Hour Game (21 page)

K
ING AND
M
ICHELLE CLIMBED OUT OF THE
L
EXUS AND
looked around. They’d switched vehicles at King’s houseboat because one of Michelle’s truck headlights was out. King pulled out a flashlight, but its thin beam did little damage against the darkness.

“His truck’s here,” said Michelle as she tapped the side of the battered pickup crammed with tools and construction supplies in the bed.

“Junior!” King cried out. “It’s Sean King. We want to talk to you.”

Michelle cupped her hands around her mouth. “Junior! Junior Deaver!”

They looked at each other.

“Maybe he’s in the house.”

“What, working in the pitch-dark?” said King.

“In the basement maybe and we can’t see the light from here.”

“Okay, so I guess we go in.”

“Do you have another flashlight in your car?”

“No, but maybe Junior has one in his truck.”

They looked and found one on the floorboard. Now twin beams moved through the dark.

They entered the front door and looked around.

“Junior,” called out King again.

They swept the room with their lights. Over in one corner a big tarp was covering what looked to be a pile of drywall. All
around were stacked wood and other building materials, tools, buckets, and bags of cement, a real mess.

“Hey, this looks just like your house,” said King.

“Boy, you’re in fine form today. Look, the basement steps are over here.”

Michelle called down the stairs. There was no answer.

“Do you think he’s hurt himself?” she said.

King looked around. “This is beginning to look a little weird,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you…?”

Michelle already had her gun out. They went cautiously down the stairs.

In the far corner of the basement was a stack of cans. They looked behind this. Nothing. The HVAC system was in another corner of the basement. They shone their light on the mass of metal but again saw nothing.

Behind one of the large heating ducts in a space the light had missed, the man in the hood watched as they headed back upstairs. He slowly eased out of his hiding place.

Upstairs King and Michelle looked around more thoroughly. Michelle saw it first.

“Oh, no!” she hissed. She grabbed King’s hand and pulled him toward her.

“Blood,” she whispered in his ear, and then pointed her light at the floor. The crimson spatters were clearly visible. Their lights followed the trail to its source: the tarp.

They crept forward, careful not to step in the spatters. King knelt, lifted up the tarp, and they saw it was Junior. King quickly felt for a pulse and found none.

“Damn it! He’s dead.” He shone his light around. “Oh, shit!”

“What!”

“He’s got a noose tourniquet around his neck.”

“Don’t tell me…”

King pulled back the tarp some more and shone his light down the dead man’s arm. “And his watch is set to five, and there’s a black arrow drawn on the floor pointing right to it.”

Michelle directed her light to Junior’s features. “He hasn’t been dead long, Sean.”

“I know; he’s still warm.” King froze. “What was that?”

Michelle looked behind her, her light making arcs through the darkness. “What?”

“I thought I heard footsteps.”

“I didn’t hear anything—” Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the red laser dot appear on King’s head. Its meaning was crystal clear to the firearm-savvy Maxwell. “Sean, don’t move,” she said hoarsely. “You’re red-lighted.”

“I’m wha—” But then it dawned on him what she was saying. The laser aim tracker could be followed at any moment by a bullet that would hit precisely where the dot was: in this case his brain.

As she watched, the red dot slowly moved to Michelle’s gun, flitting there like some deadly wasp ready to sting. This message was also clear. She hesitated, debating whether to chance it, turn and fire. She glanced at King. He’d obviously seen the dot’s location too and, reading her thoughts about trying to get off a shot, shook his head in a definite no.

She reluctantly put down her gun on the floor, pushing it away with her foot. When the red dot appeared on her flashlight, she turned it off and placed it on the floor. King slowly followed suit. The red dot then appeared on her chest and moved up and down her body, seemingly in a teasing manner, as though the person aiming the laser were fondling her.

Michelle was growing more and more irritated and beginning to gauge how far she’d have to jump to grab her weapon. While she was calculating the odds of getting off a shot before the other guy did, she failed to notice that the red dot had disappeared.

Finally realizing it, she looked at King’s image in the shadowy darkness.

“Is he gone?” she said softly.

“Don’t know,” King whispered back. “I don’t hear anything.”

That changed moments later when they heard the gunshots.
They both hit the floor, Michelle crawling desperately toward where she thought her gun was. One inch, one foot.
Come on! Come on!
As her fingers closed around the metal, she stopped and listened.

“Sean, are you okay?”

Seconds went by and there was nothing.

“Sean!” she whispered desperately, her hopes bottoming out when he didn’t answer.

“I’m okay,” he finally said.

“Damn it, you almost gave me a heart attack. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I fell on top of Junior, that’s why!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

They waited a few more minutes. When they heard a car start up in the distance, Michelle leaped to her feet, grabbed a light and raced out, King right on her heels.

They slid into the Lexus.

“Call 911,” said King. “Tell them to get the roads around here shut down as fast as possible. And then get hold of Todd.”

Michelle was already on the phone.

King hit the gas and the car lumbered forward. The ride was so bumpy it knocked the phone out of Michelle’s hand. He hit the brakes.

They looked at each other.

“Damn it, he shot out the tires,” said King in disbelief. “That’s what the gunshots were about. Let me see if I can still drive it.” After a hundred feet it was very clear that if they drove over five miles an hour, they’d soon break an axle.

Michelle jumped out of the car and shone the light at the flattened front and rear tires on her side. She ran back and examined Junior’s truck. There were two tires shot out there as well. Michelle called 911, gave them the information, then called Todd while King slumped against his car.

When she was finished, she came over to him and said, “Todd and his men are on their way.”

“That’s good to know,” he said quietly.

“You never know; they might get lucky and nail the guy, Sean.”

“The good guys are rarely that lucky.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared back at the half-built house.

Michelle slapped her hand against the car’s hood. “God, I feel like the biggest rookie in the world for letting that guy get the drop on us. I can’t believe we were probably ten feet from this maniac. Ten feet! And he got away.” She grew silent, staring at the ground before glancing over at her partner. “Okay, talk to me, what are you thinking?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he spoke, his voice quivered slightly. “I’m thinking that tonight three little kids lost their father and a wife her husband. And I’m just wondering when it’s going to stop.”

“Not until someone stops him.”

King never took his eyes off the unfinished house. “Well, starting right now, that’s our full-time job.”

A
S
K
ING HAD PREDICTED, THE POLICE ARRIVED TOO LATE
to catch Junior’s killer. When news of yet another murder became public, the entire area fell into a complete frenzy. The mayor of Wrightsburg, in a stunning show of no confidence in either Todd Williams or the FBI, demanded that the National Guard be called out and martial law declared. Fortunately, no one granted that request. The national news machine had descended on Wrightsburg and its environs with an enormous appetite for detail, no matter how trivial or irrelevant to the investigation. The large media trucks and their sky antennae and news jockeys with wireless mikes in hand became as ubiquitous as the sprouting spring buds. The only people happy about this situation were the local restaurateurs, innkeepers and conspiracy buffs, who could be heard spouting endless theories. Nearly everyone was grabbing for their fifteen minutes of fame.

Todd Williams was inundated by the journalistic deluge, as was Chip Bailey. Even King and Michelle failed to entirely escape the flood, watching in dismay as details of their previous high-profile investigative exploits were dredged up and made part of the current story.

More law enforcement resources were called in, both federal and state, and King wondered if the additional manpower was helping or hurting the investigation. The latter seemed to be the case as everyone jockeyed for position.

The letter finally came. It proclaimed that the killer of Junior
Deaver was now imitating the clown prince of darkness, at least in serial killer circles: John Wayne Gacy.
And you thought he only killed young men and boys,
the message tauntingly read.
Now you know he doesn’t mind knocking off big fat rednecks like Junior Deaver.

They were all at another early morning task force meeting at the police station. The large conference room had been turned into a war room of sorts with banks of computers and telephones manned twenty-four/seven, charts, maps, stacks of files, highly specialized personnel running down all leads, tons of coffee and doughnuts and not one viable suspect anywhere in sight.

“Gacy strangled many of his victims using that ligature technique,” explained Chip Bailey.

“You certainly know your serial killers,” said Michelle.

“I should. I’ve spent years tracking them down.”

“And in prison the big, jolly fellow started doing paintings of clowns,” added King, “which accounts for the mask, just in case we couldn’t figure it out solely from the hangman’s tourniquet.”

“And Junior’s watch was definitely set to five o’clock,” said Michelle. “So either our serial murderer can’t count or whoever killed Bobby Battle was a copycat.”

“I think we can assume there are two killers out there,” conceded Bailey. “Although there’s an outside possibility that there’s only one killer and he’s messing with the numbers for some reason.”

“What, he’s angling to be charged with five killings instead of six?” asked King. “I don’t know about other places, but in Virginia they only execute murderers
once.
”

Williams groaned and reached for the Advil. “Damn, my head’s starting to hurt again.”

“Have you seen Bobby Battle’s will?” asked Michelle.

Williams swallowed the pills and nodded. “The vast bulk of his estate was left to Remmy.”

“Did they hold the property by joint tenancy?” asked King.

“No. A lot was in Bobby’s name only, including all his patents.
The house went to Remmy automatically, and she had substantial property of her own.”

“You said the vast bulk. Where did the remainder go?”

“Some charities. A little bit to Eddie and Dorothea. Not nearly enough to kill for, though.”

“How about Savannah?” asked King.

“No, she got nothing. But she already had a big trust fund.”

“But still, not to leave her anything, that was pretty callous.”

“Maybe they weren’t all that close,” said Bailey.

King looked at him. “How well do you know the family?”

“Eddie and I see each other pretty regularly. We hunt together, and I’ve gone to some of his reenactments. He’s come down to Quantico and toured the FBI Academy. In fact, Remmy and Bobby came down for that, and Mason, the butler, too. I own a couple pieces of Eddie’s artwork. Dorothea helped me find my house in Charlottesville. I spent an afternoon with them after his father was killed. It shook him, I can tell you that. I actually think he was more concerned about the effect it had on his mother.”

King nodded. “Well, he couldn’t have killed his father. He was with us.”

“And he was away fighting at reenactments when Rhonda Tyler and Canney and Pembroke were killed,” said Bailey.

“How about Dorothea?” asked Michelle.

“We checked. She’s clean too.”

“At the time Bobby Battle died too?” asked King.

“Well, she said she was driving to Richmond for a meeting the next morning.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

King said, “So she really doesn’t have an alibi either. Speaking of Dorothea, do you know her well?”

“Like I said, she was my Realtor. But I don’t think she’s crying herself to sleep because Bobby’s dead.”

“Happy marriage?” asked Michelle.

“Eddie loves her, I know that. I’m not sure how much that’s
reciprocated. Actually, between you and me, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was catching some action on the side.”

“And Savannah said she was home when her father died. Was she?”

“I asked the hired help about that, but they’d all gone to their house by that time, except for Mason, and he doesn’t remember seeing her. And she wasn’t exactly hitting on all cylinders when we talked to her. I’m going to have to question her again.”

“So she’s still a suspect too. What about Bobby and Remmy?” asked King.

“What about them?”

“If I told you we had information they’d had a knock-down-drag-out three or four years ago over Bobby’s sleeping around, would that surprise you?”

“No. He had that reputation. Some people thought he was over it, but old dogs rarely change their spots.”

“Which might be an awfully good motive for killing her husband,” said Michelle.

“Possibly,” said Bailey.

“How about Remmy?” asked King.

“What, that she slept around?” King nodded. “No, never,” said Bailey emphatically.

“Mason seems to really think a lot of Remmy,” King said.

“I have no doubt he does, but he’s not in her league and never will be, if that’s what you’re implying.”

King stared at Bailey for a few seconds, then decided to change the subject. He looked over at Williams. “Has Sylvia finished the post on Junior?”

“Yep,” answered Williams, who’d recovered enough from his misery to devour a chocolate doughnut and two cups of coffee. “He died from ligature strangulation, although he’d been beaten over the head with a shovel and a piece of wood prior to that. Damn lot of blood.”

“We know,” said King dryly.

“Right,” said the chief. “Anyway, Sylvia thinks she might have
some trace on the guy this time. And the tech team pulled up some fibers that didn’t match anything Junior had on. And we also got a partial tire track nearby. Might be the car he got away in.”

“Better check those fibers against my clothes,” said King. “I… I had some contact with Junior when the shooting started.”

“Speaking of shooting, you got the bullets from the tires?” asked Michelle.

“They were forty-four calibers,” said Williams. “Nothing special. Hope we get a gun to match it against at some point.”

“The guy had a laser aimer, that’s pretty specialized,” said King.

“Junior’s belt buckle was also missing,” noted Williams.

“Another trophy,” said Michelle.

“Looks like Junior fought hard,” said Bailey. “Lots of defensive wounds on his hands and forearm. And a wall of studs was taken out, probably during the struggle.”

“The guy’s clearly started to make some mistakes,” said Williams. “You two happening along when you did really put a wrench into the works for him.”

“I don’t think we accomplished all that much,” said Michelle, “except let him get away.”

King studied the copy of the letter again. “This is the first time he’s referred to a victim by name,” he said.

“I noted that,” said Bailey.

“Now, why would a killer do that?” wondered Williams.

“He’s playing with us. He wants to jerk us around.”

“For what purpose?” asked Michelle.

“Because this is all part of something a lot bigger that we’re not seeing right now,” replied King.

“And what might that be?” asked Bailey in a skeptical tone.

“When I figure it out, you’ll be the
second
to know,” said King, glancing significantly at Williams. “How did Lulu take it, Todd?” asked King in a softer tone.

Williams leaned back and shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t cry at all, but then, the kids were around. That mother of hers, though, damn lady went hysterical, screaming about how much she loved
Junior, what in the world were they going to do without him. Lulu finally had to take her out of the room. Piece of work she is.”

King and Michelle looked at each other and just shook their heads.

“Now we come to an interesting point,” said Williams. “You told us that Remmy threatened Junior. That she wanted some things back and she didn’t want Junior showing them to anyone.”

King nodded. “At least that’s what Lulu told us that Junior said. But it wasn’t Remmy Battle who beat Junior up before strangling him to death.”

“But Lulu said Remmy told Junior that she knew people.”

King shook his head. “I’m not sure why Remmy would want to kill him, at least not now. According to Lulu, she was going to give Junior some time to think it over. If he’s dead, he can’t very well tell her where the stuff is—not that he could anyway, since I don’t believe he took it in the first place.”

“But if he’s dead,” said Bailey, “then he can’t show the stuff, whatever it is, to someone else.”

King remained unconvinced. “But Remmy couldn’t be sure of that. He might have made arrangements in case something happened to him.”

“You’ve got a point there,” said Williams. “But it’s still something we’ll have to check into. Not that I’m looking forward to going down that road with Remmy.”

“Well,” said King, “we’ve got people to see and places to go.”

“Where and who?” asked Bailey sharply.

“Steve Canney’s father and Janice Pembroke’s parents.”

“We already talked to them. And to everyone connected to Diane Hinson too.”

“But you don’t mind another set of eyes,” said Michelle.

“Go ahead,” said Williams. “You have full authority.”

“Just report back to me if you find anything interesting,” said Bailey.

“I’ll count the minutes,” muttered King.