“We don’t intend to speak to anyone else in Stillwater,” Griff said. “You’ve already told us that Gala was hung upside down from that tree.” Griff nodded to the grand old maple. “Her feet had been bound and she’d been scalped, but she hadn’t been raped and she wasn’t naked. Could you confirm her cause of death?”
“She’d been shot in the head.”
“The scenario you described fits Kendall Moore’s murder,” Nic said. “What we need is for you to contact SAC Doug Trotter at the FBI field office in D.C. and tell him you suspect that the same person who killed Kendall Moore in Ballinger, Arkansas, might have killed Gala Ramirez.”
Squinting against the noonday sun, Touchstone replaced his Stetson and focused on Nic. “I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll call the police chief in Ballinger and if he backs up everything y’all have told me, I’ll contact the FBI.”
“Thank you.” Nic rewarded him with a wide smile.
“You folks staying on overnight? If you are—”
“We’re not,” Griff said. “My plane is waiting for us in Lufkin and we’ll be taking off from there and heading back to Tennessee. But if you need to get in touch with me, with us, you have my cell number.”
“Sure do,” Touchstone said. “But I don’t have yours, ma’am.”
“If you need to reach Ms. Baxter, just call me,” Griff told him.
Pudge booked a first-class ticket from Baton Rouge to Nashville. Once there, he would use a fake ID to rent a car and then drive on to Knoxville. He would check into a cheap motel as close to Amber Kirby’s apartment as possible and the following day he would begin observing her. Within a couple of days, he should know enough about her daily routine to choose the best time to abduct her. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but because she was an athlete and had to stay in superb physical condition, he assumed she ran at least once every day. If he was lucky, her routine would include either an early-morning or a late-night run.
Before he packed, he needed to choose a disguise. Nothing elaborate, just enough to change his appearance so that if anyone remembered seeing him, they wouldn’t describe him as he actually looked. After unlocking the wooden chest at the foot of his bed, he sat on the floor and casually went through the contents. He laid out a brown mustache that matched the color of his hair; then he found a pair of black-framed glasses. He added an Atlanta Braves baseball cap to the subtle masquerade items he would use. While in Nashville, he’d find a Wal-Mart and buy some inexpensive clothes. Nondescript. A cotton shirt and trousers. A pair of athletic shoes.
A couple of loud taps on his locked bedroom door reminded him that he was not alone in the house. Allegra was here. But he never worried about the old woman. She was a trustworthy old soul and even if she saw or overheard anything unusual, she didn’t have enough sense to figure out what was going on.
“Lunch is ready,” she called through the closed door. “I fried up some of them fresh catfish that Pappy Rousey brought by this morning.”
“Thank you, Allegra. I’ll be right there.”
“Don’t you dawdle too long and let my fried conrbread balls get cold.”
Pudge heard her shuffling away, going back down the hall. He wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to make the trip out here to Belle Fleur every day. Her daughter, Fantine, dropped her off and picked her up on her way to and from her job as one of the maids for the Landau family who lived about ten miles down the road. He supposed when Allegra either died or retired, he’d have no choice but to find a new cook. When that day came, he would have to be more careful about playing his games.
Surely there’s a halfwit out there somewhere who knows how to cook.
Pudge picked up his disguise, got up out of the floor, and carried the items over to the bed where his open suitcase lay. He removed a small plastic case, laid the items inside, and put the case back into the suitcase.
As he left his room, he whistled to himself, some nonsensical tune from his childhood. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the words to the song, didn’t even know the name of the song, but he found himself humming it whenever he was plotting a new adventure. It was a happy song. His mother had hummed it to him to comfort him after she rescued him from his father’s wicked temper tantrums. Why his father had lashed out at him and never at Mary Ann and Marsha, he didn’t know. But whenever Daddy got in one of his moods, he had always called for Pudge to be sent to his study.
Don’t think about how mean Daddy was to you. Think about how kind Mommy was to you afterward.
Nic hadn’t chewed Griff out the way she had wanted to and it had taken every ounce of her willpower. She had wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he had no right to speak for her, that maybe she had wanted to give the handsome sheriff her cell number. And if she had, it wouldn’t have been any of Griff’s business.
On the drive from Stillwater to Lufkin, he’d glanced at her every once in a while, as if trying to gauge her mood, but she’d remained calm and silent, speaking to him only when he asked her a direct question.
Finally aboard the Powell jet and waiting for a powerful summer thunderstorm to pass before taking off, she and Griff sat in the luxurious cabin, sipping on early-evening drinks. Crown Royal and Coke for Griff. Plain Coke for Nic.
“He’ll contact us again,” Griff said, the statement coming after endless minutes of complete silence.
“Who?” Nic asked.
“The killer.” Griff pivoted on the leather sofa and faced Nic, who sat across from him. “Who did you think I meant—Sheriff Touchstone? Hell, what kind of name is that, anyway—Touchstone? A pretty name for a pretty boy.”
“He was rather handsome, wasn’t he?”
“He took an instant shine to you.”
“Do you find that so hard to believe, that a good-looking man would find me attractive?”
Griff downed the last drops of his drink, set the glass on the side table at the end of the sofa, and replied, “No, of course not. You’re attractive. I never said you weren’t. It’s not your physical appearance that I object to, it’s your personality.”
“What’s wrong with my personality?” That’s it, Nic, ask him and he’ll no doubt tell you.
“You’re abrasive, aggressive, bossy, and—”
“Traits that you would admire in a man.”
“Why do you want to act like a man?”
Answer that one, she told herself. Damn him!
Nic finished off her Coke but didn’t put down her glass. Instead she shook the tumbler, making the ice chips click together as she absently stared into the glass.
The distinctive ring told Nic that it was her cell phone and not Griff’s. She removed the phone from her pocket, checked the caller ID, and flipped it open. This just might be the call she’d been hoping for.
“Hello, Doug.”
Griff’s eyes widened. She didn’t pay any attention to him. Let him wait.
“I received two rather interesting phone calls today,” Doug Trotter said. “First this morning, Chief Benny Willoughby from Ballinger, Arkansas, called me and then this afternoon, Sheriff Dean Touchstone from Stillwater, Texas, called. Seems they’ve each got an unsolved murder and they think the same killer committed both crimes. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about either of those, would you, Nic?”
“I might.”
“Might,