Free The Murder Game by Beverly Barton Page A

that there’s a serial killer on the loose.”
    “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 a Braves ball 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 hush puppies 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