Page 79 of The Devoted Game

Martin turned his attention back to the news. He and Deirdre watched the local news at five and ten, always on WHMG, never WKRT. They had no use for that woman—that Nadine Goodman. She was not a nice person.

Before the hour grew too late, Martin should clean up the kitchen. He loved taking care of those menial chores for his dear Deirdre. He would see her to bed, tuck her in as he always did.

And then it would be time to set the final challenge in motion.

Soon the trials would be over for McBride.

And all those who needed atonement would have found it.

Then life would be just as it should. He patted Deirdre’s hand. She would finally have peace. Their family had been torn for far too long. It was time for peace and happiness.

Finally.

Twenty-Three

Tutwiler Hotel

Tuesday, September 12, 1:05 a.m.

Vivian’s parents had called twice to make sure she was all right. She appreciated their concern, but she didn’t want to talk about this.

Pierce had tried her cell three times. The third time she had told him she didn’t want to talk.

Not to him anyway.

She wasn’t sure she would be ready to talk about anything personal with him again in this lifetime. Trust didn’t come easily. Which made the fact that she had spilled her guts to McBride over the past hour or so completely irrational. They had talked about her childhood, which couldn’t have been more satisfying or complete. High school had been high school. She hadn’t exactly been a nerd ... but she hadn’t been popular either.

Then college, and her life had turned upside down.

Until it happened to them, no one realized how much could change in a mere instant.

The night air was cool, the view from the balcony calming in a strange way. What lay all around her was home, though for years she had tried to deny it.

McBride had loosened her up with a miniature bottle of whiskey. What could she say? She was a cheap drunk. One little bottle, and she was ready to tell him anything he would sit still long enough to bear.

Or maybe she just needed to tell someone.

“After study group ended,” he prodded, reminding her that she had stopped mid-story.

“I was on my way back to my dorm.” She moistened her lips and forced her mind to look at that painful memory. “It was late. Dark. Past curfew. I knew if I was caught I’d be in trouble, so I stuck to the shadows. Stupid, huh?”

“Not stupid.” He leaned against the banister, exhaled the drag he had taken. “Understandable. You were seventeen. You were more afraid of disappointing the dean and your parents than you were of the dark.”

She made a derisive sound. “Boy, I learned that lesson in a hurry.” Taking in a big breath, she continued. “I never saw or heard him. I woke up in a room later, hours, maybe minutes. Felt like a basement, which I found out later it was. The bastard had a mansion in Brentwood, just outside Nashville. He was a doctor ... or at least he pretended to be one. His license was phony. Dr. Lyle Solomon didn’t exist beyond the two years he had been practicing medicine in Nashville.”

McBride didn’t ask any questions. He just let her talk. “The first few days I was certain someone would come. Then I slowly began to realize that no one was coming.” She remembered that moment, as if it had only been that morning. The realization had almost caused her to give up. Then, for some reason she would never understand, her determination kicked in. “From the beginning I did whatever he told me. I’d heard about a couple of his other victims. I knew what would happen if I didn’t. Maybe it was the whole obedience mentality of growing up in a conservative Southern home. Whatever. I did exactly what he told me—no matter how sickening.”

“Hey, you’re alive. You were smart.”

Or a coward.“I wasn’t smart, McBride, I was desperate.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, but the chill came from deep within. “I didn’t have a weapon. He was bigger and stronger than me. I was helpless. Then he said something to me that made me think.” She shuddered at the memory. “He touched my throat”—she demonstrated—“at the pulse and reminded me how fragile life was. Ithought about that and decided he was right. All I had to do was hit the right spot. I’d have only one chance. I’d either kill him or he’d kill me.”

“Desperate can be good,” McBride allowed. “You got the job done.”

Yeah, she had. “I never saw his face until after he was dead. Just heard his voice ...” She had always been certain that there were two men. That certainty nagged at her even now.

“You made sure he couldn’t hurt anyone again,” McBride said as he tamped out his cigarette. “That’s something to be proud of, Grace.”

“There were times ...” Should she do this? The shrinks, the investigators, they had all told her that the second man’s voice was her mind playing games on her. The fact that she had murdered a man, even such a sick bastard, in what could only be called a heinous manner, had caused her to invent the other voice. “I was certain there were two men. Two distinct, different voices. But the evidence indicated only one subject was involved and I killed him.”