The next day, Judd sat in on another meeting. This time, he tried to act as if he was paying attention, as if he thought going over the same old information might actually prove useful. It wasn’t Griff’s fault that the Beauty Queen Killer hadn’t been apprehended. God knew the Powell Agency had used every resource available—legal and slightly illegal—to track down the man who had killed Jenny. Neither Powell nor the FBI had been able to pick up the madman’s trail, although both had extensive profiles that narrowed down suspects. But that was the problem—they didn’t have any suspects.
In the past three and a half years, Judd had learned more about serial killers than he’d ever wanted to know. He could easily recite the rhetoric. Memorized facts and figures. Eighty-five percent of American serial killers are male, eighty-two percent are white, eighty-seven percent are loners, and most range in age from twenty-two to fifty.
While Judd did his best to stay focused on the conversation taking place, Griff explained how he had three Powell agents in Williamstown, Kentucky, right now, keeping track of everything that the local law enforcement and the FBI were doing. “These men have built a professional rapport with the police department, and the chief has been very cooperative, despite Nic Baxter’s disapproval.”
“Does anybody involved in Gale Ann Cain’s murder case have even one tiny lead?” Judd asked. “Other than Barbara Jean, who either cannot or will not give a detailed description of the possible killer.”
“We’ve been here before,” Griff said. “Our guy is nomadic. Once he kills, he leaves town. He either moves often or he travels a lot. And because this type of killer isn’t stationary, doesn’t kill in just one area, he’s more difficult to catch than one who stays close to home.”
“And until now, he’s been invisible,” Lindsay said. “He manages to kill and disappear without anyone seeing him. Except this time, Barbara Jean saw him.”
“We believe she saw him,” Griff corrected. “We can’t be certain the man she saw is our killer.”
Propping one elbow on the desk, Judd leaned forward. “Okay, let’s say she can ID him and finally agrees to work with a sketch artist. What happens then?”
“We share the sketch with the FBI,” Griff said. “And that sketch will be sent to every local law enforcement agency in the country. Sooner or later, somebody will see the sketch and recognize our guy.”
“Then for God’s sake, use your powers of persuasion on Barbara Jean.” Judd’s gaze collided with Griff’s. “While you’re giving her time to come around on her own, this guy is out there plotting another murder. Tell her that her fear and uncertainty could very well cost another woman her life.”
He hated cheap motel rooms, but staying in an inexpensive place where he could pay cash and the clerk probably wouldn’t remember him the next day made sense. It would be foolish to flash his money around, to say or do anything that might make him stand out and cause someone to remember him. Keep a low profile was the number one rule in this game. Victories were not for public celebration. They were to be savored privately.
Early this morning, long before daylight, while Sonya had entertained her boyfriend, he had taken the opportunity to check out the houses on either side of and across from hers. He had inspected her backyard. No fence. No large shrubbery. Exposed on all four sides to the prying eyes of neighbors. His best course of action was to enter her home late tonight, when there was less chance of anyone being awake and peeking out the window. He didn’t think she had a security system. There were no signs posted and ninety-five percent of people with private security posted warning signs. And quite a few people without security systems stuck stickers on their doors or signs in their yards as a deterrent to thieves.
Of course, the one thing that would make entering Sonya’s house as easy as taking candy from a baby was the fact that she, like a lot of other idiots, kept a key “hidden” under a fake rock in her front yard. He’d taken that key around one this morning, while he’d been examining the layout of her house and yard.
He clutched the brass key in his hand and smiled as he drove into downtown Tupelo to look for a decent restaurant, preferably a crowded establishment. He would eat a good supper, go back to the motel, and think about the night that lay ahead, a night of horrible pain for Sonya and unforgettable pleasure for him.
Sometimes he found a suitable weapon in the woman’s home, but he never left anything to chance. He always went prepared. He had a bright, shiny new axe that he had bought at a Wal-Mart in Monroe, Louisiana, lying under a plastic painter’s tarp in the trunk of his rental car.
* * *
Judd paced back and forth in the two-story living room that spanned the width of the house. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and three sets of French doors dominated the back wall; the doors opened onto a deck that overlooked the lake.
Although when Griffin was at home, dinner was usually served at seven, it was five past seven and Griffin hadn’t shown up nor had Sanders announced dinner. After the end of their afternoon meeting, Lindsay had stayed on in Griff’s home office and gone over the most recent reports from the agents in Williamstown. She hadn’t seen or talked to Griff since then, and until they had met in the living room ten minutes ago, she hadn’t seen Judd either.
Judd moved around the room like a caged animal searching for an escape route. Whenever he paused, he stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and stared out into the darkness; then as if jolted by an electrical prod, he would start moving again. Edgy. Unsettled. Nervous energy.
Lindsay knew the signs. She had seen them all too often. Judd was restless. He had little patience, expected immediate action, and was the type who snapped his fingers and thought everyone should jump. Perhaps, in part, that came from having been reared in the lap of luxury, accustomed to issuing orders and having them instantly obeyed.
With each murder case, Griff and the FBI had gathered information. Sometimes, it was nothing more than an insignificant tidbit that didn’t further the investigation one iota. Other times, it was info that helped them add to, build on, or alter the profile of the Beauty Queen Killer. But it all seemed meaningless to Judd because compiling information and building a profile had not produced results. While the Powell Agency, local law enforcement agencies in various cities, and the FBI investigated, the man who had murdered Jennifer Walker continued killing. Woman after woman after woman.
“Want to play cards or chess or watch a movie after dinner?” Lindsay rattled off a list of possible temporary cures for Judd’s restlessness.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” he told her. “I’m not going to do anything stupid, like drown myself in the lake … or corner Barbara Jean.”
“You gave Griff your word about not pressuring Barbara Jean, didn’t you? That’s good enough for me.”
Judd harrumphed. “You shouldn’t be too trusting. There was a time when I was a man of my word. That man doesn’t exist anymore.”
Before she had a chance to think of an appropriate response, Griffin entered the living room; but he was not alone. He escorted an exotic woman with luminous black eyes and blue-black hair cut in a shoulder-length pageboy style. She wore cream white slacks and an oversized matching sweater. Diamond and gold hoops dangled from her small ears.
“Dr. Meng.” Lindsay walked across the room to greet their guest, an old and dear friend of Griff’s. “How wonderful to see you again.” Lindsay shook hands with the woman Griff had first brought into her life six months ago. She had no idea how old Dr. Meng was, but if she were to guess, she would say late thirties, although she looked younger.
“How are you, Lindsay?” Dr. Meng asked. “Quite well?”
“Yes, quite well, thank you.”
Judd approached them, but kept his distance, a leery glint in his eyes, as if he suspected Dr. Meng was his enemy.
“Judd, come over and meet Yvette Meng,” Griff said.
Judd took several tentative steps forward, but didn’t come close enough to shake hands with Dr. Meng.
“Yvette, this is Judd Walker,” Griff told her. “Lindsay and I have mentioned him to you on several occasions.”
“Mr. Walker.” Yvette nodded cordially, but respected Judd’s wariness and made no move to approach him.
“Almost perfect English, which means you were probably not born and raised here,” Judd said. “Yvette Meng.” He examined her as if she were a specimen under a microscope. “Eurasian?” he asked.
“Yes, very astute of you, Mr. Walker. My father was Chinese, my mother French.”
Judd eyed Griff suspiciously. “Is Dr. Meng’s visit merely social or have you brought her here in her professional capacity?” Judd immediately focused on Yvette. “Do you have a medical degree or simply a PhD?”
“A medical degree,” she replied in a voice that dripped with honey. Delicate and sweet.
As Lindsay knew—personally—that sweet voice was deceptive. Yvette Meng might look like a geisha doll, delicate and subservient, but the woman possessed the heart of a tiger and the courage of a lioness.
“Somebody here sick?” Judd asked sardonically.
But Griff didn’t get a chance to reply. Sanders appeared and announced dinner was ready. Yvette took Griff’s arm, and he led her toward the dining room.
Judd looked at Lindsay and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
When she took his arm, he paused and asked, “Did Griff bring her here for me?”
“If he did, would you talk to her?”
Chuckling derisively, Judd glowered at Lindsay. “No way in hell.”
Taking in and releasing a deep breath, Lindsay replied, “I’m sure Griff brought her here to talk to Barbara Jean. It’s quite possible that she’s suffering from some form of traumatic stress syndrome, an area in which Dr. Meng has specialized.”
“Hmm … I have to hand it to Griff. He’s gone above and beyond the call of duty to try to find Jenny’s killer. And he’s still doing everything he can.”
“Maybe you should tell him that.” Lindsay tugged on Judd’s arm.
He didn’t budge. “You’ve met Dr. Meng before. When?”
Just tell him the truth. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t know. So what if it makes him uncomfortable at dinner this evening, realizing that Dr. Meng knows all about him.
“Griff brought her here to help me through a rough patch … about six months ago.”
She released his arm and walked away whilst Judd thought about what had happened six months before.
Sonya walked Paul to the door, kissed him, and reluctantly said good night. She didn’t think either of them were quite ready for the next step in their strong and steady relationship— marriage. Here in Tupelo, there was no way they would ever get away with living together without the bonds of matrimony. Not with them both employed by the school system. So, for now, they would have to settle for him occasionally staying the night. Not too often or people would talk.
“See you tomorrow,” he told her just before he kissed her one final time.
She stood in the open doorway and, despite the frigid night air, watched him until he got in his car and drove away. Sighing dreamily as she recalled the great sex they’d just had, she closed and locked the door.
Since she had to get up at six in the morning because it was a school day, she should take a shower and go to bed. But she wasn’t sleepy. Paul had stayed overnight last night and they had slept late this morning, skipping both Sunday school and church, wicked sinners that they were.
Sonya giggled and twirled around and around. The belt on her housecoat loosened and the quilted robe slipped apart across her legs. The feel of the material as it raked across her flesh sent shivers through her, reminding her of the way Paul’s mouth had created a moist trail up the inside of one thigh and down the other, then traveled the same path back again. That man sure knew how to eat pussy. How many times had she climaxed?
Three times!
Humming happily, Sonya went into the kitchen, retrieved a bottle of white zinfandel from the refrigerator, removed the cork from the half-full bottle, and poured herself a glass of wine.
Suddenly a horrific boom of thunder shook the house, rattling the windows and scaring the holy crap out of her. Her hand holding the glass trembled so badly that a few drops of wine splattered over onto her fingers.
She hated winter rain. It was always so cold and made the world look even more dismal than it already was. But she supposed rain was preferable to snow. They didn’t get much snow in Tupelo, but she’d heard that parts of Tennessee had gotten blanketed with the white stuff a few days ago.
As she carried her wine into the living room, she paused to pick up the remote and turn on the TV before sitting down to relax. The evening news had just come on. Sitting alone in the semidark room, lightning streaking the night sky and thunder roaring, Sonya shivered. Odd, she wasn’t scared of storms so she shouldn’t be nervous.
By the time the weather report came on, she had finished the wine and felt a little sleepy. She’d better get a shower now before she relaxed even more.
Once in the bathroom, she removed her robe, hung it on the door hook and set the showerhead to spray, then turned on the water. Just as she stepped beneath the warm mist, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then everything went pitch-black.
Damn!
Don’t panic.
She had candles in the kitchen and a flashlight in her nightstand drawer. But her hot water heater was electric, as was her heating unit.
Get out of the shower carefully, dry off, put on your robe, and get your flashlight, then double-check the front and back doors.
More than likely the electricity wouldn’t stay off more than an hour, two at the most. She could crawl into bed, cover up, head and ears, and go to sleep. The house would cool off quite a bit in a couple of hours, but by morning it would have warmed up again, and she should have plenty of hot water to shower and wash her hair.
Feeling her way out of the shower, she reached for a towel, finally found it, and dried off hurriedly. Why didn’t this bathroom have a window? At least a flash of lightning now and then would give her a little illumination.
After she managed to put on her robe, Sonya went into the bedroom. Even though she moved slowly and thought she was being careful, she stubbed her toe on the edge of the dresser. Cursing under her breath while her big toe throbbed, she made it over to the nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and rummaged around inside for the flashlight.
Found it!
She sighed with relief when the yellow-white beam streamed across her bedroom. She just hoped the batteries weren’t low. She didn’t think she had any replacements.
First she checked the front door—locked—and then headed for the kitchen. Just as she passed the double windows over her sink, a flash of brilliant lightning zipped across the sky, catching her immediate attention. When she glanced out the window, she screamed. Had that been a face peering into the window, looking right at her?
She pointed the flashlight at the window. There was no one there. Another loud clap of thunder rumbled. Trembling from head to toe, she blew out a shaky breath. What was the matter with her? Why was her imagination working overtime? It wasn’t like her to be a Nervous Nellie.
Hurrying, she tried the backdoor to make sure it was locked. It was.
She walked over to the sink and looked outside again. Utter darkness. Nothing. No one. Certainly no faces staring in at her.
Suddenly another zigzag of lightning brightened the sky. When she looked outside, she saw only her driveway and her neighbor’s three-year-old son’s tricycle. Cody was always leaving his toys strewn about in his yard and often in hers.
Get a grip, Sonya. There is no one out there.
Judd ate only to live, but occasionally, like tonight, he actually enjoyed a good meal. Griff’s cook, Inez, wasn’t a world-renowned chef, just a woman who knew how to prepare good, old-fashioned country meals, Southern meals, like the fried chicken, fried potatoes, and cornbread she had put on the table tonight. To top off dinner, she had served a mouth-watering blackberry cobbler. Wild blackberries, not the cultivated ones with huge seeds. When he complimented her on the dessert, she informed him that she had personally picked the wild berries on Griffin’s land last year and canned them herself.
During dinner, Judd had found himself actually interested in those in attendance: Griffin Powell, Lindsay McAllister, Sanders, Dr. Yvette Meng, and Barbara Jean Hughes. Three men, three women, almost as if they were paired into couples. Sanders seemed unusually interested in Ms. Hughes, something that puzzled Judd because he’d never actually thought of Sanders as an ordinary man who had a perfectly natural interest in the opposite sex. In truth, he’d seen the quiet, reserved man as little more than Griffin’s shadow. Griff’s attitude toward Yvette Meng intrigued Judd. It was apparent the two were old friends, probably lovers, if not now, at sometime in the past. He suspected that the lovely Yvette knew some of Griff’s deep, dark secrets.
And then there was Lindsay.
He had observed her periodically, all through dinner, and as if seeing her for the very first time, realized she was cute and funny and sexy. Not sexy in the obvious way that Yvette was, but in her own more subtle way.
After dinner, Sanders escorted Barbara Jean to Griff ’s office to show her the lay of the land, so to speak. Apparently, the lady was going to teach Sanders basic computer skills. He supposed, considering the fact that the man could probably build a computer from scratch, this ruse had been something Griff was using to keep his houseguest occupied.
Griff excused himself, saying he needed to contact his agents in Williamstown and asked Lindsay to accompany him. Naturally, this left Judd alone in the living room with Dr. Meng.
“Do I have a stain on my sweater or food between my teeth?” Yvette asked.
“Neither,” Judd replied. “I’m staring at you because I’m trying to figure out a gentlemanly way to tell you I’m not interested in being psychoanalyzed.”
After offering him a mysterious smile, she turned her back on him and went to the bar area. “Would you care for an after-dinner drink, Mr. Walker?”
“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Whiskey. Neat.” She poured some of Griffin’s expensive liquor into two glasses.
Judd grinned. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type of woman who drank whiskey.”
She turned, handed him one of the glasses, then saluted him with her glass, and took a sip of the liquor. Not one gasp or cough. The lady was accustomed to the hard stuff.
“I’m not here to psychoanalyze you,” she told him. “Griffin asked me to help Ms. Hughes.”
“Yeah, he probably did, but didn’t he tell you that if you got a chance, to study his crazy old friend Judd?”
“Are you crazy?” She sauntered across the room, like a sleek little black cat who knew she was beautiful and far smarter than the average feline.
When she sat down on one of the two overstuffed sofas that faced each other, Judd sat across from her, crossed his legs, and took a hefty swig of his whiskey.
“Haven’t you heard—I’m mad as a hatter. Mad with grief. Mad with anger and a thirst for revenge.”
“Wanting to see your wife’s killer caught and punished doesn’t make you mad.”
He downed the remainder of the liquor, blew out a hot breath, and set his empty glass on the floor at his feet. “How about wanting to do the job yourself? I have dreams of chopping the guy into pieces.”
Yvette scrutinized him, her dark eyes seeming to see beyond the physical realm. Sensing that she had invaded the darkness of his soul, Judd shivered involuntarily.
Squinting calculatingly, he gazed into her black eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re downright spooky?”
She smiled. “I was born with a gift that few understand and many ridicule.”
“Don’t tell me—you’re psychic,” Judd said cynically.
“All right, I won’t tell you.”
Judd didn’t believe in any of that woo-woo nonsense. If he couldn’t experience it with his normal, five basic senses, it didn’t exist. Yeah, so a time or two when he’d been out of his mind drunk, he had thought he felt Jenny’s presence. A hint of her Chanel No. 5 perfume. The whisper of her voice. The light, tender touch of her hand. None of it had been real, just liquor-induced wishful thinking.
“Where the hell did Griff find you?”
“If you really want to know, you should ask Griffin.”
“Okay, then when did you two meet?”
“Many years ago, when we were both very young.” She sipped the whiskey, then set the glass on one of the soapstone coasters resting on the large mahogany and iron coffee table between the two sofas. “And if you wish to know more, only Griffin can tell you.” Her gaze met Judd’s head-on. “Such questions as were we once lovers, do I know where he was those ten missing years of his life, and do I know how he acquired his vast fortune?”
“I see part of your special gift is reading minds.”
Her full, red lips parted, the edges lifting in a curious smile. “I find you interesting, Mr. Walker, especially knowing what I do about you.”
“I’m flattered that Griff and Lindsay would bother filling you in about a hopeless case like me.”
“Shortly after your wife was murdered, Griffin told me that you needed help, but he knew you would refuse to see me or any psychiatrist. And I met Lindsay only six months ago. I was her doctor for a brief period of time. I tell you this only because I know she has already mentioned it to you.”
“She told you all about what happened, didn’t she?” When Yvette did not respond, he slid to the edge of the sofa, lurched forward, and focused directly on her. “I’m not going to open up to you and spill my guts. If you were able to help Lindsay realize that I’m no good for her and that she should give me up as a lost cause, then I’m grateful. Beginning and end of story as far as I’m concerned.”
Judd shot to his feet, accidently knocking over his empty whiskey glass. “Good evening, doctor. See you around.”
“Good evening, Mr. Walker.”
He made his escape. Almost. Just as he exited the living room, Yvette Meng’s soft, compelling voice called to him, “You must not be afraid of your feelings for Lindsay. Allow yourself to love her. She is your salvation.”
Judd froze to the spot for a millisecond, then fled as if the hounds of hell were on his heels.