BEVERLY BARTON - The Chosen

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 specialty items.

If only he knew what was going on, exactly how the Williams town police were handling Gale Ann’s case, he would sleep better tonight.

Ruddy 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 it. 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.

Ruddy 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 Agent Nicole Baxter with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m working with the local police department on this case. I need to question Ms. Cain as soon as possible. I spoke to your supervisor, Ms. Canton, less than an hour ago and—”

Frowning, Nurse Huff nodded. “Ms. Canton is involved in an emergency with another patient, but I’ll speak to Dr. Clark. However, I don’t think it will matter.”

“What do you mean?” Griff asked. “Why won’t it matter?”

Nurse Huff cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She nodded toward the closed door leading to the waiting area. “You two need to go back outside, please. We’ve been instructed to contact Police Chief Mahoney. If you have any further questions, please direct them to him.”

Griff sensed Nic’s heels digging in, and suspected she didn’t appreciate the local law not instructing the hospital staff that the bureau—meaning Special Agent Baxter—was in charge of this case.

Griff grasped Nic’s arm gently and urged her into movement, effectively leading her back through the waiting room and into the hallway. When they were out of earshot of the ICU families, she yanked free and faced him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nic glowered at him.

“Saving you from throwing a very unbecoming hissy fit,” Griff said. “You know you really should work on trying to control that hair-trigger temper of yours. It’s a bad habit, especially in a federal agent.”

Nic huffed. Her nostrils flared. For a minute there, Griff halfway expected her to snort and bellow and for steam to shoot out of her ears. Instead, she breathed deeply, swallowed hard, and blew out an aggravated breath.

“First of all, you are not my keeper,” she told him. “And secondly, I was not about to throw a hissy fit.”

“Are you saying you’re not upset that the local police chief didn’t inform the hospital staff that you’re in charge?”

“I’m working with the local police department. This is their case as well as mine. You’re acting as if I’m some rookie agent who doesn’t know how to—”

“Special Agent Baxter,” a female voice called.

Nic and Griff glanced at the doorway to the ICU waiting room. Nurse Huff walked toward them, a concerned expression on her face.

“Ms. Hughes is asking for both of you, and Dr. Clark has given permission for the two of you to join her in Ms. Cain’s room.”

“Has something happened?” Nic asked.

“I believe Ms. Cain is trying to communicate with her sister and is becoming highly agitated.” Nurse Huff shook her head. “I’m afraid that if she doesn’t calm down, we’ll have to restrain her.”

Anxious for them to see Gale Ann Cain before it was too late, Griff barely managed to stop himself from grasping Nic’s arm again and rushing her into the intensive care unit. But as it turned out, he didn’t need to. Nic all but ran through the waiting area, urging Nurse Huff to keep up with her.

In less than an hour, it would be dark. The days were getting a bit longer in mid-February, but with an overcast sky, night would fall early today. Lindsay was thankful that it wasn’t raining or snowing, although either was a possibility before morning. They had driven straight from the Walker hunting lodge, not stopping for lunch, and were now almost to the Kentucky state line. Highway 127 would take them straight through Monticello and with only one turn onto a county road, they’d be in Williamstown no later than six o’clock this evening.

“I’ll have to stop soon and get gas,” Lindsay said to the somber man sitting rigidly in the passenger seat. “I’m going to pick up a burger and a Coke after I use the restroom.”

“Stop at a mini-mart,” Judd said. “I’ll pump the gas. You go in and get the food. We can eat on the way.”

“Sure. That suits me.”

“Griff will call if the woman dies, won’t he?”

Lindsay gripped the steering wheel tightly. “He’ll call if he has any news—good or bad.”

“Hmm …”

In the three hours they had been on the road, neither had spoken more than a few words now and then, maintaining a palpable silence, as tangible as the heavy fog that lay ahead. Damn! That’s all they needed, a thick fog slowing their progress.

“By the way, how is Griffin these days?” Judd asked.

Totally surprised by the question, Lindsay snapped her head around and stared at Judd.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” he told her.

She refocused on the highway. “Why are you asking about Griff? You don’t really care, do you?”