The Dying Game. Beverly Barton
building boasted numerous long, narrow windows, four chimneys, and a wraparound front porch. Out back, there was a small carriage house that had been converted into a garage in the late 1930s. Peeling paint on the eaves and window seals of both the house and garage exposed their neglected state. Two broken windowpanes on the second story of the lodge begged for repair.
Lindsay pulled her Trailblazer to a halt directly in front of the wraparound porch, but she left the truck’s motor running. The freezing rain had stopped a good twenty miles back, and the sun was fighting to make its way through the thick clouds. The temperature gauge on the dashboard read thirty-four degrees, which meant it had warmed up just enough to begin the thawing process. But by nightfall, those temps would drop again, probably into the twenties, and refreeze any remaining moisture.
If possible, the place looked sadder and more dilapidated than when she’d last seen it over six months ago. Dripping icicles hung from the edges of the roof. Melting snow clung in clusters to the grassy lawn and several inches of the white stuff, hidden in corners protected from the struggling sunlight, rose several inches high. Lindsay’s gaze traveled up the stone and brick front steps to the porch, then to the huge wooden door with decorative black iron bars crisscrossing the series of descending four-by-six-inch glass panes.
Inside, she remembered, just beyond the front entrance, lay a small foyer that opened up on either side to large sitting rooms. Each room boasted a massive stone fireplace, hardwood flooring, and dark wood paneling. In the room to the left, trophy deer heads hung on either side of the fireplace; in the room to the right, mounted and framed prize catches from the Tennessee River lined the walls, three fish on either side of the fireplace. She had not seen the upstairs bedrooms, but she assumed that they, too, screamed macho domain, no women allowed.
The thought of facing Judd, of looking into those cold, topaz gold eyes, kept Lindsay from leaving the warm safety of her SUV. Repeatedly, she had told herself that she didn’t love him, that she never had. She had felt sorry for him, wanted to comfort him, tried to help him. Besides, any woman would be sexually attracted to Judd. He was so overpoweringly masculine.
All those introspective, come-to-Jesus talks she’d given herself over the past six months had convinced her that what she felt for Judd Walker was a combination of sympathy and lust, not love.
So, if she didn’t love him, why was she so afraid of seeing him again?
You can’t put it off forever, you know. Get out of the car and go knock on the door. Face your fears. Prove to yourself that Judd no longer has any power over you.
After donning her red knit cap and matching gloves, Lindsay buttoned her navy peacoat, shut off the ignition, and opened the car door. As she stepped down, her black leather boots hit a slushy spot on the ground, shooting muddy ooze over the one-inch heels and rounded toes. By the time she reached the porch, the wet grass she’d trekked through had absorbed most of the mud on her boots.
Taking a deep breath, she faced the front door. Stretching her gloved fingers back and forth, she garnered up her courage, then lifted her right hand and knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.
No response.
She knocked again. Harder. Louder.
Still nothing.
She banged repeatedly. “Judd, if you’re here, let me in. I have some news for you. It’s about the Beauty Queen Killer case.”
Silence.
Damn it. Maybe he wasn’t here. Maybe he’d moved away to some unknown location. A part of her prayed that he had.
Lindsay tried the front door knob, twisting it this way and that. The door didn’t budge. Locked. So much for that.
She went to the nearest window and peered in through a fine layer of dirt and grime. The left parlor lay in semidarkness, the furniture still covered with protective cloths. After checking out the other parlor through an equally filthy windowpane, she walked the expanse of the wraparound porch, stopping at a side door leading through a narrow hall into the kitchen. She tried the door and surprisingly found it give. Unlocked. The door creaked loudly as she pushed it open. She hesitantly entered the dark hallway. Cobwebs shimmied along the walls.
“Judd, are you here?” she called as she made her way toward the kitchen.
No answer.
She found the kitchen empty. But a half-full coffeepot sat on the warmer, and a stained mug rested on the counter beside the coffeemaker.
He was here. Upstairs? In the basement? Taking a walk in the woods?
If he was in the house, he would have heard her calling him. Unless he was asleep or passed out drunk. The first year after his wife’s death, Judd had drunk himself into a forgetful stupor on a fairly regular basis. But the last time Lindsay saw him, he’d been stone cold sober. A drunk Judd she could deal with more easily than a sober Judd. Drunk, he was hateful and belligerent. Sober he was apathetic and deadly.
“Judd, if you’re here, please answer me. Don’t make me search the whole house for you.”
Nothing.
“The Beauty Queen Killer has struck again, but this time his victim didn’t die. Not yet. She’s still alive.”
No reaction. No response.
“Did you hear me?”
Creak. Stomp. Creak. Stomp.
Lindsay heard heavy footsteps on the backstairs that led from the kitchen to the second floor. Her heartbeat accelerated.
“Judd?”
The footsteps grew louder as they descended the creaking stairs.
Lindsay crossed the linoleum-floored kitchen and waited at the foot of the stairs, her pulse racing as she clutched both hands into tight fists on either side of her hips.
Barbara Jean Hughes, confined to a wheelchair since a terrible car crash five years ago, responded to Griffin Powell’s masculine charm the way most other women did—she practically melted into a puddle. Good grief! Nic didn’t get it. Yes, he was good-looking, masculine to the nth degree, dressed like a GQ model, drove a fancy sports car, and was reported to be a multimillionaire. Those qualities alone would be enough to make the average female swoon. But if there was one thing Nicole Baxter had never been, it was average. She wasn’t average height and weight for a woman. Her IQ wasn’t average, nor was her taste in men.
Powerful, macho, overconfident men turned her off. From the time she matured early at the age of eleven, she’d had to deal with the opposite sex. Snide remarks about her breasts. Jokes about her height. Envy because she was the smartest kid in her class—even smarter than the smartest boy.
Men might like women with big breasts, but most didn’t like highly intelligent women who graduated from college at the age of eighteen, stood eye to eye with many, and towered over some. She was—always had been—too tall, too big, and too smart. Not to mention far too opinionated and outspoken.
“Ms. Hughes, why don’t you let us take you down to the cafeteria and get you something to eat. A late lunch,” Griff said.
Nic had been trying to convince Barbara Jean that she needed to eat, but the woman had refused to leave the ICU waiting area.
“What if Gale Ann wakes up? Or what if she…No, I can’t leave.” With Nic, Barbara Jean had been adamant.
When Barbara Jean didn’t respond to Griff’s suggestion, only stared up at him through a mist of tears, he reached down, grasped her hand tenderly and said, “When your sister regains consciousness, she doesn’t need to see you haggard and worried, now does she? You have to eat and rest to keep up your strength.” He paused momentarily to allow his comments to sink in, then added, “For Gale Ann’s sake, you have to take care of yourself.”
Gag me with a spoon, Nic thought. Griff was as smooth as silk. Too damn smooth to suit her. He was one of those guys who could charm the birds from the trees. A real silver-tongued devil.
It