Читать книгу The Watcher - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 9

“Do you want me to come to you or do you want to—?”

“I’m not at home,” Nic told Griff. “I’m in a cabin in Gatlinburg.”

“Alone?”

“That is none of your business.”

Griff smiled to himself. He pictured the look of indignation on Nicole Baxter’s pretty face. Such a shame that a woman so attractive tried so hard to prove to the world that she was the equal of any man. Not that he didn’t think of women in general as equals, but he was old-fashioned enough to like women who enjoyed being utterly feminine. If that made him a male chauvinist, so be it.

“Since you’re not far from Knoxville, why don’t we make plans for you to come to my house?” Griff suggested. “I’m not at home either, but I can head out soon and be there in about three hours.”

“Won’t she object to your leaving?” Nic asked sarcastically.

Griff chuckled. “I’ll drop Lisa Kay off on the way home. We’re outside Whitwell, near Chattanooga, at Lindsay and Judd’s.”

Silence.

“You still there?” he asked.

“I hadn’t thought about how this would affect them,” Nic said. “If they find out that there were two Beauty Queen Killers—”

“There’s no need for them to know, now or ever.”

“This guy has started a new game and has probably killed two women already.”

“Unless his MO is the same and he’s picking up where he and Cary Maygarden left off last year, then there’s no way to connect him to the BQ killings.”

“So you’re saying that we start this case off as if it’s not connected to—?”

“The Beauty Queen Killer case is officially closed. I can see no reason to reopen it, can you? How will that help us find this guy and stop him before he escalates his new game?”

“You’re probably right. But if he’s killing beauty queens again—”

“Let’s find out,” Griff said. “I’ll put in some calls and see if there have been any recent murder cases in Ballinger, Arkansas, and Stillwater, Texas. If there are two with similarities, then we can bet it’s our guy.”

“The bureau probably won’t become officially involved right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my credentials to get information from local law enforcement. You should let me handle things. I can make those calls on the drive to your place.”

“If we make this a competition, it’s going to be difficult working together.”

Nic groaned. “Oh, all right. You contact Stillwater and I’ll contact Ballinger. See, I’m perfectly capable of cooperating.”

“Do you need directions to my place?”

“I think I can find it.”

“I’ll leave word that you’re to be admitted as soon as you arrive.”

“What does it feel like, Mr. Powell, living on a compound with around-the-clock guards?” She wished back her damn sarcastic question the second it came out of her mouth.

“It feels secure, Ms. Baxter. Safe and secure.”

Pudge arrived home well before dark, after turning in his rental car in Opelousas and picking up his own car. As a boy he had intensely disliked his family’s hundred-and-sixty-year-old estate, the house an antebellum structure built before the War Between the States. But as a man, he had grown fond of the home place. He had a love/hate relationship with his heritage. He had adored his mother, hated his father, and tolerated his two sisters, Mary Ann and Marsha. Thank God he saw them only at holidays and on very special occasions. He could trace his ancestry back to Europe on both the paternal and maternal sides of the family. His father had been Ruddy’s mother’s third cousin, but in certain families even distant relatives were considered part of the clan. The two of them had met at a family reunion held here at Belle Fleur when they were boys and they had become friends for life.

He never would have guessed that he’d miss Ruddy so much, that his cousin’s death would leave such a strange void in his life.

Pudge parked the BMW in the carriage house garage on the estate, retrieved his suitcase from the trunk, and made his way along the stepping-stone path to the back entrance. He no longer kept live-in servants. Decent help was almost impossible to find and he’d rather do without than deal with incompetence. He made do with a weekly cleaning service and a cook—old Allegra Dutetre—who, when he was in residence, came in at nine in the morning and left in the afternoon. He had known Allegra all his life. She’d been the family’s cook as long as he could remember. She was probably nearly seventy, but was still quite spry even if she wasn’t all that bright. Not mentally retarded, just a little slow. He was good to Allegra because she was one of the few people who had always treated him with the respect he deserved.

And she never pried into his business.

Thank God the sun had set and a humid breeze was blowing in off the river. He’d walked from the garage and already his skin was damp with perspiration. Going into the house through the back porch and kitchen, he tapped off the alarm code on the keypad as he entered, then dropped his suitcase and round trophy box on the floor. There was very little in the suitcase except his disguises. Wigs, makeup, fake mustaches, and beards. Even several sets of colored contacts. He had disposed of all the clothes he’d worn on his trip to and from Ballinger, placing them in various Dumpsters along the return route.

After removing his jacket and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair, he unbuttoned his shirt to midchest, then sat down and removed his shoes and socks. He eyed the trophy box and smiled. He supposed he could wait until tomorrow to add the new acquisition to his small but exclusive collection. But why wait? After all, his special room in the basement of the mansion had been empty for over a year, until a couple of months ago. When, in April last year, he had won his five-year game with his cousin and had taken Ruddy’s life as the ultimate prize, he had removed all the mementos from his numerous Beauty Queen kills. That game was part of the past, as was Ruddy. Now he was playing a new game, with new adversaries and new rules.

Pudge stood, picked up the box, and headed for the door that opened to a set of wooden steps leading into the basement. He flipped on the light switch just inside the door and made his way carefully down the stairs. The first room in the musty cellar was used for storage and was piled high with discarded items from generations past. To his left was the pantry, empty now and never used. To the right was the wine cellar, to which only he had a key. Straight ahead at the far back side of the basement, past the row of rusting chains hanging from the ancient brick walls, lay a very private room, one he had personally converted into a trophy room. And like the wine cellar, only he possessed the key.

With trophy box in hand, Pudge approached the locked door. The dim lighting along the narrow passageway cast shadows across the slimy walls and the remnants of the heavy, rusted chains that had once bound unruly household slaves.

His sisters had been afraid of the basement and to his knowledge had never set foot down here. But he had been fascinated by the subterranean area, especially the chains. Even as a boy he had fantasized about what it would be like to bind a person to the wall and whip them into submission. Unfortunately, the years had taken a toll on the chains, leaving them all but useless.

When he reached the door, he paused, stuck his hand in his pocket and removed his key ring. After unlocking the door, he shoved it open. He felt along the inside wall for the light switch, flipped it on, and then walked into the 14’ x 14’ room. The wall to the right was lined with shelves and sitting on the shelves were glass cases, all of them empty except for four. Soon the fifth case would contain his latest prize.

He set the box on the round table in the center of the room, removed the lid, and reached down inside. The moment his hand touched the silky softness, he closed his eyes and sighed.

Kendall Moore had been the strongest, the bravest, and the fiercest prey he’d ever hunted. He hoped that his next quarry would provide him with as much pleasure during the hunt.

Nic could not believe she was doing this. Never in her wildest nightmares would she have thought the day would come when she would join forces with Griffin Powell. The man was charming and could play the part of a gentleman quite well. But underneath all that GQ cover-model façade beat the heart of an uncivilized warrior.

You’re not joining forces with him. You’re simply working with him on a temporary basis and only because he is, as far as you know, the only other person the second BQ Killer contacted with the news that he has started a new game of murder.

When she drove her rental car up to the front gates of Griffin’s Rest—how like the egotistical man to name his estate after himself—she realized she’d have to contact the house to be allowed entry. Two massive stone arches, with huge bronze griffins embedded in the stonework on both, flanked the locked gates. The moment she pushed the CALL button, a man’s voice responded. She gave him her name and nothing more, and it wasn’t until the gates opened that she realized there had to be a hidden camera that had conveyed her image to the house and she had been instantly recognized.

The road to the house wound around through a heavily wooded area before opening up onto a lakefront view. Although the mansion was an impressive two-story structure with a columned front portico that faced away from the lake, Griffin’s home was not as large as she had expected. Probably somewhere between eight thousand and ten thousand square feet. Rather modest for a man reported to be worth billions. Although twilight was descending over the lake, with the dying embers of sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water, the outdoor security lights along the road and surrounding the house kept the property well lit.

Slinging her leather bag over her shoulder, she emerged from the car, stretched to her full five ten height, and marched confidently across the drive and up the front steps. She crossed the veranda and rang the doorbell. In less than a minute, the front doors opened to reveal Sanders, Griffin Powell’s right-hand man.

Nic had to admit that she was as curious as everyone else was about those ten missing years of Griffin’s life, when he had disappeared off the face of the earth at twenty-two and reappeared again a decade later. He had returned from only God knew where, filthy rich and accompanied by a mysterious man named Damar Sanders.

“Please come in, Special Agent Baxter.” Sanders stepped back to allow her space to enter.

She hesitated for half a second, something elemental within her warning her of danger. Entering Griffin Powell’s home was the equivalent to a princess entering the dragon’s lair.

When she stepped over the threshold, Sanders gestured with a sweep of his arm. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the way to Griffin’s study.”

“Is Mr. Powell here?”

“He just arrived.” Sanders looked directly at her, the expression in his dark eyes emotionally neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. “He asked that you wait for him in the study.”

She nodded, then followed the stocky, middle-aged man with the leather-brown skin and shaved head. His ethnic heritage was as much a mystery as the man himself, but his voice possessed a hint of an English accent, although she doubted that English was his native language. He left her at the open door to the study, excusing himself with a curt head bow. After taking a deep breath, she entered the two-story room.

Wow! A massive rock fireplace, so large that several people could easily stand upright inside it, dominated the impressive den. This was an extremely masculine room with paneled walls and hardwood floors. A seven-foot green leather couch resided parallel to the fireplace and sat far enough away from the opposite wall to allow for the placement of a sofa table behind it. Two brown leather armchairs flanked the fireplace and a sturdy antique desk claimed the corner by the windows overlooking the lake.

Griff had put his stamp on this room. Knowing him as she did, she recognized the den for what it was. His sanctuary. This was where the great man came to escape from the world.

Nic felt his presence before he entered, before he spoke her name. Every nerve came to full alert. Every muscle tensed. She took a deep, closed-mouth breath and turned to face him.

“Hello, Nic.”

She liked her nickname, but on his lips it sounded like an insult.

With her gaze meeting his head-on, she replied, “Hello, Grr …iff.” She made his nickname sound like a two-syllable word by stretching it out.

“Would you care for a drink?” he asked, his gaze traveling to the decorative liquor cabinet in the opposite corner from the desk.

“No, thank you, but feel free to—”

“Sit.”

Command or request? With Griffin, she figured they were the same thing.

She chose the right side of the large sofa.

He sat on the sofa, taking the left side.

“What did you find out about the Texas victim?” she asked.

“Not much. There have been two murders in the Stillwater, Texas, area in the past couple of months. One man was stabbed to death by his business partner. The other victim was a young woman whose body was found by some kids in a city park. She was hanging from a large tree limb, upside down, her feet bound together.”

Nic closed her eyes for a split second before looking at Griff. “Had she been shot in the head?”

Griff nodded. “Yeah.”

“Had she been scalped?”

Clenching his jaw, Griff grunted. “Damn! You found out about an identical murder in Ballinger, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t enough that he killed them, execution style. He had to scalp them, too.”

“Trophies,” Griff said.

Nic shot up off the sofa. “I want this guy. I want to stop him before the body count rises. But my boss will tell me that two similar murders in two different states do not mean there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

“Not even when you add to the scenario the information that this guy made phone calls to you and me?”

“All those calls prove is that there’s a nut job out there who has our private cell numbers.”

“Then we need to find enough evidence to prove our theory. I’ll go to Ballinger and Stillwater and see what I can find out beyond the basic police reports.”

“I’m going with you.” As Nic hovered over him, their gazes locked.

The corners of Griff’s mouth curved upward with a hint of a smile. “You know how some local police chiefs and sheriffs are about the FBI sticking their nose into local business. You’re liable to make ‘em nervous, honey, a big, important special agent showing up and asking questions.”

She cringed at the generic endearment, one he’d no doubt used with hundreds of women. No, make that thousands of women. But she knew he had called her honey for one reason only—to piss her off.

“Well, honey,” she replied, “I tell you what—I’m on vacation so I could go with you in an unofficial capacity and not flash my credentials around unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“Do you suppose you could try to be charming instead of commanding?” Griff asked, a devilish twinkle in his cold blue eyes. “We might get more information that way.”

“I think you have enough charm for both of us.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am. I take that as a compliment.”

Nic groaned quietly. “You can take it any way you want to.”

Griff stood. “Do you think there’s any way we can put aside our personal feelings and actually work together? We could call a temporary truce.”

Nic squared her shoulders and faced him. “I’m willing to try.”

“Good enough.”

“The murder in Ballinger was recent,” she said, considering their truce to be in effect now. God help them both. “The body was found only yesterday. What about the woman in Stillwater?”

“Her body was found the first of the month, nearly four weeks ago.”

“Then we should go to Ballinger first, gather what info we can, and go from there to Stillwater.”

“Agreed. I’ll have the Powell jet ready to take off first thing in the morning.”

“All right. I’ll meet you back here at—what time in the morning?”

“Where are you going tonight?” he asked.

“I saw several halfway-decent-looking motels on the drive here.”

“You’ll stay here. I have plenty of room.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable staying here.”

“Why not? Because you don’t like me? Or because you’re afraid you won’t be able to resist me if I come on to you? Believe me, you’re safe with me.” He put up his hands in an I-wouldn’t-touch-you-with-a-ten-foot-pole gesture.

“I don’t like you,” she freely admitted. “And we both know that I do not find you irresistible, so thank you for the invitation to spend the night. I’ll get my bag out of the car and—damn, I’m in a rental car.”

“Give me the keys and I’ll have Sanders get your bag and tomorrow he’ll take care of returning the car.”

She smiled at Griff. “My goodness, it must be nice to issue orders and have everyone around you snap to it.”

Griff clicked his tongue. “Now, now, Nicki, what happened to our truce?”

Forcing herself not to react to his taunt, she unzipped her shoulder bag, delved inside, and brought out the car keys. “Here you go.” She dropped the keys into his open palm, careful not to touch him. “Thank you. And please thank Sanders for me.”

Griff closed his fingers around the keys, all the while not taking his eyes off Nic. “Why do you think he called us? Why alert us to the fact that he’s killing again? He could have killed a dozen or more women before anyone connected the dots and realized there was a bizarre connection between the murders.”

Nic sighed deeply. “I have no idea, but my gut tells me that sooner or later, he’ll tell us his reason. And I don’t think we’ll like it.”

Pudge removed the mannequin’s head, placed it on a stand, and set it on the round table where Kendall Moore’s scalp lay. With the utmost care, he gently placed the bloody scalp on the bald plastic head, working with it patiently to position it just right. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he opened one of the glass cases on the shelf, the fifth one in the top row, then lifted the head and eased it into the case. Next he opened the small file cabinet under the metal desk in the corner and removed the label he had made weeks ago. The label was typed in neat, black Times Roman print, and read: