The Dying Game (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gut clenched painfully.

He hated Lindsay McAllister. Hated her because she made him feel something besides grief.

As mile after mile of Tennessee roadway passed by outside the SUV, Judd opened his eyes, came back to the present, and looked out of the side window of Lindsay’s Trailblazer. They had gone through Knoxville and were now on Interstate 40, heading toward the turnoff for the Douglas Lake area. He glanced at the dashboard clock: Ten to twelve. Nearly noon. They should arrive at Griffin’s Rest in another thirty minutes or so.

“When’s the last time you saw Cam?” Judd asked, realizing he hadn’t even thought about his old buddy in at least six months and hadn’t gotten in touch with him in nearly a year. Like everyone else, including Griff, Cam had pretty much given him up as a lost cause.

Lindsay gasped. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“Nope.”

“I saw Cam last fall. He came up to Griffin’s Rest and spent a few days,” she said. “We went fishing.”

“I’m surprised you two didn’t hook up. He’s always liked you.”

“Hmm …”

“Don’t want to discuss your personal life with me, huh?”

When she didn’t reply, he should have let the subject drop, but instead he said, “If you’re not screwing around with Griff, and Cam isn’t your latest lover, then you must still be—”

“Carrying a torch for you,” she finished for him.

“Are you?”

“I’m dating a very nice man. A doctor from Knoxville.”

“Are you serious about him?”

“I could be.”

“Good for you. You deserve to be happy.”

“Gee, thanks, Judd,” she said sarcastically. “I’m glad you think so.”

He chuckled. “It’s always going to be there, isn’t it? That tension between us.”

Silence.

“It’s the reason I hate you, you know,” he told her.

She didn’t even flinch, which surprised him. There had been a time when he could get to her, irritate her, and hurt her so easily. Guess she’d grown a thick skin, at least where he was concerned.

“I suppose I should be flattered that you’re capable of feeling anything for me, even if it is hatred,” she said.

“I don’t want to feel anything.”

“Hurts too much, huh?”

“I really hope things work out for you and the doctor.”

“Thanks.”

Liar. You don’t want Lindsay to care about another man.
To want another man. To love another man
.

Even if he didn’t love her, he didn’t want any other man to have her.

Barbara Jean found it difficult to accept what had happened to her in the past few days. Nothing seemed real, least of all losing her only sibling. She and Gale Ann had been close since childhood, always best friends as well as sisters, despite the differences in their ages and personalities. She was seven years Gale Ann’s senior and had been her sister’s caretaker and protector most of their lives—until the car wreck five years ago. Then their roles had reversed and Gale Ann became the caretaker for a while.

“Good morning, Ms. Hughes,” Sanders said when she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning.” She tried to offer him a smile, but the effort failed.

As the stocky, tan-skinned Sanders nodded in a curt, polite manner, she studied him for a few moments. Last night, she had been half-asleep when he had lifted her from the car and carried her up a flight of stairs to an incredibly lovely guest room. At the time, she had thought how very strong this man was to be able to carry her one hundred and forty pounds without breaking a sweat or even breathing hard.

Odd that although she usually hated being catered to or fussed over because of her handicap, she had felt only cosseted and protected in Sanders’s strong arms.

Her streamlined, motorized wheelchair allowed her access to all the downstairs rooms in Griffin Powell’s mansion, but she had been forced to rely on one of his agents, a big, burly man named Shaughnessy Hood, to carry her downstairs and place her in her chair this morning. At home, she maneuvered around in her one-bedroom apartment without any assistance, but unfortunately all the bedrooms in this huge house were on the second floor. She liked being as independent as possible, liked living on her own, and holding down a job. But due to circumstances beyond her control, she’d been forced to take an indefinite leave of absence from her position at Honeywell, Inc.

Powell agent Angie Sterling had explained that Mr. Hood would take over bodyguard duty today, and she would be returning this evening. Apparently, the two were rotating twelve-hour shifts.

“I’m sorry we don’t have another female agent available until tomorrow,” Ms. Sterling had said. “Griff is calling in someone and sending out one of the guys to replace her, but it’ll be tomorrow before she arrives.”

Male or female, the agent didn’t really matter, but it was nice of Griffin Powell to try to accommodate her by having women as her bodyguards. It was the fact that she actually needed to have protection twenty-four-seven that bothered her, not the sex of her protector.

“What would you like for breakfast?” Sanders asked.

She glanced around at the huge, state-of-the-art kitchen. “Are you the cook, Mr. Sanders?”

“Just Sanders, ma’am.” His dark eyes settled on her, but without the look of pity she so often recognized when people saw her disability instead of her. “And yes, in a way, I am the cook. One of them anyway. I often prepare breakfast for Mr. Powell and any guests who might be here at Griffin’s Rest. We do have a regular cook who comes in to prepare the other meals and occasionally also does breakfast.”

“Have you worked for Mr. Powell very long?”

“We’ve been together nearly eighteen years.”

Been together, not worked for. Barbara Jean understood the subtle difference in the two statements. Was this his way of telling her that he was more than an employee, more than a mere servant?

Realizing she was gawking pointedly at Sanders, she quickly said, “Griffin is a very persuasive man, isn’t he?” When Sanders continued staring at her with those expressive black eyes, she cleared her throat and added, “I mean he’s charming and understanding and—”

“He is a good man. He wishes to keep you safe and do all he can to help you.”

“I think he and Special Agent Baxter both assumed that my sister’s killer would come after me, but since I can’t identify him, I doubt he’d risk being caught by trying to kill me just because I might have gotten a passing glimpse of him.”

“Mr. Powell had pancakes this morning and I still have batter,” Sanders said, as if he hadn’t heard what she’d said. “Will pancakes suit you?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble.” He indicated the coffeemaker on the counter. “There is coffee prepared. Would you prefer to serve yourself or—”

“I can do it myself,” she replied. “Thank you.”

She wheeled herself to the counter, reached up, and managed to lift the glass pot and pour the steaming black liquid into one of several mugs near the coffeemaker. Clutching the mug between her hands, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. Delicious.

“The coffee’s really good.”

“Hmm …” Sanders removed a plastic bowl from the refrigerator. “Where is Griffin … Mr. Powell this morning? You mentioned that he’d already had breakfast.”

“He’s in his office.”

“Would it be possible for me to see him? I need to discuss making arrangements for my sister’s funeral and—”

“I believe he has already taken care of that. I’m sure he’ll speak with you later this morning. Right now, he is quite busy.”

Sanders had a unique accent. He spoke with a slight British accent, yet there was a hint of something else, as if perhaps he had grown up in a bilingual home.

“Do you happen to know what type of job he has in mind for me to do for the Powell Agency?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, I have no idea.”

Had she been wrong to trust Griffin Powell, to accept his offer of protection and a job to keep her busy as well as pay her bills? She could have allowed Special Agent Baxter to put her under FBI protection, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being whisked away and kept hidden. She needed to bury her sister. She needed to work. And she needed to be somewhere she was not only protected, but where no one would pressure her to identify the man she’d seen leaving her sister’s apartment.

“Would you mind if I prepare my own breakfast?” Barbara Jean asked. “I like to take care of myself as much as possible.”

“Certainly,” Sanders replied. “I am here to help you in any way I can. Just tell me what you need and I will see that you have it.”

“I don’t have much of an appetite right now.” She had done little more than nibble at her food since she had discovered Gale Ann’s almost lifeless body. Had that really been four days ago? Yes, four days ago this afternoon. “I’d like to fix myself a couple of pieces of toast. And if you have orange juice, I’d like a glass of that, too.”

Sanders pointed out where everything could be located— the pantry, the refrigerator, the toaster behind one of the closed counter cupboards. When she dropped the loaf of bread on the floor, Sanders picked it up, handed it to her, and smiled. Not an overly warm or friendly smile and not a you-poor-thing smile. Just a cordial tilt to his wide mouth.

His dark hand brushed her pale fingers as she took the loaf of bread from him. She tried not to stare, but she found him fascinating. And handsome in a very exotic sort of way. An image of Yul Brynner as he looked in the old movie,
The
King and I
, flashed through Barbara Jean’s mind.

Glancing away hurriedly, she concentrated on preparing her breakfast. A few minutes later, when she placed her buttered toast on a plate and wheeled over to put it on the table alongside her coffee and small glass of juice, Sanders removed one of the kitchen chairs so that she could park her wheelchair close to the table.

“May I join you?” he asked as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

“Please do.”

When he sat across from her, neither of them spoke for several minutes. She nibbled on the toast and sipped the coffee.

“You must not worry about anything while you are here,” Sanders said. “Whatever you need will be provided.”

“Since you’ve known Mr. Powell for such a long time, perhaps you can tell me something about him.” When Sanders didn’t reply, she continued. “I agreed to come here with him instead of going with Special Agent Baxter because I believed he wouldn’t pressure me about identifying the man I saw leaving my sister’s apartment building the day she was …” Barbara Jean swallowed hard. “What will Griffin do if I can’t give him a detailed description of the man, if I can’t give him more of a description than I already have?”

“You are under Griffin Powell’s protection and will remain so as long as you might possibly be in danger. Griffin knows that if you can identify this man, you will because you will want to do all you can to help find the person who murdered your sister and stop him before he can kill again.”

“And if I can’t identify him?”

“Then you cannot.”

I can’t. I swear I can’t
.

She really hadn’t gotten a good look at the man. But the truth—the whole truth—was that she didn’t want to remember what he looked like, didn’t want to recall any specific facial features or distinguishing marks. How could she ever make Griffin or anyone else understand how terrified she was at the thought that this maniac might kill her the way he had her sister? As long as she lived, she would never be able to forget the sight of Gale Ann bound and gagged, both of her feet severed at the ankles.

Suddenly she felt a large, warm palm covering her trembling hand. Through a sheen of fresh tears, she looked from where Sanders’s hand clasped hers up to his face. Without saying a word, he pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped away her tears.