over her insultingly. “Are you sure you didn’t come back for a repeat performance?”
She felt the heat as it rose up her neck and flushed her cheeks. An involuntary reaction that she could not control. Pink-cheeked embarrassment. The curse of blondes with fair skin.
Don’t tell him what you think of him. Do not give him the satisfaction of knowing what happened between the two of you the last time you saw each other devastated you. You’ve worked through it, have come to terms with the humiliation, convinced yourself that you never actually loved Judd.
“I’m heading back to Knoxville. I’ll call Griff and tell him you no longer have any interest in the Beauty Queen Killer.” Lindsay turned and headed out of the kitchen.
“Wait!”
Keeping her back to him, she paused.
“If she doesn’t die…if she can give Griff a description…let me know. Okay?”
“I’ll pass along the message.”
“You hate me now, don’t you?”
He’s still playing you. Never forget that you cannot trust Judd. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, for me to hate you?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry, but no, I don’t hate you. I feel sorry for you.”
She walked straight down the hall and to the side door leading to the porch.
“Lindsay!”
She opened the door and went outside, increasing her pace, wanting nothing more than to get away, to escape from this place and the man who still had the power to rip out her heart. A part of her did hate Judd, hated him as much as she loved him. And yes, damn it, she did love him. She probably always would. The heart wants what the heart wants, even if it wants something cruel and destructive.
After sitting down on the soft, gray leather seat inside her Trailblazer, she closed her eyes and willed herself under control. No tears. Not one. She had cried her last tear over Judd Walker. As far as she was concerned, he could rot in hell.
She made a quick call to Sanders for an update on the situation in Kentucky and was told she needed to contact Griff before bringing Judd to Williamstown. No point now. She inserted the key into the ignition and started the engine, then made the mistake of glancing through the side window at the lodge.
Judd stood on the front porch. Watching her.
Crap!
She hit the button to lower the window and called out to him. “Gale Ann Cain’s sister discovered her in time to keep her alive until the paramedics arrived. The sister caught a glimpse of a man in a trench coat and sunglasses leaving the apartment building just as she arrived. He could have been our Beauty Queen Killer.”
When Judd came down the steps, Lindsay’s pulse raced. He walked over to the car and leaned down so that they were eye to eye.
He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stared right at her. As she reached for the electronic button to roll up the window, Judd said, “If you’ll give me thirty minutes, I’ll clean up before we head out for Kentucky.”
Lindsay realized that somewhere buried deep inside him, Judd still felt something. Even if it were nothing more than an undying thirst for revenge, that was an emotion, wasn’t it?
“All right. You go ahead. I’ll phone Griff, get an update, and tell him we’re on our way.”
Pinkie was beginning to worry. He had neither read nor heard anything new about the murder in Williamstown, Kentucky—not in local or national press coverage. A few hours after the paramedics arrived on the scene, a spokesman for the Williamstown Police Department had issued a statement that a young woman, a former Miss USA named Gale Ann Cain, had been brutally attacked and her body discovered by her sister, who had immediately called 911. That had been over forty-eight hours ago. Why hadn’t the local law enforcement called in the FBI? Surely they knew that Gale Ann’s death could be attributed to the Beauty Queen Killer. Wasn’t his signature all over the murder scene? The victim had once won a beauty contest. Her talent in the contest had been lyrical dance, so he had cut off her feet. She was a redhead, so he had left behind a yellow rose. He had used the same nylon rope to bind her hands as he always used. Were the local yokels too stupid to recognize the work of a genius?
Many criminals returned to the scene of their crime. Not Pinkie. He was far too smart to do something so stupid. But unless he could somehow find out what was going on in the Gale Ann Cain murder case, he might have no choice but to make a trip back to Williamstown. He could always come up with some legitimate reason to visit. To purchase a horse. To visit an antique mall where he would buy something outrageously expensive. Or he could simply be driving through on his way to somewhere else. Or he could simply wear a disguise and use a fake ID.
He had tried his best to dismiss a disturbing thought, one that had plagued him since the evening he had killed Gale Ann. Just as he was leaving the apartment building using the stairs, he had noticed that a woman in a wheelchair was entering through the front door. Had she seen him? Probably not. After all, she’d been concentrating on maneuvering her wheelchair so that she could hold the door open long enough to move inside.
But what if she did see me?
So, what if she had seen him? What exactly had she seen? A man in a trench coat, hat, and sunglasses. It wasn’t as if she’d seen his face and could identify him. And the clothing he wore that night had been properly disposed of, burned in the old furnace in the basement. The items he wore when he executed a game plan were inexpensive, off-the-rack items that he picked up at various chain stores. He wasn’t fool enough actually to wear many of his personal tailor-made clothing or speciality items.
If only he knew what was going on, exactly how the Williamstown police were handling Gale Ann’s case, he would sleep better tonight.
Pinkie removed a key from his pocket, bent over, and unlocked the bottom desk drawer where he kept a supply of disposable paid-in-advance phones. He slipped one of the phones into his jacket, locked the drawer, and pocketed the key.
He would take the Bentley out this afternoon and go for a nice long drive. Maybe a few counties over. He’d contact the Williamstown police, the newspaper, and TV station and inquire about Gale Ann’s murder. If he couldn’t find out anything, he’d have no choice but to rent a car, using an assumed name and fake ID and drive to Williamstown to personally check on the situation.
“I’m a distant cousin and haven’t been able to reach anyone in the family.” That’s what he’d say. Now, what was Gale Ann’s maiden name? He always did research on his victims, learning as much as possible about them before he made his meticulous plans.
Hughes! That was Gale Ann’s maiden name. Her parents were dead. She had one sister—never married—named Barbara Jean. She had no children, and she’d been divorced for over six years.
Pinkie had learned at an early age—when he was enduring his father’s cruel temper tantrums—to listen to his gut instincts. Those unerring instincts had saved him from more than one beating by the old man, and had allowed him to rack up a whopping score of two hundred and fifteen points in the marvelously macabre game he referred to as “Picking the Pretty Flowers.”
He should listen to his instincts now.
Something was off about this latest kill. There was a problem. He didn’t know what it was, but he intended to find out.
When Griff, Nic, and Barbara Jean arrived back at the ICU waiting area, they were whisked into the inner sanctum. A nurse whose name badge read Huff stopped Nic and Griff, while another wheeled Barbara Jean down a row of cubicles and directly to the one in which her sister lay fighting for her life.
“What’s going on?” Nic asked.
“Excuse me, are you a relative?” Nurse Huff asked.
“Neither of us are relatives,” Nic replied as she whipped out her FBI badge and ID. “I’m Special