similar murders in two different states do not mean there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

“Not even when you add to the scenario the information that this guy made phone calls to you and me?”

“All those calls prove is that there’s a nut job out there who has our private cell numbers.”

“Then we need to find enough evidence to prove our theory. I’ll go to Ballinger and Stillwater and see what I can find out beyond the basic police reports.”

“I’m going with you.” As Nic hovered over him, their gazes locked.

The corners of Griff’s mouth curved upward with a hint of a smile. “You know how some local police chiefs and sheriffs are about the FBI sticking their nose into local business. You’re liable to make �em nervous, honey, a big, important special agent showing up and asking questions.”

She cringed at the generic endearment, one he’d no doubt used with hundreds of women. No, make that thousands of women. But she knew he had called her honey for one reason only—to piss her off.

“Well, honey,” she replied, “I tell you what—I’m on vacation so I could go with you in an unofficial capacity and not flash my credentials around unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“Do you suppose you could try to be charming instead of commanding?” Griff asked, a devilish twinkle in his cold blue eyes. “We might get more information that way.”

“I think you have enough charm for both of us.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am. I take that as a compliment.”

Nic groaned quietly. “You can take it any way you want to.”

Griff stood. “Do you think there’s any way we can put aside our personal feelings and actually work together? We could call a temporary truce.”

Nic squared her shoulders and faced him. “I’m willing to try.”

“Good enough.”

“The murder in Ballinger was recent,” she said, considering their truce to be in effect now. God help them both. “The body was found only yesterday. What about the woman in Stillwater?”

“Her body was found the first of the month, nearly four weeks ago.”

“Then we should go to Ballinger first, gather what info we can, and go from there to Stillwater.”

“Agreed. I’ll have the Powell jet ready to take off first thing in the morning.”

“All right. I’ll meet you back here at—what time in the morning?”

“Where are you going tonight?” he asked.

“I saw several halfway-decent-looking motels on the drive here.”

“You’ll stay here. I have plenty of room.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable staying here.”

“Why not? Because you don’t like me? Or because you’re afraid you won’t be able to resist me if I come on to you? Believe me, you’re safe with me.” He put up his hands in an I-wouldn’t-touch-you-with-a-ten-foot-pole gesture.

“I don’t like you,” she freely admitted. “And we both know that I do not find you irresistible, so thank you for the invitation to spend the night. I’ll get my bag out of the car and—damn, I’m in a rental car.”

“Give me the keys and I’ll have Sanders get your bag and tomorrow he’ll take care of returning the car.”

She smiled at Griff. “My goodness, it must be nice to issue orders and have everyone around you snap to it.”

Griff clicked his tongue. “Now, now, Nicki, what happened to our truce?”

Forcing herself not to react to his taunt, she unzipped her shoulder bag, delved inside, and brought out the car keys. “Here you go.” She dropped the keys into his open palm, careful not to touch him. “Thank you. And please thank Sanders for me.”

Griff closed his fingers around the keys, all the while not taking his eyes off Nic. “Why do you think he called us? Why alert us to the fact that he’s killing again? He could have killed a dozen or more women before anyone connected the dots and realized there was a bizarre connection between the murders.”

Nic sighed deeply. “I have no idea, but my gut tells me that sooner or later, he’ll tell us his reason. And I don’t think we’ll like it.”

Pudge removed the mannequin’s head, placed it on a stand, and set it on the round table where Kendall Moore’s scalp lay. With the utmost care, he gently placed the bloody scalp on the bald plastic head, working with it patiently to position it just right. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he opened one of the glass cases on the shelf, the fifth one in the top row, then lifted the head and eased it into the case. Next he opened the small file cabinet under the metal desk in the corner and removed the label he had made weeks ago. The label was typed in neat, black Times Roman print, and read:




Kendall Moore, #5.


He closed the glass case, walked back across the room, and sat in the desk chair. As he gazed lovingly across the room at his five beautiful trophies, Pudge smiled.

Wonder how long it will take Griff and Nic to discover that there are five victims and not just two?

Despite their mutual animosity, Griffin Powell and Special Agent Baxter would join forces against him. Of course, that was exactly what he wanted them to do. They didn’t know it yet, but they were going to be major players in his new game.

He suspected they would head for either Ballinger or Stillwater tomorrow, if they weren’t already on their way tonight. By now, they should have found out that a victim’s body was found in Ballinger yesterday and another in Stillwater nearly a month ago. Both women had died in the same manner and both had been displayed in an identical way—hung by their bound feet from a tree branch. And both women had been scalped.

В§Pudge whirled the swivel chair around and stared at the blank computer screen sitting atop the desk. If he kept to his self-imposed schedule, he had no time to lose. He had to choose his next quarry immediately. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. He had already narrowed down his choices. He chose only specimens in their prime, physically and mentally superior women who would make the hunt a challenge for him.

He turned on the computer and opened the file he had been compiling for quite some time. One name stood out from all the rest. She would be his ultimate kill. The prize of a lifetime.

Nicole Baxter.




Chapter 3 (#ulink_aa6d0653-8c1b-5411-a5a6-5151942abbc9)


All things considered, Nic had slept amazingly well. Griff had shown her to a guestroom. Large, elegant, and quite feminine. She’d wondered just how many other ladies had used this room over the years.

When Sanders had brought her suitcase, he’d said, “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, I’ll be fine.”

“Do you prefer to set your alarm clock for in the morning or would you like for me to wake you?” he’d asked.

“Uh, I’ll set the alarm, but I forgot to ask Mr. Powell what time I should be ready.”

“Breakfast will be served in the kitchen at seven in the morning,” Sanders had told her.

Nic checked her wristwatch. It was now six forty-three AM. Last evening, she had set the alarm on the beside table for six. The clothes she had on today were not part of the daily “uniform” she wore for work. She was stuck with the clothes she had packed for a semisecluded vacation in the mountains. Her choice in apparel had been shorts, jeans, or the one skirt she had brought with her. She chose the jeans and topped them with a white short-sleeved pullover.

Squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin, she resisted the urge to glance at herself in the cheval mirror she passed on her way to the door. She knew she was clean and presentable. That was enough.

Once downstairs, she simply followed her nose. The aroma of coffee and cinnamon led her straight to the large, modern kitchen. After entering, she paused when she saw Sanders at the stove and Barbara Jean Hughes, in her wheelchair, buzzing around setting the table. Barbara Jean’s younger sister had been one of the BQ Killers’ victims, and Barbara Jean had been one of the few people who had gotten a glimpse of the killer as he left the scene. She should have been under FBI protection while they’d hunted down the Beauty Queen Killer, but instead, she had succumbed to Griff’s persuasive charm and accepted his offer of protection. Apparently, even after Cary Maygarden had been killed and she was no longer thought to be in danger, Barbara Jean had chosen to stay on and was now in Griffin’s employ.

The moment Barbara Jean saw Nic, she paused and smiled. “Good morning, Special Agent Baxter. It’s so nice to see you again, but I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Yes, me, too. And please, call me Nic.”

“You’re a bit early. Breakfast isn’t quite ready.” Barbara Jean eyed the table, neatly set with placemats, silverware, and china. “Griffin and Maleah should be down shortly.” She glanced sweetly at Sanders. “Damar has prepared his special breakfast casserole and homemade cinnamon and raisin scones.”

“It smells delicious.” Nic tried her best to curb her curiosity about Maleah. Was she one of Griff’s women? Probably.

“Would you care for coffee?” Sanders asked.

“Yes, I’d love coffee, but I can get it myself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time she’d poured the black brew into a china cup and was about to take the first sip, a woman entered the kitchen. Pretty and blonde and stacked.

Nic could certainly see why any man would be attracted to her.

“Morning all,” the woman said as she visually scanned the room. Her gaze settled on Nic. “Hi. You must be the infamous Nic Baxter.” She smiled and held out her hand as she approached. “I’m Maleah Perdue, the Powell agent assigned to Griffin’s Rest this week.”

Nic returned her smile, feeling oddly relieved that she wasn’t being subjected to breakfast with Griff’s latest girlfriend. “So, I’m infamous around here, am I?”

“Most definitely,” Maleah said. “During the BQK case, your name was synonymous with The Devil.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, not with Griffin Powell. Believe me, his name is synonymous with arrogant SOB in my office every day.”

Nic and Maleah were laughing when Griff entered the kitchen. He glanced from one woman to the other, nodding at each in turn. “Something tells me that all this early-morning good humor is at my expense.”

“Could be,” Maleah admitted.

Sanders brought Griff a cup of coffee immediately and said, “Breakfast will be served momentarily.”

Griff motioned to the table. “Ladies.”

He waited until each of them had taken a seat and Barbara Jean had positioned her wheelchair in front of a place setting before he sat down at the table.

He turned to Maleah, on his left. “Have you received any information this morning?”

Sanders placed a canned cola and a straw in front of Maleah, who popped the lid and inserted the straw before replying. “Actually, some info came in overnight. I haven’t printed it out yet, but I can give you a rundown from memory.”

“What sort of information?” Nic asked. “About the two victims?”

Maleah nodded. “With only their names and the basic info on both women, I was able to get quite a bit of personal information. The Web has made everyone’s personal life an open book.”

“Other than similarities in the way they were murdered, did the two women have anything else in common?” Griff asked.

“Hmm … I suppose the answer is yes and no. There’s nothing in their backgrounds to connect them. They were born in different states, lived in different states, and were, we assume, abducted in different states. Different religions—one Catholic, one Methodist. Kendall Moore was a pure WASP—white, from an upper-middle-class family. Gala Ramirez’s parents migrated from Mexico before she was born and were dirt poor.”

Sanders placed the casserole dish on the table so unobtrusively that Nic and the others barely noticed.

Griff glanced on the other side of Maleah where Barbara Jean sat. “Are you sure you want to sit in on this discussion?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. If Cary Maygarden had a partner, I want to know everything about the man. After all, we can’t be a hundred percent sure which one of them killed my sister, can we?”

“Cary Maygarden fit your description of the man you saw,” Griff reminded her.

“I know. It’s just … just …” Her voice quivered and then trailed off into silence.

Sanders set the tray of scones on the table, walked over to stand behind Barbara Jean, and curled his fingers gently over her shoulder. Nic spied his actions in her peripheral vision, but neither she nor anyone else looked directly in Sanders’s direction.

“Okay, so you’ve told us how Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore were different,” Griff said. “Tell us what they had in common.”

All eyes turned to Maleah. “Well, to start with, they were both brunettes. Both of them were born and raised in Southern states, assuming we, as many people do, consider Texas a Southern state.”

“Is that it?” Nic asked.

“There is one other thing—both women were athletes. Gala Ramirez was a tennis pro and at only twenty, her career was just beginning. She had a good chance of becoming a national champion,” Maleah said. “And Kendall Moore, who was twenty-nine, held an Olympic silver medal as a longdistance runner.”

Silence.

No one spoke. A ticking clock and the distinct sound of breathing prevented the room from being absolutely quiet.

“Athletes, huh?” Griff reached out and spooned a large helping of the casserole onto his plate. “This could mean that he switched from beauty queens to athletes for his victims in the new game.”

“Possibly,” Nic said.

“Was either woman married? Have children?” Griff asked.

“Both were single,” Maleah said. “No children.”

Nic stated the list of similarities. “Brunette, unmarried, no children, Southern, and more specifically an athlete. Do y’all know how many women that description fits?”

“Thousands.” Maleah flipped back the cloth covering the scones and retrieved the one on top. The scent of cinnamon and sugar permeated the air. “Maybe tens or hundreds of thousands of women, depending on your definition of an athlete. That could be anyone from an Olympic gold medal winner to a woman who plays softball for her church team.”

As Nic and Barbara Jean served themselves and Sanders took a seat at the opposite end of the table from Griff, the discussion turned from the two murdered women to the trip to Ballinger, Arkansas. And by the end of the meal, Nic had gained a new insight into Griffin Powell. As much as she disliked him and as badly as she hated to admit it, everyone else at the table seemed to like and respect Griff. He treated the others with an easy warmth and cordiality usually reserved for friends, which led her to believe that he considered them more than employees and that they felt the same.

Twenty minutes later, Griff slid back his chair, dropped his linen napkin on the table, and stood. “If you’re packed and ready, we can leave by eight,” he told Nic.

“I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

“Good.” He eyed the cup she held. “Finish your coffee. I have a couple of phone calls to make. I’ll meet you in the foyer in ten minutes.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked out of the room.

Nic drank the remainder of her coffee hurriedly, then excused herself and went upstairs to brush her teeth, finish packing, and make one phone call of her own.

Josh Friedman answered his cell phone on the third ring. “Hey, good looking, what are you doing up so early while you’re on vacation?”

Josh had been a member of the BQK task force she’d been on for several years. They were presently in the same squad working out of D.C. and under SAC Douglas Trotter’s command, who took orders from the ADIC, the Assistant Director in Charge.

“Officially, I’m still on vacation,” Nic said. “For now, I don’t want Doug to know anything about what I’m doing unofficially.”

Josh let out a long, low whistle. “I don’t like the sound of that. What are you up to and is it going to get you into trouble?”

“Yes, it could get me in trouble.” She hesitated telling Josh everything. God, was he going to get a laugh at her expense. If anyone on earth knew how much she detested Griffin Powell, it was Josh. He’d had to listen to her curse the man’s very existence on a fairly regular basis while they were on the BQK task force.

“I’m listening,” Josh told her.

“If you laugh, so help me—”

“Now, why would I laugh at you? Unless you’ve gone off and married Griff Powell—my God, Nic, you haven’t—!”

“Of course not!” Nic sucked in a deep, courage-building breath. “But I am with Griff.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Swear to me that you’ll keep this under wraps until I find out more.”

“More about what?”

“You know my theory about there being two BQ killers? That supposedly unprovable theory that I’ve shared only with you and Doug, the theory that Griffin Powell and I both believe to be true?” She added hastily, “And it’s the only thing that man and I share. Get that straight here and now.”

“Good God, don’t tell me that you and Powell are off on some wild-goose chase to prove your theory.”

“He called us,” Nic said.

“Who called you? And is that the royal us or are you referring to you and Powell?”

“The second BQ Killer called me on my cell phone yesterday and he called Griff, too. He phoned us only minutes apart. He all but admitted to both of us that he’d been the second BQ Killer. He told us he has begun a new game. And he gave us both a clue.”

“Crap! Are you kidding me?”

“We know he’s already killed two women and both women were athletes, but we need to find a way to prove that the two crimes are connected. I’m flying to Ballinger, Arkansas, with Griff this morning. That’s where one of the victims was found.” Nic hurriedly filled Josh in on what information she had, then ended the conversation by saying, “If I call you for unofficial help—?”

“Look, I think you should tell Doug right away and bring him up to speed on this.”

“No. Not until I’m certain that I can prove to him this guy has started a new killing game and the bureau needs to be involved.”

“Doug is not going to like your teaming up with Griffin Powell,” Josh reminded her.

“I don’t like teaming up with him, but right now I’m not calling the shots and neither is Griff.”

“Then who is?”

“Our killer is.”



Amber Kirby had the oddest feeling that someone was watching her, and the sensation gave her the creeps. But she didn’t slow down, didn’t alter her pace one iota. After all, it wasn’t as if she were out here on this walking/jogging trail alone. She had overslept and was running late this morning; otherwise she’d be finished with her three-mile run and be showered and dressed for the day. But Sundays were her day of rest, the only day her hectic schedule allowed her time off, and that would change during basketball season. She didn’t really mind all the hard work—both on the court and off—because her basketball scholarship to University of Tennessee was the only way she could afford college. That or join the army. And since she’d been the star of her high school team, with a natural athletic ability, she preferred playing basketball to running the risk of getting killed or having her limbs blown off in Iraq.

The farther along the trail she ran, the more relaxed she became, and the more certain she was that she had imagined someone peering at her through the bushes. No one in their right mind would try to attack someone on such a wide-open and often-congested trail. She’d seldom run this course without seeing at least half a dozen people. And no one was likely to be staring at her because they were fascinated by her beauty. At six one, big-boned, and with a flat chest, she wasn’t exactly the type who attracted attention from the opposite sex. How often had she wished she’d inherited her body build from her mother instead of her father and his two big, gangling sisters.

Despite being taller than the average man, Aunt Virginia and Aunt Carole had found husbands. And neither aunt was a great beauty. So, there was hope for her. Sooner or later, some six foot six guy would come along and decide he liked his women tall, raw-boned, and plain. But until then, she’d just keep on doing what she did best—playing basketball. And loving every minute of it.



Pudge sat on the front porch in his favorite chair, an old wicker rocker that had belonged to Grandmother Suzette. He had no memory of her because she had died when he was only two. She had drowned in one of the numerous ponds on the thousand-acre estate, her death ruled an accident. But he had once overheard his mother and aunt talking about Suzette, about her being as crazy as a Betsy Bug and how the nutty old woman had killed herself.

Balancing the saucer in his palm, he lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the strong espresso as his gaze traveled over the lush, moist land spread out before him, land that had been in his family for nearly two hundred years. If all was as it should be in the world, he would be the king of a vast empire, with underlings kissing his feet and begging for his favors. But instead, he ruled over land that hadn’t produced a crop in his lifetime and a decaying antebellum mansion that reeked of mildew and pulsated with the ghosts of countless ancestors whose spirits haunted the rooms. He’d never seen a ghost, mind you, but he had felt their presence. Even as a child, he’d known evil spirits resided here at Belle Fleur.

But in the light of day, the sunlight invading every nook and cranny, banishing the shadows, Pudge preferred to dwell on more pleasant thoughts. He would be traveling to Tennessee soon, tomorrow at the latest, to pick up his next quarry. Once he brought her home with him, the fun would begin. She would spend her first night in the basement, just as the others had done. Then the next morning, before Allegra arrived to prepare his breakfast, he would take his prey and release her into the wild.

Just the thought of beginning the game again, of spending three weeks stalking Amber Kirby, then capturing and killing her, excited him. A sensation of pure glee tingled through his whole body.



Ballinger, Arkansas, located south of Little Rock, appeared no different from most small towns comprised of less than ten thousand people. Griff drove up Main Street, which apparently had undergone a recent restoration, in search of the B&B Sanders had booked for Nic and him. He figured they would learn what they could about Kendall Moore today and tomorrow, then head for Stillwater, Texas, late in the day.

“Is that it?” Nic asked, pointing to what appeared to be an old, remodeled hotel right in the middle of town.

“Hmm … Yeah, I believe it is. The Ballinger Hotel.” Griff chuckled. “I suppose, for a little town like this, it was something in its heyday, which was probably 1925.” The two-story building possessed a dark red brick façade, clean lines, and Craftsman-era styling.

“There’s a sign with an arrow,” Nic told him. “PARKING IN THE REAR.”

Griff turned right at the sign and eased their rental Ford Taurus between the two structures until he reached an alleyway that led to the parking lot behind the B&B and a lawyer’s office.

“We’ll check in and leave our luggage, then take a walk over to the police station we saw on our way into town.”

When they got out, Griff removed their suitcases from the trunk, intending to carry them both. But Nic didn’t budge. She held out her hand.

“I’ll take it,” she told him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what?”

“Why not let me carry your bag for you?”

“Because you have your own to carry and I’m perfectly capable of carrying my suitcase.”

“Hmm …” What was she trying to prove? That she didn’t want or need a man’s help? Sometime in her past, some guy had done a real number on Nicole Baxter and Griff would lay odds that it hadn’t been her husband.

She twitched her fingers at him. “My suitcase, please.”

“Sure thing.” He handed the case to her.

Side by side, they walked through the alley, around to the sidewalk on Main Street, and up to the hotel’s front entrance. Griff held the door open for her. Let her chew him out for being a gentleman. But his mama had taught him good manners and he wasn’t about to let a lady open her own door.

Surprisingly, Nic said nothing. But she did give him a disapproving sidelong glance. The foyer of the old hotel was small but clean and rather appealing with brown marble floors and oak paneling. A plump, silver-haired woman who was running a feather duster over the framed photographs of the town, circa early twentieth century, that hung on the wall, paused in her chore when she realized she was no longer alone.

“May I help you?”

“I’m Griffin Powell and this is Ms. Baxter,” Griff said. “We booked rooms for tonight.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Check-in isn’t until two, but since y’all are our only guests, it won’t be a problem.” She glanced from Griff to Nic. “I’m Cleo Willoughby. I’m the owner.”

“Now, tell me, dear, do you want rooms with a connecting door or not?”

“Not,” Nic said lightning fast.

Cleo’s brows rose with a hint of speculation and curiosity.

“Ms. Baxter and I are business associates,” Griff said.

“Indeed. And what kind of business are you in, Mr. Powell?”

“I’m a private detective,” he told her, without hesitation. In a town this size, news would travel fast, so there was no point in trying to keep his identity secret.

Cleo smiled broadly. “How very interesting. Can you tell me what brings you to Ballinger?”

“We’re hoping to speak with the police chief about a recent murder,” Griff said.

“Is that right? And is Benny expecting y’all?”

“Benny?” Nic asked.

“Yes, Benny’s the police chief. He’s my nephew. If you’d like, I’ll give him a call and tell him you folks want to talk to him about a murder. I assume it’s Kendall Moore’s murder, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Griff replied. So the police chief was her nephew? Ah, the interwoven relationships of small-town families.

“Well, you two come along and get signed in and I’ll show you upstairs.” Cleo motioned for them to follow her into the room on the left, apparently her office. “While you’re settling in, I’ll call Benny. It’s nearly eleven, so he’ll probably be heading over to Mot’s for Sunday dinner as soon as he leaves church.” She lifted her head from where she’d been fiddling with the credit card machine and looked right at Nic. “I went to nine o’clock services this morning. Don’t want y’all thinking that I’m not a good Christian woman.”

“The thought wouldn’t have entered our minds, Ms. Willoughby,” Griff said.

“Call me Cleo. Everybody does.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nic and Griff said simultaneously.

“If you’d wanted connecting rooms, I could have given you the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers rooms, but the Jean Harlow room is bigger and has a view of Main Street. And the Cary Grant room is very nice, too.” She patted Griff on the arm. “The last gentleman who stayed in it said he couldn’t remember when he’d slept better.”

“That’s good to know.” Griff wished Cleo would hurry things along, but he suspected there was no point in trying to rush her.

She ran Griff’s credit card, handed him the slip to sign, and swapped him his card for the bill.

“Do you get many visitors?” Nic asked.

“Not many, but enough to keep the doors open. The gentleman I mentioned who last stayed in the Cary Grant room spent only one night. Said he was just passing through. I wonder if those boys finding Kendall Moore’s body in the park had anything to do with him leaving so fast.”

“When did this man arrive and when did he leave?” Griff asked, an odd notion hitting him at the mention of the man being here so recently.

“He came in on Friday evening, rather late, and paid in cash.” Cleo said. “And he left Saturday morning, right after we heard about them finding that poor gal strung up by her heels and her head scalped. Have you ever heard of such a gruesome thing?”

Nic and Griff exchanged glances and in that moment, he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was: the recent occupant of the Cary Grant room might well have been Kendall Moore’s murderer.




Chapter 4 (#ulink_93da6dba-1d67-5e6d-9f29-e9ff6f6b03de)


A six foot, auburn-haired, good old boy with an easygoing manner and an infectious laugh, Benny Willoughby seemed like a nice guy. Nic guessed that he was in his early fifties, and the gold band on the third finger of his left hand indicated he was married. When they arrived at Mot’s, which was apparently the town’s most popular restaurant, at least for the Sunday lunch crowd, he greeted them cordially and suggested they order the chicken and dressing.

Nic wondered where Benny’s wife was.

After they placed their order and sat down at the table with the police chief, at least six different men stopped by to speak to Willoughby. Finally, just as the waitress brought their drink order, he turned and glanced from Griff to Nic.

“Aunt Cleo tells me you folks are private detectives interested in Kendall Moore’s murder.”

“That’s right,” Griff replied, giving Nic a don’t-contradict-me glance.

“Did the Moore family hire y’all or—?”

“No,” Griff said. “We’re not working for anyone on this case.”

“Then I don’t understand.” Benny frowned.

Griff leaned in closer to the chief and lowered his voice. “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources—not yet—but we have reason to believe that Ms. Moore was murdered by a serial killer and if that’s true, her murder could be connected to a case we worked on in the past.”

Benny’s eyes widened in surprise. “If what you say is true, then I sure do need to know the source of your information, Mr. Powell.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Chief Willoughby.” Griff glanced from right to left, then focused his full attention on Benny. “If you’re willing to give us what information you can about Ms. Moore—nothing that would get you in any trouble, of course—I’d be willing to tell you who our source is.”

“Humph.” Benny looked down, his gaze not quite centered on anything in particular as he shook his head while he considered the proposition. “How about you divulge your source and then I’ll see what I can do about answering any questions you’ve got.”

Griff looked at Nic, as if wanting her agreement. She smiled and nodded, knowing damn well he couldn’t care less what she thought.

“Fair enough.” Griff grasped the back of Benny’s chair and moved in, right up against his shoulder, then whispered, “Kendall Moore’s killer called us and told us. There was another murder identical to Ms. Moore’s out in Stillwater, Texas, about a month ago.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Benny shook his head again. “If that don’t beat all. A serial killer, huh? Somebody that didn’t even know Kendall. That girl was Ballinger’s pride and joy, you know. She went to the Olympics nearly ten years ago and won a silver medal. She was on the track team in high school, just a few years ahead of my oldest, Benny Jr. Came from a good family. She’d been living in California until about six months ago.” Benny grunted several times. “I sure couldn’t figure out who’d want to do such a terrible thing to Kendall. It was a real puzzle to me and everybody else.”

“How long was Kendall missing before her body was found?” Griff asked.

“Her folks contacted me when she didn’t come home from an aerobics class one night over three weeks ago,” Benny said.

“Could you tell us if she was sexually assaulted?” Nic asked, knowing he’d be more likely to respond to that type of question if a woman asked it.

“We haven’t gotten back the autopsy report yet, but our coroner said it didn’t look like it to him. Of course, you know she was shot in the head and had been scalped. And our coroner, Larry Kimball, said he was pretty sure she hadn’t been dead more than ten or twelve hours. Three teenagers, the Oliver brothers and Mike Letson, found her body hanging from a tree in the park. By the time we got to the scene, there was already a crowd there and in no time, reporters were swarming like maggots. Information that shouldn’t have been released to the press got out before we could do anything about it.”

“Those things happen,” Griff said.

“If you’re right about the serial killer, then I sure am relieved. I hated to think anybody around these parts was capable of doing something like that.”

“Is there anything in particular you can share with us?” Nic asked. “Anything at all, even something you might consider insignificant.”

Grunting, Benny shook his head. “Can’t think of anything. Of course, y’all know that she wasn’t killed in the park. She was killed somewhere else. We’re waiting for the state boys to get back to us. If I let �em know we think it could be the work of a serial killer, that might get us an autopsy report a little faster.” His gaze connected with Griff’s. “You were involved in the Beauty Queen Killer cases, weren’t you? I saw your name and picture in the paper on and off for years.” He glanced at Nic. “And you look familiar, too.” He snapped his fingers. “Damn it all, you’re the FBI agent who headed up the task force, aren’t you?”

Nic nodded, but before she could respond, Griff took over. “This isn’t an official FBI case. Not yet. Special Agent Baxter is here in an unofficial capacity. We’re putting together a few pieces of a puzzle, that’s all. If enough pieces fit together and we can prove there’s a killer who is crossing state lines, then the bureau will step in.”

“As you know, any case with an interstate aspect to it comes under the FBI’s jurisdiction,” Nic added.

“Well, I tell you what—when I get more information, probably within the next few days, I’ll share it with you and whatever you find out about that murder in Texas, you share with me.” Benny picked up his fork and dove into his chicken and dressing. After a couple of bites, he continued the conversation. “You’re welcome to go out to the park and take a look at where we found her. And you can talk to the first officer on the scene, but I’d rather you not talk to the boys who found the body. They were pretty shook up about it and their folks don’t want them having to retell it again and again.”

“Mr. Powell and I appreciate your cooperation,” Nic said.

“We sure do,” Griff said. “Nic and I will take you up on your offer. We’ll stay overnight and then head for Stillwater in the morning.”

Apparently, Benny had talked all the business he intended to for the day. He concentrated fully on his meal. Griff ate heartily, seeming to enjoy the down-home country cooking. Nic ate two-thirds of the delicious food on her plate, then stopped. She had learned long ago that if she ate all she wanted, she gained weight easily. At five ten she could carry some extra weight, but God knew she wasn’t model thin. She worked out regularly and watched her diet in order to keep her body fit.



Thirty minutes later, after she’d drunk another glass of iced tea while Griff and Benny had finished off huge slices of German Chocolate Cake, they headed for Ballinger Park. Located in the center of four downtown streets and comprising an entire block, the park boasted a central fountain, a gazebo, brick walkways, towering trees, neatly manicured flowerbeds, and a variety of wrought iron and stone benches.

“You folks take your time,” Benny said as he led them directly to the corded-off crime scene. “The Crime Scene Investigation folks are finished, so you can’t bother nothing. If you need anything, you’ve got my number, so just give me a call. I’m fixing to head to Pine Bluff. I’ve been seeing a lady over there for the past six months and if things keep going along the way I hope, we’ll probably get married before Christmas.”

“Congratulations,” Nic said, even more curious about the wedding band he wore.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been a widower nearly three years and my kids are all grown and gone. A man gets mighty lonely.” He looked at Griff. “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Powell? Don’t put it off too long. A man your age ought to be thinking about settling down with a good woman and having a couple of kids.”

Nic almost laughed out loud. If only Griff could see the expression on his face. But she managed not to laugh or make a snide comment until after Benny disappeared up the brick walkway. Then she laughed.

Griff gave her a hard stare.

“Sorry,” she told him. “But the way you looked, you’d have thought Chief Willoughby had suggested you should get yourself castrated.”

“Marriage isn’t for everyone, is it, Nic? You tried it once, didn’t you?”

That certainly achieved the desired effect. Wiped the smile right off her face. She wondered just how much Griff knew about her marriage. The fact that he obviously knew she was a widow was more than she’d like for him to know. What had he done—investigated her past? Probably. Okay, so he’d found out she had been married and that her husband was dead. That didn’t necessarily mean he knew how Gregory had died.

“No, marriage isn’t for everyone,” she replied.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped over the yellow crime scene tape and walked around the massive oak tree. He stopped and studied the low-hanging branch from which Kendall Moore had been hung.

“A guy would need a ladder and some sturdy rope,” Griffin said. “And he’d have to be fairly strong to lift a dead body.”

Following Griff, she stepped over the yellow tape. “He probably laid her on the ground, tied her feet, then climbed up and tied the robe around the limb and hoisted her up.”

“This guy is smart,” Griff said. “And careful. During the five years of the BQK murders, he didn’t leave any clues that would lead us to him. Hell, nobody even realized there were two killers.”

“Not until the end. Not until one partner killed the other.”

Griff jerked around and stared at her. “He didn’t have to kill him that day. My sharpshooter’s bullet would have taken him out. He killed Maygarden because it was part of their game. That tells us that he plays by the rules, even if they are his own rules. He’s organized, methodical, and—”

“Evil,” Nic said. “He’s capable of just about anything.”

“He abducted Kendall and kept her somewhere for three weeks, then brought her here to the park. Where did he take her? Why keep her alive for three weeks before killing her?”

“We need to find out if she was tortured.”

“Do you think that’s why he kept her alive, to torture her?”

“Probably.”

“The BQ Killer’s MO didn’t involve prolonged torture. He moved in for the kill pretty damn quick and got it over with, then left the body there. This is a completely different scenario.”

“A new game,” Nic said.

“A solo game, one without a competitor.”

“No scorecard this time. No one to compete with—” Nic gasped. “That’s the reason he called us.”

“To tell us this game is different, that there are new rules, a completely different—”

“Yes, all that, but more. He wants us to play the game with him. Isn’t that what he said? He even gave us the first two clues. He’s daring us to play the game, to see if we can outsmart him, maybe even catch him.”

“We’re his competitors.” Griff snorted. “That son of a bitch!”

“We don’t have to play his game.”

“Yeah, we do. And he knows it.”

“Why us? How could he know that you and I were the only two people who believed he existed, that believed Cary Maygarden had a partner?”

“It was either a lucky guess or a logical conclusion. Whichever it was doesn’t matter, does it? We were the two investigators who followed the BQK cases for years. We were the two people who knew all there was to know about the murders and the murderer. And he had to know the ballistics reports would show that Maygarden was hit with two different bullets that day and that somebody would get suspicious.”

“He probably felt pretty sure that the bureau wouldn’t try to track down a possible second killer when we had no solid proof of his existence and there were no other BQK murders after Cary Maygarden was killed.”

Griff walked all the way around the tree and Nic followed him. When he stopped abruptly, she almost collided with his big, broad back. She caught herself just in time. Another two inches and she’d have slammed up against him.

“This is useless. We made a mistake coming to Ballinger first,” Griff said as he turned around to face Nic. “We should have started with the first murder, the one that’s nearly a month old. The sheriff in Stillwater will have more info.”

“What makes you think the woman in Stillwater was his first victim?”

Griff narrowed his gaze until his eyes were hooded slits. “Good question. I’m hoping she was, but it’s possible there have been others.”

“We need to know for sure, don’t we?”

“Do you suppose you could find out for us?”

“Are you asking me to use my position as a federal agent to acquire the information?”

“Would you?”

Nic knotted her left hand into a fist and squeezed it a couple of times, damning herself for being in this situation. “I knew hooking up with you would come to this, but I didn’t think it would happen so quickly. Just because you cut corners and push the boundaries as far as possible and steamroll right over the law when doing things the legal way doesn’t suit your purposes does not mean that I will, now that we’ve formed this unholy alliance.”

Griff chuckled. “Unholy alliance, huh? Does that make me the Devil? Probably does. And you’d be—?” When she opened her mouth to protest his taunting, he held up his hand in a STOP signal. “No, don’t tell. I figured it out. I’m the Devil and you’re a fallen angel.”

“You have no idea how much I’d like to slap that stupid smirk off your face.”

“But you won’t slap me, will you? That would require your actually touching me and you don’t want to do that, do you?”

“No. I’m going to resist temptation and avoid possible contamination,” Nic told him. “But I am going to call Doug Trotter first thing in the morning.”

“I take it that Doug’s the supervisory special agent over your squad in D.C. So, why do you think he’ll bend the rules for us?”

“Doug’s one of the SACs. And he will not bend any rules for us. If I can persuade Chief Willoughby to play along with us, all he’ll have to do is tell Doug that he suspects the same person who killed Gala Ramirez in Texas also killed Kendall Moore in Arkansas.”

“You know what will happen if we find out that there were other murders before Kendall and Gala,” Griff said.

“There is a distinct possibility that once all the law enforcement agencies in the states where the bodies were found are informed, then the FBI will become directly involved and a task force will be formed.”

“When that happens, you’ll want to cut me out of the action.”

“You’re smiling.” Nic really hated that smug look on his face. “As much as I do not want you involved, you will be. Not just because you make a habit of sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, but because the man who called you and me isn’t going to allow me to cut you out of the action.”

“Already figured that out, have you? Yeah, for some reason he wants us to be a team on this one.”

“Maybe he has a giant ego and outsmarting just one of us isn’t enough of a challenge.”

“Maybe.”

“After we finish up here and talk to the first officer on the scene, I want to call Chief Willoughby in the morning and see if he’ll contact Doug.”

“Make it early, okay? I want us on the plane and heading for Stillwater by nine.”



Griff sure as hell hoped that Nic didn’t think he had requested this special romantic dinner. Miss Cleo had pulled out all the stops in arranging an evening under the stars for them.

Griff looked directly at Nic, who sat across from him at the small table decked out with a linen tablecloth. “I hope you know that I didn’t—”

Nic burst into laughter.

Griff grinned. “It seems Miss Cleo is a romantic.”

“Undoubtedly. And delusional as well. How anyone could think that you and I …” Nic laughed again. “We are the last two people on earth who’d ever be a couple.”

“Yeah, I agree. But neither of us ever thought we’d become crime-solving partners, either.”

“I don’t like to think of us as partners,” Nic said. “There’s just something unnatural about it.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s an unholy alliance.”

Nic smiled; and when she did, Griff realized that in all the years he’d known her, he had seldom seen her smile. She was downright pretty when she wasn’t frowning.

“We aren’t friends,” she reminded him, her smile vanishing. “We don’t even like each other, so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. But I can and will act in a professional manner, if you will. And I’ll try my best to be civil, even cordial, if at all possible.”

“Tell me why you dislike me so much?” Good God, why had he asked her that?

“Do you really want to know?”

He nodded.

“You’re an arrogant, egotistical, womanizing bastard who thinks because you’re rich, you can do whatever you want, that the rules others have to live by don’t apply to you. I’ve got news for you, Mr. Powell, you’re not all that special. You’re no different than any other man.”

Griff glared right into her eyes. She shivered.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I am different. And not because of my sizable bank account.” She had no idea just how different he was. Neither she nor the rest of the world would ever know. And he would give all he owned if he could forget.

“There’s that gigantic Powell ego speaking. Mr. Big-Bad PI with the mystery past and women swooning at his feet. You love it, don’t you? You love being Mr. Macho.”

Griff lifted the crystal flute and sipped the wine. Not great, but he’d tasted worse. He studied Nic, noting her flushed cheeks and rapid breathing. She was angry, and all that emotion was directed at him. But was he really the one she was upset with, the one who had prompted her anger?

“Go ahead,” she told him.

“Pardon? Go ahead and do what?”

“Tell me why you don’t like me.”

“If you really want to know.”

“Turnabout is only fair,” she said.

“I don’t like women who need to prove they can do anything a man can do and do it better. Men and women are inherently different. I like being a man and I prefer women who enjoy being female.”

“Fluttery and feminine and helpless and silly,” Nic said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Can’t get along without some big, strong man taking care of her. Good for fucking and having babies and not much else.”

Griff took another sip of wine, set his glass on the table, and asked, “Who put that enormous, ugly chip on your shoulder, Nicki?”

Gritting her teeth, Nic groaned; then she shoved back her chair and stood. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

When she turned to leave, Griff pushed back his chair, got up, and went after her. When he caught up with her, he grasped her arm, intending to apologize. But before he could say a word, she whirled around and gave him a killer glare.

“Let go of me.”

He looked at his hand holding her arm, then looked directly at her before releasing her.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she told him.

When she turned and walked away, he didn’t try to stop her.




Chapter 5 (#ulink_af98f99f-d68e-56d1-931b-b630535c55aa)


Stillwater wasn’t much more than a wide place in the road. The only street in town was Main Street. A single row of ramshackle old buildings, all but two empty, looked like they were about to fall in. The two occupied structures had been remodeled. One housed a beauty shop and the other, a two-story building, boasted a big green sign that read FEED AND SEED.

As they drove through town, Nic kept her gaze focused either to the right or straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the local scenery. Neither she nor Griff had mentioned anything about how their evening had ended yesterday. Actually, when she’d met him in the dining room of the Ballinger B&B for breakfast this morning, he’d acted as if nothing had happened. While Cleo Willoughby had served them a big country breakfast, complete with grits and hash browns, Griff had informed her that the Powell jet was ready to leave, that he’d already spoken to the sheriff of Stillwater, and had taken a call from Ballinger’s chief of police.

“What did Chief Willoughby have to say?” Nic had asked.

“He promised that he’d do as you asked and get in touch with Doug Trotter today to request that the bureau compare the murder here in Ballinger with the murder in Stillwater.”

During the plane ride from Arkansas to Texas, Nic and Griff hadn’t talked much. For a good part of the trip, she had pretended to be asleep. She’d been sure Griff would hassle her about the way she had overreacted to him grasping her arm last night. She had kept waiting for him to say something, to ask her why the hell she’d run from him as if she were afraid of him. But to her surprise—and relief—he hadn’t said a word.

If he had, how would she have responded? She could have admitted that she overreacted because she’d been tired and edgy. She could have told him that she hated being forced to work with him. That would have been the truth. Just not the complete truth.

“Look for a sign that reads Old Stillwater Road,” Griff told her as he maneuvered the rented SUV through town.

“Sure.” Nic looked right and left, but avoided direct eye contact with Griff. “What time is Sheriff Touchstone meeting us?”

“He said he’d be there by twelve thirty and it’s”—Griff glanced at the Rolex on his wrist—“twelve twenty now.”

“I was a little surprised that he agreed to meet us at the scene,” Nic said. “Apparently, he intends to be as cooperative as Benny Willoughby was.”

She felt Griff glance her way, so she kept her gaze riveted to the windshield.

“Does it surprise you that local law enforcement is willing to cooperate with a private detective?” he asked.

“If that private detective was just any old PI, yes, I’d be surprised. But let’s face it—there aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Griffin Powell.”

“My name does open a few doors for me, but as a general rule, most local lawmen don’t cross the line and give me privileged information. Once in a blue moon, somebody will offer a little more info than they should, but for the most part, I have to resort to other methods to acquire my information.”

“Illegal methods,” Nic snapped.

Griff grunted. “Rarely illegal, but I admit we bend the rules near the breaking point when necessary. And often our methods could be perceived as unethical.”

“Perceived as unethical?” Nic harrumphed.

“Look, years ago, you and I established the fact that you do not approve of me, my agency, or our investigation tactics. And I don’t fault you for trying to be a by-the-book federal agent. I respect you, Nic, I just don’t like you personally.”

Slap! Why should she care that the high and mighty Griffin Powell didn’t like her? Heck, she should be grateful that he didn’t. What was the old saying about there being people you wouldn’t want to like you?

“We’re actually in agreement on something,” she told him. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you.”

“So it would seem. Now, the question that remains is, can we set aside our personal differences and actually work together to put a killer out of commission before he kills again? I’m man enough to do it, are you?”

Slap! Nic knew that Griff saw her as a man-eating feminist who had something to prove to every man she met. Maybe he was partially right. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told she couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because she was a woman.

“Sure,” Nic said. “I’ve got the balls, if you do.”

Griff chuckled under his breath.

Nic smiled to herself, an internal don’t-screw-with-me smile; but outwardly her facial expression remained unchanged.

“There it is—” Nic pointed to the left. “Old Stillwater Road.”

Griff slowed the SUV, and then turned left onto the twolane country road. After going over two miles, they had seen little except open fields, probably once planted annually in cotton, but now planted in corn. The pavement, filled with potholes and covered with cracked and crumbling asphalt, needed repairs.

Nic saw two vehicles parked alongside the roadway about a quarter of a mile ahead of them. As they got closer to the truck and the Jeep, she noticed two men standing in the shade of a large maple tree near a narrow bridge. Griff pulled the SUV in behind the other two vehicles and killed the engine.

“Be nice,” Griff said. “Act like a lady and not a hard-ass FBI agent.”

Glaring at him, she made a hissing sound.

Laughing, he opened his door and got out. Before he had a chance to round the hood and open her door, she jumped out and met him at the right front bumper. He nodded in the direction of the big tree.

“Ladies first,” he said.

She walked ahead of him, up the side of the road and into the area near the bridge. The two men standing there watched as she and Griff approached. The younger man, wearing a tan Stetson and brown leather boots stepped forward.

“Mr. Powell?” he asked as he held out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Touchstone.”

Griff shook hands with Dean Touchstone, who appeared to be in his early thirties. He was hazel-eyed, brown-haired, Texas-lean, and sported a thick, old-cowpoke mustache.

He turned to Nic, removed his hat, and nodded, “Ma’am.”

“This is Nicole Baxter,” Griff said. “She’s working with me on this case.”

Nic had to bite her tongue to keep from correcting him and saying that he was working with her and not the other way around. But she forced a smile and shook hands with the sheriff.

“This is Vance Coker.” The older man nodded to Griff and gave Nic an appreciative appraisal, the kind men give most women at first glance. “Vance is the one who found Gala Ramirez’s body hanging from that tree right there.”

Vance was probably sixty, short, wiry, and gray-haired. At least what hair he had left was gray. He had the kind of weathered skin that a person has after years of sun exposure.

“Vance owns this land,” the sheriff said.

“Been in my family over a hundred years,” Vance added.

“He found Gala’s body hanging from that maple tree there by the bridge, the first of August. Me and Ellis, one of my deputies, came out just as soon as Vance called us.” Dean Touchstone turned his head and stared at the tree. “It’s been over ten years since we had a murder in Durant County.”

“Sure was a troubling sight,” Vance said. “That poor little gal was strung up like a piece of beef, her ankles bound together and her head scalped. You can’t imagine what that looks like if you ain’t never seen it. Real troubling.” Vance shook his head back and forth.

“Was she naked?” Nic asked. “Was there any evidence she’d been sexually assaulted?”

“She wasn’t naked,” Vance said. “She was wearing shorts and a blouse, both of �em bloody. Real bloody.”

“She wasn’t sexually assaulted,” Sheriff Touchstone said. “The coroner’s report ruled out rape.”

“What did the coroner’s report tell you other than she hadn’t been raped?” Griff asked.

Ignoring Griff’s question, Touchstone looked at Vance. “Thanks for meeting us here. I appreciate it.” He turned to Griff. “You folks have anything else you want to ask Vance before he leaves?”

Beating Nic to the punch, Griff asked the farmer half a dozen questions. His answers were succinct, but not very informative.

“If that’ll be all, Mary Lou’s holding lunch for me.” Vance looked to the sheriff for permission to leave.

Touchstone nodded. “Thanks again, Vance.”

As soon as the farmer got in his truck and drove off, the sheriff faced Griff and Nic. “I’ll give you folks the basic facts of the case, but that’s all. I’m not opening my files to you and I’m not sharing privileged information. Understood?”

Nic smiled. “Yes, Sheriff, we understand. You can’t divulge privileged information to just anybody, not even private detectives.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Touchstone smiled at her, a flirting twinkle in his eye.

Griff cleared his throat. “As I mentioned when we spoke on the phone, what we need is to confirm that the similarities between Kendall Moore’s murder and Gala Ramirez’s murder are enough to indicate a link between the two and possibly point to a serial killer.”

“I understand,” Touchstone said. “But I don’t want y’all bandying around the words �serial killer’ in Stillwater. Folks are upset enough by the Ramirez girl’s murder without hearing that there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

“We don’t intend to speak to anyone else in Stillwater,” Griff said. “You’ve already told us that Gala was hung upside down from that tree.” Griff nodded to the grand old maple. “Her feet had been bound and she’d been scalped, but she hadn’t been raped and she wasn’t naked. Could you confirm her cause of death?”

“She’d been shot in the head.”

“The scenario you described fits Kendall Moore’s murder,” Nic said. “What we need is for you to contact SAC Doug Trotter at the FBI field office in D.C. and tell him you suspect that the same person who killed Kendall Moore in Ballinger, Arkansas, might have killed Gala Ramirez.”

Squinting against the noonday sun, Touchstone replaced his Stetson and focused on Nic. “I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll call the police chief in Ballinger and if he backs up everything y’all have told me, I’ll contact the FBI.”

“Thank you.” Nic rewarded him with a wide smile.

“You folks staying on overnight? If you are—”

“We’re not,” Griff said. “My plane is waiting for us in Lufkin and we’ll be taking off from there and heading back to Tennessee. But if you need to get in touch with me, with us, you have my cell number.”

“Sure do,” Touchstone said. “But I don’t have yours, ma’am.”

“If you need to reach Ms. Baxter, just call me,” Griff told him.

Pudge booked a first-class ticket from Baton Rouge to Nashville. Once there, he would use a fake ID to rent a car and then drive on to Knoxville. He would check into a cheap motel as close to Amber Kirby’s apartment as possible and the following day he would begin observing her. Within a couple of days, he should know enough about her daily routine to choose the best time to abduct her. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but because she was an athlete and had to stay in superb physical condition, he assumed she ran at least once every day. If he was lucky, her routine would include either an early-morning or a late-night run.

Before he packed, he needed to choose a disguise. Nothing elaborate, just enough to change his appearance so that if anyone remembered seeing him, they wouldn’t describe him as he actually looked. After unlocking the wooden chest at the foot of his bed, he sat on the floor and casually went through the contents. He laid out a brown mustache that matched the color of his hair; then he found a pair of black-framed glasses. He added an Atlanta Braves baseball cap to the subtle masquerade items he would use. While in Nashville, he’d find a Wal-Mart and buy some inexpensive clothes. Nondescript. A cotton shirt and trousers. A pair of athletic shoes.

A couple of loud taps on his locked bedroom door reminded him that he was not alone in the house. Allegra was here. But he never worried about the old woman. She was a trustworthy old soul and even if she saw or overheard anything unusual, she didn’t have enough sense to figure out what was going on.

“Lunch is ready,” she called through the closed door. “I fried up some of them fresh catfish that Pappy Rousey brought by this morning.”

“Thank you, Allegra. I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t you dawdle too long and let my fried conrbread balls get cold.”

Pudge heard her shuffling away, going back down the hall. He wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to make the trip out here to Belle Fleur every day. Her daughter, Fantine, dropped her off and picked her up on her way to and from her job as one of the maids for the Landau family who lived about ten miles down the road. He supposed when Allegra either died or retired, he’d have no choice but to find a new cook. When that day came, he would have to be more careful about playing his games.

Surely there’s a halfwit out there somewhere who knows how to cook.

Pudge picked up his disguise, got up out of the floor, and carried the items over to the bed where his open suitcase lay. He removed a small plastic case, laid the items inside, and put the case back into the suitcase.

As he left his room, he whistled to himself, some nonsensical tune from his childhood. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the words to the song, didn’t even know the name of the song, but he found himself humming it whenever he was plotting a new adventure. It was a happy song. His mother had hummed it to him to comfort him after she rescued him from his father’s wicked temper tantrums. Why his father had lashed out at him and never at Mary Ann and Marsha, he didn’t know. But whenever Daddy got in one of his moods, he had always called for Pudge to be sent to his study.

Don’t think about how mean Daddy was to you. Think about how kind Mommy was to you afterward.

Nic hadn’t chewed Griff out the way she had wanted to and it had taken every ounce of her willpower. She had wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he had no right to speak for her, that maybe she had wanted to give the handsome sheriff her cell number. And if she had, it wouldn’t have been any of Griff’s business.

On the drive from Stillwater to Lufkin, he’d glanced at her every once in a while, as if trying to gauge her mood, but she’d remained calm and silent, speaking to him only when he asked her a direct question.

Finally aboard the Powell jet and waiting for a powerful summer thunderstorm to pass before taking off, she and Griff sat in the luxurious cabin, sipping on early-evening drinks. Crown Royal and Coke for Griff. Plain Coke for Nic.

“He’ll contact us again,” Griff said, the statement coming after endless minutes of complete silence.

“Who?” Nic asked.

“The killer.” Griff pivoted on the leather sofa and faced Nic, who sat across from him. “Who did you think I meant—Sheriff Touchstone? Hell, what kind of name is that, anyway—Touchstone? A pretty name for a pretty boy.”

“He was rather handsome, wasn’t he?”

“He took an instant shine to you.”

“Do you find that so hard to believe, that a good-looking man would find me attractive?”

Griff downed the last drops of his drink, set the glass on the side table at the end of the sofa, and replied, “No, of course not. You’re attractive. I never said you weren’t. It’s not your physical appearance that I object to, it’s your personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?” That’s it, Nic, ask him and he’ll no doubt tell you.

“You’re abrasive, aggressive, bossy, and—”

“Traits that you would admire in a man.”

“Why do you want to act like a man?”

Answer that one, she told herself. Damn him!

Nic finished off her Coke but didn’t put down her glass. Instead she shook the tumbler, making the ice chips click together as she absently stared into the glass.

The distinctive ring told Nic that it was her cell phone and not Griff’s. She removed the phone from her pocket, checked the caller ID, and flipped it open. This just might be the call she’d been hoping for.

“Hello, Doug.”

Griff’s eyes widened. She didn’t pay any attention to him. Let him wait.

“I received two rather interesting phone calls today,” Doug Trotter said. “First this morning, Chief Benny Willoughby from Ballinger, Arkansas, called me and then this afternoon, Sheriff Dean Touchstone from Stillwater, Texas, called. Seems they’ve each got an unsolved murder and they think the same killer committed both crimes. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about either of those, would you, Nic?”

“I might.”

“Might, my ass. Just where the hell are you? And don’t give me any bullshit about your being in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains.”

Nic sensed Griff’s impatience. He was dying to know what her boss had to say. Tough shit. The longer she could make him wait, the better.

“I’m on a private jet that will soon be taking off from Lufkin, Texas,” Nic said.

“How’d you get yourself involved in this?” Doug asked.

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you’ve gone over to the dark side.”

Nic laughed softly. “I take it that you’ve heard I’m in league with Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” Griff asked, faking an indignant expression as he pointed to himself.

“What are you doing with Griffin Powell?” She heard the obvious disapproval in Doug’s voice.

“Remember my theory that there were two BQ Killers?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Griff and I both received calls a couple of days ago from a man who implied that he was that second killer. And he told us that he has begun a new game. He gave us both clues, each the name of a town and state and a time frame.”

“Go on.”

Nic wondered why Doug didn’t seem surprised. “There had been murders in each of the towns he named, and the time frame he gave us fit the time frame for each murder. Four days ago and four weeks ago.”

“So, instead of contacting me, you went with Griffin Powell to Ballinger and on to Stillwater. Want to tell me why?”

“Because Griff and I knew we needed some sort of proof that the murders were connected and that the local law had to get on board before—”

“You’re calling him Griff now, traveling on his private jet with him, partnering with him. I don’t like it, Special Agent Baxter.”

“Yes, sir. I’m not thrilled with the arrangement myself.”

“I want you to part company with Powell as soon as possible,” Doug told her. “Then I want you to hop a commercial jet to Atlanta. I want you to speak to a couple of detectives there. After I heard from Benny Willoughby this morning, I set some wheels into motion and discovered a really ugly trail of scalped female bodies hanging from tree limbs.”

A ripple of fear zipped through Nic’s nervous system as a sick feeling hit her in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it?” Griff asked, a concerned look on his face. “What’s going on?”

Nic shook her head and motioned for Griff to be quiet, then she asked Doug, “Are you saying there were others besides Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore?”

“Yeah. So far, we’ve discovered three other similar murders in three states—Georgia, Oklahoma, and Virginia. All three women were young—under thirty.”

“Virginia?”

“Yeah. I’ve got Josh on it until you get back here.”

“Were all three women brunettes?” Nic asked as she absorbed the facts.

“There were three other murders?” Griff asked.

Nic laid her phone on her chest, glowered at Griff and told him, “Yes, there were three more. Now, will you please shut up until I finish talking to my boss!”

“Nic?” Doug called her name.

She lifted the phone to her ear. “I’m here. I had to swat a pesky mosquito.”

“To answer your question, no, they were not all brunettes. The first one, killed back in April, was blonde. The second one, killed in May, was a redhead, but the third one was a brunette. She was killed in late June.”

“Then her hair color may not have anything to do with his choice. It may not play a part in his new game the way it did in the BQK murders.”

“There is a connection between the women, other than the fact that they’re all young,” Doug said.

“And that would be?”

“Five of the four women were athletes.”

“Interesting. We already know that Gala was a tennis pro and Kendall was a former Olympic silver medalist in the long-distance running competition.”

“Dana Patterson was a gymnast and Candice Bates was a rodeo athlete.”

“And what was the fifth one?”

“Angela Byers was an Atlanta police officer.”

The wheels in Nic’s mind turned at lightning speed. “My guess is that Angela Byers was in tiptop physical condition. We can check it out, but I’d bet my pension on it.” Nic took a deep breath. “What all five women definitely have in common is the fact that they were physically fit. For whatever reason, our killer either wants or needs only women in their physical prime.”




Chapter 6 (#ulink_8aa715cf-4376-5193-856c-f68601e61c84)


Anxious to know every detail of the information Doug Trotter relayed to her, Griff waited impatiently for Nic to finish her conversation. From listening to her side of the exchange, he surmised that Gala Ramirez had not been the first kill and that three other women’s murders fit the same MO.

Nic looked at Griff and wiggled her fingers. “I need a pen and paper,” she said as she held the phone sideways to prevent her boss from overhearing her request.

Griff hurried to a built-in desk, opened a drawer, and grabbed a notepad and paper, then slid the pad into Nic’s lap and handed her the ink pen. She nodded her thanks, then began writing rapidly as she straightened the phone and said, “I’ll get to Atlanta as soon as possible. Want to give me the names of the officers I should contact and where I can locate them?”

Griff watched while she continued writing furiously, nodding her head occasionally and giving simple, one-word replies. Finally, just as his patience wore thin, Nic said goodbye, closed her phone, and slipped it into her pocket.

“Well?” Griff asked.

“Doug unearthed some information that led him to believe there have been five connected murders, not two.”

“And?”

“The bureau is looking into each. He’s contacted the various law enforcement agencies in the affected states—Georgia, Virginia, and Oklahoma. He’s also contacted the field offices in those areas. He wants me to go to Atlanta before I return to D.C.”

“No problem,” Griff told her. “I’ll just have Jonathan file a new flight plan and we’ll head for Atlanta instead of Knoxville.”

“I don’t remember inviting you.” Clipping the ink pen to the top of the thin notepad, she looked directly at Griff. “Doug told me to go to Atlanta. He didn’t say anything about bringing you along with me.” She pressed the pad to her chest. “As a matter of fact, he disapproves of your involvement up to this point.”

“Tough.” Griff had no intention of letting Doug Trotter shut him out. He didn’t take orders from the bureau and although he tried to cooperate with all law enforcement agencies, he always did what he believed was in the best interest of everyone involved. He felt a special need to assist the victims’ families and to see that justice was served. Of course, it wasn’t always the type of justice he would prefer. His type of justice would be swift and deadly. No mercy whatsoever for vicious murderers like Cary Maygarden and his unknown partner, who had already begun a new killing spree.

“Look, Griff, it’s not going to work, our partnering up. Not now. It’s only a matter of time before this case is official FBI business. And when that happens—”

“You know that I’ll either be one step ahead of you or one step behind you. It doesn’t make sense for us not to cooperate.”

“I’d ask you to stay out of this and allow the proper authorities to handle the matter, but I know you won’t listen to anything I say.” Nic clutched the notepad to her chest with both hands, as if she were determined that he not catch even a glimpse of the info she’d jotted down during her conversation with Trotter. “You’re going to do whatever you want to do and damn the consequences. You want to solve this case and be the big dog in the news. You want everyone saying what an amazing PI Griffin Powell is, how he’s doing law enforcement’s job for them.”

“Do you honestly believe that I get involved in these cases because I like the publicity?” Good God, she really didn’t know him at all, did she? But then, he probably didn’t know her any better and might be judging her as unfairly as she was him.

“Are you saying you don’t love the publicity?” She snickered mockingly. “Odd, huh, that you wind up with your picture in the paper on a regular basis. If it’s not a story about Griffin Powell on the trail of a killer, then there’s one about your appearance at the latest highbrow social event with some gorgeous heiress on your arm.” She huffed. “Admit it—you love being in the public eye.”

Griff glanced at the notepad she held so protectively. She tightened her grip on the edges of the pad, eased it away from her chest, turned it over, and laid it in her lap. She pressed her folded hands down on top of it.

“I like solving crimes,” he said. “I like helping put criminals behind bars. I like doing what I can to stop evil people from harming others.”

“Then become a police officer, join the FBI, or get a law degree and—”

“There are enough police officers and lawyers”—he looked her square in the eyes—“and enough FBI agents. And you’re all required to work within the system, to follow the rules and walk the straight-and-narrow. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn’t. I have the freedom to cut a few corners, to sidestep a few rules. Sometimes my way works better. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“What is it with you?” she asked. “Why do you care? If it’s not for the thrills and the publicity, then why do it? You’ve got more money than God, so why not enjoy your playboy lifestyle and not get your hands dirty with murder and mayhem? I’ve never understood why you opened a PI firm in the first place.”

“Why I care is a personal matter,” he told her. “And because I do have more money than I could spend in several lifetimes, I have the means to help other people. Powell’s takes all kinds of cases, from people like Judd, who can pay dearly for our services, as well as from people who can’t pay us a dime. It doesn’t matter to us—to me—as long as we do our job.”

“So, you want me to believe that the Powell Agency is some philanthropic organization and you’re the benevolent benefactor?”

“Believe whatever you want.”

Nic looked down at the notepad in her lap. “This is information you’ll find out sooner or later.” She flipped the pad over. “I’ll share this with you, and then I need to get off your plane and book a reservation on the next commercial flight out of here for Atlanta.”

“As soon as we can get airborne, I’ll have Jonathan fly us to Atlanta.” Before she could protest—and she was on the verge of doing just that—he held up a restraining hand, asking her to wait. “Once we’re in Atlanta, we’ll go our separate ways. You’ll investigate for the bureau and I’ll find a way to look into things on my own.”

She hesitated, apparently considering his offer.

“Fly with me and you’ll not only be more comfortable, but you’ll arrive in Atlanta much sooner,” Griff told her.

She released a heaving sigh. “Oh, all right.” When he smiled, she added, “But once we get to Atlanta—”

“You can take a taxi and go to headquarters alone, talk to the police and the SAC at the Atlanta office, while I check into a hotel and get a good night’s sleep.”

She eyed him skeptically.

Using his index finger, he drew an invisible X on his chest. “Cross my heart.”

She nodded agreement.

Suddenly Griff’s cell phone rang at the same moment his pilot, Jonathan Mills, emerged from the cockpit.

“We’ve been given clearance to take off,” Jonathan said.

“Hold off on that,” Griff told him as he glanced at the caller ID on his cell phone. “There’s been a change in plans. We’re going to Atlanta, not Knoxville.”

“Yes, sir.”

Griff answered on the fifth ring, his gut warning him who the caller was. “Powell here.”

“Hello, Griff.”

Apparently sensing the tension in Griff, Nic reached over and tapped his arm, then mouthed, “Is it him?”

Griff nodded to Nic, then spoke to the caller. “What can I do for you?”

A soft chuckle. “It’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”

“And just what would that be?”

“I can give you a new clue.”

“On one of the five past murders or one of the future murders?”

“Ah, you and Nic have been busy, haven’t you? I’m impressed that you’ve already discovered information about all five of them.”

Then there really had been only five. But that was five too many. Five innocent young women who had died at the hands of a monster. “Yeah, we know that there were five.”

“I’m going to capture Number Six day after tomorrow, so you see, I’m giving you thirty-six hours’ notice.”

Griff held his breath. Damn this arrogant, crazy son of a bitch.

“Did you hear me?” the caller asked.

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“That was the first part of your clue. Want the second part?”

“You’re going to give me the second part whether I want it or not, so why ask me?”

“Frustrated already?” Another nasty chuckle.

Griff didn’t respond.

“Debbie Glover,” the caller said, then hung up.

Griff lifted his phone away from his ear and clutched it in his hand as he repeated the name over and over in his mind. Who the hell was Debbie Glover? The intended victim? No, that would make it too easy.

“What did he say?” Nic asked.

“He’s abducting another victim day after tomorrow, in thirty-six hours, which means sometime early Wednesday.”

“Was that all he said?”

Before Griff could answer Nic, her cell phone rang. Their gazes met and locked.

“He’s calling me this time,” Nic said as she removed her phone from her pocket.

“He’s enjoying himself,” Griff told her.

Nic flipped open her phone. “Hello.”

“My darling Nicole, how lovely to hear your voice.”

“I can’t say the same. I hate hearing your voice.”

Laughter.

“I have two clues for you,” the caller told her. “Two for Griff and two for you.”

Nic waited.

“She’s a blonde,” he said. “I have a personal preference for brunettes, but I don’t want to discriminate against blondes and redheads, now do I?”

Nic swallowed hard.

“If you don’t say something and let me hear your sweet voice again, I won’t give you the other clue,” he told her.

“Give me a really good clue—tell me where you are,” Nic said.

“Ah, that’s my girl. Feisty as ever.”

Griff was right. This sick bastard was enjoying himself. He loved drawing Griff and her into his game, into the planning and preparation stage. He needed them, needed their participation in order to achieve the optimum pleasure. But unfortunately, they couldn’t simply refuse to play along, not if even one thing he said to them could help them figure out who he was or who his next victim might be.

“I’m at home,” he told her. “I’ll be leaving in the morning, on my way to stalk my prey before I capture her and … But you don’t want to hear about all that, do you? You want your other clue.”

Nic held her breath.

“Rubies and lemon drops.”

He hung up.

Nic frowned, totally puzzled by his statement.

“Well?” Griff asked.

“He’s crazy.”

“We already knew that.”

“Blonde,” Nic said. “He told me that his next victim is blonde.”

“And he’s going to capture her Wednesday.”

“What was your other clue?”

“It didn’t make any sense.”

“Neither did mine,” Nic said. “But what was it?”

“A woman’s name—Debbie Glover.”

“Does the name mean anything to you? Do you know a Debbie Glover?”

“The name is meaningless. I have no idea who she is,” Griff said.

“Maybe there’s a connection between her and rubies and lemon drops.”

“What?”

“His second clue for me was rubies and lemon drops.”

“Contact Trotter,” Griff said. “And I’ll get in touch with Sanders. We’ll run a trace on the name and put a few more heads together to work on figuring out the clues. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” She lifted the notepad from her lap and handed it to Griff. “In the meantime, I need to get to Atlanta tonight.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Their gazes met and held for a split second, a silent understanding passing between them. They were still unwilling partners, at least for the time being.

Griff had dropped Nic off at police headquarters over two hours ago, where she was meeting with the local police and an agent from the Atlanta FBI field office. Griff had driven to the downtown Sheraton and checked in. Before they’d left Lufkin, he had contacted Sanders, who had made arrangements for a one-bedroom suite and a separate single room at the four-star hotel.

“When you finish up with what you need to do, catch a cab and come on over to the Sheraton, downtown, on Court-land Street,” Griff had told her. “If you’ll call me on the way, I’ll order supper and when you get there we can see if we can make sense of our four clues.”

Kicking back, with his jacket and tie off, Griff relaxed in the suite’s lounge. He’d ordered coffee when he first arrived and was now on his third cup. He wasn’t concerned about caffeine consumption. He figured he wouldn’t sleep much tonight anyway.

As he was studying the notepad filled with Nic’s scrawling handwriting, going over the information once again, his cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he answered on the second ring.

“You have something for me?” Griff asked.

“Yes and no,” Sanders replied. Damar Sanders was more than Griff’s right-hand man. He was his best friend, his confidante, his father confessor, and sometimes his conscience. Their relationship went back eighteen years and nothing short of death would ever sever their unique bond.

“Give me the yes first,” Griff said.

“Very well. I compiled a list of all the Debbie Glovers I could find in the U.S. and then I narrowed them down to those in the South, including Texas, Oklahoma, Kentucky, and Maryland.”

“And?”

“And there were far too many to be able to find out even the most basic facts on all of them before Wednesday morning.”

“Narrow the search to only those between twenty and thirty.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And I am now running a search on those women, but it will take time to discover their professions.”

“Anyone whose profession implies she would be in really good physical condition is to go on the list,” Griff said. “As soon as we’ve narrowed it down to a reasonable number, we’ll start narrowing them down to the ones who are blondes.”

“Do you think he has actually given you the next victim’s name?” Sanders asked.

“I have no idea,” Griff admitted, “but unless we can figure out what else the name Debbie Glover could mean, how it could connect to his next victim, then I’m stumped. At least for now.”

“I have called in several agents who are not presently on assignments to assist me,” Sanders said. “We are working on the clues, seeing if anyone can come up with any ideas as to what they might mean.”

“At least everything made some sort of sense—day after tomorrow, Debbie Glover, and blonde—until the last clue. What the hell kind of clue is rubies and lemon drops?”

“A cryptic one, wouldn’t you say?”

“I hate like hell that he’s having so much fun doing this. He’s stringing us along, keeping us guessing, knowing damn well that we won’t refuse to play his game on the off chance we might be able to outsmart him.”

“He needs the challenge.”

“We know what kind of game he’s playing with Nic and me,” Griffin said. “What I need to know is what kind of murder game he’s playing with his victims. We found out that, at least with Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore, he kept them alive for approximately three weeks before he killed them.”

“Can Special Agent Baxter find out more detailed information about each victim?”

“I’m sure she can, but whether she’ll share that info with me is iffy.”

“I’ll make some phone calls,” Sanders said. “If I find out anything, I’ll contact you immediately.”

No sooner had Griff ended his conversation with Sanders than someone knocked on the outer door. He got up, but before he reached the door, a feminine voice called, “It’s me, Nic.”

Although he’d told her he would book her a room for tonight, he hadn’t been sure she’d actually show up.

When he opened the door, he found her standing there, shoulders drooped, makeup faded, eyes bleary, and an expression of pure disgust on her face.

“I’d better have my own room,” she told him as she shoved past him and walked into the suite.

“Naturally. I am a gentleman.”

“That’s debatable.” She eyed the coffeepot on the table. “Tell me that’s not decaf.”

“Good God, no.”

She tossed her shoulder bag onto the nearest chair and headed straight for the coffee. After pouring herself a cup, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the sofa.

“You look beat,” Griff said. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Since you didn’t call, I haven’t ordered dinner. What would you like?”

“Red meat.”

Griff chuckled. “I’ll make it two steaks. How do you take yours?”

“Medium-well,” she replied. “And I want a loaded potato.”

While Nic sipped on the coffee, Griff placed their dinner order, then came over and sat down beside her. She gave him a sidelong glance.

“I called Doug on the taxi ride over,” she said. “Earlier, I had asked him to find out what he could about the two other murders, the one in Oklahoma and the one in Virginia, and let me know if he unearthed anything.”

“And?”

When she didn’t immediately reply, he wondered if she had no intention of sharing what she’d learned with him.

“So far, not much,” Nic said. “But putting together the info on what I found out about the murder here in Atlanta with the info on the four other murders, there is one more thing that definitely links all five, other than their all being shot in the head and scalped.” She heaved a deep sigh. “From the time each woman was discovered missing until her body was found hanging from a tree was between twenty-two and twenty-three days.”

When Nic’s hand trembled just enough to shake the cup she held, Griff reached out to take the cup from her, but stopped short of touching her. Realizing his intention, she handed him the almost-empty cup.

“All five, huh? So, why keep them for three weeks?” Griff set the cup aside, then leaned back into the sofa and faced Nic. “We need to know. Is he torturing them? Keeping them drugged? What? We know he didn’t rape Kendall and Gala, so he probably didn’t rape the others.”

“Why does he scalp them?” Nic asked. “What does that convey about him, about the game? He shoots them in the head, apparently execution style, then he scalps them after they’re dead.”

“The scalp is a trophy, as well as a memento.”

“That means he’s keeping the scalps so he can look at them and relive each kill. Looking at the scalp triggers the memories and he can get high on recalling whatever led up to the final moments before he put a bullet in the woman’s head.”

“Why would he need only women in superb physical condition?” Griff turned partially around, lifted one leg over the other, positioning his right ankle over his left knee.

Nic rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. “Does he need them in great shape or does he want them in great shape?”

“Take your pick. Either or.”

“They’re all young, physically fit, and some are athletes. Their hair color varies, as does their physical description. Gala Ramirez was of Mexican descent, so she was different in that aspect.” Nic yawned. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“It’s been a long day. Why don’t you just relax until dinner arrives, then take a shower and go to bed. We can start fresh in the morning.”

Nic shook her head and looked right at Griff. “I’m heading back to D.C. in the morning.”

He had figured as much. “You’ll be in charge of the bureau’s investigation, right?”

“Probably. Doug knows it’s what I want.”

“And if he thinks you’re in cahoots with me, he won’t give you the assignment.”

She lifted her head from the sofa and leaned toward him ever so slightly. “If the killer continues giving each of us clues, we’ll have no choice but to cooperate with each other, but for that reason only. You understand?”

“Oh, yeah, I understand.”

“So, while we’re together this evening, let’s not waste our time. Let’s discuss the clues. I assume your team has been searching for women named Debbie Glover, right? And maybe combining brain power to figure out what on earth rubies and lemon drops could mean.”

“There are countless Debbie Glovers, but Sanders is narrowing the search. Whether or not we can narrow it down enough to do any good before Wednesday morning is doubtful.”

“I’ve been going over various thoughts about rubies and lemon drops,” Nic said. “One is a precious gem and the other a candy. One is expensive, the other is cheap. You wear one and eat the other.”

“Our guy knows we’ll drive ourselves crazy trying to figure out the clues and in the meantime, he’s making plans to abduct his sixth victim.”

Griff’s cell phone rang.

Both of them froze instantly.

Griff retrieved his phone and checked the caller ID. “It’s not him.” He answered the call. “Yeah, what is it?”

“We’ve just come across some rather interesting information,” Sanders said. “Actually Maleah came up with the idea of cross-referencing all the Debbie Glovers on the original list with a list of female athletes from all sports, professional and college, in the past thirty years.”

“And?”

“And there was a Debbie Glover who played basketball for Boston College fifteen years ago. And another Debbie Glover who was a golf pro back in the eighties.”

“Are they the only two who are athletes?”

“As far as we know.”

“Both would be too old to be our victim, if our guy stays true to form,” Griff said. “But Debbie Glover’s sport—whichever Debbie Glover it is—could be the clue. The next victim might be a basketball player or a pro golfer.”




Chapter 7 (#ulink_154e2b83-5974-5b98-9fcf-03ef4e6eb5fb)


Nic and Greg had bought a home in Woodbridge, Virginia, shortly after they married. It had made sense for them to live within easy driving distance of their jobs. She had worked in D.C. and he’d worked in Alexandria. When Greg died, she had taken a month off, then went to her boss and asked for a transfer to another field office. Anywhere in the U.S., just as long as it was away from D.C., away from all the memories, both good and bad. She’d worked in two states during that time and wound up heading a task force on the Beauty Queen Killer case when the Special Agent in Charge, Curtis Jackson, had retired. But when that case, for all intents and purposes, had been solved, she’d decided it was time to go home. Back to the D.C. field office, with a territory that covered not only D.C. but also cities surrounding the capital. Arlington. Alexandria. Quantico.

Although she’d thought about selling the house in Woodbridge, she had, after letting it remain empty for over a year, put her furniture in storage and turned it over to a realtor to lease.

If she’d thought time and distance would erase the memories, would heal her broken heart, and appease her guilty conscience, she’d been wrong. Moving back into the home she and Greg had purchased, decorated together, and lived in for the three years of their marriage hadn’t been easy. But she liked her house, liked the neighborhood, and felt comfortable here. So what if from time to time, she felt Greg’s presence? If his spirit lingered here, perhaps simply in her memories, then it was a kind, gentle spirit.

Gregory Baxter had been a kind, gentle man.

Nic turned over in bed—a king-size bed that she had bought new when she moved back into the Woodbridge house last summer—and glanced at the alarm clock. Five ten. The alarm was set for five thirty. She tossed back the light covers, slid to the edge of the bed, and sat up. After shutting off the alarm, she stood, stretched, and headed for the closet. When she was at home, she walked every morning in her neighborhood and the one adjoining it. Two miles. And she worked out at the gym three days a week.

Once dressed and fully awake, she headed out the back door. It was barely daylight and already humid. She could feel the heavy moisture in the air. Early morning was the best time to walk, run, or jog in the summertime. In her twenties, she had jogged, but a knee injury had forced her to take her doctor’s advice and change to brisk walking. Better on the knee joints.

As she set her pace and headed up the street, her body went on automatic pilot. Her route never varied. Although she might speak to a fellow walker or jogger, she never lingered to talk to anyone and really didn’t know her neighbors beyond her own block.

For the past thirty-six hours, her thoughts had centered on one thing: somewhere out there a woman was going to be abducted this morning and there was nothing she could do to stop it from happening. It didn’t help that she and Griff had figured out three of the four clues. They knew that a blonde would be kidnapped this morning and in all likelihood she was either a basketball player or a golfer. How many women fit that description? Too many.

Nic rounded the corner of the second block, picking up speed, pushing herself, as her mind replayed the final clue. Rubies and lemon drops. She had driven herself crazy trying to figure out what the hell that meant. Griff had half his staff at Powell’s trying to come up with something.

Griff. She’d spoken to him once since they’d parted company early yesterday morning. He had called her shortly after eight last night. He was back at Griffin’s Rest and doing what she was doing—waiting for the inevitable. And hoping beyond hope that they could figure out who the next victim might be.

Before it was too late.

There would be no way to get Griff out of her life now. If the killer continued to phone them both with clues, they would have to compare notes on a regular basis. And, as Griff had told her, he would stay either one step ahead of or one step behind the authorities on every case.

She had talked to Doug again. “I think the killer wants me heading up this case. Why else would he choose a victim from Alexandria, in my territory? I think he picked me just like he picked his victims.”

“Isn’t that reason enough not to play along?” Doug had asked her.

“I have to do this. He knows that. Talk to Ace Warren. Persuade him to use his influence to see that I’m put in charge. Make us the office of origin on this case and the others the Auxiliary offices. After all, our killer is talking personally to me and not to any other agent.”

“He’s also talking to Griffin Powell,” Doug had reminded her. “Want me to put him in charge, too?”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll talk to Ace.”

“Thanks.”

Nic had spent more than four years of her career tracking down the BQ Killer and when Cary Maygarden had been unveiled as the murderer, that should have put an end to it. Unfortunately, one small but significant clue had kept her from writing “The End” to the story that everyone else had said was concluded. Two bullets had been found in Maygarden’s body. One bullet had come from Powell’s sharpshooter Holt Keinan’s rifle and the other from an unknown source. Although the bureau and the local authorities in Knoxville had looked into the matter, nothing had ever come of it. Dead end. Only she and Griff had been convinced that there had been a second BQ Killer, one who had ended the deadly game—the dying game—by shooting his partner.

The second killer had laid low for a whole year, killing again almost a year from the day that Cary Maygarden had died. Coincidence? No way.

As Nic power-walked block after block, her mind moving as quickly as her feet, her brain jumped from thought to thought. But she finally realized that it all came back down to that final, perplexing clue—rubies and lemon drops.

By the time she had come full circle and returned to her block, dawn light was spreading across the eastern horizon in vibrant splashes of color. A pink glow so dark it was almost red, fringed in pale gold. Something she’d heard her grandmother say when she was a child came to mind. “Red sky in the morning is a sailor’s warning.” A red morning sky forecast rain.

Nic slowed when she reached her driveway, tossed her head back, and sucked in huge gulps of fresh air. Her gaze lingered on the sky, alight with color, red and gold, pink and yellow.

Red and yellow.

Rubies and lemon drops.

Damn! Could it be that simple?

Had the final clue been the colors red and yellow? If so, what could it possibly mean? The color of her hair? Blonde. The color of her car? Red? That couldn’t be it.

Colors. Think colors. Paints, crayons, eye color, hair color, skin color.

Wiping the perspiration from her cheeks with the back of her hand, Nic paused at her kitchen door. She removed the mint green plastic spiral wristband with her key attached and unlocked the door.

Think sports. Colors. School colors?

Was there any college with red and yellow as school colors?

Nic closed the door behind her, walked into her kitchen, and saw that the coffeemaker she had set the night before had brewed eight cups of heavenly smelling black coffee.

Shower first. Coffee later.

School colors. Red and yellow.

If you mix red with yellow you get—orange.

Orange was the dominant color for how many colleges?

Nic yanked her cell phone from the clip on her walking shorts, hit the programmed number, and held her breath until she heard his voice.

“Rubies and lemon drops,” she said. “Red and yellow. Mix those colors and you get orange.”

“So you do.” Griffin Powell sounded wide-awake and not the least surprised to hear from her.

“Think school colors—what comes to mind when you say orange?”

“My first thought is UT, of course.” He cursed softly under his breath. “That’s too simple, but—”

“What if the woman he intends to abduct this morning is a basketball player from UT? I know it’s a long shot, but—”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“I can contact the campus police,” Nic said. “They may think I’m crazy and I can’t say I’d blame them, but—”

“Let me handle this,” Griff told her. “I’ve got an in at UT. I know the head of campus security and if I ask him to check on all the blonde players on the UT women’s basketball team, he’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Griff.” She hesitated, hating that, in this case, he could do more than she could and do it quicker. “Call me as soon as you find out anything.”

“You realize this could turn out to be nothing. Yes, red and yellow make orange and orange is a UT color. But you’ve already admitted that it really is a long shot. We’ve probably got it all wrong.”

“You mean I’ve got it all wrong.”

“If we’re partners, then we’re both wrong or we’re both right.”

“We are not partners.”

“Whatever you say, Nicki.”

Before she could come up with an adequate snappy comeback, he hung up. Smart-ass.

Nic eyed the coffee. She could almost taste it. Resisting temptation, she hurried to the bathroom, placed her cell phone on the vanity, and stripped. Once under the shower-head, she closed her eyes and let the warm water pepper down over her head and body.

The odds were her guess about the color orange was wrong, which would make their second guess that the potential victim was a UT basketball player also wrong.

Oh, God, please, please let me be right. And if I am, don’t let it be too late to save her.

Amber Kirby went for her morning run. During the week, she got up earlier than on weekends and usually had the trail to herself for at least part of her run. When the fall semester started and there were more students on campus, the trail wouldn’t be as solitary as it was today. She didn’t mind the solitude because she often used earphones to listen to her favorite tunes on her iPod.

Just as she made it to the halfway point and was heading back, she met a man walking the trail instead of running or jogging as most people did. Because he was only the second person she’d seen in her three-mile jog this morning, she glanced at him, her gaze connecting with his for half a second. He looked like someone who needed exercise. Although he wasn’t fat, his body looked soft and pudgy and his face was round and full.

He smiled as she whizzed past him. She returned his smile.

An odd shiver rippled along her nerve endings.

Okay, so there had been something strange about the guy. That didn’t mean she should be afraid. After all, it was obvious that she could easily outrun him. And even though he was a man, she’d bet she was as strong as he was. Maybe stronger.

Ignore your gut feeling that something’s wrong. Just keep running.

Amber glanced over her shoulder.

Walking in the opposite direction at a plodding speed, the man was almost out of sight. He hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t turned and followed her.

How silly of me to think that that pudgy-looking guy was dangerous.

Although Nic was still officially on vacation, she’d driven into D.C. to Justice Square and met Doug just as he arrived at the office. If she had stayed at home, the waiting would have driven her stark, raving mad. It had been over three and a half hours since she’d spoken to Griff and he hadn’t called back. She figured he didn’t have anything to report, that she hadn’t solved the rubies and lemon drops word puzzle. After all, what were the odds that they’d actually been able to put all the pieces together using those last two asinine clues?

Nic had wanted to see ADIC Ace Warren, but Doug hadn’t been able to arrange a meeting.

“Ace can’t fit you in,” Doug had told her. “I’ll see if I can get you a few minutes of his time tomorrow. In the meantime, go home, take it easy. You’re supposed to be on vacation, you know. A much-needed vacation.”

There was no point in her hanging around here, accomplishing nothing except irritating Doug. She knew the wheels were turning, if somewhat slower than she would like. But the field offices in each state where a woman had been murdered—shot in the head, scalped, and hung by her feet—had been notified, and agents were checking into the matter and comparing notes. If she made a pest of herself, she wasn’t likely to endear herself to either Doug or Ace Warren. And the last thing she wanted was to piss off either of them. What she wanted was for Ace to put her in charge of the bureau’s investigation into this serial killer case when the bureau actually became officially involved.

Just as Nic slid behind the wheel of her Chevy Trail-Blazer, her cell phone rang. With shaky hands, she jerked the phone from her pocket, noted the caller ID, and flipped open the phone.

“Yeah, what?” she asked.

“You were right,” Griff said, but he didn’t sound pleased.

“Right about?”

“She’s a basketball player for UT. Her name is Amber Kirby. She’s twenty, blonde, and runs early every morning as part of her daily fitness routine.”

Nic swallowed hard, her gut warning her that something was wrong. Bad wrong. “Just tell me.”

“Amber Kirby went for her morning run three hours ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Son of a bitch!” Emotion tightened Nic’s throat. “He’s got her.”

“Yeah, more than likely.”

“If only we’d figured out that final clue sooner.”

“Don’t go there,” Griff told her. “This is not our fault.”

“If we just had some idea where he’s taken her and what he’s going to do to her. Assuming he stays true to form, we have twenty-one days to find her before he kills her.”

“Twenty-one days or twenty-one years, it doesn’t matter. We don’t have the slightest idea where he’s taken her.”

“He’ll call us,” Nic said. “He’ll give us more clues.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m right. You wait and see. He enjoys tormenting us far too much not to continue forcing us to play his game. He may not call today or tomorrow, but he’ll call.”

“Nic?”

“Huh?”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Right.” He paused for a couple of seconds, then asked, “Are you still on vacation or have you—?”

“Officially, I haven’t gone back to work yet. I was supposed to take two weeks, but I can’t. Not now. I’ll save a week for later on.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“What?”

“You could come here to Griffin’s Rest for a few days.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You could meet some of my team, work with us, and we’d be together when the Scalper calls again,” Griff said.

“The Scalper, huh?”

“You and I both know that it’ll take some time for the bureau to coordinate things with local and state authorities. It could be another week or two before they form a task force, if then. Work with me and we could be ahead of the game.”

He made it sound so tempting. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

“Okay. Have it your way.”

“Griff?”

“Yeah?”

“If he calls you—”

“I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Same here.”

“Take it easy, honey. And stop beating yourself up for not being Wonder Woman.”

Griff had taken his small, single-engine fishing boat out onto the lake earlier today and had spent a couple of hours in the fresh air and sunshine. He owned several seacraft, everything from the fishing boat to a yacht he kept docked in Charleston, where he owned a beach house. As much as he enjoyed deep sea fishing, there was something to be said for hours of lazy, relaxed fishing on a tranquil lake. As a boy he’d gone fishing in any branch or stream he could find, and his mama had always fried up his catch for supper. Those had been lean days when a fat catfish on their dinner table had meant the difference between eating and going hungry.




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