The Dying Game. Beverly Barton
should be,” he told her.
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
He laughed again. Softly.
“Please…please…” She cried. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
He came closer. And closer. He raised the meat cleaver high over her head, then swung it across her right wrist.
Blood splattered on the cabinet, over her head, and across her upper body as her severed right hand tumbled downward and hit the floor.
Pain! Excruciating pain.
And then he lifted the cleaver and swung down and across again, cutting off her left hand with one swift, accurate blow.
Jennifer passed out.
Chapter 1
There are some things far worse than dying. Judd Walker knew only too well the agony of simply existing, of being neither dead nor truly alive. For the past three years, eight months, and two days, he had lived in a world without Jennifer. In the beginning, the pain had been unbearable. His anger and rage had nourished him, keeping him breathing, allowing him to continue from one day to the next in a fog of torment. And then a few months after his sweet Jenny’s funeral, the fog had lifted and his one goal in life had become clear—to find and destroy his wife’s killer.
A part of him—some far removed, distant part—still loved Jennifer. Except for that faint, lingering emotion, he felt nothing, only a goddamn, blessed numbness. Even the anger and rage had burned out, leaving him little more than subhuman, caring for nothing and no one. Wanting—needing—only one thing from life: Revenge! His goal of tracking down his wife’s killer had become his only reason for living.
Judd dropped to his knees beside the snow-covered grave. He hadn’t wanted to come here, had tried his best to stay away; but the overwhelming need to be near Jennifer on their anniversary controlled his actions. February the fourteenth. Valentine’s Day. Jennifer had been a hopeless romantic, a trait that he’d thought silly in other women, but had found utterly charming in the woman he loved.
The woman he loved…
Judd reached out and ran a shaky hand over the chiseled letters on his wife’s headstone. She had been laid to rest here in the Walker private cemetery, in Hamilton County, alongside his parents, his older sibling who’d died as an infant, and countless noteworthy ancestors who were a part of southeastern Tennessee history.
As his father before him, Judd had been one of the most sought-after bachelors in the state. A real catch. A former Chattanooga district attorney with a reputation as a man who genuinely cared about the welfare of the citizens of his county. The only surviving child of parents who had each inherited an ungodly fortune, Judd had known wealth and privilege all his life. But he’d wanted more—more than being Judge Judson Walker IV’s son, more than being Senator Nathaniel Chisholm’s grandson. And more had been expected of him. He had been brought up to believe that he was, and always would be, one of the good guys, a man destined to help his fellow man.
“Why you, Jenny? Why did it have to be you?” Judd shivered as the damp and cold seeped through his jeans, the slushy, wet snow dampening his knees. The winter wind whipped through the old, battered, leather jacket he wore.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see Jennifer, the way she had looked the last time he’d seen her alive. Beautiful. Vibrant. Happy.
God help him, he should feel something—anything. He should be crying…ranting…raving. Or at the very least, his wife’s memory should evoke a sentimental melancholy.
Nothing.
Dry-eyed, cold, and somber, Judd rose to his feet. Before leaving the cemetery, he gazed down at Jennifer’s grave one final time. He wouldn’t come back again, not even next year on their anniversary. There was no point in pretending to mourn, not when there was only emptiness left inside him, only embers of his once fiery emotions.
“You deserved better, Jenny.” Judd’s voice blended with the howling winter wind. “If it takes me the rest of my life, I promise that I’ll find him, and I’ll make him pay for what he did to you.”
Judd walked down the narrow path that led to the arched wrought-iron gates guarding the family cemetery. Gazing up at the night sky, he blinked as the melting snow hit his face. With moisture coating his beard stubble and shaggy hair and beading on his leather jacket, he yanked open the driver’s door on the old Mercedes that had belonged to his father. He glanced over his shoulder and took a deep breath.
“Happy Anniversary, Jenny.”
He slid behind the wheel, inserted the key into the ignition, started the car, and drove away.
The only reason Griffin Powell had accepted Jillian and Gil Russell’s invitation to their dinner party was a long, lean, luscious redhead named Laura Barrett. Laura and Jillian had been best friends since their sorority days at Vanderbilt, and Griff and Laura had become casual lovers when he’d invested in her father’s faltering horse-breeding farm several months ago. He found Laura, as a person, mildly interesting; as a lover, she was quite talented. Even though she might have originally had a misguided idea that their relationship would lead to marriage, Griff had set her straight, in his own subtle, gentlemanly way. They both understood that this trip to Knoxville would be her last, that their affair was coming to an end.
Laura tightened her grip on Griff’s arm. “There’s someone you simply have to meet.”
“Is there?” Griff replied.
“Yes, darling. It’s Royce Palmer.” Laura all but dragged Griff across the crowded room.
“Who’s Royce Palmer?”
“My ex-fiancé.”
“Oh.”
“You’re not the least bit jealous, are you?”
Before Griff could think of a diplomatic response, Henry Lewis waylaid them. The UT professor placed his thin, bony hand on Griff’s shoulder. “Still getting all the pretty girls, I see.”
Griff smiled at Hank despite the fact that the feel of the man’s hand on his shoulder made him slightly uncomfortable. Even when they’d been students together at the university, Griff had sensed something a little off-center about the guy. They had never been friends, but now ran into each other occasionally at various functions because they both belonged to the alumni association and traveled in the same social circle. The only difference was that Hank had been born rich and thus entitled. Griff had come by his vast wealth through a combination of blood, sweat, and tears.
“Laura Barrett, may I introduce Hank Lewis.” He eyed the lanky, slightly balding man. “Or would you prefer to be introduced as Professor Henry Lewis?”
Laura faked a smile. Hank removed his hand from Griff’s shoulder and grasped Laura’s hand, much to her surprise. She gasped softly.
While Hank babbled his way through what he probably thought was some witty repartee, Griff zoned out and leisurely scanned the Russells’ massive living room. The crème de la crème of Knoxville society was in attendance, along with several out-of-towners. Interior designer Mark Crosby spied Griff, raised his hand and waved. Mark was the best in the state, and that was the reason Griff had hired him to decorate both his office suite and his home.
Who was the man talking to Mark? Griff wondered. He looked vaguely familiar, but Griff couldn’t quite place him.
“Who’s the fellow with Mark?” Griff interrupted the going-nowhere conversation between Laura and Hank.
Gazing up thankfully at Griff, Laura said, “That’s Cary Maygarden, from Nashville. We met him at the Fentons’ New Year’s Eve Ball in Atlanta. Don’t you remember?”
“Is he in the country music business?” Hank asked.
“Goodness, no.” Laura laughed. “The Maygarden family