The Dying Game (28 page)
He would always remember the terrified expression on her face when she realized he was going to kill her.
Sweet Jesus, what a feeling!
Despite the fact that he and Ruddy had agreed that redheads were worth the most points because there were fewer of them, Pudge actually preferred brunettes. Tall, exotic, dark-eyed beauties.
But one of his next two kills would have to be a redhead. And he had already chosen the first of the two: Sandi Ford, a former Miss Teen USA, who now lived in nearby Parsons, Louisiana. Of course, he couldn’t let Ruddy know that he had jumped the gun, so to speak. He really wasn’t supposed to choose his next victim until after Ruddy took his turn.
Humming softly to himself as he pulled the lapels of his fur coat around his neck to block the cool breeze, he thought about what his life would be like without his cousin. He supposed they could change the rules, even this late in the game, so that the loser didn’t have to pay such a high price. He had spent the past fifteen years competing with Ruddy, the only person whose intelligence and cunning matched his own. A truly worthy opponent.
What will you do when this game ends? You’ll be bored to
tears without Ruddy
.
But there can be other games. Other opponents
.
Recently he had been thinking about a rather intriguing game, one in which his competitors would also be his victims.
Judd found Dr. Meng in the sunroom facing the lake, exactly where Sanders had told him she would be. He had spent the entire day mulling over her suggestion of doing something good for someone and had drawn a blank. He supposed he could instruct his accountants to issue a check to some worthy cause or other, but that would require no real participation on his part. The less personally involved he was with other people the better he liked it.
Maybe he should rent a car and drive home to the hunting lodge and stay there permanently. Stay away from Lindsay. That would be a good deed, wouldn’t it?
He couldn’t allow things to continue the way they were. It wasn’t fair to her. If she wasn’t able to cut her ties to him, then he should do it for her.
But no repeats of what happened six months ago.
There was a kinder, less traumatic way to end their relationship.
And yeah, he’d finally admitted they did have a relationship. One that oddly enough had been good for him. But bad for Lindsay.
She deserved so much better than anything he could ever offer her.
You can’t offer her a damn thing except more misery
.
As Judd entered the sunroom, he cleared his throat.
Without turning to see who had come into the room, Yvette said, “Please come in, Judd.”
Now how the hell had she known it was he who had walked up behind her?
“How did you know?” he asked.
“Your walk. Your scent. Your aura.”
Had she said his aura? “Just how do you pick up on a person’s aura?”
She glanced over her shoulder and looked directly at him. “I can see the aura surrounding you, but I can also sense it.”
Judd walked over and sat down beside her on the rattan sofa. Looking out at the lake instead of at her, he asked, “What would therapy involve?”
The corners of her mouth lifted the merest bit, an almost smile. “It would involve doing something that you men hate to do.”
He glanced at her then.
“Talking,” she told him.
“Oh.” He grunted.
“It would be at your own pace. I never press a patient to move faster than he or she is ready to go.”
“Patient, huh? I guess if I do this, I’m admitting that I need help.”
She nodded. “More than that—you will be admitting that you want help.”
“That’s just it, you know. I’m not sure I do want to be helped.”
“Shall we put you to the test and see?”
Judd turned sideways on the sofa and stared at Yvette, wondering just what sort of test she had in mind.
“What sort of test?”
“I made a suggestion to you this morning,” she said. “Have you given it any thought?”
“Yeah. Too much thought.”
She smiled in earnest. “I appreciate your being honest with me. That is the first step in building a good working relationship with your therapist—honesty.”
“Does that work both ways—will you be honest with me?”
“Yes. Always.”
“Okay. So tell me what the test is?”
“It is a way in which you can take my advice and do something good for someone else, and at the same time find out if you truly want to return from your self-imposed purgatory to the land of the living.”
“You don’t pull any punches, do you, doctor?”
“Honesty, remember?”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do? Walk over hot coals? Eat glass?”
“I would like for you to accompany me to a fund-raiser this Saturday night.” Her dark gaze scrutinized his face, gauging his reaction.
Judd chuckled. “Dr. Meng, are you asking me for a date?”
“In a way. I am asking you to join Griffin and me for a dinner dance and auction that will benefit a worthy cause.”
“Why can’t I just write them a check?” She shook her head; he grimaced. “Yeah, yeah, I know. That would be too easy.”
“You haven’t taken part in any social activities since your wife died,” Yvette said. “I know that this will not be easy for you. But if you accept my invitation, we will both know that you truly want my help.”
Ruddy rented a cabin on the lake in Guntersville, Alabama, Thursday evening. At this time of year, almost all of the surrounding cabins were empty. Staying here instead of a hotel in Birmingham gave him more privacy. And yet he could easily drive into the city and fly in and out of the Birmingham airport. When he’d made the reservations, he had used a fake ID in the name of John Chapman. A nice enough name. And as usual, he had paid in cash.
“I’ll be staying a week,” he’d said when he arrived, but gave no other information and wasn’t asked for any.
When he’d checked in yesterday, he had worn a cap, scarf, and heavy coat. He’d also allowed his beard to grow just long enough for a scraggly stubble, and he had put on a pair of clear glass, black-rimmed glasses. Not much of a disguise, but he doubted that anyone would make a connection between the man staying in the lake cabin in Guntersville and the man who killed LaShae Goodloe in a Birmingham motel.
Of course, he hadn’t killed LaShae. Not yet. But soon. Very soon. Time was running out. Four weeks. If Pudge chose a redhead when it was his turn again, then he would have to kill a blonde next time to win the game.
Resting comfortably in the bed, several pillows propped behind his back, Ruddy clicked on the TV. He reached over on the nightstand and picked up the coffee cup he had placed there. He despised cheap coffee. This time, he had remembered to bring one of the gourmet brands he preferred.
“Good Morning, Birmingham,” the television announcer said. “Welcome to Wake-Up Call, featuring WBNN’s own LaShae Goodloe. It’s six o’clock, the first Friday in March.”
The camera focused on the beautiful black woman, the host of the local six o’clock talk show. He noted LaShae’s fashionable attire. A crimson red wool dress clung to her curves, but wasn’t too tight. A pair of small gold hoops shimmered on her earlobes and a heavy gold bangle bracelet hung on her slender right wrist.
Everything about LaShae was perfect, from her thick, shoulder-length black hair to her long, lean body. Her skin was like a fine brown marble—smooth and flawless. But it was her eyes—a pale, milky brown, so light they were almost trans lucent—that captured one’s attention.
A woman such as she should be worth more than ten points. She was as rare as any redhead, possibly even more so.
But rules were rules and a brunette was worth only ten points.
Realizing that he hadn’t been listening to the monologue between LaShae and her guest, a counselor who worked with adults who had been sexually abused as children, Ruddy upped the sound a bit as he sipped his first cup of morning coffee.
“Dr. Woodrow Landers will be back this coming Monday for a week-long session,” LaShae told her audience. “We are in the process of lining up guests who are willing to share their stories. If they choose to use their real names and go on camera live, we’ll do that. However, if they prefer to be in silhouette and have their voices disguised, we will give them that option.”
The camera zoomed in on her face. “If you have a story to tell, we want to hear it. If you know the name of the person who molested you when you were a child and wish to press charges now, we will help you by hiring a lawyer to represent your interests. After this morning’s show, please call me here at WBNN. I will be at the studio to take your calls personally until noon today.”
Ruddy smiled. Why did they always make it so easy for him?
He and Pudge had laughed about the naivete of the women they had killed. Women left “hidden” keys. They opened their doors to deliverymen, to telephone repairmen, to utility department workers. They had taken both Ruddy and Pudge at face value. It never ceased to amaze him how stupid these women had been. How trusting.
So often he and Pudge were able to use a woman’s profession against her.
Jennifer Walker, a Realtor, had been more than happy to meet a potential client, with his nonexistent wife, alone at night in an isolated house.
Erin Murphy, a private duty nurse, had gladly allowed him to come to her home to interview her for the job of caring for his elderly, nonexistent mother.
And here LaShae Goodloe was inviting him to call her, to set up a private appointment, to discuss his fake memories of having been molested as a child.
Getting LaShae to open her home to him would have proved problematic since she was unlikely to allow just anyone into the house where she lived with her family. However, it should be fairly easy to lure her to another destination. All he had to do when he called her was to sound pitiful and helpless.
* * *
During the past three hours, LaShae had spoken to only two people willing to appear on her show next week: A twenty-year-old girl who had been molested at ten by an older neighbor hood teenager and a fifty-year-old woman, whose father had molested her when she was a child. Neither wanted their true identity revealed. The station had received a flood of calls, a few from pranksters, a few from people protesting airing “such trash,” and numerous messages from viewers who simply wanted to speak personally to LaShae.
“You might want to take this one,” LaShae’s assistant, Mindy, told her. “He sounds genuine.”
LaShae nodded, then took the call. “Hello, this is LaShae Goodloe.”
“Ms. Goodloe, I–I saw your show this morning.” The voice was decidedly male. “You seem to really care about people. You’re not a phony like so many other TV people.”
“I do care,” LaShae assured the caller. “Especially about this subject—children who are molested. I had a childhood friend who was raped and killed by her cousin.”
“The man who … I trusted him. Everyone trusted him. He—he was the youth minister at our church,” the man said, his voice a mere whisper. “The man who raped me when I was twelve.”
“I’m so very sorry.”
This poor man.
As long as LaShae lived, she would never forget the heartbreak of learning that her best friend in sixth grade had been brutalized and killed by a twenty-five-year-old cousin that everyone in the neighborhood had known all their lives.
“I’m not sure I have the courage to appear on your show,” the caller said.
“We will protect your identity. No one will see your face or hear your real voice.”
“I want to have the courage to do this, but—I’m scared.”
“Is your molester still alive?”
“Yes. And he’s the minister of a large church now.”
“You do realize that if he molested you, he’s molested other boys. By identifying him and bringing charges against him, you can save countless other young boys from suffering as you did.”
“I know. It’s just … Could we talk privately?”
“Yes, of course we can.”
“I can be in Birmingham Sunday evening. Could you meet me in some public place and let me tell you my story, face-to-face?”
“Yes, we can arrange to do that.” LaShae’s heart went out to this man. He sounded as if he were on the verge of tears. How heartbreaking that memories of being molested years ago tormented him so strongly to this day.
“My name is … I’m Sammy. I’ll call again when I arrive in Birmingham.”
The line went dead.
LaShae hung up the phone and looked over at Mindy. “I believe he’ll be the one who will actually press charges against his molester.”
“Want me to put a call through to your husband?” Mindy asked.
“Yes, call Rodney and see if he has time to talk to me right now. Since he’ll be acting as our legal representative for all of the people appearing on our show next week, I’ll need to keep him up to date on everything.”
As Mindy dialed Rodney’s office, LaShae stilled her nerves, preparing herself to talk to her husband. If only she didn’t feel so terribly guilty about her affair with Ben. Although he’d given her no indication that he suspected her of infidelity, LaShae wondered if Rodney didn’t know, at least on some level, that there had been another man in her life.
* * *
The weather had turned nasty about fifteen minutes ago, a blustery thunderstorm, with cold rain pouring down and streaks of lightning brightening the dark evening sky. She had caught the Saturday noon news and the weather forecaster hadn’t mentioned rain for tonight. Lindsay brought her Trailblazer to a stop at the canopied front entrance of the Willows Country Club, got out, and was very thankful for valet parking.
This was her first time here at the swanky private club frequented by the Who’s Who of local society. She’d heard the yearly membership fee was fifty thousand dollars. For most people that was the equivalent of a year’s salary.
As she passed along a row of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, she forced herself not to stop and inspect her appearance. She had chosen the black evening gown. Simple and understated. After debating what to do with her hair and finally deciding to brush her curls away from her face to expose her diamond earrings, she had faced the makeup dilemma. In the end, she had kept everything light and natural. Her own personal style all the way.