The Dying Game (7 page)

If only he knew what was going on, exactly how the Williams town police were handling Gale Ann’s case, he would sleep better tonight.

Ruddy removed a key from his pocket, bent over, and unlocked the bottom desk drawer where he kept a supply of disposable paid-in-advance phones. He slipped one of the phones into his jacket, locked the drawer, and pocketed the key.

He would take the Bentley out this afternoon and go for a nice long drive. Maybe a few counties over. He’d contact the Williamstown police, the newspaper, and TV station and inquire about Gale Ann’s murder. If he couldn’t find out anything, he’d have no choice but to rent a car, using an assumed name and fake ID and drive to Williamstown to personally check on the situation.

“I’m a distant cousin and haven’t been able to reach anyone in the family.” That’s what he’d say. Now, what was Gale Ann’s maiden name? He always did research on his victims, learning as much as possible about them before he made his meticulous plans.

Hughes! That was it. Her parents were dead. She had one sister—never married—named Barbara Jean. She had no children, and she’d been divorced for over six years.

Ruddy had learned at an early age—when he was enduring his father’s cruel temper tantrums—to listen to his gut instincts. Those unerring instincts had saved him from more than one beating by the old man, and had allowed him to rack up a whopping score of two hundred and fifteen points in the marvelously macabre game he referred to as “Picking the Pretty Flowers.”

He should listen to his instincts now.

Something was off about this latest kill. There was a problem. He didn’t know what it was, but he intended to find out.

When Griff, Nic, and Barbara Jean arrived back at the ICU waiting area, they were whisked into the inner sanctum. A nurse whose name badge read Huff stopped Nic and Griff, while another wheeled Barbara Jean down a row of cubicles and directly to the one in which her sister lay fighting for her life.

“What’s going on?” Nic asked.

“Excuse me, are you a relative?” Nurse Huff asked.

“Neither of us are relatives,” Nic replied as she whipped out her FBI badge and ID. “I’m Special Agent Nicole Baxter with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m working with the local police department on this case. I need to question Ms. Cain as soon as possible. I spoke to your supervisor, Ms. Canton, less than an hour ago and—”

Frowning, Nurse Huff nodded. “Ms. Canton is involved in an emergency with another patient, but I’ll speak to Dr. Clark. However, I don’t think it will matter.”

“What do you mean?” Griff asked. “Why won’t it matter?”

Nurse Huff cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She nodded toward the closed door leading to the waiting area. “You two need to go back outside, please. We’ve been instructed to contact Police Chief Mahoney. If you have any further questions, please direct them to him.”

Griff sensed Nic’s heels digging in, and suspected she didn’t appreciate the local law not instructing the hospital staff that the bureau—meaning Special Agent Baxter—was in charge of this case.

Griff grasped Nic’s arm gently and urged her into movement, effectively leading her back through the waiting room and into the hallway. When they were out of earshot of the ICU families, she yanked free and faced him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nic glowered at him.

“Saving you from throwing a very unbecoming hissy fit,” Griff said. “You know you really should work on trying to control that hair-trigger temper of yours. It’s a bad habit, especially in a federal agent.”

Nic huffed. Her nostrils flared. For a minute there, Griff halfway expected her to snort and bellow and for steam to shoot out of her ears. Instead, she breathed deeply, swallowed hard, and blew out an aggravated breath.

“First of all, you are not my keeper,” she told him. “And secondly, I was not about to throw a hissy fit.”

“Are you saying you’re not upset that the local police chief didn’t inform the hospital staff that you’re in charge?”

“I’m working with the local police department. This is their case as well as mine. You’re acting as if I’m some rookie agent who doesn’t know how to—”

“Special Agent Baxter,” a female voice called.

Nic and Griff glanced at the doorway to the ICU waiting room. Nurse Huff walked toward them, a concerned expression on her face.

“Ms. Hughes is asking for both of you, and Dr. Clark has given permission for the two of you to join her in Ms. Cain’s room.”

“Has something happened?” Nic asked.

“I believe Ms. Cain is trying to communicate with her sister and is becoming highly agitated.” Nurse Huff shook her head. “I’m afraid that if she doesn’t calm down, we’ll have to restrain her.”

Anxious for them to see Gale Ann Cain before it was too late, Griff barely managed to stop himself from grasping Nic’s arm again and rushing her into the intensive care unit. But as it turned out, he didn’t need to. Nic all but ran through the waiting area, urging Nurse Huff to keep up with her.

In less than an hour, it would be dark. The days were getting a bit longer in mid-February, but with an overcast sky, night would fall early today. Lindsay was thankful that it wasn’t raining or snowing, although either was a possibility before morning. They had driven straight from the Walker hunting lodge, not stopping for lunch, and were now almost to the Kentucky state line. Highway 127 would take them straight through Monticello and with only one turn onto a county road, they’d be in Williamstown no later than six o’clock this evening.

“I’ll have to stop soon and get gas,” Lindsay said to the somber man sitting rigidly in the passenger seat. “I’m going to pick up a burger and a Coke after I use the restroom.”

“Stop at a mini-mart,” Judd said. “I’ll pump the gas. You go in and get the food. We can eat on the way.”

“Sure. That suits me.”

“Griff will call if the woman dies, won’t he?”

Lindsay gripped the steering wheel tightly. “He’ll call if he has any news—good or bad.”

“Hmm …”

In the three hours they had been on the road, neither had spoken more than a few words now and then, maintaining a palpable silence, as tangible as the heavy fog that lay ahead. Damn! That’s all they needed, a thick fog slowing their progress.

“By the way, how is Griffin these days?” Judd asked.

Totally surprised by the question, Lindsay snapped her head around and stared at Judd.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” he told her.

She refocused on the highway. “Why are you asking about Griff? You don’t really care, do you?”

“Griff’s an old friend. Why shouldn’t I ask about him?”

“Griff’s Griff,” she said. “He’s fine.”

“You two having sex yet?”

Lindsay clenched her teeth. So that’s what it’s all about— Judd just wanted to needle her.

“That’s none of your business,” she said.

“I could give him a few pointers, if you want me to. I could tell him what you like, what turns you on, what—”

“You can shut the hell up!”

Judd chuckled. A mirthless, cold chills-up-the-spine laugh.

“You’re a real bastard, you know that, don’t you.”

“What’s the matter, darlin’? Haven’t you told Griff about us?”

“There is no us.”

“There almost was. You were willing.”

She’d been willing all right. God help her, she’d been more than willing. She’d been eager. She had fallen in love with Judd in those first few months after his wife’s murder when she and her CPD partner Dan Blake had seen Judd on a regular basis. Dan had tried to warn her not to become personally involved. If only she had been able to take his advice. But ever since she’d been a kid, she had been the one who brought home stray dogs and cats, nursed wounded birds, and stood up to bullies in defense of those they harassed.

Her father had told her that she had a tender heart, just like her mother. She couldn’t bear to see anyone—human or animal—in pain.

And Judd Walker had been in torment. Day by day she had watched him as he mourned his wife, as he became more and more withdrawn, as the anger—the pure rage—inside him had devoured him.

Her heart had ached for him. Her stupid bleeding heart.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Judd said. “Thinking about that night?”

“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was actually thinking about those first few months after Jennifer was murdered, and Dan and I worked so hard to try to find her killer.”

“And here we are nearly four years and numerous beauty queen murders later, and Jenny’s killer is still out there chopping off hands and feet, arms and legs, slitting throats… destroying lives.”

“He’ll be caught and punished,” Lindsay said. “Griff and I made you a promise that we intend to keep. And Nic Baxter isn’t going to give up until she catches this guy. She’s as determined as Griff and I and—”

“And me?”

“Are you still determined, Judd? Do you still actually care?”

“I don’t care about anything. You of all people should know that.”

“But you want to see Jennifer’s killer punished, don’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s the only thing I do want. My one thought, my single reason for living is the hope that one day I can kill him myself.”

“And if that actually happened, if you could kill him yourself … hack off his hands, his feet, his arms and legs, chop him into little pieces—what then?”

“Are you asking me if I’d be at peace then?”

“No. I’m asking what then, when your single reason for living is gone?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “And I really don’t care.”

But I care. Damn you, Judd, I care
.

Dr. Clark met them at the entrance to Gale Ann Cain’s cubicle and motioned them to step back a few feet. Once he had them alone, he glanced from one to the other.

“Ms. Cain remains in critical condition,” the doctor said. “Her chances of survival are not good. She’s trying to talk, trying to tell her sister something, and has indicated she wants to speak. We’ve explained to her that we cannot take her off the ventilator at this point. She’s highly agitated and if she doesn’t calm down soon, we’ll have no choice but to restrain her and sedate her. Her sister, Ms. Hughes, asked that you two be allowed to see Ms. Cain, while she’s conscious. She hopes one of you might be able to help her decipher her sister’s sign language.”

“Sign language?” Griff asked.

“Since Ms. Cain can’t speak, she’s using her hands and facial expressions to try to convey a message of some sort.”

“How long will it be before you can take her off the ventilator?” Nic asked.

Dr. Clark shook his head. “It’s too soon to say. Maybe days or weeks. Maybe never.”

“Are you saying—?”

“She has a living will,” Dr. Clark said. “If she isn’t able to breathe on her own after a period of time and if we see no hope for her …”

“We understand.” Nic glanced at Griff.

“I will allow the two of you five minutes with Ms. Cain,” Dr. Clark told them. “But if she becomes upset or even more agitated, I’ll ask you to leave.”

Nic nodded.

Griff said, “Okay.”

When they entered Gale Ann’s cubicle, Barbara Jean, who was holding her sister’s hand, glanced up and offered them a pitiful smile. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Gale Ann, they’re here. Special Agent Baxter and Mr. Powell. Tell them what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

Gale Ann Cain’s mane of shoulder-length, copper red hair contrasted sharply with the white bed linens on which she lay. Her cat-green eyes opened wide and stared upward, first at Nic and then at Griff.

She jerked her hand out of Barbara Jean’s grasp, and despite the fact that both arms were connected to a series of tubes and wires, she lifted her hands in the air, palms open, fingers spread apart, then clutched her hands into fists. As quickly as she had fisted her hands, she opened them again and spread apart all ten digits.

“She keeps doing that over and over again,” Barbara Jean said.

Nic moved in closer to Gale Ann and asked, “Are you trying to tell us something about your attacker?”

Gale Ann nodded and repeated the flashing fingers. Ten fingers.

“How about getting her a pad and pencil?” Griff said. “Maybe she could write it down.”

“We tried that, but she can’t seem to do anything except scribble,” Barbara Jean explained. “And that just upset her even more.”

“Ten fingers,” Nic said. “The number ten?” she asked Gale Ann.

Gale Ann shook her head and repeated her flashing hands one more time.

“She’s doing it twice,” Griff said. “Twenty.”

Gale Ann nodded.

“What does the number twenty have to do with her attacker?” Nic wondered aloud.

Gale Ann pointed to her head, slowly but surely twining her index finger around a strand of her hair.

“Your hair and the number twenty,” Nic said.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Barbara Jean looked from Nic to Griff, her expression one of hopelessness.

Gale Ann yanked on her hair, then pointed to the foot of the bed. When she realized that no one understood what she was trying to tell them, her actions became frantic. She grasped the ventilator tube and tried to pull it out of her throat. Barbara Jean screamed for a nurse.

“Calm down, Gale Ann,” Griff said as he hovered over the bed.

Nic rushed to the cubicle entrance and cried out, “Hurry, please! Ms. Cain is trying to remove her ventilator tube.”

A second too late, Griff grabbed Gale Ann’s hand that held the trachea tubing she had brutally yanked from her throat. She gasped for air.

“Twenty points.” She barely managed to say the two whispered words before the nurses and Dr. Clark shoved Griff out of the way. Then, Gale Ann gulped one final word, “Game.”

One of the nurses shooed Griff and Nic out of the cubicle and pushed Barbara Jean’s wheelchair out directly behind them. With the white curtains pulled and the door closed, they were cut off from the frantic efforts to save Gale Ann’s life.

“What did she say to you?” Barbara Jean asked before Nic had a chance to ask.

“She said three words,” Griff told them. “Twenty points. And game.”

“Dear God!” When Nic’s gaze met Griff’s, she knew that they were thinking the same thing.