The Dying Game (11 page)

“Go on.”

“Gale Ann said that killing her was worth twenty points to him because she had red hair.”

Silence.

Judd stared at her—not really at her but through her—his jungle cat yellow gaze transfixed on something he could see only in his mind’s eye.

“Judd?”

He didn’t respond.

She reached out to touch him at the same moment the waitress came over to refill their coffee cups.

“Either of you need a refill?” the middle-age woman asked.

The waitress’s question apparently snapped Judd out of his mental fog. He pulled away from Lindsay’s approaching touch, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of her hand on his.

“Yeah, thanks,” Judd told the waitress. “Fill ’er up.”

As soon as the waitress finished refilling their cups and moved on to the customers in the next booth, Lindsay asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He wasn’t all right, and they both knew it.

“Do you want to go to Griffin’s Rest with me and become an active member of the team again?” Lindsay asked. “If you do, then you have to promise me you can act like a civilized human being.”

“Did Griff leave the decision up to you about whether to take me at my word or not?”

“Yes.”

“And if I swear to you that I can behave myself, that I won’t run around like a madman and scare the bejesus out of Ms. Hughes, will you believe me?”

“Yes. If you’ll be completely honest with me about something else, too.”

“What?”

“Tell me where your mind went, what you were thinking there a few minutes ago when I told you that killing was a game to this guy and that he was using some sort of insane points system.”

“You know what I was thinking.”

“Say it out loud.”

“How many points was my Jenny worth to him?” Judd glared at her. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes.”

Judd wiped his mouth with his napkin, crumbled it in his fist, and tossed it atop his empty plate. “Can we go now?”

“Sure.” She picked up the tab, left a generous tip, and headed for the cash register.

Chapter 7

He had spent the night at an inexpensive motel in Jackson, used a phony ID, and paid in cash. As he so often did on the morning of a “kill,” he woke early, eager to play the game once again. The drive from the state’s capital to Tupelo had been uneventful, the stretch of Interstate 55 between Jackson and Batesville desolate and dull. He’d used Highway 278 to go from Oxford to Tupelo, a medium-sized Mississippi city.

In the past, he had taken more time to study the pretty little flower before he severed her life-giving stem. But that had been in the beginning, when time had been of no importance and the years stretched before him, seemingly endless.

Odd how that five years could pass so quickly. He supposed the old adage about time flying when you were having fun was true. What had begun as a lark had turned into a passion far greater and all-consuming than he could have ever imagined. Who knew that life-and-death game-playing could be so exhilarating?

Participating in “The Dying Game” gave him a high unlike anything he’d ever experienced. And it was as addictive as any of the drugs he had experimented with over the years.

He hated to see it all come to an end, but the game would be over in less than two months. And he intended to be the winner. His life depended on it.

As he drove the Ford Taurus—rented using his fake ID— along the street where Sonya Todd lived, he recalled the information he had collected on her. She was thirty-five, divorced, no children, and lived alone. She was the high school band director, but since this was Saturday and no band contests were scheduled for Tupelo High, there was a good chance she would be at home.

Should he make contact with her today? Introduce himself into her life as a nonthreatening stranger? Or should he simply study her from afar during the day and wait for the perfect moment later on, perhaps tonight, to surprise her?

During the long, boring drive here, he had worked up a couple of different scenarios. His favorite was simply to ring her doorbell, introduce himself, and ask about houses for sale in the neighborhood. If there was one thing he knew how to do—and do well—it was playact. As a youngster, he had entertained his sisters with his antics, keeping them amused so that they wouldn’t torment him with their teasing: Rolypoly. Fatty-fatty. Pudgy-wudgy.

He had learned how to turn their taunting into self-inflicting jokes that endeared him to Mary Ann and Marsha. They con sidered him a funny little brother. Fat and rosy-cheeked. Easily manipulated. Mary Ann never knew that he’d been the one who had poisoned her pet cat, Mr. Mackerel. And Marsha still thought one of the servants had stolen her prom dress, the one their mother had bought on a shopping spree in Paris. But he knew better. That dress, which he’d ripped to shreds, was buried in the woods near their family home, along with the bones of numerous small animals he had taken great pleasure in torturing to death.

He didn’t see much of either sister these days, only at weddings, funerals, and an occasional holiday. Both had married well, reproduced darling little brats like themselves, and lived in the same type of social whirlwind their mother had thrived on.

Reciting Sonya Todd’s street numbers in his mind, he slowed the car almost to a standstill when he came to 322. A woman wearing hot pink sweats and man in a heavy jacket stood on the front porch, holding hands, looking dreamily into each other’s eyes. The hulk of a man kissed the woman, then headed down the steps onto the sidewalk. When he was halfway to the SUV parked in the drive, he glanced over his shoulder, grinned and waved. The woman blew him a kiss, then waved back at the guy.

Guess that big oaf got lucky last night.

Naughty, naughty of you, my little pink rose
.

The midthirties’ Sonya Todd bore a striking resemblance to the young woman in the old Miss Magnolia photograph he had brought with him. Still slender and shapely. Still a blonde, although the shade was now darker, richer, more golden. But a blonde was a blonde, be she platinum or dishwater. And every blonde was worth fifteen points. Killing Sonya would put him in the lead, one step closer to winning the game.

He drove past Sonya’s house and glanced from right to left, as if he were searching for a street address. Then he circled the block slowly, giving her boyfriend time to leave. When he returned to 322, as luck would have it, Sonya walked out into her yard to pick up the morning newspaper. He eased the Taurus to a halt, rolled down the window, and called to her.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

She looked directly at him and smiled. “Morning.”

“Could I trouble you for just a minute?”

“Sure, what can I do to help you?”

“Well, I’m heading home after a business trip here in Tupelo.” He stayed in the car, maintaining his distance so as not to alarm her. “It looks like I’ll be transferring here, and I thought I’d take a look at some of the newer housing developments. This area looks like someplace my wife and kids would just love.”

“Tupelo is a fantastic place to live, and Pine Crest Estates is one of ‘the’ places to live if you’re an up-and-coming young professional family.”

“What about the school system?” he asked. “I’ve got ten-year-old twins.”

Sonya smiled. What a lovely smile. It was nice to see a woman who didn’t let herself go just because she was past thirty.

Such a sweet, friendly lady. Unsuspecting. She had no idea that she was conversing with the man who had come to town expressly to add her to his collection of pretty flowers. Pretty dead flowers.

As she rubbed her hands up and down her arms in an effort to warm herself from the chilly air, she walked to the edge of her driveway. And while she talked, telling him that she was the high school band director and that the school system in the area was one of the best, if not
the
best in the state, he noticed how she used her hands as she spoke. Long fingers. Sculptured pink nails.

She was a violinist, wasn’t she? She’d even had aspirations of being a concert violinist. Unfortunately, her talent was limited, and she had never reached the heights of success about which she had once dreamed.

As he studied those beautiful, animated hands, he thought about tonight and how he would hack off those slender hands she used to play the violin in such a mediocre way. Actually, he would probably chop off both of her arms entirely.

Judd adjusted the passenger seat to recline slightly, closed his eyes, and dozed off not long after they crossed the Kentucky state line and entered Tennessee. When he awoke, he glanced out the side window and realized they were going through Knoxville. Roadwork seemed to be the norm in this city. Expansion always creates the need for bigger and better. He hazarded a quick glimpse at Lindsay. Focused on the heavy traffic, she didn’t glance his way.

Judd closed his eyes again.

It was better for both of them if Lindsay thought he was still sleeping. That way neither of them had to make an effort at conversation. From the very beginning of their relationship, things had been strained between them. Now more so than ever.

Judd grunted silently.

Relationship? Could you actually call whatever existed between them a relationship? They weren’t friends or lovers. Nor were they enemies. But if he was completely honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he often hated Lindsay. She didn’t deserve his hatred; she had done nothing to warrant such an extreme reaction from him. For a man whose emotions were pretty much dead, the very fact that Lindsay could elicit any emotion from him bothered him on a gut-deep level.

Each new murder—now totaling twenty-nine that they knew of—evoked thoughts of those first few weeks after his wife had been killed. Last night in the Williamstown motel, he’d been unable to rest. Memories of Jenny had plagued him.

And thoughts of Lindsay.

Yeah, thoughts of Lindsay McAllister.

He’d spent nearly four years telling himself that the reason his recollections about those first few horrific days, weeks, and months after Jennifer was murdered centered as much on Lindsay as they did on Jenny was because Lindsay had been involved with the murder case on a day-to-day basis. She’d been partnered with the lead detective.

He knew she’d been there that night at the scene of Jennifer’s murder when he barged in like a madman. But to him that evening was little more than a blurred nightmare. Even now, he could still feel the deadweight of Jenny’s slender body as he sat on the floor and held her in his arms. Not all the time in the world would ever erase that bloody scene from his mind. Jenny’s hands lying beside her, her perfectly manicured nails a bright coral. He had loved her hands, those long fingers that stroked the piano keys with such expert ease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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