The Watcher

“When?” Griff asked.

“I’ll give you a clue—Stillwater, Texas. Four weeks ago.”

Before Griff could respond, he heard dead silence at the other end of the line. His caller had hung up, effectively ending their conversation.

As lightning streaked the sky and rumbles of thunder echoed through the mountains, Nic sat curled in the chair-and-a-half in the corner of the cabin’s wood-paneled living room. The paperback she’d been reading lay open in her lap as she struggled to stay awake. If not for the occasional booms of thunder, she’d probably be snoring right now.

Suddenly a vicious crackle of lightning hit somewhere nearby and startled Nic from her semiasleep state. Mercy! That was close. She shifted in the chair, accidentally dumping the book and the lightweight cotton throw she’d wrapped around her bare legs onto the floor. A gentle surge of cold air coming from the nearby floor vent wafted across Nic and created tiny goose bumps on her bare legs and arms.

Just as she reached down to pick up the book and the throw, she heard her cell phone ring. Why hadn’t she just turned off the damn thing? Since she was officially on vacation, the call wouldn’t be work-related. That meant it was personal. So it was probably her mother, her brother, or her cousin Claire.

If it was her mother, she’d call back. She always did. She would call and call and call until Nic responded.

If it was her brother, he’d leave a message and she would return his call. She and Charles David had been close all their lives and despite the fact that they lived three thousand miles apart—he in San Francisco and she in Woodbridge, Virginia—they spoke often and visited at least once a year.

Kicking aside the cotton throw at her feet, Nic got up and walked across the room to where she’d deposited her purse, key chain, and cell phone last night.

She picked up the phone, checked the caller ID, and realized she didn’t recognize the number. Not that many people had her cell number, so unless it was a wrong number …

She flipped opened the phone. “Hello, you’ve reached Nicole Baxter’s—”

“Hello, Nicole Baxter. How very nice to hear your lovely voice.”

“Who is this?”

“A man who admires you for your beauty and your brains.”

“How did you get my cell number?”

“I have my ways.”

“I’m going to hang up. Don’t ever call me again.”

“Don’t hang up. Not yet. Not before I tell you the good news.” He paused for effect. “There’s a new game afoot.”

Nic’s heartbeat went wild. “What did you say?”

Laughter. Sinister and chilling.

A shiver of foreboding tiptoed rapidly up Nic’s spine.

“Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t hang up?”

“What kind of game?” Nic asked, all the while knowing the answer. Fearing the answer.

“What do only you and I and Griffin Powell know about the Beauty Queen Killer?”

Nic barely managed to stifle her gasp. “Cary Maygarden did not act alone. There were actually two killers.”

“Very astute of you, my dear Nicole. Now, I’m going to allow you and Griffin to play my new game with me. And here’s your first clue—Ballinger, Arkansas. Yesterday.”

“What kind of clue is that?”

Silence.

The son of a bitch had hung up on her.

Nic flipped her phone closed, curled her fingers around it, and clutched it tightly.

My new game.

Damn it. Did this mean he planned to start a new killing spree? After five years and more than thirty murders, Cary Maygarden had been shot in the head and stopped forever. After his death last year, Nic had tried her best to convince the powers-that-be at the bureau to investigate further, but without any real proof that there had been two Beauty Queen Killers instead of just one, the case had been closed and her concerns had been put on the back burner.

During the past year, she had moved on to other cases. Unfortunately, a nagging certainty lingered in the back of her mind, a certainty she shared with only one other person. They both believed that Cary Maygarden had worked with a partner in a series of murders in which each death represented a certain number of points and at the end of the game, the loser lost not only the game but also his life.

Nic paced the floor. The last person on earth she wanted to see ever again was Griffin Powell. The billionaire playboy owner of Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency was a swaggering, macho asshole. And because Griff was the only other person who believed as she did, Nic now realized that fate had a really warped sense of humor.

She would rather eat glass than contact Griff, but her gut instincts told her that this guy—whoever the hell he was—knew that she and Griff believed in his existence. So, the odds were he either had or would call Griff.

Suck it up and do what you have to do.

Damn it, had she kept Griffin Powell’s cell number on her list or had she, after the Beauty Queen Killer case had been closed, deleted it?

She flipped open her phone and scanned her personal phone book. His number was still there. Why she didn’t know. She should have deleted it last year.

Hesitating for a moment, she glanced outside as the summertime storm washed across the mountainside. High winds and a torrential downpour. But no more thunder and lightning.

Stop procrastinating. Call him. Do it now.

Nic hit CALL and waited as the phone rang.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite FBI agent calling.” Griffin Powell’s voice was a deep, gravelly baritone and sandpaper rough.

“Did he call you?”

“Did who call me?”

“Stop jerking me around and just tell me. Did he or did he not call you?”

“He did. Not five minutes ago. When did he call you?” Griff asked.

Nic swallowed hard. “Just now.”

“We were right.”

“Yeah, I know, but I wish we’d been wrong.”

“Did he tell you that he’s already begun playing his new game?”