The Dying Game (48 page)
“Nic’s officially in charge of the BQK cases, but since I headed up the original task force, they’re allowing me to be in on the conclusion,” Jackson had said. “Our people have been going over the guy’s house with a fine-tooth comb for days, searching for memorabilia from his kills.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Not until this morning. That’s when our guys found a secret room in the basement.”
“And inside?”
“Not a damn thing, but just when we’d given up, guess what we found?”
“Another secret room.”
Jackson chuckled. “Yes, sir. And I thought since you’re the one who actually caught the BQ Killer, you should be allowed to take a look at Maygarden’s trophy room.”
“How does Nic feel about that?”
“Not happy, but she’s not going to bar you from entering. Strictly as a favor to me, her old mentor.”
And that’s how Griff wound up with Nic Baxter, Josh Friedman, and Curtis Jackson inside Cary Maygarden’s grue some secret chamber, the walls lined with photographs of beauty queens. Photos of them as contest winners, with their crowns and roses, alongside shots of the same young women after they had been murdered. Photo after photo of hacked, chopped, butchered, slaughtered wives, mothers, daughters, sisters. Each one a woman loved by someone, missed by someone, mourned by someone.
Griff stopped at the photograph of Jennifer Mobley Walker the night she was crowned Miss Tennessee. So young. So beautiful. So full of life.
When he stared at the snapshot of Jenny sitting on the floor in the kitchen where she had died, her hands hacked off and lying on either side of her, Griff whispered her name.
“That’s Judd Walker’s wife, isn’t it?” Nic said as she came up beside Griff. “She was a beautiful woman.”
Griff nodded.
“I wonder why he chose to display pictures of these particular women,” Nic said.
“What?” Griff was still thinking about Jennifer, remembering the vibrant, vivacious woman she had been.
“Look at the photos, each one of them,” Nic told him. “Don’t count the pictures themselves, but count the number of women represented here.”
“Is there some reason you want me to play this numbers game? We know how many women he killed, so there should be—” Griff stopped rattling as his gaze swept up and down the snapshot-covered walls.
He went back to the first photo and began counting—the women, not the pictures. Nic followed him to the end of the long, narrow room and back up on the other side.
“I’ll be damned. He displayed photos of only half the women he killed,” Griff said.
“Odd, don’t you think?”
Griff nodded. “There’s probably some simple explanation. Maybe he rotated the pictures for some reason or other. After all, he was playing a sick game where with each murder he racked up points, so it wouldn’t be a huge stretch to imagine he liked to change out the photos of his victims according to the month or the season or whatever.”
“You’re probably right.”
Griff studied Nic, noting the tilt of her lips. Not a smirk. Certainly not a smile.
“What are you not sharing with me?” Griff asked.
She shrugged. “What makes you think … Oh, all right. You’ll find out soon enough when your sharpshooter— what’s his name?”
“Holt Keinan.”
“When Mr. Keinan is notified that although he did shoot Cary Maygarden, it may not have been his bullet that killed him.”
“What?”
“According to our medical examiner’s report, the bullet that entered Maygarden’s body first hit him in the neck, severing a vital artery. Keinan’s bullet hit him in the head, probably seconds before or after. Either one could have killed him.”
“So Holt shot him twice.”
“With two different rifles?”
“Two different …?”
“The bullets removed from Maygarden’s body came from two different rifles, which means—”
“He was shot by two different people.”
“Did one of your other agents shoot Maygarden?” Nic asked.
Griff didn’t reply.
“If not, then it seems we have a mystery shooter on our hands. Someone who managed to slip onto the rooftop of a nearby building without being seen. Someone with a motive to kill Cary Maygarden.”
“Is the FBI going to actively search for another shooter?”
“No, not at this time.”
“What are you going to tell the press?”
“Only the basic facts. No details. But I intend to go over every aspect of this case, from A to Z, until I figure out who other than your agent, might have killed Maygarden and why.”
“And you told me about this so that I could help you solve the mystery,” he said sarcastically, knowing full well that he would be the last person on earth Nic would ask for help.
“No, Mr. Powell, I told you because I want you to think about it, ponder over every detail, worry yourself crazy, and try your damnedest to put the puzzle together. You see, I didn’t give you all the pieces, so if anyone is going to be able to put the puzzle together, it won’t be you.”
Pudge drove all night, staying wide awake without a pro blem. For him, killing was like a massive shot of adrenaline, sending his heart racing and his pulse pounding.
He had known that Ruddy would get the final kill, the April Fools’ Day kill that would commemorate their first kill and end their game. If his cousin had won, then he would have lost. Lost more than the game.
Pudge had thought for sure he’d win. After all, despite Ruddy’s knack for murder and mayhem, Pudge was the more intelligent of the two, with an IQ that bordered on genius.
Then when the end drew near, Pudge had known what he had to do. He had kept tabs on his cousin and followed him to meet his last victim. That’s when he’d realized poor Ruddy had walked right into a trap. Being careful not to be seen, Pudge had managed to go up a flight of backstairs and station himself on the rooftop of a building across the street from the Woodruff. If Ruddy had been taken into custody, he would have sung like a bird, implicating him, naming him as a co-conspirator.
If he’d known in advance that Griffin Powell had stationed his own sharpshooter on another rooftop, Pudge could have saved himself the trouble. But even if it hadn’t been his bullet that ended Ruddy’s life, at least he had gotten the satisfaction of seeing him lose the game in a most spectacular way.
When the medical examiner discovered that there were two bullets from two different rifles in Ruddy’s body, the FBI would no doubt investigate. But since there was no way to trace the rifle to him or any reason to suspect him of having been involved, he was in the clear.
As it stood now, the Beauty Queen Killer would be laid to rest and the case closed, leaving him free to start a new game. A game of murder.
Spring raced by, rushing headlong into summer, which melted into early autumn, bringing chilly nights and the first frost of the season. And Lindsay’s wedding day. She and Judd had married in a simple private ceremony, with only the closest family and friends in attendance. Her cousin Callie had been her matron of honor. Griff had been Judd’s best man. Their very special guests had included Cam Hendrix, Sanders, Barbara Jean Hughes, Yvette Meng, Maleah Perdue, Rick Carson, and Holt Keinan.
Judd had offered her a honeymoon anywhere on earth, reminding her that she had married a very wealthy man and could have anything her heart desired.
“My heart desires you,” she’d told him. “And a honeymoon at the hunting lodge.”
So they had driven one county over to the Walker lodge outside Whitwell for what was supposed to have been a two-week honeymoon. That had been nearly two months ago. After just three weeks there, they had decided to contact an architect and a contractor and make plans to renovate the place, after the first of the year.
Judd hadn’t decided if he wanted to return to practicing law or if he wanted to be a gentleman farmer. Lindsay didn’t care. Whatever made her husband happy was fine with her. After all, she had everything—well, almost everything— she’d ever want. And come late summer next year, she would have everything.
Side by side, Lindsay and Judd worked in Mimi’s old flower garden, planting the tulip and daffodil bulbs that would bloom in March and April. A row of bronze and yellow mums they had planted in early October grew in profusion along the back walkway. The next heavy frost would probably get them, but they would simply die down and then be reborn next fall.
Judd helped Lindsay to her feet, their gloved hands clasping. He put his arm around her waist and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “It’s a wonderful day.”
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Everyday with you is a wonderful day.”
“How would you feel about living here permanently?” he asked.
“Do you mean it?”
“If you’d like to. If it’s what you want.”
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “It’s exactly what I want. You know I love this place. I love fishing in the creek and skinny-dipping in the pond. I love our long walks in the woods and working in the garden together and …” She looked him square in the eyes. “And I can’t think of a better place to raise our little girl.”
“Our little girl?”
“Well, she could turn out to be a he, but—” Lindsay laid her hand over her still flat belly “—somehow I just know our first child will be a girl.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Uh-huh. I picked up a pregnancy test at the drugstore in Whitwell yesterday and when I took the test this morning—”
Judd lifted her off her feet and swung her around and around, then eased her down his body, holding her close.
“I want to name her after your mimi,” Lindsay said. “But you’ve never told me what her given name was.”
“Emily,” Judd told her. “Mimi’s name was Emily.”
“It’s lovely.” She looked questioningly at Judd. “So, is it all right with you if our little girl is Emily Walker II?”
Judd glanced heavenward, then kissed Lindsay playfully on the nose. “Have I told you today, Mrs. Walker, just how much I love you?”
She squirmed against him. “Not since this morning before breakfast, so maybe you’d better tell me again.”
“I love you,” he said, then laid his open palm over her stomach. “And I love our little Emily II. Or possibly Jud son VI.”
Savoring the joy of the moment, Judd and Lindsay embraced, and their laughter carried far and wide on the cool November wind.
Nic Baxter recognized the caller ID and thought twice about answering her phone. But curiosity got the better of her.
“Hello, Mr. Powell, what can I do for you?”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Griff said. “Are you anticipating a lovely day with family or friends or do you have to work?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I’m driving down to the Walker hunting lodge to spend the holiday with Lindsay and Judd and I got to thinking about you, wondering if you were all alone.”
“Either tell me why you really called or I’m going to hang up.”
“Ah, you’re no fun.”
Nic groaned.
“There were two of them,” Griffin told her.
“What did you say?”
“You probably figured that out about the same time I did that—Cary Maygarden had an opponent in his sick little Dying Game—but you’ve kept that information to yourself. Otherwise the bureau wouldn’t have closed the BQ Killer case.”
“It’s just a guess,” she said. “I have no proof.”
“Yeah, it’s just gut instinct with me, too. But you know what that means, don’t you? Out there somewhere, there’s still a serial killer on the loose.”
“That well may be, but there hasn’t been another BQ murder since Cary Maygarden was killed.”
“That’s because that game ended when Maygarden died. Who do you think our other shooter was that day at the Woodruff Building?”
“Maygarden’s opponent.”
“Bingo. And once a serial killer, always a serial killer. I’d say it’s only a matter of time before this guy kills again, if he hasn’t already …”
For their research assistance, a special thank you to
:
Steven L. Romiti, M.D.
Philip L. Edney, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI
Stephen Kodak, Federal Bureau of Investigation
THE DYING GAME
An avid reader since childhood, Beverly Barton wrote her first book at the age of nine. Since then, she has gone on to write well over sixty novels and is a
New York Times
bestselling author. Beverly lives in Alabama.
For further information about Beverly Barton visit her website at www.beverlybarton.com
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Amnesia
Close Enough to Kill
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.
AVON
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First published in the U.S.A by Kensington Publishing Corp. New York, NY, 2007
Copyright © Beverly Barton 2007
Beverly Barton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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