BEVERLY BARTON - The Chosen

“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.”

“If this man knew I could identify him, he’d come after me, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, he might,” Nic admitted.

“But we are not going to let anything happen to you,” Griff told her. “Between the FBI and the Powell Agency, you’ll be protected at all times.”

Barbara Jean didn’t say anything for several minutes, her mind obviously absorbing all the information and mulling over her choices. “I don’t think I could identify him if I saw him again.”

Nic groaned inwardly. She had been afraid of that. Either Barbara Jean really couldn’t ID the guy or she was so scared that she had convinced herself she couldn’t ID him.

“Could you describe him to us?” Griff asked.

“I already told Special Agent Baxter—”

“Call me Nic, please.” Two could play the “let’s be friends” game.

“I told Nic—” she offered Nic a fragile smile— “that as I was going in the front door of the apartment building—I always use the elevator since Gale Ann’s apartment is on the second floor—that I saw a man in a tan trench coat coming down the stairs. He had on a hat and wore sunglasses. I didn’t see his eyes. I think his hair was brown, but I can’t be sure. He was walking pretty fast, as if he was in a hurry.”

“Did he see you?” Griff asked.

“I don’t know. I—I don’t think so. He never looked my way. And I was already inside the elevator by the time he reached the sidewalk.”

Nic’s cell phone rang. 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.

“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 semicoma 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?”