Hour Game

by David Baldacci

  “To the Battles’. I called and set up an appointment.” He glanced at her. “We’ve got a paying job, remember?” He grew silent and then added, “You’ve already been through a lot today. Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “After what we’ve seen, how bad can the Battles be?”

  “You might be surprised.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  THE BATTLE ESTATE WAS

  set on top of an imposing hill. It was a sprawling three-story structure of brick, stone and clapboard surrounded by acres of emerald grass and dotted with mature trees. It screamed old money, though the mounds of cash that had built it were only decades old. King and Michelle stopped at a pair of massive wrought-iron gates. There was a call box set on a short black post next to the asphalt drive. King rolled down his window and tapped the white button on the call box. An efficient voice answered, and a minute later the gates swung open and King drove through.

  “Welcome to Casa Battle,” he said.

  “Is that what they call it?”

  “No, just my idea of a joke.”

  “You said you know Remmy Battle?”

  “As well as most people do, I guess. I also used to play golf occasionally with Bobby. He’s gregarious and dominating, but he has balls of iron and a really nasty temper if you happen to cross him. Now, Remmy’s the sort who only lets you see bits and pieces, and strictly on her terms. And if you cross her, you’ll need a urologist and a pack of miracles to put you back together.”

  “Where’d she get a name like Remmy?”

  “It’s short for Remington. The story I heard was that was her father’s favorite brand of shotgun. Everyone who knows her thinks the woman was aptly named.”

  “Who knew so many interesting people lived in such a small town?” Michelle looked ahead at the imposing home. “Wow, what a fabulous place.”

  “On the outside yes. I’ll let you be the judge of the interior.”

  When they knocked on the front door, it was opened almost immediately by a large, well-muscled middle-aged man dressed in a yellow cardigan sweater, white shirt, muted tie and black slacks. He introduced himself as Mason. Mrs. Battle was finishing up a few things and would meet them on the rear terrace shortly, he informed them.

  As Mason led them through the house, Michelle looked around at an interior that was breathtaking. That the things she was seeing were costly there was no doubt. Yet what was also present was a sense of understatement that for some reason surprised her.

  “The interior is beautiful, Sean,” she whispered.

  “I wasn’t talking about that interior,” he mumbled back. “I meant the ones who are breathing.”

  They arrived on the rear terrace to find a table laid out with both hot and cold tea and some finger foods and snacks. Mason poured the beverages of their choice and then left, closing the French doors quietly behind him. The temperature was in the seventies with a warming sun and the air a little muggy from the recent rains.

  Michelle sipped her iced tea. “So is Mason a kind of butler?”

  “Yes, been with them forever. He’s actually more than a butler to them.”

  “A confidant, then? Perhaps good for our purposes.”

  “Probably too loyal for that option,” King answered. “But then again you never really know where loyalties lie until you ask, preferably with something to give in return.”

  They heard a splash of water, and both went to the iron railing that partially enclosed the terrace and looked out over the exquisite rear grounds.

  The sprawling outdoor entertainment area visible here included a stone pool house, a spa that could easily accommodate a dozen adults, a roofed-in dining area and a massive oval-shaped pool outlined in brick and flagstone.

  “I always wondered how the really rich lived,” said Michelle.

  “They live just like you and me except a whole lot better.”

  Emerging from the clear blue and obviously heated waters of the pool was a young woman in a very revealing string bikini. She had long blond hair, was about five-seven, and her curves and bosom were solidly in the range of eye-catching. There were defined muscles in her legs, arms and shoulders and a belly ring in the navel of her flat stomach. As she bent over to pick up a towel, they could also see a large tattoo on the back of one of her partially exposed butt cheeks.

  “What’s that tattooed on her butt?” asked Michelle.

  “Her name,” answered King. “Savannah.” King watched the young woman towel off. “It’s amazing what they can write on skin, and in cursive too.”

  “You can see that from here?” Michelle asked with raised eyebrows.

  “No, I’ve seen it before.” He quickly amended this answer. “At a pool party I attended.”

  “Uh-huh. Her name on her butt, what, so the guys don’t forget?”

  “I’m trying very hard not to think of the reason.”

  Savannah looked up, saw them and waved. She wrapped a short see-through robe around her, slipped on some flip-flops and headed up the brick steps toward them.

  When she reached them, she gave King a hug that seemed designed to drill her large bosom right into his chest. Up close her facial features were not quite as flawless as her body; her nose, chin and jaw were a bit too sharply outlined and irregular, but that was nit-picking, Michelle decided. Savannah Battle was a very beautiful woman.

  Savannah looked King up and down admiringly. “I swear, Sean King, you just get better-looking every time I see you. Now, how’s that fair? We women just keep getting older.” This came out in a southern drawl that Michelle thought was highly affected.

  “Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that,” said Michelle, extending her hand. “I’m Michelle Maxwell.”

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet,” said Savannah in a tone that wasn’t sweet at all.

  “Congratulations on your graduation,” said King. “William and Mary, right?”

  “Daddy always wanted me to go to college, and I did, though I can’t say I loved it.” She sat down and slowly dried off her shapely legs in what Michelle interpreted as a seductive gesture aimed at King. Then she dug into the tiny sandwiches.

  “What’d you major in?” asked Michelle, thinking that the young woman must have gotten her degree in either cheerleading or throwing parties or perhaps both.

  “Chemical engineering,” was her surprising if mumbled reply. Apparently, no one had taught the girl not to talk with her mouth full. “Daddy made his fortune as an engineer, and I guess I took after him.”

  “We were sorry to hear about Bobby,” said King quietly.

  “He’s tough; he’ll pull through,” she said confidently.

  “I heard you might be heading out on your own,” said King.

  Savannah’s expression darkened. “I expect people are having a good time trying to figure out what I’m going to do. Trust-fund Baby Battle,” she added bitterly.

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Savannah,” said King gently.

  She waved off his apology with a dismissive karate chop through the air. “I’ve been dealing with that all my life, why stop now, right? I have my own way to make in the world, and it’s not always easy with parents like I have. But I’ll make something of myself. I’m not going through life using my credit card to buy happiness.”

  As she listened, Michelle felt her opinion of the young woman turning more positive.

  Savannah wiped her mouth with her hand and said, “I know why you’re here. It’s about Junior Deaver, right? I can’t figure why he would’ve done anything so stupid. I mean, like my mother’s going to just look the other way while he walks off with her wedding ring? I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it,” said King.

  “Sure he did,” said Savannah as she toweled off her wet hair. “From what I heard he left so much evidence behind he might as well have just sat on the floor and waited for the police to show up and arrest him.” She shoved another piece of sandwich into her mouth and
crammed in a handful of potato chips as a chaser.

  “Stop eating like some damned pig, Savannah!” the voice said sharply. “And while you’re doing that, try and halfway sit like a lady, if your imagination can possibly grasp such a concept.”

  Savannah, who’d been slouching in her chair with her legs spread wide like a hooker on the prowl, instantly straightened up and cemented her thighs together, stretching the robe over her knees.

  Remington Battle strode onto the terrace with as much presence as a Broadway legend convinced of her ability to effortlessly dominate an audience.

  She was dressed impeccably in a dazzling white pleated skirt that fell several inches below the knee. On her feet were stylish if conservative low-heeled pumps. A patterned blouse of cool blue was partially covered by a white sweater that was draped around her shoulders. She was taller than her daughter by several inches—around Michelle’s height—and her touched-up auburn hair and makeup were expertly done. Her features were strong, indeed almost visually overpowering. Michelle guessed that Remmy in her youth had probably been even more beautiful than her daughter. Now in her sixties she was still a very handsome woman. Yet with all that, it was the eyes that caught and held you: part eagle, part buzzard and intimidating as hell.

  Remmy shook hands with King and then was introduced to Michelle. The latter felt the woman run a severe gaze over her and suspected that Remmy Battle found much to find fault with in her very casual clothes, nonexistent makeup and windswept hair. She didn’t have long to ruminate on that, though, as Remmy turned her attention to her daughter once more.

  “In my day we didn’t greet guests without any clothes on,” she said icily.

  “I was swimming, Mama. I don’t usually go swimming in my debutante gown,” Savannah shot back, but her fingers flew to her mouth and she chewed nervously on a nail.

  Remmy gave the young woman such a penetrating stare that Savannah finally grabbed another sandwich and a fistful of chips, rose, muttered something under her breath that to Michelle sounded pretty close to “old bitch” and stalked off, her wet flip-flops smacking against the brick in a series of exclamation points.

  Then Remmy Battle sat down and turned her full attention to King and Michelle.

  They each drew a deep breath as her gaze bored into them. To Michelle it was quite an introduction to Casa Battle. Now she understood exactly what King had meant about judging the “interior.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  “I HAVE TO APOLOGIZE

  for Savannah,” said Remmy. “I love her, but some days I can’t believe we’re actually related by blood, or anything else for that matter.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Battle, she’s just a kid,” said Michelle. “They all do crazy stuff.”

  Remmy snapped, “She’s not a child. She’s twenty-two! She’s a graduate of one of the finest schools on the East Coast. Rings in her belly and tattoos on her butt! I didn’t send that girl to college so she could lose her damn mind!”

  Michelle looked at King for help.

  “Uh, Remmy, we were sorry to hear about Bobby. How’s he doing?” he asked.

  “His condition is still critical,” Remmy answered in the same harsh tone, and then her hand crept to her lined forehead and she said in a more restrained voice, “I’m sorry. Here I am complaining about Savannah, and I’m not exactly being Miss Hospitality myself. It’s just that a lot has happened lately.” She paused and said slowly, “Bobby was in a coma for the longest time, and the damn doctors didn’t know when or even if he’d come out of it. But then he did. They were even able to take him off the ventilator. Two nights ago he said his first words.”

  “That must be encouraging,” said King.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Thing is, he was incoherent. Spouting off names, nothing he said made any sense. Hell, they don’t know for sure if he’s slipped back into the coma or not.”

  “I guess that’s hard for the doctors to determine.”

  “With what they charge I expect them to walk on water and have a direct line to God,” she replied bitterly.

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Right now a prayer or two couldn’t hurt.”

  Mason came out carrying a tray of coffee. He poured a cup for Remmy and offered some to Michelle and King—both declined—before retreating once more.

  “There’s nothing like a soothing cup of coffee in the afternoon.” Remmy took a long sip and then settled back in her chair. “Harry Carrick’s a damn fine lawyer, and Junior’s lucky to have him.” She paused, took another drink of her coffee and added, “But Junior did it. I know it as though I’d seen him do it myself.”

  King pounced. “But that’s the point, Remmy, you didn’t see him. No one did.”

  She waved this comment off in a way that reminded Michelle of Savannah’s earlier chopping gesture. “The evidence is overwhelming.”

  “Right, too overwhelming. He could have been framed.”

  Remmy looked at King as though he were speaking a language not of this earth. “Who in their right mind would want to frame someone like Junior Deaver?”

  “Whoever really broke into your home and stole all that property,” replied King. “And do you really see Junior fencing bearer bonds and fine jewelry?”

  “He didn’t know what was in there. He got cash too. It doesn’t take an Einstein to spend cash, now, does it?” she retorted.

  “All we want to do is look around and talk to a few people. And even though we’re working for Harry and Junior, I’m presuming you want the guilty party caught.”

  Remmy smiled, but there was a dangerous glint in her eyes. “You presume correctly, Mr. King, although they’ve already caught the guilty party.” She suddenly roared, firing the words off like a .50-caliber gone haywire, “And if that big dumb son of a bitch would tell me where the hell my wedding ring is, I might persuade the commonwealth’s attorney to drop the charges! Why don’t you go back and tell Harry that! And then maybe we can put an end to this horseshit!”

  Michelle noted that the woman’s southern drawl was far more pronounced when she was angry and, unlike her daughter, there was absolutely nothing affected about it. Michelle set her iced tea down because she’d almost dropped it after Remmy’s eruption. She silently thanked God that Remington Battle wasn’t her mother.

  Unfazed, King said in a calm voice, “Duly noted, Remmy. But can we look around now?”

  Remmy stared at him for a long moment. Her lips twitched as she apparently tried to master her anger. For an instant Michelle actually thought the woman was going to hurl her cup of soothing coffee at King’s head. Maybe you should switch to decaf, Michelle thought.

  Finally, Remmy rose from her chair and motioned for them to follow. “Hell, I’ll show you myself.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  REMMY BATTLE LED KING

  and Michelle inside and up the main staircase to the third floor. The house seemed to have been added onto over time, observed Michelle, with new wings extending out from the older central block.

  Remmy apparently read her thoughts because she said, “This house has been a work in progress for decades. Many of our friends have several beautiful estates around the world, but this is the only one Bobby and I ever wanted. It’s something of a mishmash at times, and some hallways just stop at a wall, but I”—she corrected herself instantly—“we love it.”

  They arrived at a door that Remmy opened and ushered them through.

  It was a large and nicely furnished room, painted in comfortable colors, with a row of windows. One of those windows looked new.

  Remmy pointed to it. “That’s where he got in. The police said he used a crowbar. They finally gave me the okay to have everything fixed.”

  King stared down at a cracked picture frame that was on one of the nightstands. The glass had been pulled out. He picked it up. “What happened to this?”

  Remmy scowled. “That picture was on a table over by the window. It
was broken when Junior came through there. I haven’t had it repaired yet.”

  King and Michelle looked at the drawing of a young boy inside the broken frame. The drawing was ripped right down the middle.

  “Who is it?” asked King.

  “It’s a drawing of Bobby Jr. I’ll never forgive Junior for destroying it.”

  King put the picture down. “I understand there was some sort of hidden drawer in your closet?”

  Remmy nodded and motioned for them to follow. Her closet had elaborate mahogany built-ins throughout, and clothes, bags, shoes, hats and other accessories were arranged in precise order.