BEVERLY BARTON - The Chosen

“Griff’s an old friend. Why shouldn’t I ask about him?”

“Griff’s Griff,” she said. “He’s fine.”

“You two having sex yet?”

Lindsay clenched her teeth. So that’s what it’s all about— Judd just wanted to needle her.

“That’s none of your business,” she said.

“I could give him a few pointers, if you want me to. I could tell him what you like, what turns you on, what—”

“You can shut the hell up!”

Judd chuckled. A mirthless, cold chills-up-the-spine laugh.

“You’re a real bastard, you know that, don’t you.”

“What’s the matter, darlin’? Haven’t you told Griff about us?”

“There is no us.”

“There almost was. You were willing.”

She’d been willing all right. God help her, she’d been more than willing. She’d been eager. She had fallen in love with Judd in those first few months after his wife’s murder when she and her CPD partner Dan Blake had seen Judd on a regular basis. Dan had tried to warn her not to become personally involved. If only she had been able to take his advice. But ever since she’d been a kid, she had been the one who brought home stray dogs and cats, nursed wounded birds, and stood up to bullies in defense of those they harassed.

Her father had told her that she had a tender heart, just like her mother. She couldn’t bear to see anyone—human or animal—in pain.

And Judd Walker had been in torment. Day by day she had watched him as he mourned his wife, as he became more and more withdrawn, as the anger—the pure rage—inside him had devoured him.

Her heart had ached for him. Her stupid bleeding heart.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Judd said. “Thinking about that night?”

“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was actually thinking about those first few months after Jennifer was murdered, and Dan and I worked so hard to try to find her killer.”

“And here we are nearly four years and numerous beauty queen murders later, and Jenny’s killer is still out there chopping off hands and feet, arms and legs, slitting throats… destroying lives.”

“He’ll be caught and punished,” Lindsay said. “Griff and I made you a promise that we intend to keep. And Nic Baxter isn’t going to give up until she catches this guy. She’s as determined as Griff and I and—”

“And me?”

“Are you still determined, Judd? Do you still actually care?”

“I don’t care about anything. You of all people should know that.”

“But you want to see Jennifer’s killer punished, don’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s the only thing I do want. My one thought, my single reason for living is the hope that one day I can kill him myself.”

“And if that actually happened, if you could kill him yourself … hack off his hands, his feet, his arms and legs, chop him into little pieces—what then?”

“Are you asking me if I’d be at peace then?”

“No. I’m asking what then, when your single reason for living is gone?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “And I really don’t care.”

But I care. Damn you, Judd, I care .

Dr. Clark met them at the entrance to Gale Ann Cain’s cubicle and motioned them to step back a few feet. Once he had them alone, he glanced from one to the other.

“Ms. Cain remains in critical condition,” the doctor said. “Her chances of survival are not good. She’s trying to talk, trying to tell her sister something, and has indicated she wants to speak. We’ve explained to her that we cannot take her off the ventilator at this point. She’s highly agitated and if she doesn’t calm down soon, we’ll have no choice but to restrain her and sedate her. Her sister, Ms. Hughes, asked that you two be allowed to see Ms. Cain, while she’s conscious. She hopes one of you might be able to help her decipher her sister’s sign language.”

“Sign language?” Griff asked.

“Since Ms. Cain can’t speak, she’s using her hands and facial expressions to try to convey a message of some sort.”

“How long will it be before you can take her off the ventilator?” Nic asked.

Dr. Clark shook his head. “It’s too soon to say. Maybe days or weeks. Maybe never.”

“Are you saying—?”

“She has a living will,” Dr. Clark said. “If she isn’t able to breathe on her own after a period of time and if we see no hope for her …”

“We understand.” Nic glanced at Griff.

“I will allow the two of you five minutes with Ms. Cain,” Dr. Clark told them. “But if she becomes upset or even more agitated, I’ll ask you to leave.”

Nic nodded.

Griff said, “Okay.”

When they entered Gale Ann’s cubicle, Barbara Jean, who was holding her sister’s hand, glanced up and offered them a pitiful smile. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Gale Ann, they’re here. Special Agent Baxter and Mr. Powell. Tell them what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

Gale Ann Cain’s mane of shoulder-length, copper red hair contrasted sharply with the white bed linens on which she lay. Her cat-green eyes opened wide and stared upward, first at Nic and then at Griff.

She jerked her hand out of Barbara Jean’s grasp, and despite the fact that both arms were connected to a series of tubes and wires, she lifted her hands in the air, palms open, fingers spread apart, then clutched her hands into fists. As quickly as she had fisted her hands, she opened them again and spread apart all ten digits.

“She keeps doing that over and over again,” Barbara Jean said.

Nic moved in closer to Gale Ann and asked, “Are you trying to tell us something about your attacker?”

Gale Ann nodded and repeated the flashing fingers. Ten fingers.

“How about getting her a pad and pencil?” Griff said. “Maybe she could write it down.”

“We tried that, but she can’t seem to do anything except scribble,” Barbara Jean explained. “And that just upset her even more.”

“Ten fingers,” Nic said. “The number ten?” she asked Gale Ann.

Gale Ann shook her head and repeated her flashing hands one more time.

“She’s doing it twice,” Griff said. “Twenty.”

Gale Ann nodded.

“What does the number twenty have to do with her attacker?” Nic wondered aloud.

Gale Ann pointed to her head, slowly but surely twining her index finger around a strand of her hair.

“Your hair and the number twenty,” Nic said.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Barbara Jean looked from Nic to Griff, her expression one of hopelessness.

Gale Ann yanked on her hair, then pointed to the foot of the bed. When she realized that no one understood what she was trying to tell them, her actions became frantic. She grasped the ventilator tube and tried to pull it out of her throat. Barbara Jean screamed for a nurse.

“Calm down, Gale Ann,” Griff said as he hovered over the bed.

Nic rushed to the cubicle entrance and cried out, “Hurry, please! Ms. Cain is trying to remove her ventilator tube.”

A second too late, Griff grabbed Gale Ann’s hand that held the trachea tubing she had brutally yanked from her throat. She gasped for air.

“Twenty points.” She barely managed to say the two whispered words before the nurses and Dr. Clark shoved Griff out of the way. Then, Gale Ann gulped one final word, “Game.”

One of the nurses shooed Griff and Nic out of the cubicle and pushed Barbara Jean’s wheelchair out directly behind them. With the white curtains pulled and the door closed, they were cut off from the frantic efforts to save Gale Ann’s life.

“What did she say to you?” Barbara Jean asked before Nic had a chance to ask.

“She said three words,” Griff told them. “Twenty points. And game.”

“Dear God!” When Nic’s gaze met Griff’s, she knew that they were thinking the same thing.