Hour Game (14 page)

K
ING FINISHED HIS DINNER WITH FRIENDS AROUND NINE-THIRTY
and decided to call Michelle to see if she was interested in a nightcap at the Sage Gentleman to discuss the case some more. She was there in about ten minutes. When his partner arrived, King watched in amusement as many male heads in the bar turned at the sight of the tall striking brunette striding confidently through the bar wearing jeans, a turtleneck sweater, boots and a Secret Service windbreaker. The fantasies they must have been playing with, he thought.
If they only knew she was armed and dangerous and independent as hell.

“How was the dinner?” she asked.

“Predictably boring. How about the kickboxing?”

“I need a new instructor.”

“What happened to the one you have?”

“He’s just not challenging enough.”

As they looked around for a table in the bar area, Michelle spotted a familiar face in the far corner. “Isn’t that Eddie Battle?”

At that instant, Eddie looked up, saw them and waved them over.

They sat down at his table, the remnants of a meal still there.

“Dorothea not cooking tonight?” asked King with a smile.

“That would be correct. In fact, that would be right for most of our marriage. I actually do most of the cooking,” he added with a boyish grin.

“A man of many talents,” said Michelle.

He was dressed in corduroy pants and a black sweater with brown elbow patches. Michelle looked down at his feet and saw loafers.

“I see you finally got the cavalry boots off.”

“Not without effort. Your feet really swell up in those things.”

“When’s your next reenactment?” asked King.

“This weekend. At least the weather’s been cooperative. Those wool uniforms are really scratchy, and if it’s really hot, it’s a killer. Although I’m thinking about retiring from it. My back’s about gone from all the horseback riding.”

“Sold any paintings lately?” asked Michelle.

“Two, both to a collector in Pennsylvania who happens to be a reenactor. Only he fights for the Union, but I won’t hold that against him. Cash is cash, after all.”

“I’d like to see your work sometime,” said King. Michelle said the same thing.

“Well, I have it all in the studio behind the house. Give me a call whenever. I’ll be glad to give you a tour.” He waved to the waiter. “You two look thirsty, and as my mother would say, it’s bad manners and a damn shame to drink alone.”

As they waited for their cocktails, Eddie said, “So have you solved the case and gotten Junior Deaver off the hook?” He paused and added, “Although I guess you can’t tell me. We’re sort of on opposite sides.”

“It’s not an easy nut to crack,” said King. “We’ll see.”

Their drinks came. King tasted his whiskey sour and then said, “So how’s your mother doing?”

Eddie looked at his watch. “She’s at the hospital, although it’s around ten, so they’ll be kicking her out of Dad’s room soon. She’ll probably sleep there though. She usually does.”

“What’s your dad’s prognosis?”

“Actually, that’s taken a turn for the better. They think he’s past the worst of it.”

“That’s great news,” said Michelle.

Eddie swallowed some of his drink. “He’s got to make it. He’s
just got to.” He looked at each of them. “I don’t know if Mom could survive his dying. And while death awaits us all, I just don’t see him riding off into the sunset right now.” He looked down, embarrassed. “Sorry, too many gins and I start sounding pretty cliché-ish. Probably a reason why drinking alone with your problems is never a good idea.”

“Speaking of drinking alone, where’s Dorothea?” asked Michelle.

“At some function,” said Eddie wearily. He hastily added, “A Realtor has to do all that crap. But you can’t argue with her success.”

“True, Dorothea has been very successful,” said King quietly.

Eddie raised his glass. “To Dorothea, the world’s greatest real estate agent.”

Michelle and King looked at each other uncomfortably.

Eddie lowered his drink. “Look, she has her thing and I have mine. There’s a certain balance to that.”

“Do you have any children?” asked Michelle.

“Dorothea never wanted kids, so that pretty much settled that.” Eddie shrugged. “Who knows, maybe I didn’t want them either. I probably would’ve been a lousy dad.”

Michelle said, “You could have taught your kids to paint, ride horses, maybe they would’ve gotten into reenactments too.”

“And you still
could
have kids,” added King.

“To do that, I’d have to get another wife,” said Eddie with a resigned smile, “and I’m not sure I have the energy. Besides, Battles aren’t supposed to divorce. It’s unseemly. Hell, if Dorothea didn’t kill me, my mother probably would.”

“Well, it’s your life,” commented Michelle.

He looked at her strangely. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He finished his drink and said, “So I heard on the news that they’ve called in the big guns to help.”

“Including your old friend Chip Bailey.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”

“I’m sure your parents were really grateful to him.”

“Oh, yeah. My father offered him a position as head of security in one of his companies. Big bucks.”

“I didn’t know that,” said King. “But he obviously didn’t take it.”

“No. I guess he liked being a cop.” Eddie tapped his spoon against his fork. “I remember when I was a kid and this area was nothing but hills and woods. It was great. We never worried about anything happening.”

“And now?” asked Michelle.

“And now people are getting killed in their homes, left in the woods, shotgunned in their cars. If I ever did have a family, I don’t think I’d do it here.”

“Well, I guess you could live anywhere,” said King.

“I’m not sure my mother would be very happy about that.”

“Again, it’s your life, Eddie, right?” said Michelle.

This time Eddie Battle didn’t bother to answer her.

W
HILE
K
YLE
M
ONTGOMERY WAS COMMITTING HIS FELONY
and Eddie, King and Michelle were in the bar, Bobby Battle lay in his hospital bed under a mass of IV lines. Remmy Battle sat next to him, her right hand clasped inside her husband’s still, pale one.

Remmy’s eyes were on the array of monitors that vividly detailed the slim grasp her husband had on life. He’d had a minor setback and gone back on the ventilator machine, and it emitted its unnervingly high-pitched screech whenever Bobby’s breathing veered off course. Remmy’s own breathing rose and fell erratically with the squawks of the infernal contraption.

The nurse walked in. “Hello, Mrs. Battle, everything all right?”

“No! He doesn’t know me,” she snapped back. “He doesn’t know anyone.”

“But he’s getting stronger, the doctors said so. It’ll just take time. His vitals are much better. Even though he’s back on the ventilator, things are looking up, they really are.”

Remmy’s tone changed. “I thank you for telling me that. I really do, honey.” She looked down at the large man in the bed.

The nurse smiled and then seemed uncomfortable. “Mrs. Battle,” she began in a deferential tone undoubtedly reserved for those fortunate few who had their names on buildings.

“I know,” Remmy said quietly.

“Are you going to sleep here tonight?” the nurse asked. “If so, I’ll get your bed made up.”

“Not tonight. I’ll be back in the morning. But thank you.”

Remmy rose and left. The nurse made a quick check on her patient and then exited the room a few minutes later.

Battle was the only patient on this short hallway that was otherwise largely taken up with storage rooms. The rest of the unit’s ten beds emptied out onto a central area across from the nurse’s station. Remmy Battle had demanded this particular room for her husband because it allowed for more privacy. There was also a rear entrance at the end of this hall that enabled her, with a special access code, to come and go without having to pass by a large number of rooms, nurses and prying glances. The room that she sometimes slept in was down this hall from her husband.

It was a few minutes after ten, and this part of the hospital, isolated from the rest, was undergoing the nightly shift change of personnel. The nurse attending Battle would spend the next forty-five minutes in the staff room with her replacement, going over the current status of the patients under her supervision as well as pertinent medication and physician instructions.

Each patient room in this unit was monitored by camera, with the live feed going to the unit’s central nurse’s station. The television monitors at the nurse’s station were supposed to be watched constantly, although during shift change this procedure was not observed for about twenty minutes as the nurses, overworked and stretched to their limits, struggled to cram an hour’s worth of work into a third of that time. However, the machinery helping keep the patients alive in each of the rooms had warning devices that would immediately alert the staff to any drastic changes in condition.

Shortly after Remmy had left, a person came in the same rear entrance that Remmy had passed through minutes earlier. Dressed in scrubs and white hospital coat with a protective mask covering the lower part of the face, and looking very much a part of the hospital world, this individual passed by the door of Bobby Battle’s room, glanced inside and saw that it was empty except for the patient. A quick peek around the corner showed
that the nurse’s station was unattended. The intruder entered Battle’s room and closed the door.

Wasting no time, the person slightly moved the camera bolted to the wall across from the bed such that the live feed wouldn’t show the area to the left of the bed. Then the masked figure hurried across to the IV stand next to the bed, removed the hypodermic needle from a coat pocket and stabbed one of the medication bags above the fluid line with the needle, shooting the entire contents of the hypo into it. The person glanced once at Battle lying there, features peaceful, even with a tube down his throat. The intruder picked up his hand, placed the wristwatch on it and set it to five. Finally, the person pulled the object from another coat pocket and laid it carefully on Battle’s chest.

It was a single white bird’s feather.

Moments later the person had shot out the rear entrance, clambered down the stairs, slipped out into the parking lot and climbed into a car. The vehicle sped from the hospital.

The driver had a letter to write and mail.

Barely ten minutes after the car had driven off, a warning bell sounded on one of the machines in Bobby Battle’s room, followed by another. Within seconds all were screaming their collective and ominous warnings.

The nurses rushed en masse to the room. A minute later a code blue was broadcast over the P.A., and a highly experienced medical crash team dashed into the room. It was all for naught. At 10:23
P.M
. Robert E. Lee Battle was pronounced dead.