The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON
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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