Debra Webb - Dying To Play

Agent Callahan had not been victorious two years ago, as he so arrogantly thought. The Gamekeeper had been the triumphant one in the end. He gritted his teeth against the bad thoughts. Held them at bay. It wasn’t time. Not yet. The pain had been almost unbearable. Weeks of agony had followed that fateful night. The tremendous mental anguish that had accompanied the immense pain had been cleansing and at the same time intoxicating. He’d loved it. Baptized himself in it and was reborn.

The Gamekeeper closed his eyes and relished the triumph of rising again. Just like Christ himself. No mere man could keep the Gamekeeper down.

Certainly not Agent Trace Callahan.

He was right where the Gamekeeper wanted him. He felt giddy with the knowledge that the plan had worked so quickly. The danger of getting closer and closer, drawing his enemy deeper into the game, made each calculated move all the more thrilling.

It wasn’t about increasing his body count…never had been. It was the danger that sent adrenaline pumping through him…that turned him on. Oh, he did love the game.

And it was only going to get better.

Because no one was as smart as he was. No one else had the game.

Only he was genius enough to have created such a flawless masterpiece that conquered the final frontier—the mind. No one had gone this far before.

He remembered as a child the batteries of intelligence tests, the psychoanalyzing. He was a genius, and most certainly not from the gene pool of the obsequious pair who’d adopted him at the tender young age of two.

What had all the pathetic adults in his childhood expected? He’d been far smarter and more capable than any of them. None had recognized the full extent of his genius…the potential of his abilities. Instead they’d feared him. Put him on medication, treated him like a freak.

But he’d made a special game for all of them. They had thought they were so smart…so invincible.

No one was as smart or as invincible as the Gamekeeper.

Not Agent Callahan. Or his new partner, the lovely Deputy Chief Jentzen.

Hmm. This was just like old times. They were both much more vulnerable than they knew. They had no idea just how vulnerable.

Because no one could beat the Gamekeeper at his own game.

So many had tried.

All had failed.

No one would ever catch him…not in a million years. He was too perfect…too smart. Too invisible.

The Gamekeeper leaned forward and began typing words into the chat box on the computer screen.

Time to play.

That night when she arrived home, Elaine dragged herself from her Jeep to her front door. Sally, tail wagging, waited for her just inside. Elaine was totally wiped out. She and Callahan had spent hours going over Matthews’s and Tate’s backgrounds—work history, friends, relatives, finances, marital standing—looking for any kind of motivation for the events that had taken place that morning.

They’d found nothing.

Locking the door behind her, she bent down to scratch her big girl behind the ears. Elaine was exhausted physically and mentally, but not so exhausted that she couldn’t force herself to muddle through her nightly rituals. Her companion depended upon her. Other than the afternoon walks Allen, the teenager next door, gave Sally, the nightly run was her only outdoor fun.

Elaine changed into running shorts and shoes and a T. She owed this to herself as well as Sally. She needed to burn off some of the day’s frustrations.

Nearly an hour later the twosome bounded back into the house. Elaine had managed to keep anything other than the case off her mind during the run. But now, as her heart slowed to a normal rhythm, Dr. Bramm’s words haunted her once more, joining the images of Brad Matthews and Harold Tate, the security guard and the four women from last week’s mass murder already churning in her head. She stripped off her clothes and climbed into the shower, her favorite wine cooler in hand. She didn’t want to think anymore. She pressed her hand to her stomach and braced for the burn as she took a long sip from the cold bottle. Grimacing, she chased it with another, then another after that.

Slowly, as the hot water and the alcohol did their work, the brutal images drained away. No more dead bodies…no more empty cradles.

Elaine closed her eyes to a blessedly emptied mind.

That serenity lasted about four seconds. Trace Callahan abruptly filled the space. She chugged down the last of her wine cooler and turned her face up to the hot spray, but it was no use. He wouldn’t go away.

He disagreed with every conclusion she reached, or scenario she offered. He would not give up on his theory that the two multiple homicides were connected with a serial killer who’d terrorized D.C. two years ago. The Gamekeeper.

He made her want to scream or swear, or maybe even tear out her hair. She set her empty bottle aside and made fast work of washing her hair and body. How would she ever conduct this investigation if he refused to listen to reason?

She twisted the control, shutting off the shower and stepped out onto the fuzzy pink mat. Nothing about this investigation was really under her control and she hated it.

She hated him.

Clutching the towel to her chest, Elaine sighed. Well maybe she didn’t actually hate him. It was his attitude…that aloof, male mentality that she couldn’t tolerate. She wanted to hit him. Especially after that incredible grin he’d flashed her in the car. Her heart had all but leaped from her chest. She despised that he could make her react that way.

She shivered.

She hated him, all right.

But then there was that vulnerable side of him. Her fingers stilled in their work of tucking the towel around her. She’d seen it when he lingered outside the bank, as if coming inside was more than he could do at that moment. He’d looked pale and shaky, afraid. She shook her head. That just didn’t mesh with the rest of the vibes he emanated. For the most part he oozed a laid-back, good-old-boy charm, as if he was in no hurry about anything. But that wasn’t the case at all.

Trace Callahan was smart and as eagle-eyed as they came. He didn’t miss anything. His attention to detail and powers of perception amazed her—even if he was wrong in his conclusions.

What was worse, she thought with utter disdain, was the package. Why was it that with good-looking men the elevator either didn’t go all the way to the top or they were know-it-alls and brooding? Or gay?

Men. They were just too hard to figure out.

Elaine blow-dried her hair then pulled on her favorite one-size-fits-all Braves nightshirt. She would simply have to learn to live with her new partner, at least for a little while. She’d conduct this investigation like any other, he would either be with her or against her. She wasn’t going to worry about it.

Screw his attitude. She ran a brush through her hair and stared at her reflection. The realization that she would probably never have children, that she might even be facing serious health problems suddenly flooded her all over again.

Why hadn’t she asked more questions? The doctor had said that the disease sometimes spread to other organs. Her heart lurched at the implication. Could she die from this? She should have asked him for more complete details. But Henshaw had called and she’d had to leave abruptly. Surely she wasn’t going to die. He’d said the specialist would explain the possible effects on her future.

One had to be alive to have a future.

But what kind of future? Nothing would ever be the same again, that much she was certain of. She was damaged goods now, just like her new partner. Who would want to marry a woman incapable of bearing children? She thought of her gang of nieces and nephews and the pleasure having them in her life gave her. She might never know how it felt to hold her own child in her arms…