The Dying Game by Beverly Barton Read Free Book Online Page B

Her gut tightened. She knew before she heard Special Agent Randall’s voice that he was calling with news about Gale Ann Cain’s condition.
    “Baxter here,” she said.
    “Get the sister up here pronto,” Jeff Randall said. “Gale Ann Cain has regained consciousness.”
     
     
    Lindsay’s gaze traveled up the stairs and caught sight of the man’s jean-clad legs. Long, lean legs. Faded, dirty jeans. Inch-by-inch, the rest of his body came into view as he trudged down the steps like a slug crawling along the ground. He wore a tattered, plaid flannel shirt over a dingy thermal undershirt. When she saw his face, she gasped. At first glance, she barely recognized Judd, and wouldn’t have known who he was except for his pale amber eyes, eyes as lifeless as the world outside. Winter dead. His tawny brown hair hung almost to his shoulders, and a heavy beard obscured his handsome face.
    “You look like hell.” She said the first thing that came to her mind.
    He stopped when he reached the foot of the stairs. “Did I hear you right—the latest victim didn’t die, she’s still alive?”
    “That’s right.”
    “What did he do to her?”
    Lindsay hesitated. “He chopped off her feet.”
    Judd didn’t flinch. And why should he? It wasn’t as if he were actually capable of feeling any human emotion, other than his thirst for revenge.
    “Where is she?”
    “A county hospital in Williamstown, Kentucky.”
    “Is Griff—?”
    “He flew up there immediately.”
    “And he sent you to tell me the good news.” Judd walked past her and straight to the coffeemaker. After lifting the pot, he asked, “Want some?”
    “Yeah, sure.” She turned and faced him.
    He removed another cup from the overhead cabinet, poured both cups full, and held one out to her. She went over, took the cup from him, and lifted it to her lips. The brew was strong and bitter. She suspected it had been sitting on the warmer for quite some time. Possibly since early morning.
    “Can she identify her attacker?” Judd asked.
    “I don’t know. We were told that she lapsed into a semi-coma in Recovery, shortly after regaining consciousness for a few minutes following her surgery.”
    “She probably won’t come out of the coma.”
    “She might.”
    “Wishful thinking isn’t worth a damn.” Judd pulled out a chair from the table, set down his coffee cup, and slumped into the chair.
    Standing behind him, Lindsay watched as he sipped the black-tar coffee. Judd Walker, multimillionaire, former playboy, former distinguished and respected lawyer, looked like a homeless bum. God in heaven, his long hair was dirty, greasy, and matted, as if it hadn’t been washed or combed in weeks.
    Lindsay walked over to the other side of the table so that she stood directly in front of him. “If you want to go to Kentucky—”
    His vicious laughter chilled her to the bone. “Is that why Griff sent you this time? He thought you could persuade me to give a damn?”
    “He sent me because he thought you’d want to know that this could be our first real break. He actually thought you might still want to see your wife’s murderer brought to justice.”
    Judd’s mocking smile vanished. “What I want is to have five minutes alone with him. Just five minutes.”
    “I doubt you’ll ever get that chance,” Lindsay said. “But if he’s captured and then convicted, I’m sure it can be arranged for you to be there when he’s executed.”
    “It won’t be quite the same if I can’t do the job myself.” Judd downed the remainder of the liquid sludge he called coffee. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve pictured this monster in my mind? I never see a face, only his hands holding a meat cleaver and chopping, chopping…chopping. And then suddenly he’s not the one with the cleaver. I am. And I’m the one doing the chopping. I’m chopping him into a hundred little pieces.”
    Judd repeatedly pounded the table with his big fist. Over and over again. The