Hour Game

by David Baldacci

  you want to call her and bother her while she’s with the probate lawyers, that’s fine. We’ll just wait right here.”

  King could see Mason working through all this in his head. Finally, he shrugged. “I can’t see that it will hurt anything. Just try and keep things neat. Mrs. Battle is very particular.”

  “Yes, she is,” said King.

  Mason left, and they went immediately into Remmy’s closet and accessed the hidden drawer, examining it minutely but finding nothing.

  “Maybe you’ll have better luck in Daddy’s room,” said Savannah.

  As they were leaving the closet, King stopped to look at some photos on the shelf across from Remmy’s bed. Savannah stood next to him.

  “That’s me when I was twelve, fat and ugly. God, I can still feel those braces on my teeth.”

  King held up another photo, an old one, with two babies in it.

  Savannah pointed as she spoke. “That’s Eddie and Bobby Jr. I never knew him, of course; he died before I was born. No, I’m sorry, that’s Eddie on the left and Bobby Jr. on the right.” She still looked unsure. “Well, that’s embarrassing, not knowing your own flesh and blood.”

  “Well, they were twins,” said King, putting the photo back.

  They moved to Bobby’s bedroom but had no success there either, at least not at first. But as King went over the drawer inch by inch, he stiffened. “Can you get me a flashlight?” he asked Savannah.

  “Mama keeps one in her nightstand in case the power goes out.” Savannah ran and got it.

  King shone it in the drawer. “Look at this.” They all peered in.

  “It looks like letters,” observed Michelle.

  “That’s definitely a k, and either a c or an o.”

  Michelle looked more closely. “Then there’s some space, and that’s a p followed by what looks to be either an a or an o.”

  King straightened up, looking thoughtful. “It appears something was lying in this drawer, and those letters somehow stained the wood, imprinting it.”

  “It might have gotten wet,” suggested Savannah.

  King leaned in and took a long whiff of the drawer. He looked at Savannah. “Did Bobby drink in his room?”

  “Daddy drink? He has a whole bar in that piece of furniture that looks like a credenza across from his bed. Why?”

  “Because it smells like Scotch in the drawer.”

  “That might account for the moisture,” said Michelle, who took a whiff. “He was looking at whatever it was, spilled his drink in the drawer, and the letters got transferred from the paper to the bottom of the drawer.”

  King went into the bedroom and came back with a pen and paper he’d taken from Battle’s desk. He wrote the words down with the approximate spaces in between.

  Kc____pa, Ko____pa, Ko____po

  “Kc-pa, Ko-pa, or Ko-po,” he said slowly. “Ring any bells?” Savannah shook her head.

  “Obviously, there are letters we’re missing. If we were playing Wheel of Fortune, here’s where I’d ask for a couple of vowels,” said Michelle. “What do you think, Sean?”

  He took a moment before answering. “Somehow this may be the whole key right here, if I can just think of what it means.”

  Michelle had a sudden inspiration. While Savannah was scrutinizing the letters King had written down, Michelle whispered in her partner’s ear, “Maybe it’s from Battle’s holographic will that Harry thought might exist?”

  None of them heard the bedroom door close quietly behind the person who’d been listening in. Nor did they hear the sound of soft footfalls moving down the hall to the stairway.

  CHAPTER

  80

  SEAN KING SAT STRAIGHT

  up in bed like someone had frisked him with a cattle prod.

  Seven hours! My God, seven hours! But not really seven hours, more likely longer than that. The seven-hour reference had made him think about Sally’s death. She had died barely seven hours after telling him about Junior. That was one major point. However, the seven-hour time difference had just now made him recognize a startling fact, so startling that with that one revelation everything else started tumbling into place.

  He fumbled around and found his watch on the nightstand. It was one o’clock in the morning. He staggered out of his bed, tripped over something Michelle had carelessly left on the guest room floor and fell down grabbing at his big toe. He felt around and found the object. It was a twenty-pound dumbbell.

  “For Chrissakes,” he yelled at no one in particular. He got up, rubbing his foot, and limped down the hallway to her bedroom. He was about to burst in when he thought better of it. Surprising Michelle Maxwell like that could earn him a one-way ticket to the morgue.

  He rapped on the door. “Are you decent?”

  A sleepy voice filtered through the one-inch wood of the door. “What?”

  “If you still keep that fifty-caliber machine gun under your pillow, don’t pull it. I come in peace.”

  He went inside and flicked on the light. She was sitting up in bed, rubbing at her eyes.

  “I like your choice in lingerie,” he said, eyeing her baggy gray sweat suit emblazoned with the acronym WIFLE, which stood for Women in Federal Law Enforcement. “You wear that on your honeymoon, and your hubby will never let you out of bed.”

  She looked at him irritably. “Is that why you woke me up, to critique my pajamas?”

  He sat next to her. “No, I have something I need you to do while I’m gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I’ve got some things to look into.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I need you here. I want you to keep an eye on the Battles.”

  “The Battles. Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  “How exactly can I do that?”

  “I’ll call Remmy and say that you need to ask some more questions. She’ll bring everyone together at her house, and that’ll make it easier for you.”

  “What exactly am I supposed to ask them?”

  “You’ll think of plenty of things, don’t worry.”

  She crossed her arms and looked at him stubbornly. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I really need you to do this.”

  “You’re keeping things from me again. You know I hate that.”

  “I don’t know anything definite yet. But you’ll be the first to know. I swear.”

  “Will you at least tell me what the things are you’re going to check into?”

  “All right. I’m going to have a friend of mine look at Bobby’s autopsy results.”

  “Why?”

  “Next,” he said, ignoring her question, “I’m going over to UVA Hospital and do a little research into certain narcotics. Then I’m going to do a little antiquing.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Antiquing?”

  “After that I’m going to visit Bobby Battle’s family physician. I have some questions to ask that might clear up a lot. Last but not least I’m heading to D.C. to purchase a certain device that might assist us greatly. ”

  “And that’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gee, thanks for all your trust in me.”

  He rose. “Listen to me, Michelle. If I told you exactly what I’m thinking and I turn out to be completely wrong, it might make you trust the wrong person. Until I know if I’m right or not, keep one thing in mind: until we catch this person, no one is your friend. And I mean no one.”

  She stared back at him. “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “No, I’m trying to keep both of us alive. We’ve already taken two shots. I don’t want the third to be the charm.”

  CHAPTER

  81

  WHILE KING WAS HAVING

  his late night epiphany and conference with Michelle, a man with murder on his mind had entered the residence of Jean and Harold Robinson. Wearing a black hood, he’d opened the basement-door lock and slipped inside
. It was easy when one had a key, and he did, having used the impressions he’d taken at the shopping mall to create one. Before entering the house he’d cut off the phone lines. Inside, he moved quickly up the stairs, the layout of the home well known to him. There were four occupants, and he knew where each was located, having scouted out the residence several times. For good measure he’d also studied a schematic of the house that was conveniently displayed on the builder’s Web site.

  As he’d deduced in the shopping mall where he’d first spotted the soccer mom Jean Robinson, the family had a security system but didn’t use it. The three children—the infant he had waved to in the van and two older boys—were asleep on the upstairs level. The wife and husband had a master suite on the main level, only the husband wasn’t home, which was why he was here tonight.

  The heat came on with a shudder, flooding the house with gas-heated air. Under the cover of the sound he flashed down the hall to the master bedroom. He listened at the door for one-two-three beats. All he heard were the soft snores of Mrs. Robinson, waiting for him without even knowing she was. He opened the door and closed it softly behind him. His eyes had long since adjusted to the dark. Jean Robinson was a small lump on the left side of the California King bed. She wore a white sheer nightie. He’d been peering in her window when she was changing into it. She had a bad habit of not closing the blinds all the way and leaving the light on when she undressed. Because the window faced the backyard, she probably assumed it was private. She’d assumed incorrectly, of course, as most people did about having any privacy at all. There was always someone watching. Always.

  She’d gotten back in shape quickly after her third child. Her tummy was flat once more, her breasts still large from nursing the infant, her legs slender, her butt fleshy but in a very attractive way. Her husband no doubt loved her, and they had a healthy sex life together. Yet what did that really matter to him? He wasn’t here to rape the woman, only to kill her.

  The gag was stuffed in her mouth in an instant, cutting off any sound she might have made. After a second of confusion as to what was happening to her, every muscle in her body tensed. He pushed against her from behind, crushing her to the bed. Yet she was stronger than he would have thought; she fought back. Her hand reached back, gripped the hood and pulled it off.

  He panicked and slammed her head against the hard wood of the headboard, once, twice, a third time, until he felt her go limp. Once more into the solid oak, and he thought he heard her skull fracture, if one could hear such a thing. While one forearm levered into the back of her neck, his free hand frantically sought out his hood. He found it gripped in her fist. Yanking it free, he pulled it back on. Putting his arm under her small waist, he lifted her completely off the bed and slammed her headfirst against the wood one final time.

  He flipped her over and looked at her eyes. They were open, staring, lifeless; the blood from her crushed head ran down, staining her exposed breasts. He pulled the nightie all the way off and flung it across the room. He lifted her naked body up and set it on the floor. He took the steak knife he’d pilfered from the Robinsons’ kitchen and proceeded to mark her skin in very intricate ways. The police should have no trouble getting this one, he thought as he worked away. He took the risk of switching on a small light on the nightstand and used the knife blade to dig under her fingernails, extracting pieces of his hood from them. These he put in his pocket.

  He took her watch from the nightstand, set it to six, pulled out the stem and wrapped the band around her wrist.

  Finished, he felt for her pulse, just to be sure. It had gone for good. Jean Robinson had ceased to be. Next stop for the woman, the licensed butcher, Dr. Diaz. Harold Robinson was now a widower with three young boys to care for. And the world would go on, which proved his point entirely that none of it really mattered. We’re all replaceable.

  He grabbed the nightie, which might have traces of him on it, and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn’t have the luxury of vacuuming up after himself, because of the home’s other occupants; indeed, he was fortunate that the sounds of their mother’s being beaten to death hadn’t roused the two older boys.

  He turned back once more to look at his work. Yes, it was all nicely set up—first-rate, in fact.

  Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.

  He went to the kitchen, found her purse, took out her cell phone, hit the directory, obtained the number he wanted and called the good husband, who was on the road, not too far from here. He said four simple words. “Your wife is dead.” He then hung up and turned off the phone. He reached up on top of the kitchen cabinet and retrieved the bug he’d planted there in an earlier burglary. He’d no longer need it.

  Now he had one more task to perform, and then it would be over, at least for tonight. He started to the back stairs leading to the basement.

  “Mom?”

  He froze there in the hallway as the light in the upper hall came on. Footsteps approached; they were short, halting strides; bare feet sliding along wood flooring.

  “Mom?”

  The little boy appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down. In one hand he clutched a stuffed dog that he was dragging along. He was clad in white underpants and a Spider-Man T-shirt. He rubbed sleepy eyes with a small, dimpled fist.

  “Mommy?” he said again. Still looking down, he finally saw the shadow of black hood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Daddy?”

  The killer stood there and stared back up at the child. His gloved hand slipped to his pocket, fingered a knife. It would be over in an instant. A deuce instead of only one dead, what did it matter? Mother and son, what the hell does it matter? He tensed to do this very thing. Yet he made not a move. He simply stared at the small frame outlined in the weak light; the potential eyewitness.

  “Daddy?” he said again, now his voice rising with fear when no answer came.

  He snapped back just in time. “It’s Daddy, son, go back to sleep.”

  “I thought you had to go, Daddy.”

  “I forgot something, Tommy, that’s all. Go back to sleep before you wake up your brothers. You know once your little brother starts to cry, it’s all over. And give Bucky a kiss for me,” he added, referring to the stuffed bear. While he couldn’t exactly imitate the father’s voice, knowing the son’s name, that he had brothers and other intimate details would certainly put the little boy at ease.

  He’d researched the Robinsons thoroughly. He knew everything from their nicknames to their Social Security numbers to their favorite restaurant to the various sports the two older boys, Tommy and Jeff, played: Tommy baseball and Jeff soccer. He knew that Harold Robinson had left the house at a little before midnight on his way to Washington, D.C…. that their mother loved them very much… that tonight he’d taken that person away from them forever. He’d done so solely because she’d had the great misfortune to pass by his radar while shopping for milk and eggs. It could have been anyone’s mother. Anyone’s. But it just happened to be Tommy’s. And twelve-year-old Jeff’s. And little one-year-old Andy’s, who’d had the colic his first six months of life. It was amazing the intimate details people shared if one just listened. Yet no one did listen anymore, except perhaps priests. And killers like him.

  He let go of the knife in his pocket. Tommy would have the chance to grow up. One Robinson was enough for tonight.

  “Go back to bed, son,” he said again more firmly.

  “Okay, Daddy. I love you.” The little boy turned and headed back down the hall.

  Black hood stood there for far too long, staring up at the empty space where sleepy Tommy had been, where he’d said, I love you, Daddy. He should be making his escape; finishing up his last task. I love you, Daddy.

  He suddenly felt ashamed to even be in the same house with the child who’d said that to him, however mistakenly. He cursed himself. Go, go now. The husband is probably right now phoning the police. Go, you idiot!

  Down in the unfinished basement he shone his light on the cappe
d piping that marked a future toilet area. He unscrewed the cap, took out the large Baggie of items, stuffed it in the pipe and screwed the cap back on just so. In planting evidence one could neither be too obvious nor too obtuse. His fence-straddling would have to be perfect.

  He slipped outside, crossed the backyard and made his way to his blue VW parked several blocks off. He took off his hood as he drove away. Then he did something he’d never done before. He drove directly to the home where he’d just committed perhaps his most heinous crime of all. The murdered mother was in her bedroom. Tommy was in his—the third dormer window from his left. The kids got up at seven to be ready for school. If their mother wasn’t up by then, they’d go and get her. He checked his watch; it was one o’clock now. Tommy perhaps had six more hours of normalcy. “Enjoy them, Tommy,” he mumbled to the dark window. “Enjoy them… And I’m sorry.”

  He drove off, licking at the salt of the tears sliding down his cheeks.