Hour Game

by David Baldacci

  The police chief glanced nervously at King. “Sean?”

  A long moment passed. “All right,” he finally muttered.

  “Good,” Williams said in a relieved tone. He took a pair of silver badges out of his pocket, recited two sentences of official legalese swearing them in and handed them the badges. “Okay, you’re officially deputies. Now, look at this.”

  He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it across to them. They read it simultaneously.

  “The letter from Bobby’s killer, the Mary Martin Speck wannabe, only not,” said Michelle as she glanced up.

  King read the letter aloud: “Another one down. That makes five. It was a big one this time, but more to come. And no, I’m not Mary, no Florence Nightinghell here. The feather was just that, a feather for the featherweights that all of you are! See you soon. Not MMS.”

  He looked up with a thoughtful expression. “Was there a Zodiac symbol on the envelope this letter came in?”

  “No, it was clean. Like the Canney-Pembroke letter and the Hinson letter. We’ve already checked it for prints and other traces. Nothing.”

  “This letter says that Battle was victim number five,” said King.

  “Well, he is number five, Sean,” replied Williams.

  “But the Pembroke-Canney letter only mentioned the death of one kid. Taken literally, that would make Battle only victim number four. That’s an inconsistency that’s inexplicable right now.”

  Williams slapped his thigh with his hand. “See, that’s why I want you two on board. You see things, deduce things.”

  “We may be entirely wrong in our deductions,” countered King.

  “Or you may be exactly right,” rejoined Williams. “Another thing you need to know. Hinson wore an anklet, a gold one. It wasn’t on the body, and it didn’t turn up anywhere in her house.”

  King said, “Pembroke’s ring, Canney’s St. Christopher’s medal, possibly Tyler’s belly ring and now Hinson’s anklet.”

  “Maybe he wants them as souvenirs,” said Michelle, “trophies from his kills.”

  “Maybe. Was there anything missing from Bobby Battle?”

  “Nothing that we know of.” Williams studied King closely. “So what’s your next move?”

  King pondered this for a bit. Finally, he said, “It’s time we determined once and for all if there’s any connection between the killings.”

  “But, Sean, we know they were killed by the same person,” said Williams.

  “No, we don’t know that,” said King sharply. “But that’s not what I meant anyway. I mean we have to find out if there’s some common thread among the victims, if somehow they’re connected to each other.”

  “But in serial killings they aren’t,” protested Williams.

  “This one might be the exception to that rule,” said King. “And while we’re doing that, we’re going to have to go back into the lion’s den.”

  “Lion’s den,” said Michelle. “What’s that mean?”

  “We need to go see the Battles again,” replied King.

  “I think I’d rather face down Priscilla Oxley,” said Michelle. “And let me tell you if that woman calls me chickie or plaything again, it won’t be pretty.”

  After Williams had left, Michelle asked King, “So what do you really expect to find out at the Battles’?”

  “With luck an answer to your question of why Remmy wasn’t wearing her ring. Also the truth as to what was in Bobby’s secret drawer.”

  “But all that’s connected to the burglary, not the killings.”

  “Right, except Battle could have been killed because of what was in that drawer. Even if he was murdered by someone else, we need to find that someone.”

  “Okay, but if one of the Battles did poison him, when we go to interview them, we’re going to be talking to a murderer at some point.”

  “And the sooner we find out who, the better.”

  “So if one of them did do it, who’s your money on? Eddie was with us, so is it the iron wife, the slutty daughter or the viper-tongued daughter-in-law?”

  “I’ll withhold judgment for now. But if Battle’s death was simply a copycat murder with a separate motive, that still doesn’t lead us to the person who’s killed four other people and counting.”

  “So you think there’ll be more victims?”

  “Who knows?” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Just be careful out there.”

  “You know I can look out for myself, Sean.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I want you around to protect me.”

  CHAPTER

  32

  BOBBY BATTLE’S MURDER

  was front-page news throughout the area. The headlines were made much more sensational by the fact that his death was attributed to the serial killer. What had been kept from the press and public were the thefts from each of the victims and the precise contents of the letters.

  The citizens of Wrightsburg were locking their doors, cleaning their guns, setting their house alarms and scrutinizing their fellow citizens. The look in their eyes was clear: if someone like Bobby Battle could be killed in the middle of a busy hospital, no one was safe.

  In that assumption they were actually correct.

  The cave was set far back into the rolling hills east of Wrightsburg and on the way to Charlottesville. Its entrance was covered by fallen pines and sheets of thick ivy and other forest clutter, and there was no discernible trail leading to it. The hole in the rock was large enough to house several clans of black bear, which it had in the past. However, now there was only one occupant, and it walked on two legs, although it was no less a predator.

  He sat brooding at a rough-hewn table in the center of the cave. It had been outfitted with enough supplies to make it livable for extended periods of time. The only illumination was from a battery-powered lantern. The man held up the hood that he’d worn when he had killed four people. He fingered the material lightly. An executioner, that’s what he was, pure and simple. Yet executioners only carried out a sentence justly imposed.

  He looked down at the newspaper. Staring back at him was a grainy photo of Robert Battle taken years ago. The headline read “Millionaire Businessman and Philanthropist Robert E. Lee Battle Slain in Hospital, Serial Killer Suspected.”

  Serial killer! Those two words beat into his brain until he balled up the paper and hurled it away. Enraged, he grabbed the lantern and slung it against the wall, plunging himself into darkness. He stood and lumbered around the room, slamming into objects, falling down, getting back up and beating his hardened fists against the rock and dirt walls until they were numb. Finally exhausted, he slumped to the cold cave floor.

  He suddenly screamed so loudly that he felt his heart would burst. Eventually, the sweat broke over his skin, his breathing grew more regular and he finally calmed. He crawled back over to a trunk set against one wall, found the latch, opened it and pulled out another lantern, an oil-burning one. He fumbled for a match in his pocket, lit the wick, turned up the light, looked around and found the newspaper. He sat down at the table once more and studied the story, his gaze averted from the grainy photo of the now dead man.

  This was a setback—a major one, he had to admit—but life was full of disappointment. He’d just do what he’d always done: turn an obstacle to his full advantage. The great Bobby Battle might be dead, but there was still more to do. There were more people to be killed—no, executed, he quickly corrected himself.

  He stared at the headline, the last part of it anyway. “Serial Killer Suspected.” This impersonator had stolen his thunder in the worst possible way. Stolen it and then blamed him for it. In a way he had to admire the bastard’s professionalism. Admire, yes; forgive, no.

  He pulled out a piece of paper upon which was written, in code, a list of his victims, ones already dead and ones he’d kill in the future. He took up a pencil and wrote a question mark on the last line of the page. He’d find this impersonator before the police did, and he’d kill him. Just
ice demanded it.

  CHAPTER

  33

  “KYLE, WHAT ARE YOU

  doing?” asked Sylvia as she walked into the administrative office of her medical practice and saw Kyle sitting in front of the computer terminal.

  He spun around in the chair. “Oh, hey, Doc, didn’t expect you in this early.”

  “Apparently not. So what exactly are you doing?”

  “Just accessing the Internet.”

  “I’ve told you before that you cannot use this computer for personal business.”

  “I wasn’t. I was going to order some new scrubs and surgical masks that we need both for the morgue and here. I found a much cheaper deal on the Web than we’re getting through our current supplier.”

  “Kyle, that’s okay for my medical practice, but the morgue is a government entity. There are procurement procedures in place, very rigid ones. You can’t just order something on your own and have a government check issued to pay for it.”

  “Jeez, Doc, I’m trying to save us some bucks here.”

  “I appreciate your initiative. I’m just telling you there are certain channels we have to go through.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. Nothing but red tape.”

  “You think I like dealing with it? Look, just shoot me an e-mail about it, including comparison costs, and I’ll put it in the system. If it’s that good of a deal, we’ll do it, both here and next door.”

  Kyle brightened. “Okay, Doc. That’s cool.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him. “You look like you’ve fully recovered from being sick. Must have been a really fast bug.”

  “It was. How about you? Feeling better?”

  “No,” she said bluntly. “But I don’t have a choice about showing up.”

  “Come on, Doc, it’s not like dead people are going to know if you’re a little late.”

  “Morgues around the country have bodies stacked up, and every minute that goes by, the victims deteriorate further and further, vital evidence is lost and the chances increase dramatically that a criminal will go free. I refuse to let that happen here.”

  “I hear you, Doc. You’re the best.”

  “Uh-huh. Finish up there. We need to complete the reports on the Hinson and Battle posts, and we have a full slate of patients scheduled today.”

  “Right you are.”

  After Sylvia had left, Kyle quickly completed what he was actually doing: manipulating the pharmacy inventory records to cover up his theft. Finished, Kyle reminded himself that he’d have to find a deal on the Internet for scrubs to present to Sylvia. One thing he’d learned about the woman: she never forgot anything. If he didn’t come up with it, she’d ask, and if he didn’t have an answer, she’d grow suspicious. He wasn’t supposed to have the pass code to get into these files, but he had scammed it from the woman who handled that part of the operation. The woman only came in three days a week, which gave him plenty of opportunity to cover his tracks each time he made a “withdrawal” from the pharmacy.

  However, Kyle hadn’t given Sylvia Diaz enough credit. She was already suspicious of him. And that suspicion would only deepen as time went on.

  As Kyle rose to join her, he glanced at the newspaper lying on the desk next to the computer. The headline was the same one the man in the cave had ranted about: Battle murdered and the serial killer blamed. He quickly read through the accompanying story. It had happened on the same night he’d taken the woman the drugs at the Aphrodisiac. In fact, according to the newspaper account, it had occurred at the same hour Kyle had driven past the hospital on his way to the men’s club. He could have passed the killer on the way, a realization that made him squirm in his seat. As his thoughts returned to that night, it suddenly struck him what he’d seen. And as Kyle had been wont to do his whole life, he immediately started to wonder how this knowledge might best serve him.

  CHAPTER

  34

  JUNIOR DEAVER HEAVED

  a flat of asphalt shingles off his pickup truck. They landed with a thump that broke the quiet of the morning. Junior jumped off the truck and took a look at the home he was building for his family. It was all framed, the roof was on and it would soon be under shingle. It had been slow going, though. He’d done most of the work himself, calling in favors from buddies from time to time. It wasn’t a large house, but it was far bigger than the double-wide trailer they were currently living in. He pulled his tool belt off the truck, put it on and headed over to fire up the gasoline generator that would power the air gun he’d use to drive the shingle nails.

  It was only then that he heard the stealthy footsteps coming toward him. He spun around. He’d expected no visitors at this isolated place. No one knew he was here other than his wife. And he hadn’t even heard a car pull up.

  The sight of the woman drew the blood from his face.

  Remmy Battle was dressed in a full-length black leather coat with the collar turned up. She had wide sunglasses on. Boots covered her feet and she was wearing gloves, though it wasn’t chilly.

  “Mrs. Battle? What are you doing here?”

  She stopped about a foot from him. “I wanted to talk to you, Junior, just you and me.”

  “How’d you even know I was here?”

  “I know a lot, Junior, far more than most people think. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  Junior held up his hands. “Look, I got me a lawyer. You better talk to him.”

  “I have talked to him. Now I want to talk to you.”

  He eyed her warily and then looked around as though he expected to see police officers swooping in to arrest him. His expression turned stubborn. “I don’t see that we got anything to talk about. You already had me put in jail.”

  “But you’re out now, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, but we had to put up bail. Almost broke us. We ain’t got that kind of money.”

  “Come on now, Junior, your wife makes good money over at that club. I know that for a fact. My husband frequented the place. She probably earned a small fortune just off him.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  She ignored this. “My dead husband.”

  “I heard,” Junior mumbled in reply.

  “He was murdered, you know,” she said in an oddly flat tone.

  “Heard that too.”

  “You get out of jail and then he ends up dead.”

  He looked at her wide-eyed. “Look, you ain’t gonna pin that on me, lady.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you have an alibi.”

  “You bet I do.”

  “Good for you, but that’s not why I’m here.” She drew even closer and took off her glasses. Her eyes were red and puffy.

  “So why are you here?” he asked.

  “I want it back, Junior. I want it back now.”

  “Damn it, Mrs. Battle, I didn’t take your wedding ring.”

  She suddenly shouted, “I couldn’t give a shit about the damn ring. I want the other things. You give them back to me. You give them back to me right now.”

  Junior slapped his thigh in frustration. “How many times do I have to say this? I don’t have that stuff because I didn’t break into your house.”

  “I’ll pay you whatever you want,” she persisted, ignoring his denial. She looked at the half-built house. “I’ll pay for a first-rate crew to come here and finish this house for you. I’ll double its size; give you a damn swimming pool, whatever you want.” She drew right in front of him, one of her hands seizing his faded jean jacket in a very firm grip. “Whatever you or Lulu want I’ll give you. But in return I want those things back. Just give them to me and all the charges go away, and you have yourself a really nice house. And you can keep the damn ring.”

  “Mrs. Battle, I—”

  She slapped him across the face, stunning him into silence. He would have killed any man who did that to him. Yet he made no move to retaliate.

  “But if you don’t give them to me, I’l
l make you wish for twenty hard years in prison. You’ll beg for that after I get through with you. I know people, Junior, don’t think I don’t. They’ll come see you. You’ll never forget their visit.” She let go of his jacket. “I’ll give you a little