Hour Game

by David Baldacci

  arranged things by the coatrack. “Your jacket, shoes and such you always place there when you’re here working. And it’s also pretty strange to perform an autopsy at night and without assistance or a witness, as you did with Hinson. You gave Todd such a hard time about him ducking the other autopsies, but you didn’t want him at Hinson’s, because you had someplace else to be. Namely, killing Bobby during the nurse changeover. You feigned illness when Todd called you later that night about Battle’s death because you had to complete Hinson’s post, or else you couldn’t bring yourself to see Battle’s body so soon after you’d killed him.”

  “That’s crazy. And I wanted to perform the autopsy as quickly as possible. The body will only give clues for a certain period of—”

  “Save the lecture for somebody who cares,” said King. “I’m betting Kyle put all this together and tried to blackmail you. So you came to me with the perfectly true fact that he was stealing drugs and selling them, and I told you I’d have Todd see Kyle the next day. Only by then you’d killed him. Maybe you went right after we finished dinner. And during the post you conveniently found enough evidence to make it look like murder. And of course there was Dorothea ready to take the blame, which I’m certain was your intent. In fact, I bet you recognized her at the Aphrodisiac and knew she was Kyle’s drug client.”

  He looked over at her. She was simply staring blankly at him now. “But was it all worth it for a monster like Battle? Was it, Sylvia? You were just one in a hundred. He didn’t love you. He didn’t love anyone.”

  She picked up the phone. “Unless you leave right now I’m calling the police.”

  King rose. “Oh, just so you know, Eddie put me onto this. He knew you’d killed his father; that’s why he was going to kill you.”

  “So now you’re listening to convicted murderers?”

  “Ever heard of a guy named Teet Haerm?”

  “No.”

  “He lived in Sweden. Maybe still does. He was accused of killing some people back in the eighties. He was arrested and convicted, but it was later overturned and he was set free.”

  “And what exactly does that have to do with me?” she said icily.

  “Teet Haerm was the medical examiner for the city of Stockholm. It’s said that he even performed the autopsies on some of his victims. Probably the only time that had ever happened. At least until now. Eddie left a clue behind, only he misspelled it on purpose. He wanted to get to you first after all.” He paused and added, “I don’t know if Teet was guilty or not, but I know you are.”

  “And you can’t prove one word of anything you’ve said.”

  “You’re right, I can’t,” conceded King. “At least not right now. But let me tell you something, lady, I’m not going to stop trying. In the meantime I hope your guilt will ruin your life.”

  King walked out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

  CHAPTER

  101

  KING AND MICHELLE

  boarded the small plane and flew down to South Carolina. From there they drove an hour to the maximum security prison Eddie Battle had been transferred to and where he would spend the rest of his life. Michelle chose to wait outside while King went in.

  Eddie was brought in wearing shackles and surrounded by four beefy guards who never took their eyes off him. Eddie’s hair was shaved to the scalp, and there were scars and wounds on his face and forearms which King knew had been inflicted since he’d been incarcerated. He wondered how many others were hidden under the jumpsuit. He sat down across from Eddie. They were separated by inch-thick Plexiglas. King had already been instructed on all the visitor’s rules, chief of which was to make no sudden moves and never ever try to have any physical contact with the prisoner.

  King knew he’d have no trouble following those procedures.

  “I’d ask you how it’s going, but I can see.”

  Eddie shrugged. “It’s not that bad. Pretty basic stuff. Kill or be killed and I’m still here.” He eyed King with a curious look. “Didn’t expect to be seeing you again.”

  “I had a few questions to ask you. And then I had something to tell you. What do you want first?”

  “Give me the questions. The boys in here don’t have many. Spend most of my time in the library. Lifting weights, playing ball, getting some of the boys organized into a team. They won’t let me paint, though. Guess they’re afraid I’ll drown somebody in a bucket. Shoot.”

  “First question: Did your father’s stroke start everything in motion?”

  Eddie nodded. “I’d been thinking about it for a while. Wasn’t sure if I’d have the balls to actually do it. When the old man went down, it just snapped in my head. Now or never.”

  “Second question: Why kill Steve Canney? I thought you did it for your mother, but now I know that wasn’t the case.”

  Eddie shifted in his seat, the shackles rattling. One of the guards looked over. Eddie smiled and waved before looking back at King. “My parents let my brother die, and my old man goes off and has another son with some slut. Well, I didn’t want or need another brother. This Canney kid grew up healthy and strong. That should’ve been Bobby, you hear me? It should’ve been Bobby.” His voice rose higher, and now all four guards looked over. King didn’t know if he was more frightened of Eddie or them.

  “Third question: What made you kill Junior? At first I thought it was because you believed he’d stolen from your mother. Now I know you wouldn’t have cared about that. So why?”

  “There was a drawing of my brother that got busted up during the burglary.”

  “Your mother showed me it.”

  “It was a drawing of Bobby before he got really sick.” Eddie paused and put his shackled hands on the wood in front of him. “I was the one who drew it. I loved that picture. And I wanted it in Mom’s room so she’d always know what she did. When I saw it smashed up, I knew I’d kill whoever had done it. I thought Junior had broken it. That was his death sentence.”

  King suppressed a shudder at Eddie’s reasoning for murder and said, “In case you’re interested, this has all really hit Remmy hard, though she tries not to show it.”

  “She’s just lucky I didn’t have the guts to kill her.”

  “Did you come up with the plan to impersonate famous serial killers because of Chip Bailey?”

  Eddie grinned. “Old Chippy. Bragged all the time about how much smarter he was than everyone else, how much he knew about serial killers, their M.O. He claimed he could run down the smartest of them. Well, I took him up on that challenge. I think the results speak for themselves.”

  “If your father hadn’t been murdered, what would you have done?”

  “Killed him. But before I did I was going to tell him about all the people I’d killed and why. I wanted him to know what he’d done. For once in his life I wanted him to take responsibility.”

  “Last question. Why’d you take something from each of your victims?”

  “So I could plant them at Harold Robinson’s, to put the blame on him.” He paused, his brow wrinkled, and he finally said in a low voice, “I guess I’m just like my old man.”

  King understood that this was by far the harshest sentence Eddie could have been given, and it was a self-imposed one. That was why he had asked the question.

  “So what’d you come here to tell me?”

  King sunk his voice low. “That you were right about Sylvia. I confronted her with it all, but I can’t prove any of it, though I’ll keep trying.”

  “Did you figure out my ‘Teet’ clue?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Found out about him when I went down to the FBI at Quantico with Chip once.”

  “Sylvia’s moved away from Wrightsburg, probably set up a new life under another name.”

  “Lucky her.”

  “I haven’t told anyone else about it, not even Michelle.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter, Eddie, there’s just nothing I can do about it right no
w. I have no proof. She covered her tracks really well, but I’ll keep trying.” King rose. “I won’t be back to see you.”

  “I know.” As Eddie started to rise, he called out, “Hey, Sean, can you tell Michelle I wouldn’t have really hurt her that night? And tell her I enjoyed our dance together.”

  The last image King had of the man was him shuffling off surrounded by the guards. And then Eddie Battle was gone. King hoped forever.

  As he was leaving the prison, King was stopped and given a package at the visitor’s center. He was only told that it had been mailed here and they were to hold it for him. It was actually addressed to Michelle. He got back in the car.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “It’s for you. We’ll stop for lunch at that diner we passed earlier, and you can open it.”

  It was truly a greasy spoon full of truckers, but the food was good and the coffee hot. They found a spot near the back and ate their lunch.

  “Don’t you want to know how he is?” asked King.

  “No. Why, did he ask about me?”

  King hesitated and said, “No, he never mentioned you.”

  Michelle swallowed her bite and chased it with some coffee.

  “One thing still has me puzzled,” she said.

  “Really, only one thing?” King attempted a smile.

  “What was in her closet safe that Remmy wanted back so badly?”

  “I think they were letters from a certain gentleman acquaintance of hers.”

  “So she was having an affair?”

  “No, this was a case of unrequited love. The gentleman in question would have it no other way with a married woman. But she wanted his letters back.”

  “I wonder who it could have—” She stopped, eyes huge. “Not—”

  “Yes,” said King quickly. “Yes. But it was a long time ago, and he did nothing to be ashamed of. He simply cared for a woman who turned out not to have deserved it.”

  “God, that’s so sad.”

  He helped her rip open the package. They both sat staring at the object.

  It was the painting of Michelle in the ball gown that Eddie had done.

  King looked at her and then at the painting but said nothing. They paid their bill and left. Before they got in the car, Michelle threw the painting in the diner’s Dumpster.

  “Ready to go home?” King asked as she climbed in the driver’s seat.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Michelle punched the gas, and they drove off in a swirl of dust.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Michelle, it’s hard to believe, novel number ten and counting. I wouldn’t have wanted to share the ride with anyone else.

  To Rick Horgan, for helping me see the forest and the trees when I really need to.

  To Maureen, Jamie and Larry, for all you do, and for being such terrific friends.

  To Tina Andreadis, for being a dear friend and a major reason why the public knows who I am.

  To the rest of the Warner Books crew for all your hard work and support. I know the books don’t sell themselves.

  To Aaron Priest, for always being there for me.

  To Lucy Childs and Lisa Erbach Vance, for all that you do.

  To Maria Rejt, for your thoughtful editorial comments.

  To Dr. Monica Smiddy, for all your forensics wizardry. You’d make a great teacher.

  To Dr. Marcella Fierro, for patiently answering all of my questions and giving me a behind-the-scenes look at the medical examiner’s office in Richmond.

  To Dr. Catherine Broome, for making this author seem far more knowledgeable about medical matters than I actually am.

  To Bob Schule, my resident wine expert, stellar proofreader and great friend.

  To Dr. Alli Guleria and her husband, Dr. Anshu Guleria, for helping me on medical matters, for allowing me to borrow your really cool cars for the story and for being such wonderful friends. Consultants are great, aren’t they?

  To Jennifer Steinberg, for all your excellent research. I haven’t stumped you yet, but I’ll keep trying.

  To Lynette and Deborah, for all you do every day to keep me straight. I know it’s not an easy task.

  Please turn this page

  for a preview of

  David Baldacci’s

  explosive new thriller!

  King and Maxwell

  CHAPTER

  1

  FORTY-FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS.

  That was how much the crate weighed. It was off-loaded from the tractor-trailer by forklift and placed in the back of the smaller box truck. The rear door was closed and secured with two different locks, one a key, the other a combo. Each was rated to be impervious to thieves.

  The man climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck, closed the door, started the engine, revved the motor, cranked the AC, and adjusted his seat. He had a long way to drive and not much time to get there. And it was hot as hell. Maybe hotter.

  He would have preferred an armed escort, perhaps an Abrams tank for good measure. The air was so hot that waves of visible heat shimmered in spots. The ground was rocky and, in the distance, mountainous. The roads were bad, highway amenities were nonexistent, and he was on his own. He had guns and plenty of ammo. But he was only one man with only one trigger finger.

  He no longer wore the uniform. He had taken it off for the last time about an hour ago. He fingered his “new” clothes. They were worn and not overly clean. He pulled out his map and spread it out on the front seat as the tractor-trailer pulled away, the forklift inside the trailer and secured.

  He was now alone in the middle of nowhere in a country that was also, largely, in the middle of nowhere.

  Other than the ninth century, he thought.

  As he stared out the windshield at the imposing terrain, he briefly thought about how he had ended up here. Actually, it was quite straightforward.

  He had volunteered for the job.

  Back then it had seemed brave, even heroic. Right now, he felt like a fool for accepting a mission that had such a low chance of survival for him. But wasn’t that, by definition, heroic?

  Yet did he really want to be a hero?

  The answer was irrelevant. He was here. He was alone. He had a job to do and he had better get to it.

  In addition to the map he had GPS. Out here, though, it was spotty, as though the satellites above didn’t even know this was a country where people might need to get from point A to point B. Hence the old-fashioned paper version on the front seat.

  He put the truck in drive and thought about what was in the crate.

  More than two tons of very special cargo. It would carry him a long way. And it better. Without it he was certainly a dead man. Even with it, he might be a dead man.

  He wondered again at his sanity for accepting this task. As he drove along the bumpy road he calculated he had twenty hours of hard driving ahead of him if he hoped to get there in time.

  They would be waiting for him. The cargo would be transferred and he would be transferred along with it. If they let him live. And that was largely up to him. Communications had been made. Promises given. Alliances formed.

  That had all sounded good in the endless meetings with people in shirts and ties, their smartphones jangling nonstop. Everything seemed official, cut and dried, t’s crossed, i’s dotted, signed, sealed, and delivered.