The Dying Game (32 page)

It would be dark in about an hour, and she really wanted to get on the road soon. Chattanooga was a little over two hours away, so she could easily make it to her cousin’s house well before bedtime. Callie was the only relative she kept in touch with on a regular basis. They had been best friends as children, and she’d been the maid of honor at Callie’s wedding ten years ago. No matter how much time passed between telephone conversations and visits, when they were together, it was as if no time at all had gone by. Of course, exchanging e-mails a couple of times a week kept them up to date on each other’s lives.

But there was one thing she’d never told Callie, one secret she’d kept, one she planned to share while she visited. And although she suspected that talking to Callie might do her more good than talking to Dr. Meng, she wouldn’t go back on her word to Griff.

“You’re reluctant to talk to me,” Yvette said as she indicated for Lindsay to take a seat opposite her. “Why is that?”

“Because I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed. I’m fine. I just need a few days vacation. I’m going to Chattanooga for a visit with my cousin.”

“Judd’s home is in Chattanooga.”

Lindsay bristled. “I’m not going anywhere near Judd Walker. I am washing my hands of that man once and for all.”

“Interesting.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“What I believe is unimportant. It is what you believe, truly believe, that matters.”

“I hate him. I wish I’d never met him.” Lindsay sat down in the rattan wingback chair across from Yvette. Heaving a deep sigh, she shook her head. “I’m protesting too loudly, aren’t I?”

“There is no disgrace in loving someone.”

“No, but there’s plenty of heartbreak in loving someone who doesn’t love you back.”

“And you believe that Judd doesn’t love you?”

Lindsay laughed sarcastically. “Judd love me? Hell, no. He wants to screw me, but the only woman he’ll ever love is Jenny. His damn precious Jenny.”

“What if I told you that I believe Judd does love you … perhaps more than he ever loved his wife.”

As Yvette’s words echoed inside Lindsay’s head, she stared at the woman. She was so startled by what Yvette had said that she couldn’t speak.

“He doesn’t know how much he loves you.” Yvette’s gaze connected with Lindsay’s. “He is confused and in pain. He truly believes that you are better off without him.”

“Did he tell you that—”

“No, not in so many words.”

“Then how do you know? What makes you think he loves me?”

Yvette slid to the edge of the sofa and held out her hands to Lindsay. Understanding what Yvette wanted, Lindsay placed her hands in the therapist’s gentle grasp, trusting her completely.

“You did not have sex with Dr. Klyce last night, but you let Judd think you did.”

Lindsay shivered.

“You are going to tell your cousin, Callie, what happened between you and Judd six months ago.”

Lindsay gasped.

“You believe she can help you now, more than I can.” Yvette smiled. “And you’re right. She can.”

“How did you know all that? It’s as if you read my mind.”

Chapter 22

LaShae’s first meeting with Sammy at the Blue Water Bar and Grill had gone well. Her instincts told her that with just a little more gentle persuasion, she could not only get him to appear on her show this week, but she could convince him to press charges against the minister who had raped him when he was a boy. Although Sammy hadn’t told her his exact age, she guessed he was no more than thirty-one or two. The poor man was extremely shy and reserved and had made direct eye contact with her only once. She’d never seen such blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. He was not a handsome man, but he could be. If he cut his shaggy blond hair, learned how to dress better, and built up a bit of self-confidence, he would be quite appealing.

When she had asked for a second meeting, he had agreed. Reluctantly. That’s why she had told him she would come to his motel room this evening. Normally, she wouldn’t meet someone she didn’t know—male or female—under circumstances that might prove dangerous to either of them. But her instincts told her that Sammy needed her trust; otherwise, he would never return that trust.

She pulled her Lexus into the parking area at the Triple Eight Motel in Bessemer, not the nicest place to stay or the safest neighborhood. But she kept a pistol in her glove compartment and carried pepper spray on her key chain. And her cell phone stayed clipped to her purse strap practically twenty-four-seven.

Just as her hand grasped the car door handle, her phone rang. Groaning, she released the handle, grabbed her phone, and checked the caller ID: Rodney. Why was he calling her? Sunday dinner had ended badly, with him storming out in anger. She had thought about contacting him today, but decided to allow him time to cool off first.

She could let the call go to voice mail and call him back later tonight or even in the morning. After all, what could he possibly have to say to her that couldn’t wait.

Go ahead and talk to him. No point in putting it off
.

She flipped open the phone. “Hello.”

“LaShae … I’m sorry,” Rodney said.

Regret welled up inside her. He had nothing to be sorry about; she did. “You had every right to be angry. After all, I’m the one who had an affair.”

Silence.

“I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry,” she told him.

“You can’t take all the blame. If I’d been a better hus band… If I hadn’t neglected you so much…”

She couldn’t bear hearing him beg for her forgiveness, not when she and not he had broken their marriage vows. “Why don’t you come for Sunday dinner again next week and we’ll try again?”

“I’d like that. Thank you for giving me another chance.”

“I’m not promising anything. It’s just Sunday dinner,” she said. “I want us not only to do what is best for Martin, but what’s best for the two of us as well.”

“LaShae …”

“Yes?”

“I love you. No matter what.”

She swallowed hard. “I love you, too.”

She closed the cell and slipped it into the pouch clipped to her purse handle. Loving Rodney was not the problem. She would probably always love him. No, the problem was that she was
in love
with Ben Thompson.

LaShae opened the car door, stepped out, and searched for Room Ten. When she reached Sammy’s room, she paused, opened her purse, clicked on the small tape recorder she used for interviews, closed her purse, and knocked on the door.

No response.

She waited for several minutes, then knocked again.

Nothing.

She knocked louder and harder. “Sammy? It’s LaShae Goodloe.” Not wanting to disturb other guests or bring undue attention to herself, she kept her voice low.

The door opened just a crack and Sammy peered through the minute opening, his bright blue eyes staring at her. “I–I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I’m here and I very much want to talk to you again.” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, she said, “I want to help you.”

He unhooked the chain and opened the door several inches, but didn’t invite her into his room. “I don’t think you can help me. I don’t think anyone can.”

“Please, Sammy, give me a chance.”

Silence.

He eased the door open slowly. With his head bowed and his gaze downcast, he stepped back to allow her enough space to enter.

The maternal part of her nature wanted to put her arms around him, hug him, and tell him she truly did want to help him. But common sense kept her from acting on motherly instinct.

She entered the dingy, dismal room, the last room on the end of a U-shaped, sixties motel that should have been condemned years ago. No doubt the other residents were local hookers, drug addicts, and down-on-their-luck men who paid for a room by the week. Shivering at the thought of cockroaches in dark corners, rusted sink and shower faucets in the bathroom, and mold growing beneath the smelly carpet, LaShae wished that she could turn around and leave.

“This place is actually cleaner than it looks,” Sammy told her, as if he’d read her mind. “There aren’t any bugs or anything. And the sheets are clean.” He kept wringing his hands together nervously.

She reached out and placed her hand over his. He jerked away from her. Their gazes met for a brief second before he looked away.

Poor, pitiful man
.

“It’s all right,” she said.

He nodded.

She glanced around the room, spotted two chairs on either side of a small table, and noted the three liter plastic bottle of cola on the tabletop. Apparently, Sammy had already poured himself a glass because one of the two glasses was empty where the other was half full.

“May I sit down?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

When she sat in one of the two chairs, he came over, and sat across from her. With his gaze downcast, he asked, “Would you like some Coke?”

“Yes, thank you.” She placed her purse in the chair beside her.

“I’ve got ice,” he said, then got up to retrieve the ice bucket from where it sat on the cheap, scarred wooden dresser.

While Sammy busied himself adding ice to his drink and putting it into her glass, LaShae snapped open her purse, just enough to enable the recording device to better pick up their conversation.

“I hope Coke is okay,” Sammy said as he unscrewed the cap and poured the cola into her glass. “I didn’t know if you preferred Coke or Pepsi or maybe RC.”

“Coke is fine.”

He picked up his glass, took a sip, then holding it with both hands brought it down to rest above his lap. He sat there quietly, shyly, not saying a word, just staring at the floor.

“I’d very much like for you to come on my show and talk about what happened to you,” LaShae said. “Even if you don’t want to name your rapist—”

“Reverend Boyd Morrow,” Sammy blurted out.

LaShae breathed in deeply. “I know how much courage that took—to tell me the man’s name.”

Saying nothing, Sammy lifted his glass to his lips and took another sip of cola.

Taking her cue from him, LaShae picked up her glass and took several sips of Coke, then put her glass down, and held out her hand to Sammy. “If you decide to press charges against this Reverend Morrow, I and WBNN will stand by you and help you in every way possible.”

Nodding as he listened, Sammy continued sipping on his cola. “Maybe, I will press charges. If you …” He looked up at her with those incredible blue eyes. “If you promise that you won’t desert me.”

LaShae smiled at him, then hesitantly reached over and patted his arm. He stared down at her hand on his arm.

“I promise,” she said.

He nodded again.

She leaned back in the chair, lifted her glass, and told him, “Whenever you’re ready to tell me more about what happened, how Reverend Morrow abused you, I’m ready to listen.”

“You won’t hate me or judge me or think I’m terrible, will you?”

She took a hefty sip of Coke, set the glass down, and smiled at him again, hoping her friendliness translated into caring. “You’re the victim, Sammy. You were an innocent young boy. I’m very proud of you for having the courage to tell me about what happened.”

Suddenly, LaShae’s vision blurred. Just for an instant. She shook her head. Her vision cleared momentarily.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, I–I think so. I feel odd. A bit dizzy.”

“Maybe you’re hungry,” he said. “Did you miss lunch or—”

“Sammy, I–I’m …” She tried to stand, but couldn’t manage to get to her feet. She flopped back down into the chair. “I don’t know what’s wrong—”

She tried to focus on him, but when she did, she realized two things: Sammy loomed over her, staring down at her with an odd smile on his face, and she knew she was going to pass out. Right now.

Judd removed his muddy boots and left them on the back porch. He had stomped through the woods until well after dark, trying his best to work off some of the frustration that plagued him. He had left Griffin’s Rest Sunday morning, running away from Lindsay and the emotions she evoked in him.

After entering the kitchen, he removed his leather jacket, flung it across the back of the nearest chair, and headed toward the cupboard where he kept his whiskey stored. Yesterday, he’d drunk himself into a mindless stupor, finding a few hours of forgetfulness in his alcoholic haze. In the past, when he’d gotten drunk, he had been trying to forget about Jennifer, about how much he had loved her, about how she had died. But last night, he’d been trying to forget Lindsay.

He opened the cupboard, reached in, and yanked out the three-quarters’ empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Gripping the bottle in one hand, he stared at it, seeing it for what it was— his friend and his enemy. A friend who could ease the pain inside him. But only temporarily. An enemy that made false promises.

He set the bottle on the counter.

He wanted a drink.

No, he needed a drink.

Six months ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about drowning his sorrows. Hell, a few weeks ago, he would have gotten drunk and stayed drunk for a week. But that was before …

Before he realized that he hated himself for having hurt Lindsay. Before he admitted to himself that after almost four years of being incapable of caring about himself or anyone else, he actually cared about Lindsay McAllister.

He didn’t want to care, but God help him, he couldn’t stop himself.

Judd left the bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter.

As he prepared the coffeemaker, his hands trembled.

He had gone cold turkey six months ago. He could do it again.

This time for good.

He stood and watched as the black liquid drained down into the glass coffeepot. Staring sightlessly, his mind wandering, his thoughts taking him away from the present moment, Judd didn’t fight the inevitable memories that were gradually replacing the memories of his wife.

Lindsay smelled fresh and clean, like Ivory soap and baby powder. Her scent filled his nostrils, floating through him, enticing him in a way expensive perfume could not. Chanel No. 5 or any other heavy perfume reminded him of Jennifer.