The Watcher

Pudge heard her shuffling away, going back down the hall. He wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to make the trip out here to Belle Fleur every day. Her daughter, Fantine, dropped her off and picked her up on her way to and from her job as one of the maids for the Landau family who lived about ten miles down the road. He supposed when Allegra either died or retired, he’d have no choice but to find a new cook. When that day came, he would have to be more careful about playing his games.

Surely there’s a halfwit out there somewhere who knows how to cook.

Pudge picked up his disguise, got up out of the floor, and carried the items over to the bed where his open suitcase lay. He removed a small plastic case, laid the items inside, and put the case back into the suitcase.

As he left his room, he whistled to himself, some nonsensical tune from his childhood. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the words to the song, didn’t even know the name of the song, but he found himself humming it whenever he was plotting a new adventure. It was a happy song. His mother had hummed it to him to comfort him after she rescued him from his father’s wicked temper tantrums. Why his father had lashed out at him and never at Mary Ann and Marsha, he didn’t know. But whenever Daddy got in one of his moods, he had always called for Pudge to be sent to his study.

Don’t think about how mean Daddy was to you. Think about how kind Mommy was to you afterward.

Nic hadn’t chewed Griff out the way she had wanted to and it had taken every ounce of her willpower. She had wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he had no right to speak for her, that maybe she had wanted to give the handsome sheriff her cell number. And if she had, it wouldn’t have been any of Griff’s business.

On the drive from Stillwater to Lufkin, he’d glanced at her every once in a while, as if trying to gauge her mood, but she’d remained calm and silent, speaking to him only when he asked her a direct question.

Finally aboard the Powell jet and waiting for a powerful summer thunderstorm to pass before taking off, she and Griff sat in the luxurious cabin, sipping on early-evening drinks. Crown Royal and Coke for Griff. Plain Coke for Nic.

“He’ll contact us again,” Griff said, the statement coming after endless minutes of complete silence.

“Who?” Nic asked.

“The killer.” Griff pivoted on the leather sofa and faced Nic, who sat across from him. “Who did you think I meant—Sheriff Touchstone? Hell, what kind of name is that, anyway—Touchstone? A pretty name for a pretty boy.”

“He was rather handsome, wasn’t he?”

“He took an instant shine to you.”

“Do you find that so hard to believe, that a good-looking man would find me attractive?”

Griff downed the last drops of his drink, set the glass on the side table at the end of the sofa, and replied, “No, of course not. You’re attractive. I never said you weren’t. It’s not your physical appearance that I object to, it’s your personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?” That’s it, Nic, ask him and he’ll no doubt tell you.

“You’re abrasive, aggressive, bossy, and—”

“Traits that you would admire in a man.”

“Why do you want to act like a man?”

Answer that one, she told herself. Damn him!

Nic finished off her Coke but didn’t put down her glass. Instead she shook the tumbler, making the ice chips click together as she absently stared into the glass.

The distinctive ring told Nic that it was her cell phone and not Griff’s. She removed the phone from her pocket, checked the caller ID, and flipped it open. This just might be the call she’d been hoping for.

“Hello, Doug.”

Griff’s eyes widened. She didn’t pay any attention to him. Let him wait.

“I received two rather interesting phone calls today,” Doug Trotter said. “First this morning, Chief Benny Willoughby from Ballinger, Arkansas, called me and then this afternoon, Sheriff Dean Touchstone from Stillwater, Texas, called. Seems they’ve each got an unsolved murder and they think the same killer committed both crimes. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about either of those, would you, Nic?”

“I might.”

“Might, my ass. Just where the hell are you? And don’t give me any bullshit about your being in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains.”

Nic sensed Griff’s impatience. He was dying to know what her boss had to say. Tough shit. The longer she could make him wait, the better.

“I’m on a private jet that will soon be taking off from Lufkin, Texas,” Nic said.

“How’d you get yourself involved in this?” Doug asked.

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you’ve gone over to the dark side.”

Nic laughed softly. “I take it that you’ve heard I’m in league with Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” Griff asked, faking an indignant expression as he pointed to himself.

“What are you doing with Griffin Powell?” She heard the obvious disapproval in Doug’s voice.

“Remember my theory that there were two BQ Killers?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Griff and I both received calls a couple of days ago from a man who implied that he was that second killer. And he told us that he has begun a new game. He gave us both clues, each the name of a town and state and a time frame.”

“Go on.”

Nic wondered why Doug didn’t seem surprised. “There had been murders in each of the towns he named, and the time frame he gave us fit the time frame for each murder. Four days ago and four weeks ago.”

“So, instead of contacting me, you went with Griffin Powell to Ballinger and on to Stillwater. Want to tell me why?”

“Because Griff and I knew we needed some sort of proof that the murders were connected and that the local law had to get on board before—”

“You’re calling him Griff now, traveling on his private jet with him, partnering with him. I don’t like it, Special Agent Baxter.”

“Yes, sir. I’m not thrilled with the arrangement myself.”

“I want you to part company with Powell as soon as possible,” Doug told her. “Then I want you to hop a commercial jet to Atlanta. I want you to speak to a couple of detectives there. After I heard from Benny Willoughby this morning, I set some wheels into motion and discovered a really ugly trail of scalped female bodies hanging from tree limbs.”

A ripple of fear zipped through Nic’s nervous system as a sick feeling hit her in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it?” Griff asked, a concerned look on his face. “What’s going on?”

Nic shook her head and motioned for Griff to be quiet, then she asked Doug, “Are you saying there were others besides Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore?”

“Yeah. So far, we’ve discovered three other similar murders in three states—Georgia, Oklahoma, and Virginia. All three women were young—under thirty.”

“Virginia?”