Hour Game skamm-2

by David Baldacci

  “What?”

  “There it is. My gun landed on the lip of the rear spoiler. It’s wedged there.”

  “No way—don’t you even think about it, lady.”

  “Just hold on to my leg. I can almost reach it.”

  “Damn it, Michelle, you’re going to give me a heart attack, and I’m about to have one as it is.”

  So focused was King on her that he didn’t see the SUV speed up and come alongside until the last instant.

  “Hold on,” he screamed as he instantly downshifted, leaping over gears in a way that probably voided every manufacturer’s warranty Lexus offered. He could almost hear the car screaming at him to Just stop it! and he expected to see his transmission vomited all over the road. He plunged to twenty clicks on the speedometer, both feet on the brakes now, then came to a thudding stop, wheels smoking, as the g’s raced down his torso and washed off his toes. Michelle had a death grip around the rear headrest, her bare feet braced against the back of his seat.

  King’s body was misfiring in so many ways he figured cardiac arrest was the least he could expect. He slammed the car into reverse, jammed down on the accelerator, firewalled what was left of his engine, and rocketed backward.

  The SUV had stopped so hard that its tires seemed ablaze, such was the volume of smoke pouring from them. The driver cut a swift 180 and was coming at them full tilt, the SUV’s grille resembling bared teeth looking to devour them. It was gaining with every revolution of the wheel.

  Michelle stopped inching toward her gun and eyed her partner, who was looking backward as he drove. “You can’t drive faster backward than he can forward, Sean.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” His knuckles were turning purple from his grip on the wheel. “Hold on to everything you can. On the count of five I’m cutting a J.”

  “You must be nuts.”

  “Yes, I must be.”

  By cutting a J he meant that from a fast reverse driving position he was going to whip the car into a 180-degree turn, probably on two wheels, slam it into drive, fire the turbos and rocket off in the opposite direction. All that in one neat motion, preferably without killing them both.

  Sweat broke over King’s brow as he prayed that all his Secret Service training would come back to him so many years later. He clamped on the door with his free hand for leverage, braced his left foot against the floorboard as a fulcrum point, gauged the exact right moment and whipped the wheel hard, letting go of it completely and then clamping down on it. It worked to perfection. He leapfrogged over the first two forward gears, gunned it and shot ahead. However, five seconds later the SUV was chasing them and gaining.

  Smoke was now coming out of the Lexus’s hood, and every single gauge King was staring at was foretelling their doom. Their speed dropped to sixty, then fifty. It was over.

  “Sean, here he comes!” screamed Michelle.

  “There’s not a damn thing I can do about it,” he shouted back, hopelessness evolving to rage in the course of a single breath.

  The SUV roared past, pulled back and took its two and one half tons and broadsided them. King kept one hand on the wheel and clamped the other on Michelle’s ankle as she struggled to get the gun. His fingers dug in so tightly on her skin that he knew he was drawing blood. His arm and shoulder were being torqued almost beyond limit.

  “Are you okay?” he called out, gritting his teeth against the pain as he could feel her full weight pulling against his tendons.

  “I am now, I’ve got the gun.”

  “Well, good, because the bastard’s coming again. Hold on!”

  He looked over to see the black SUV swerve toward him about the same time he felt Michelle’s limb twist around in his hand.

  “What are you do—” He didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The SUV clipped the rear end of the Lexus, and the car did what King had feared all along. It started to fishtail, and then it went into a 360, totally out of control.

  “Hold on!” he called out hoarsely as seemingly every ounce of belly bile started to march upward to incinerate his throat. As a Secret Service agent King had trained relentlessly to master the maneuvers of vehicles in the most hazardous conditions imaginable. Warmed up by the J-turn, he just let instinct take over. Instead of fighting the movements of the car, he went with them, turning the wheel toward the spin instead of against it and beating back the natural impulse to crush his brakes. The thing he was most fearful of was the car rolling. If it did, Michelle was dead and he probably would be too or at best a quad. King didn’t know how many revolutions the car took, but the low-built, bottom-heavy 3,800-pound Lexus held the road despite jettisoning a good deal of its tire rubber and a bunch of its metal guts.

  The car finally came to a stop facing in the direction of where they’d been heading; the black SUV was just up ahead and moving away from them fast, apparently having decided to give up the fight. Michelle’s gun fired, and the rear tires of the SUV disintegrated as the ordnance ripped into them. The vehicle started to whip around, went into a 360 and then did what the Lexus had steadfastly refused to: it rolled. Three shuddering flips, and it came to rest on its shattered roof along the right shoulder of the road far ahead of them, a trail of metal, glass and rubber left in its turbulent wake.

  King sped forward, as much as he could in his wrecked car, while Michelle slid down in the seat next to him.

  “Sean?”

  “What?”

  “You can let go of my leg.”

  “What? Oh, right.” He released his death grip.

  “I know; I was scared too.” She gave his hand a comforting squeeze as they looked at each other and drew long, thankful breaths.

  “That was some damn fine driving, Agent King,” she said gratefully.

  “And I sincerely hope it’s the last time I ever have to do it.”

  They pulled next to the wreck and got out. They advanced toward the car; Michelle had her pistol ready. King managed to wrench the driver’s door open.

  The man lunged toward them.

  Michelle was ready to fire, but then her finger relaxed against the trigger.

  The driver was upside down and bound by his seat belt. When King had opened the car door, he had plunged through the opening.

  The head was so bloody and mangled King didn’t bother checking for a pulse.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell; it’s so damn dark out here. Wait a minute.” He ran over and pulled the Lexus up so that its headlights were pointed right at the dead man.

  They looked at the body now outlined in bright light.

  It was Roger Canney.

  Chapter 77

  At ten o’clock in the morning the Deavers’ double-wide trailer was empty. The kids were back in school, and Lulu was at work. Priscilla Oxley had driven off to a mom-and-pop store for cigarettes and some more tonic to wash down her cherished vodka. Meanwhile a truck was parked behind a stand of trees that bordered the paved road leading to the gravel one the trailer was situated on. The man inside the truck had watched as Priscilla sped by in her LTD, a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other as she steered with her dimpled knees.

  The man immediately got out and made his way through the woods until he was on the edge of the clearing by the trailer. Luther, the old dog, moseyed out from the rear shed, cocked its head in the man’s direction as it caught his smell, gave a tired bark and then retreated back to the shed. A minute later the man was inside the trailer after picking the simple front-door lock and made his way swiftly to the small bedroom-office that was located at one end.

  Junior Deaver had never been much of a businessman and was a worse record keeper, but fortunately, his wife was very strong in both those areas. Junior’s construction company files were organized and easily accessible. Keeping one ear attuned for anyone coming, the man went through the files, which were conveniently arranged in chronological order. When he finished, he noted that he’d compiled a fairly lengthy list. One of these people h
ad to be it.

  He folded the list and put it away in his pocket and replaced all the files to their proper place. Then he left the way he’d come. As he returned to his truck, Priscilla Oxley drove past on her way back to the trailer with her tobacco and tonic. A lucky woman, he thought. Five minutes earlier and she would have been dead.

  He drove off, his precious list in his pocket. He thought about the burglary that had been unjustly blamed on Junior Deaver. He tried to recall every detail he’d heard of the crime. There was something there he was definitely missing. In the same vein he went over and over again the circumstances of Bobby’s death. Who was unaccounted for who might want the bastard dead? There were several possible suspects but no one he truly believed could have killed the old man. It would have taken nerve and knowledge, attributes he possessed in abundance and that he respected in others. He hoped for the day to be able to tell the impostor of his admiration, right before he slit his throat.

  Perhaps he should have made Sally talk before he killed her. Yet what could she really have known? She was with Junior, she’d said. They’d had sex. She was a stupid woman who preferred spending her days with four-legged beasts and her nights with two-legged ones. She deserved the quick death she’d gotten. What’s one less Sally Wainwright on the planet anyway? he asked himself.

  He’d killed six people so far, one of them in error, a mistake he’d made retribution for at least in his way. It wasn’t like he could pull out the rosary for this; no confessional could possibly contain his sins. He’d missed eliminating King and Maxwell, which frustrated him greatly. They were no doubt right now spinning new theories about what was really going on, and one day they might just alight on the right one. As complicated as it all seemed, the pair might figure it all out and ruin everything. It would be risky, but he was going to have to try again to kill them, in a way that wouldn’t fail. It would take time to come up with such a scenario, and in the meantime he’d pay close attention to the intelligence he received from his bugs and try to stay a step ahead. It would be tight, but if he kept his head and stuck to his plan, it would turn out all right.

  He was confident he was going to win. He had the most powerful advantage of all: he wasn’t afraid to die for ultimate victory. He doubted his opponents felt the same.

  Yet now he had another component of his plan to put into place.

  A successful exit.

  Chapter 78

  “You can’t believe Roger Canney’s the one,” said King heatedly.

  They were at police headquarters, around a long conference table. Williams and Bailey stared back at him doubtfully. Michelle doodled on a pad in front of her while simultaneously watching her partner closely.

  “He tried to kill both of you,” pointed out Bailey.

  King said, “Because we pretty much accused Canney of blackmailing Bobby Battle. The fact he tried to kill us pretty conclusively proves we were right. And if Canney did kill his wife, he’d probably be terrified we’d uncover that too. He goes on the run, we think. But he’s really still in the area and tries to kill us. That doesn’t mean he committed all those other murders.”

  Bailey shook his head. “He’d have to know or at least believe you’d shared your suspicions with us. And his method of trying to kill you was pretty stupid. Someone could have driven by and seen it all. And he used his own vehicle to try and kill you.”

  “I didn’t say he was a smart criminal. Frankly, I think he became unhinged. He’d been living on easy street for years thinking he’s safe. And then his son’s murdered and we stumble upon the blackmail. Maybe he just snapped. And if you do paternity testing on both the Canneys and Bobby, I’ll think you’ll find out who Steve Canney’s real father was,” added King.

  “Okay, then, maybe Canney killed his son and his girlfriend and Bobby Battle, and then killed the prostitute and Diane Hinson to muddy the waters.”

  “And Junior Deaver?” pointed out King. “How does he fit into it?”

  “Canney could have hired him to burglarize the Battles’ house,” said Bailey.

  “For what reason?” shot back King.

  “Well, if Battle and Mrs. Canney were having an affair, maybe Battle had something belonging to his lover that Roger Canney wanted back. Or Canney was afraid Battle had something incriminating on him. But then Junior also steals items from Remmy too, and Canney’s ticked about that or is afraid Junior will give him away. So he kills him. By going after you two he showed he didn’t mind murdering someone who got in his way.”

  “And Sally’s death?” asked Michelle. “How does that figure in?”

  “From what you’ve told us she was—and not to speak ill of the dead—a gal who’d jump into bed with anything wearing pants. Maybe Junior told her about Canney, and Canney found out and had to kill her too,” said Bailey, who smiled broadly, obviously pleased with himself.

  King sat back, shaking his head.

  “It does sort of make sense, Sean,” conceded Williams.

  “It’s wrong, Todd,” said King very firmly. “All wrong.”

  “So give me an alternative theory that fits the facts,” challenged Bailey.

  “Right now I can’t, but I’m telling you that if you stop looking for the real killer—or more likely, killers—other people could die.”

  “We’re not going to stop, Sean,” said Williams, “but if no more people are killed, it’s pretty good evidence Canney is the one.”

  “You don’t believe that, Todd, no matter how much you want to.” King rose. “Come on, Michelle, I need some air.”

  Outside the police station, King leaned against Michelle’s truck, shoved his hands in his pockets and scattered a bunch of gravel with an angry thrust of his foot.

  “You know, either Chip Bailey is the biggest idiot I’ve ever met or…”

  “Or maybe he’s right, and you can’t bring yourself to admit it,” finished Michelle.

  “Oh, you think so? Damn, my own partner conspiring against me,” he said with a resigned grin. “Maybe I am wrong.”

  Michelle shrugged. “I think pinning the whole thing on Canney is way too much of a stretch, but like Bailey said, we don’t have much of an alternative theory.”

  “There are things we know, things that are dangling right in front of our faces that we’re not even seeing. If I could just grab them and hang on, I know it would lead us where we need to go. But it’s driving me crazy that I can’t see them.”

  “I think I know a remedy.”

  He looked at her dubiously. “I’m not running in a marathon or going bungee jumping in order to get my brain firing better.”

  “What I’m thinking requires no physical exertion at all.”

  “An absolutely stunning concept, coming from you.”

  Michelle stared at the beautiful blue sky. “I say it’s boating time. Nothing like a spin on the water to get the mental juices flowing again, especially on a day like this.”

  “We don’t have time—” King stopped and his expression turned softer. “Okay, after nearly being killed twice, maybe a little break wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “I knew you’d see my logic. Sea-Doos or jet boat?”

  “Jet boat. I’m getting tired of you always wanting to race on the Sea-Doos.”

  “That’s just because I always beat you.”

  Chapter 79

  King was at the wheel, and Michelle sat next to him in the twenty-foot Bombardier jet boat as they cruised along at thirty knots over the lake’s calm surface. The summer season was still a ways off, so they had the water pretty much to themselves.

  “How much of Cardinal Lake have you seen?” asked King.

  “A lot. I don’t let the grass grow under my feet.”

  King went on in a pedantic tone. “You know, this lake was formed by damming up two rivers and letting the water back up over ten years. The end result was a very deep thirty-mile-long lake with excellent fishing, water sports and about two hundred coves and inlets.”

  “Wow, you
sound just like the real estate agent who sold me my place. Do you also refinance mortgages?”

  They headed toward the hydroelectric dam, which was really two dams, an upper and a lower one. Then they hit the main channel and turned west. Where the two rivers came together, King headed north until they came to a smaller channel that doglegged north and then east. They kept this heading, passing the even-numbered red channel markers that ran upriver, until he pulled back on the throttle and steered straight into a small uninhabited cove. A few minutes later they’d anchored down in about twenty feet of clear water, and King pulled out a basket of food and a cooler with sodas and water he’d put together.

  “I’m going to swim before we eat,” said Michelle.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Will you stop with the arm? It was only a nick to begin with.”

  “Why do I think if you took a thirty-thirty round through your chest, you’d only ask for a Band-Aid, and a small one at that?”

  She stripped down to her one-piece swimsuit and dove in.

  “God, the water’s great,” she said after coming back up.

  King eyed his instrument panel. “Water temp’s seventy-five, still a little cool for me. I’m an eighty-one, eighty-two kind of guy.”

  “You mean you’re a wimp.”

  “That’s another way of putting it, yes.”

  After they’d had their lunch, King pulled up the anchor and they started off again. Michelle pointed to a long, wide point up ahead. It was quite a sight: a six-slip boat dock with a gazebo, bar, dining area and equipment sheds and about six thousand square feet of decking, all encased in cedar siding and shake roofing. It just begged for an Architectural Digest spread.

  “That’s pretty impressive. Who owns it?”

  “What, you lose your sense of direction on the water? That’s Casa Battle.”

  “What! I didn’t even know they were on the lake.”