The Chosen
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When he entered the intensive care waiting room, a twelve-by-fourteen-foot, windowless cubbyhole filled with a small group of bleary-eyed, rumpled men and women, he removed his leather gloves and stuffed them into his overcoat pocket. A few of the people in the room appeared to have slept on the two brown vinyl sofas and in the mismatched collection of uncomfortable-looking vinyl chairs. An assortment of small pillows and blankets of various sizes and colors lay scattered about haphazardly on the furniture and the floor.
Griff had no idea if Gale Ann Cain had a husband or siblings or parents besides her sister who might be here. The information Sanders had received had been sketchy, just a brief conversation with their government contact, an acquaintance of longstanding.
Pausing in the open doorway, Griff scanned the area. Several people turned and stared at him; just as many others, engrossed in their own tragedies, ignored him completely.
A woman sitting in the right back corner, deep in conversation with a lady who was sitting in a wheelchair, seemed to have sensed his presence. Her shoulders tensed. She sat up straight. After giving the other woman’s hand a gentle squeeze, she lifted her dark head and glanced over her shoulder.
Damn! He should have known she’d be here. The bane of his existence, the thorn in his side when it came to the Beauty Queen Killer case.
She rose from the chair to her full five-ten height and faced Griff. Frowning, her pale tan eyes narrowed and her nostrils slightly flared, Special Agent Nic Baxter walked toward him, her gaze never wavering.
He stepped out into the hallway and waited for her. If there was going to be a confrontation—and there always was whenever they shared the same space—it was better for the two of them to exchange insults out of earshot of other people. Especially people with loved ones in the ICU.
She followed him into the hall. They faced each other.
“You’re not glad to see me,” Griff said.
“I’m never glad to see you,” she replied.
“I noticed you were doing some hand-holding. Is she the sister of Gale Ann Cain or just a friend?”
“I can’t order you to leave, as much as I’d like to, but I can warn you not to interfere in my investigation.” She shook her finger in his face. “Sooner or later, I’ll find out who keeps tipping you off and when I do—”
“Why can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours that we’re on the same side?” Griff understood that federal agents could be territorial, that they often had to deal with inept local law enforcement and well-meaning civilians, but he was neither.
“And why can’t you get it through your thick skull that tracking and apprehending serial killers is the bureau’s job, not a game for some know-it-all private dick?”
Griff cocked one eyebrow and gave her a blistering glare. “Where’s Special Agent Jackson?”
When the corners of Nic’s mouth lifted ever so slightly in a hint of a smile, he knew he wasn’t going to like her answer. “Curtis retired last month. Didn’t your mole in D.C. tell you?”
Shit!
Special Agent Curtis Jackson had been in charge of the Beauty Queen Killer case from the very beginning, heading up the FBI task force. He had liked and respected Jackson. A guy in his late fifties, with years of experience and a macho attitude that matched Griff’s, Jackson and he had gotten along just fine, even though the guy never shared any info with him and had warned him repeatedly to keep his nose out of federal business. Griff kept a professional profiler on the Powell Agency payroll. But despite having a likely description of their culprit, they were no closer to apprehending this monster than they had been three years ago. He suspected it was the same for the FBI.
Nicole Baxter had come in on the case as a five-year veteran of the bureau, and although she’d graduated at the top of her class at Quantico, she’d had little field experience. From the moment they first met, she and Griff had mixed like oil and water. He didn’t like women who tried to prove that they were better at everything than men were. Maybe Special Agent Baxter wasn’t a die-hard feminist, but she came close enough to filling the bill.
“If Jackson retired, does that mean you’ve taken over the Beauty Queen Killer case?” Griff knew, but he had to ask.
She nodded. “That’s right. I’m heading up the task force now.”
“Is there any way we can bury the hatchet and work together?”
“Only if I can bury it in your back.”
Griff let out a quiet yet dramatic groan. “You’re not going to give an inch, are you, honey?” He tacked on the generic endearment because he knew it would piss her off.
She glowered at him. “I can be reasonable, honey.”
“You can’t prove it by me.” He shouldn’t have mouthed off, but couldn’t help himself. She brought out the worst in him and apparently he did the same for her.
“Keep insulting me and see where that gets you.”
“I guess I should apologize.”
“That would be nice.”
Damn, she actually expected him to grovel. “All right. I apologize.”
She flopped her hand across her heart. “How sincere.”
“It’s all you’re going to get. Take it or leave it.” Griffin Powell didn’t grovel. Not for anyone. Not ever again. He’d rather die first.
“Look, if you’re willing to acknowledge that this is my case, that I’m the one who calls the shots and makes the decisions, I won’t cut your balls off and hand them to you on a silver platter.”
Go to hell, bitch had been on the tip of his tongue. “In order to safeguard my balls, what do I have to do, sign an oath in blood that I’ll stay out of your way?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Believe me, Special Agent Baxter, I would never intentionally tempt you.”
Nic groaned. “Believe me, you have nothing to worry about on that count.”
He held out his hand, offering her a truce. “Let’s agree to disagree. I’ll stop hoping for cooperation from you, and you don’t put up any roadblocks in my path.”
She stared at his hand as if it were a poisonous snake, then reluctantly shook hands with him. A quick, let’s-get-this-over-with exchange.
“If you start interfering, our deal is off. Understand?”
He nodded. He understood all right; he just wasn’t sure how long he could play nice in the sandbox with this particular she-cat.
Seemingly satisfied, Nic nodded toward the ICU waiting area. “The woman in there is Barbara Jean Hughes. She’s Gale Ann Cain’s older sister and the one who found her only moments after she was attacked and left for dead.”
Griff’s gut instincts kicked into play. “Tell me that the sister caught a glimpse of our killer.”
“I might as well tell you since I can’t stop you from talking to Barbara Jean. And you are going to talk to her, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
Frowning, Nic said reluctantly, “When Barbara Jean was entering her sister’s apartment building over on Loretta Street, she saw a man in a trench coat and sunglasses coming down the stairway.”
“Can she describe him in more detail?”
“I think she can,” Nic said. “But she’s scared to death—for herself and her sister.”
“So, even if the sister dies, we’ve still got a possible witness.”
“You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Powell. You know that, don’t you?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“One other thing, Mr. Powell—we, as in you and I, don’t have anything. I gave you the info about Barbara Jean because you’d get it anyway. But that’s it. The sister is the bureau’s eyewitness. And it will be our responsibility to protect her, if that becomes necessary. Do I make myself clear?”
Griff grinned. “Crystal clear, honey.”
Nic groaned.
Chapter 3
The old hunting lodge looked deserted, as if it hadn’t been occupied in a decade or longer. Actually, the place hadn’t been used for its original purpose in well over fifteen years, not since Judge Judson Walker IV died. Judd had not enjoyed hunting as much as his ancestors had, instead preferring polo and tennis to killing for sport. He had turned the old lodge into a weekend getaway, and as a young bachelor had hosted numerous parties for his friends; but word had it that because his bride hated the great outdoors and roughing it in the woods, Judd had closed up the place during his brief marriage.
The road leading to the lodge had never been paved and was now little more than a winding path overgrown with snow-topped grass, weeds, and dead leaves. Towering trees surrounded the drive and the old lodge itself: Ancient hardwoods, worth their weight in gold to any lumber company, their limbs bare and coated with a thin layer of ice; huge cedars shimmering with a frozen glaze; pines tipped with small, glistening snowballs.
A two-story structure created out of native stone and brick, the hundred-year-old 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.
All those introspective 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 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.
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 was obvious by the tentative smile on Barbara Jean’s face that Griff’s charisma had affected her. What would be the point in warning her about Griffin?
“You’re right, I suppose.” Barbara Jean sighed heavily.
Griff squeezed her hand. “Of course I am.” He glanced at Nic. “Special Agent Baxter will speak to the nurse in charge of the ICU and make sure we are contacted if there’s any change in your sister’s condition.”
Gritting her teeth, Nic managed a fake smile as she nodded her head in agreement. “I’ll speak to the nurse right now.” She gave Griff a blistering stare. He just couldn’t help himself, could he? To him, taking charge came as naturally as breathing. In the past, the FBI had cautioned family members about cooperating with any private agency, including the Powell Agency, but legally, the bureau’s hands were tied.
At one-fifty in the afternoon, the cafeteria wasn’t crowded, so it was easy enough to find seating. Griff chose an isolated table in the back of the dining area and parked Barbara Jean’s wheelchair so that she was not near a window and her back was to a side wall. Nic understood his reasoning. If Gale Ann’s attacker had any idea that Barbara Jean had seen him and could possibly identify him, her life was in grave danger.
“Is there anything in particular you want to eat?” Griff asked as he laid his overcoat and silk scarf on an empty chair.
“Anything will be fine,” she replied.
Nic and Griff were able to go through the line rather quickly, getting coffee for themselves and a meal for Barbara Jean. No way was she leaving Gale Ann’s sister alone with him. Legally, she could not prevent him from talking to Barbara Jean or offering her his big broad shoulders to lean on; the best she could do was keep a close watch on the woman. Griff handed the cashier a hundred dollar bill. The biggest bill in Nic’s wallet was a twenty. The difference between being rich and simply having a good job.
After slipping the change into his wallet, Griff lifted the tray laden with a full meal, dessert, and three cups of coffee, and carried it to the back table where Barbara Jean waited for them. After removing the plates, silverware, and cups from the tray, he placed it on a nearby empty table, then he pulled out a chair and offered it to Nic. She forced another fake smile—God, her face was going to crack—and allowed him to assist her.
Charming. Gentlemanly. Infuriating son of a bitch.
Their gazes met for half a second, a confrontational exchange. Hostility simmered just below the surface, a reality neither of them could deny. Nic suspected that Griff disliked her as much as she did him, both professionally and personally.
Barbara Jean eyed the plate of food in front of her, then glanced over at Griff. “Everything looks delicious. Thank you.”
“Just eat what you can,” he told her, sympathy and understanding in his voice.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“It’s okay,” Nic said. “No one expects you to—”
“You have no idea what it was like.” Barbara Jean grasped Griff’s arm. “It was the most horrible thing imaginable, finding my sister like that. Her feet cut off. Blood everywhere.” Barbara Jean burst into tears.
Before Nic could say or do anything, Griff slid his chair closer to Barbara Jean’s wheelchair and draped his arm around her shoulders, offering her solace. She buried her face against his shoulder and wept.
Although Nic hated weepy females and had become determined at an early age to never become one, she couldn’t deny that Barbara Jean Hughes had every right and every reason to cry her head off. Good Lord, who wouldn’t have been devastated to find their sister mutilated and bleeding to death. It had been Barbara Jean’s quick thinking that had saved Gale Ann’s life.
After several minutes of sobbing, Barbara Jean lifted her head. “I’m sorry that I fell apart that way.”
Griff pulled a soft cotton, monogrammed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his tailor-made jacket. The man’s suit probably cost more than Nic made in a month, possibly a couple of months. He dabbed the expensive handkerchief under Barbara Jean’s eyes, then handed it to her.
“You must know that you saved your sister’s life,” Griff said as he lifted his arm from Barbara Jean’s shoulders.
“They don’t think she’ll live.” Barbara Jean clutched the handkerchief in her tight fist. “She lost so much blood before—” She gulped her sobs. “If I’d been able to get to her more quickly … if …”
“You can help her by helping us find the man who tried to kill her.” Griff’s voice had softened, taking on a seductive quality that set Nic’s teeth on edge.
“How—how can I do that?” Barbara Jean gulped.
“I understand that you caught a glimpse of a man leaving Gale Ann’s apartment building as you were arriving. Do you feel up to talking about that or would you rather wait until after you finish your lunch?”
Barbara Jean glanced at the fried chicken, creamed potatoes, and green beans on her plate, and Nic could almost hear the woman’s stomach churn. Her right hand shook as she reached for the coffee cup, so she had to use both hands to lift the hot liquid to her lips. After several sips, she sighed.
“Ms. Hughes, I must remind you that Mr. Powell is not affiliated with the FBI or any law enforcement agency,” Nic said, trying to keep her voice calm and friendly. “I must advise you that it isn’t in your sister’s best interest for you to discuss what happened with anyone other than—”
“Special Agent Baxter is right,” Griff said. “I’m a private detective, not a law enforcement officer. But one of my best friends lost a wife to the killer whom we suspect tried to murder your sister. I’ve been working on his behalf for nearly four years to try to find and stop this maniac.”
When Barbara Jean looked deeply into Griff’s eyes and offered him a trusting smile, Nic knew she had lost this particular battle.
“I know all the residents where Gale Ann lives,” Barbara Jean said. “There are only ten apartments in the building. Two are divorcées, like Gale Ann. Two are widows, one is an old bachelor, and the other four are young couples, but only two of the couples have children.”
“This man you saw, he wasn’t one of the residents?” Griff asked.
Barbara Jean shook her head.
“Could he have been a friend of one of the residents?” Nic inquired.
“I don’t know. But I do know that in the six years my sister has lived there, I’d never seen this man before.”
Nic opened her mouth to ask the all important question, but Griff beat her to the punch and asked pointedly, “Could you identify this man if you ever saw him again?”
Dead silence.
Nic gave Griff a heated glare.
“It’s all right,” Nic said. “If you can’t ID the man—”
“What if I can?” Barbara Jean’s gaze locked with Nic’s.
“Can you?” Griff asked.
“You think he’s the one who tried to kill Gale Ann, the one who cut off her feet?” Barbara Jean dropped her hands into her lap and entwined her fingers, trapping Griff’s handkerchief between her palms.
“Possibly,” Nic said.
“Does he know she didn’t die?”
Nic shook her head. “The local police issued a statement to the news media that Gale Ann Cain’s body had been discovered by her sister. Nothing more. But the hospital staff could let something slip, although they’ve been warned to be careful. And there are reporters trying to get to you to find out more details. But I or another agent will be with you twenty-four-seven. There is an agent posted at the hospital, outside the nurses’ entrance to the ICU, to protect your sister.”