BEVERLY BARTON - The Watcher

Cam and Griff laughed out loud.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Griff said.

“He’s pussy-whipped,” Cam joked.

“Sure am,” Judd told them. “And damn proud of it.”

Griff knew that if any man on earth was devoted to his wife, Judd was. And he didn’t blame him. If a woman ever loved him the way Lindsay loved Judd …

There had been a time when they had exchanged girlfriends, had passed them around, and none of the women had objected in the least. As a matter of fact, Judd, Cam, and he had speculated that the ladies they dated were probably keeping score, comparing each man to the other two and sharing their preferences with one another. When Jennifer Mobley entered their lives, they had vied for her affection, each of them dating her in turn. Judd had won that particular prize. He’d fallen head over heels for Jenny. They were still newlyweds when Jenny had become one of the Beauty Queen Killer’s victims. That had been more than five years

ago.

And lucky son of a bitch that he was, Judd had found the right woman for a second time.

Griff figured that sooner or later, Cam would succumb to love. When he least expected it, the right woman would come along and knock his socks off.

But Griff didn’t expect to ever marry or father a child. He had far too much baggage to bring into any relationship. A past that no woman would understand. Demons plagued him. Soul-deep demons, from which he could never escape.

Nicole Baxter sprawled leisurely on the rustic wooden chaise lounge with thickly padded cushions in a hideous floral print. The day was hot, the breeze slightly humid, the air heavy. She lifted the large glass from the deck floor up to her lips and sipped the sweet tea. As she glanced high overhead and saw an eagle in flight, she rubbed the cool glass across one cheek and then the other. Nearby the soft trickle of a small stream drummed melodically in her ears and the rustle of the moist air through the towering treetops reminded her that the weather forecasters had mentioned an afternoon rainstorm.

If it rained, she’d go inside the rental cabin, choose one of the half dozen paperbacks she had brought, then curl up on the sofa and read. If it didn’t rain, she’d probably change clothes and go hiking.

Glancing down at her seen-better-days shorts, oversize cotton T-shirt, and bare feet, she sighed. Maybe she wouldn’t go anywhere. Maybe she’d sit right here for the next four or five hours, drinking tea, napping, trying her best to get the rest and relaxation her boss had told her she needed.

Maybe Doug was right. Maybe she’d become so consumed with her two-killer theory that she wasn’t thinking straight. And an agent who couldn’t think straight couldn’t do her job.

Besides that, she hadn’t taken a vacation in years, not since Greg died and she’d thrown herself into her work. Work had saved her sanity when she lost her husband. Work had become her passion, her only passion.

Hell, who was she kidding? From the day she’d been recruited by the FBI, a green kid fresh out of college, she’d been consumed with proving herself, showing everyone that a woman could be the best. The very best.

And, yeah, maybe her attitude had a great deal to do with her male chauvinist father.

Damn it, Nic, let it go. You came to terms with your father’s overbearing influence a long time ago. Don’t rehash the past. It serves no purpose.

Six months of grief counseling had done more than help her deal with Greg’s death—it had made her open up to a therapist about her life in general, especially the formative years that had created Nicole Baxter, the real woman, the woman few people ever truly knew. To be honest, there were times when she wasn’t sure even she knew who she was.

“Take two weeks off.” Doug Trotter, one of the Special Agent’s in Charge at the D.C. field office where she worked, hadn’t given her much choice.

“I’ll go nuts,” she’d replied.

“Give it a try. Go somewhere fun. Go to the beach. Put on a bikini. Flirt with beach boys. Get drunk and get laid.”

If she and her boss hadn’t been good friends as well as colleagues, he never would have added that final comment.

“I’ll take two weeks off,” she’d told him. “But I’m not into boys. If I’m going to get laid, I want a man doing the

job.”

Doug had laughed.

So, here she was in a rental cabin in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. She had arrived last night. Slept like the dead. Ate a big breakfast she’d cooked herself. Soaked in the hot tub for twenty minutes, then showered and thrown on some old, comfy clothes.

Day One in her first week of R&R and she was bored out of her mind.

Pudge exited off Interstate 49, took a right turn at the end of the ramp, and went in search of Catfish Haven, which was advertised on the FOOD AND LODGING sign. There it was, up ahead on the left. The restaurant was housed in a new building, constructed of old lumber to give it that aged quality, and possessed a rustic metal roof, a sprawling front porch, and a large parking lot half-filled with vehicles.

Pudge eased his rental car into a slot near the entrance. Good parking karma. He smiled. The gods were looking down on him today.

Before he went inside and dined on the local cuisine, he had two phone calls to make. Thinking about a solution to his problem as he’d been driving, he had come up with a brilliant idea. Just the thought of it excited him.

He didn’t need a partner in crime in order to have a competitor. All he needed was an adversary. Someone with whom he could share certain aspects of his planning, execution, and subsequent triumph. Someone intelligent. Someone who would have no choice but to play the game with him. What fun it would be to outsmart that person, to stay one step ahead of him or her.

Leaving the motor running so that the air conditioner would keep him cool—Pudge hated to be uncomfortable— he opened the glove compartment and removed one of the four prepaid phones he had placed there before leaving for Arkansas three days ago.

He had both cell numbers memorized, of course.

Which to call first? Hmm …

Save the best for last.

As he tapped the first number into the cell phone, he imagined the look on the man’s face the moment he realized there was a new game under way.

Griff had forgotten to put his phone on vibrate, so when it rang during dinner, he apologized to the others and excused himself. While everyone continued their meal that was spread out on the two tables near the pool in Lindsay and Judd’s backyard, Griff walked around the side of the house and found some shade under a couple of massive old oak trees.

Even though he didn’t recognize the caller’s number, he answered on the fifth ring. Only a handful of people had his private number.

“Powell here.”

“Hello, Griffin Powell. How are you today?”

Griff didn’t recognize the voice. Clearly not disguised. Southern accent. A tenor voice, bordering on alto, soft and slightly high-pitched for a man. But it was definitely male.

“Who is this and how did you get my number?”

Laughter. “There’s a new game afoot.”

“What did you say?”

“Does Mrs. Powell’s little boy want to come out and play?”

Griff’s muscles tightened as he gripped the phone. A rush of pure adrenaline raced through his system.

“That depends on the game,” Griff said.

“Tell me what you and I know about the Beauty Queen Killer that others don’t know and I’ll tell you a little something about my new game.”

Griff’s heartbeat accelerated. Goddamn! Was this guy for real?

“Cary Maygarden had a partner,” Griff replied.

More laughter. “Very good, Griffin. Very good indeed.”